by Haley Hill
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.
I decided to get straight to the point. ‘So,’ I said leaning forward, ‘what kind of men do you like?’
Her cheeks flushed and she picked up her glass and took a sip.
I pointed to a dark-haired man with cute dimples standing at the bar. ‘How about him?’
She threw a casual glance over her shoulder, and then looked back at me, shaking her head.
‘Why not?’
‘Looks like a womaniser.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘What makes you say that?’
She looked over at him again, this time pausing longer. ‘He’s too good-looking. I don’t date men like that.’
‘You don’t fancy good-looking men?’
She took another sip. ‘Good relationships aren’t based on that.’
‘What, sexual attraction?’
She shook her head. ‘I need someone who fits in with my family, my culture and who matches my intellect.’
‘Even if you don’t fancy them?’
She took another sip, though this time it was more of a gulp.
I scanned the room once again and noticed a man with a broad smile and blonde hair who was sitting on a sofa.
‘Okay, what about him?’ I pointed.
She turned to look. ‘No,’ she said shaking her head.
‘Why not?’
/> She went to put her glass down then lifted it to her mouth again. ‘This might sound a little mean.’
‘Go on.’
‘He’s not sophisticated enough.’
‘Because?’
‘Button-down collar.’
‘Okay,’ I said, scanning the room, searching for someone who might fit her ideal. I settled on a dark-haired man with intelligent eyes and a Hermes belt. ‘Him?’
She looked over, her gaze sizing him up. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, someone like him.’
Her glass was half-empty when she excused herself for a trip to the ladies. I watched her glide across the room, and then have an awkward “after you, no after you” dance with cute dimples at the bar. I noticed his head swivel, following her as she walked away. However, Mr Hermes belt ignored her as she swept past, seemingly more focused on looking up Marie’s skirt as she leant over the bar.
When she’d returned from the toilet, her make-up and composure refreshed, she continued describing her future husband.
‘I need a man who can fit in with my life,’ she began, her face expressionless. ‘He would have an international background, like myself. And a successful career. He’d have to want a large family. And, most importantly, he would need to be from an upper-class family.’
I raised my eyebrows again. ‘Why?’
‘It’s important to have shared values,’ she said, staring ahead.
I shrugged my shoulders and pretended to make notes, hoping I hadn’t sounded so clinical when I’d listed my requirements to Matthew no less than a month ago.
When she’d finished the last of her wine, she dabbed the sides of her mouth with a napkin and bid me a pleasant evening. I leaned forward to kiss her goodbye, but she sidestepped my advances and then offered me her hand to shake instead, as though there had been a gross misunderstanding and she was, in actuality, hiring me to assist her in a business merger.
When I sat back down to yet another refilled glass, I checked my watch and tapped my pen on the table. My next client, Jeremy, was late. Due to the sporadic network coverage in the bar, I nipped upstairs to give him a call. As I approached reception, I saw Marie leaning over the desk, boobs squeezed together, bottom in the air as though she were inviting penetration. With a slow deliberate lick of her lips, she pressed a piece of paper into the hand of a man standing in front of her.
‘Ahh, Ayleee. Dis ees Jirimie,’ she purred, as the man spun round, and flashed me a smile.
‘Blatch, Jeremy Blatch,’ he said, in the manner of an international spy.
Although a little slick, he was breathtakingly handsome, as though he’d just walked off the set of Hugo Boss advert. Wearing a grey suit and a white shirt, and with floppy dark blonde hair framing dazzling blue eyes, he looked every inch the fantasy Mr Right most women dreamed about.
Suspecting that Marie had just passed on her number, and concerned she may try to straddle him if I left it a moment longer, I suggested to Jeremy that we go downstairs to the bar.
‘That’s a first. I’m usually invited upstairs,’ he said with a wink.
I was surprised to find myself immune to his charms. It seemed my mind had adjusted from its instinctive default of perceiving men as potential boyfriends for myself, to assessing them objectively on behalf of others. Right then, I saw him as prime stock for the single girls of London.
Once settled in the bar, he unbuttoned his jacket. Through his slim-fit white shirt, I noticed the outline of a tight stomach and taut pecs. Oblivious to my X-ray assessment, or politely ignoring it, he ordered a Martini and I wondered if he actually thought he was James Bond.
‘I want to meet someone special,’ he said, before I’d had the chance to begin questioning him.
‘I’m tired of meeting airheads and bimbos,’ he continued, nodding in the direction of Marie, who just happened to be wiggling past our table. When she saw Jeremy looking over, she bent down to pick up something from the floor, waving her bottom in the air like a mallard. He looked away, evidently unimpressed.
‘No, I’m being unfair,’ he continued. ‘Some of the girls I’ve dated have been remarkably clever and successful.’ He paused, and then looked a bit strained. ‘It’s just, I don’t know …’
‘You haven’t found what you’re looking for?’ I said.
‘Yes, you’re right. I haven’t.’ He looked down to stir his Martini.
‘I thought it was shaken and not stirred?’
