It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker (7 page)

She scrunched up her face.

‘You know you’re not going to look like that forever, don’t you? What are you going to do then? When the VIPs don’t want you anymore?’

She stepped back and looked at me as though I were one of those crazy people you sidestepped on the street, in case they might thump you over the head or throw you in front of a car or something.

‘You’re just jealous,’ she said, before pulling up her skirt to reveal another inch of tanned thigh.

For a moment, I wondered if she might be right but when she started jiggling her boobs at a group of men walking past, I turned around and fought my way back through the crowd.

At the coat check, where the stern-faced assistant was doing a terrible job of pretending to look for my coat, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see Kerri, her face framed with soft blonde curls. Under a spotlight, I could see beyond the false eyelashes and thick eyeliner and into her eyes.

‘I want more,’ she whispered, before handing me her number scribbled on a beer mat.

When I arrived home, I found Matthew, clearly drunk, staggering around the communal hallway, holding a pizza box in the air.

‘A gift for you,’ he said laying it down at my feet, ‘in exchange for entrance to our humble abode.’

‘Forgot your keys again?’ I asked, fumbling in my bag for mine.

He nodded.

I opened the door and he lurched forward and, in what looked like one move, landed on the sofa, pizza box miraculously still horizontal.

‘So, how did the matchmunting, I mean, headhating …’ He stuffed some pizza into his mouth ‘… how did all that go?’

I sighed and slumped on the sofa. ‘Vacuous girls and sleazy men.’

He swallowed and wiped his face with his sleeve. ‘That’s how the clubs make money. Hot chicks and rich dicks.’

‘Yeah, I know, but I didn’t think I’d have to sell the concept of love, I thought that was a given.’

He offered me some pizza. ‘You know the magic wears off after midnight, don’t you?’

‘Party pooper,’ I said, taking the least offensive-looking slice.

A moment later, he sat up, his hair almost springing to attention and pointed his finger in the air.

‘That’s it. That’s what you need to do.’

‘What, poop at parties?’

‘No, not the poop, just the party.’

I looked down at the cheap meat and greasy cheese that I was about to consume and threw it back into the box, realising that if I didn’t like what was on offer, then it was up to me to provide an alternative.

Chapter Six

There was a chill in the evening air but I felt hot and dizzy. I opened my coat as I strode alongside the Thames and let the icy breeze whip around my body. With each stride, my temperature dropped.

Having stood side by side for over a century, the giant Edwardian townhouses seemed to peer down at me with intrigue. They had undoubtedly witnessed many a young girl hoping to change the world. But tonight, as the uniformed commuters bulldozed past, it was as though they were nudging each other and placing a bet on how long I would last. Lifting my chin up, I reminded myself that forty percent of London’s population was single, and continued ahead. The wrought-iron street lamps cast pools of yellow light that seemed to beckon me towards my destination.

When I arrived, the door looked like any other on the street, apart from a shiny brass plaque inscribed with a picture of a bowler hat and a polite reminder that only members were welcome. After weeks of deliberating over a suitable venue for meetings, I’d concluded that one with a bar would be most appropriate and this unpretentious private members’ club, hidden in ancient vaults beneath the Strand seemed to be the perfect match. I pressed the bell, then waited for the receptionist to buzz me in.

A staircase lined with blood-red carpet led me to reception. With each step, it was though I were venturing deeper into the heart of London, leaving behind the hard surface to discover the secret underworld, the pulse that kept it alive. Behind a mirrored desk, in what seemed like a dark cave, stood the receptionist, her lips as red as the carpet, her hair as black as the night. She tapped a nail file on the counter like a bored teenager.

‘Yes,’ she sighed, the vague glance in my direction quickly redirected to her long scarlet nails.

Once I’d introduced myself, and began to explain my purpose, she readjusted her tight black minidress and leaned forward with interest, thrusting out her firm tanned boobs in response to the mention of eligible men.

‘I look after your cleeants,’ she purred in a sultry French accent, punctuated with a sex-kitten giggle.

After I’d thanked Marie for her help, I followed the throb of the music and the flickering wall lights down the second staircase, tunnelling deeper into the vaults, to a lounge bar where leather chairs and low tables nestled in shadowy alcoves. A bar stretched across one side of the room, shining and glimmering like an oasis on a desert night. The music pulsed from the lounge bar through to the other chambers: a restaurant, and two further bars, like blood from ventricles.