He laughed, looking quite chuffed with the analogy.
Unlike William and Harriet, Jeremy seemed to have no inhibitions when talking about his personal life and relayed his childhood with a mix of passion and nostalgia.
‘Life used to be so simple,’ he said, having described the farm in Somerset where he grew up. ‘When did it get so complicated?’
He downed his Martini, and then went on to explain how, when he was a child, he’d play outside all day with his dog, Rusty, who never left his side. ‘He didn’t care how much I earned or what car I drove.’ He threw a glance to the ground. ‘And back then neither did I. Now life is all about work.’ He picked up his phone. ‘And the reason I’m working so hard,’ he frowned at the screen, ‘is so that one day I can have that life back.’
During his second Martini, he went on to explain how his dad went bankrupt when Jeremy was eight years old, and that the family had to move to London for work. And that they couldn’t afford to take Rusty with them.
‘I begged my dad to keep him, promised I would find a job to pay for his food.’ He gripped the Martini stirrer. ‘But he wouldn’t listen.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘It was cold that day, so cold.’
‘What day?’
‘The day my dad shot Rusty with a .38 special.’
My hand few to my mouth. I heard a snap and then saw the Martini-stirrer fall to the table in two pieces.
‘That was the moment I vowed never to be poor again,’ he said.
After he’d blinked his tears away, we ordered more drinks. Then he explained how, when they’d first moved to London, he’d bunk off school and wash cars and windows to help his mum out with the bills and that by the age of eighteen, he had grown it into a national cleaning company.
‘And now, six businesses later, I find myself running a hedge fund,’ he said, sinking back into his chair.
‘What a story.’
‘Yeah, great isn’t it? Now I get to wear this bloody suit every day and pretend to be someone I’m not.’ He laughed, though I could tell it was forced. ‘And now, I’m embroiled in this ridiculous life. I own a watch that allows me to dive to a depth of 300 meters. I can turn my Bang and Olufsen sound system on from my desk. I employ someone to book my flights, wash my underpants, clean my toilets and buy my clothes. I have twelve thousand square foot of property that I hardly use, a forty foot yacht and a car that can accelerate from zero to sixty in two seconds.’ He sighed. ‘The women I meet, they don’t want me. They want a lifestyle.’
I cocked my head and thought about what he’d said.
He leaned forward and picked up the broken stirrer. ‘I guess I’m looking for an old-fashioned girl.’ He paused. ‘I want a big family, and a wife who has the time and patience to nurture our children. Not work all hours while some stranger plonks them in front of the TV.’ He looked at me, his eyes clouded to the dull blue of his silk tie. ‘Are there any women like that left in the world?’
I nodded while the image of Harriet flashed through my mind. I tried to suppress it, after all, nothing on paper would put them together, but there was a strange feeling niggling in my stomach. And I knew it was more than the gallon of house white.
Later that night, vivid dreams disturbed my sleep: a party, Harriet shaking hands with faceless men from behind a Venetian mask, William laughing, waving a joint and wearing a tennis skirt, Jeremy dressed as dog and holding a shotgun and Marie, naked, sprawled across the desk at reception. I woke abruptly when I felt myself falling down a never-ending stair
case, blood-red carpet spiralling into darkness. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding as I gasped for air. That was when I realised that there was no going back. I couldn’t let them down.
They had put their faith in me, and now all I had to do was the same.
Chapter Seven
‘What do you mean there aren’t enough champagne glasses?’ raged Cordelia, throwing up her arms, as though she were initiating an angry version of the Mexican wave. ‘This is outrageous!’
Steve took a step back and blinked. ‘I was told that one hundred and fifty people were coming,’ he answered in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘So there are one hundred and fifty glasses.’
He pointed to the table where they stood, looking all polished and proud.
I raised my hand tentatively. ‘There are more people coming than I–’
Cordelia interrupted, still glaring at Steve. ‘We have three hundred guests arriving in … ’ She checked her watch ‘… oh, fifteen minutes. They’re each expecting champagne on arrival so you’d better have this resolved.’
With a hair flick that signalled the conversation was over, she flounced off, the length of her stride impaired by the tightness of her pencil skirt. In repose, she looked like a Forties screen siren in her skintight black and white monochrome outfit, but when she walked, particularly at any speed, she assumed the gait of an elongated penguin.
Caro jumped up and down on the spot, her dark bob lifting and falling like a jellyfish with somewhere to be.
‘Champagne cocktails,’ she declared on the final bounce, but our vacant expressions clearly signalled a need for further explanation. ‘In cocktail glasses?’ she peered over the bar. ‘Looks like you’ve got enough of those. We’ll need to name it something in theme, like …’ She paused and put her finger on her chin ‘… Cupid’s Crush or Sexy Slush.’
Steve grinned. ‘Sexy Slush?’
‘I don’t think Cupid has a crush,’ I added, immediately aware that it was in no way constructive.
‘Have you got any rose petals?’ Caro continued. ‘Or lychees? I’ll call Mario at Zuma. He knows exactly what to do with a lychee.’