Selecting an alcove near the foot of the staircase, I positioned the chair facing outwards so I could see the clients when they arrived. Tonight I had three consultations: William at 6pm, an accountant who I’d met while dancing La Macarena at Apt; at 7pm it was Harriet, a risk analyst Caro had found at Zuma, and finally, Jeremy at 8pm, a friend of model Mike who I’d met at the champagne bar. I laid my new clipboard on the table and stared at the blank sheet of paper, my heart pounding in time to the fast tempo of the music.

‘Evening,’ said the barman after he’d swaggered over to my table, his shirt tight with muscles. ‘Look’s like you could do with a drink.’

With a gravelly London accent and shaved head, he seemed more “Guy Richie movie” than “private members’ club”, but his eyes twinkled with a kindness that brought a smile to my face.

‘Glass of white please, whatever you recommend,’ I squinted at his name tag, ‘Marie?’

He laughed and then lifted up the tag. ‘Must’ve picked up the wrong one this morning. I’m Steve.’

‘Okay, Steve, my wine is in your hands.’

He started flicking through the list and paused somewhere about halfway through. ‘White Rioja,’ he said, reading from the page. ‘It’s unpretentious, elegant and full of character.’

I peered at the menu. ‘It’s also £15 a glass. Do you have something less elegant and more lacking in character?’

He flicked back a few pages. ‘The house is approachable and inoffensive and £6 a glass.’

‘I’ll have a bottle.’

He nodded and then glanced up. I noticed one of his eyelids was twitching. I followed his gaze to see Marie wiggling down the staircase, her long, tanned legs balanced on Louboutin heels, her eyes fixed on Steve like a cat stalking a mouse.

‘Aylee, your sex o’clock ees ere. I sind eem down?’ she said once she’d approached us, her eyes flitting between me and Steve.

‘Yes, please.’ I replied, picking up my pen and clipboard as though I were about to take notes. Realising my actions were a little premature, I placed them back on the table. ‘Please send him down, Marie.’

Her gaze was locked on Steve, tracking him as he backed away.

After he’d ducked down behind the bar, presumably to get my wine, she shook her hair and strutted back towards reception. As her tiny bottom wiggled up the staircase, I looked down at the red dress I’d borrowed from Caro. It had tracked her curves like a second skin, but on me it seemed ill-fitting, digging in where it shouldn’t and gaping where it should dig in. Since learning that I looked like a journalist, whatever that meant, I’d decided to ramp up the glamour a bit. According to Caro, this required a gel-filled bra, uncomfortable shoes and a GHD attack on my hair.

As I took a couple of glugs of the wine Steve had just delivered, glancing over his shoulder as he did, I caught sight of a tall man, wearing a pinstriped suit and grappling with an oversized rucksack. He began carefully navigating the spiral staircase, which seemed somewhat of a challenge due to the dim lighting, his height and the apparent weight of the rucksack. After a few hairy moments, he lost his footing on the final step and did an impromptu leap that sent him into the bar. Attempting to steady himself against the wall, he inadvertently grabbed the frame of a large decorative mirror, which under his weight, swung on its pivot, throwing him again off balance and culminating in an awkward encounter with a couple on a sofa. When the ordeal was eventually over, he straightened his suit jacket, looked up from his polished brogues and scanned the room like a hedgehog about to cross a motorway. I rushed over to greet him and led him back to the table, hoping to avoid further calamity.

‘It’s lovely to see you again,’ I said once we had sat down at the table.

‘Likewise,’ he said, climbing out from under the gargantuan rucksack. His eyes flickered over my dress, zoomed in on my maxi-boosted cleavage and then settled on the wine list in front of him.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ I said. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ He looked startled, as though I’d just offered him a syringe full of heroin.

‘Er yes, why not?’ he stammered, one hand still gripping a strap of the rucksack, the other twitching on the table.

Once I’d filled his glass, almost to the top, he wrapped his hands around it like a TV car crash victim would a cup of tea. I let him take three big gulps before commencing my questioning. From our initial conversation at Apt, which had been significantly impaired by his flamboyant dance moves, I’d only managed to scribble a few notes down. However, I recalled that at some point, during a prolonged bottom wiggle, he’d told me that he was thirty-four, an accountant, and that he enjoyed playing tennis and growing herbs in his garden.

Half-way through his first glass of wine, he had confirmed the above and gone on to explain that had never been married, had no children and again reminded me that he enjoyed playing tennis. He was also keen to clarify that the herbs were basil and rocket (“nothing dodgy”).

By the time he was on the second glass of wine, his grip had loosened on the rucksack and he explained the exciting career prospects within accountancy. And how, in order for him to fulfill his potential, his hobbies, namely tennis, would have to take a backseat for a while.

By the third glass of wine, he told me he hated his job and that tennis was his life.

By the fourth glass of wine, he told me that one of the herbs was marijuana and that he hadn’t had a girlfriend in five years.

‘I’m a social outlier,’ he said taking another gulp of wine. ‘According to statistics, single men of my age are having sex at least twice a week.’

I laughed. ‘Yeah, and men never lie?’

‘Why would they, in an anonymous survey?’

‘It isn’t a numbers game.’

‘One would be good.’

‘One is all it takes.’

‘That’s what my biology teacher used to say.’

I laughed. ‘So, the one, what would she be like? What are you looking for?’

He sat back in the chair and laced his fingers together. ‘I don’t know, someone nice.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Is that all?’

‘Hang on,’ he said, before ducking down to rummage in his rucksack. When he had resurfaced, he handed his phone to me. ‘Here you go. Scroll through.’

I flicked through the images: a girl wearing a tennis skirt and holding a racket, two girls wearing tennis skirts while playing doubles, a girl wearing a flat-fronted tennis skirt and pumps, a girl wearing a pleated tennis skirt, a girl lifting up her tennis skirt and showing her bottom.

‘Okay, I get it,’ I said, handing the phone back to him. ‘You like tennis skirts.’

He looked up and smiled.

‘How about a girl who wears a tennis skirt when she plays tennis?’

His grin widened. ‘How often does she play?’

I leaned back in my chair and sighed. ‘Why don’t you just buy one of those real life dolls and dress her up in tennis whites?’

He looked down at the floor. ‘I just want a nice girl to spend time with, that’s all.’

‘Well forget the tennis skirts and focus on the woman then.’

He nodded. ‘Okay, just tell me what I need to do.’

After he’d left, scaling the staircase like a mountain goat, rucksack now slung casually over his shoulder as though it were a small handbag, I sat back in the chair and thought about the last hour, and how it had taken four glasses of house white for William to open up. I drew a big cross through the earlier notes I’d made, resolving to abandon any formal matching strategy from now on, and to work from my instinct instead.

It wasn’t long before I caught sight of my next client, Harriet, slinking down the staircase like a catwalk model. What William had made appear to be a formidable feat, she pulled off with the elegance of a jaguar.

‘Ellie?’ she asked as she approached.

I gestured for her to take a seat.

She slipped her gently curved hips into the leather chair, pushed her caramel-coloured hair behind her ears and then fixed me with fawn-like eyes. She was wearing a simple black pencil skirt and a fitted shirt; there was nothing overtly sexual about her, yet the softness of her skin and the fullness of her lips revealed an intrinsic appeal, leagues above Marie’s long legs and enthusiast cleavage. There was something else as well and it wasn’t just silky skin wrapped around perfect bone structure. Some kind of aura, a presence she had about her.

‘Evening, ma’am,’ Steve addressed Harriet as though she were royalty. ‘Would you like a glass of the white Rioja?’ It seemed he knew better than to offer the house white.

After a quick glance at the wine list, and with gracious diplomacy, she explained that 2005 was a temperamental year for Rioja and that she’d “prefer a glass of the 2007 Mersault, if possible.”

Steve nodded and then hurried back to the bar, where a stern-faced Marie began prodding him on the shoulder.

Harriet undoubtedly had an impressive CV. At twenty-eight, she spoke four languages, had lived in ten different countries and was now working for an American bank in London. She had an interesting family background: her French mother was a professor in neuroscience and her Swiss father was a senior officer in the military. However, the conversation seemed more like a job interview than an open exchange. Unlike William, Harriet only managed a few conservative sips of her award-winning Burgundy.