by Haley Hill
I looked back at her, at her stooped shoulders, at the rolls of skin spilling over her waistband, at her too-short trousers, at the leg stubble sprouting over pop socks, at the fingernails bitten to the nail beds and I wondered if she had given up, given up the fight, she’d decided she could no longer win. But when my gaze moved up into her dove grey eyes, beyond the mournful glaze, there was something that I recognised, something I couldn’t ignore.
‘Yes, of course,’ I replied, before downing the rest of my drink.
Once she’d left, I pulled on my hat, climbed the stairs out of the club and rejoined civilisation. By now, the sky was black and the wind had whipped itself into frenzy, sending litter flying through the air. Fighting its force, I held onto my hat and marched forwards, watching discarded paper coffee cups rolling past me along the pavement. Redundant of purpose, they were like displaced souls in a world where it was easier to manufacture the new, than to recycle the old.
At the station, I joined the bottleneck of passengers, everyone jostling towards their platform, anxious to go home to a place where they had a face and a name.
My phone buzzed.
‘Aylee.’
‘Hi Marie.’
‘Der ees a guy for you.’
‘Who is it?’
‘I poot eem through.’
‘Hello Ellie. Hope this is a good time.’ It was William.
‘Yes, perfect timing actually, I think I might have found the girl for you.’
He made a funny excited noise, somewhere between a laugh and a cough. ‘That’s great. I’m so pleased.’
‘I hope you like her, her name is Cassandra, she’s American, full of energy.’
‘She sounds wonderful. Does she play tennis?’
Beep beep. There was a call waiting.
‘Hang on a minute, William, I have another call.’
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, is that Ellie?’
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘Hey, it’s Nate, we met at the Royal Exchange?’
After a few days of keeping me guessing, Cordelia had revealed that Nate and Josh were the co-stars of a popular daytime show in America. Once she said it, of course I recognised them.
‘Nate, yes. Hi. How are you?’
‘Great, thank you. Listen, the reason I am calling is I’d like you to set me up on some dates in London. Do you have time to talk now?’
Beep Beep.
‘Yes, sure. Hang on one second I have another call.’
I pressed hold.
‘Thanks for holding. Yes, she loves tennis, has a varied selection of pleated skirts, one of which she wore when I met her. She loves herbs.’
‘Ellie. Is that you?’ Another voice came down the line. My stomach flipped. My hands started trembling.
‘Yes. It is I,’ I said, most oddly, in the manner of a Shakespearian actor.
‘It’s Nick.’
‘I know,’ I replied.
‘Well, I appreciate your offering of a girl with a love of herbs and a varied selection of pleated skirts, but I was rather hoping I could take you out instead?’
‘Sorry, I can’t. I’m too busy,’ I said, my face flushing. ‘I’m independent. Hang on. Hold for a second.’
‘William?’
‘Yes.’
Thank God. ‘You’ll love Cassandra. I’ll call you tomorrow with all the details. Have a good evening.’
‘Thank you Ellie. Thanks so much.’
I clicked hold again.
‘Nate?’
‘No. It is I, Nick,’ he said.
‘Arrghh, stupid retarded phone. Hold on.’
I clicked again. ‘Nate?’
‘Yes.’
Phew. ‘Is it a bad time? I can call again tomorrow.’
‘No, no, it’s fine. So you were saying you would like some dates?’
‘Yes. I had a good feeling about you when we met. My judgment’s all messed up, so I’m going to leave the decision in your hands. I’ll put you in touch with my sister, she lives in London. She can tell you everything there is to know about me. Okay?’
‘Well, I’d rather it came from you–’
‘Awesome. I’ve already transferred your payment. She’ll call you tomorrow.’ He added before hanging up.
I clicked Hold. ‘Nick?’
The line was dead.
Either I’d inadvertently hung up or he’d given up. When I looked up, the platform had emptied out. I stood alone while the train I’d rushed to board pulled away from the station.
Chapter Nine
Up since dawn, I sat cross-legged on the lounge floor, surrounded by paper: notes on clients, notes on feedback for clients, notes on feedback for their dates, notes on matches, notes on who was dating, notes on who wasn’t dating and notes on who should be dating. In only two weeks, I’d already matched over a hundred couples and I was beginning to lose track. Sharon with Mark, David with Claire. Or was it Mark and Claire? Hadn’t Mark already dated Claire? Or was that the other Claire?
‘There are too many Claires,’ I sighed, running my hands through my hair.
‘Yes that’s the problem with the world,’ Matthew chipped in as he emerged from his room. ‘Too many Claires and just not enough time.’
‘That’s really not helpful,’ I replied.
‘How many have you got?’
‘Ten.’
‘Clients?’
‘No, Claires.’
He tapped on his phone. ‘And how many clients?’
‘Two hundred and something. I think.’
He tapped on his phone again and patted down his hair. ‘According to this website, Claire is the 555th most popular name.’
I sighed. ‘How is this helping anyone?’
‘Well statistically, from your sample size, you shouldn’t have any Claires at all.’
‘And?’
‘Well maybe people named Claire are more likely to be single? Maybe men don’t like the name.’
I snatched the phone out of his hand. ‘These are stats from the US. And, besides, your hypothesis is totally flawed. Claire Danes isn’t exactly a spinster, is she?’
‘Stereotypes.’ He scratched his head. ‘I bet if you look at your figures, you’ll find loads of different trends. And when you’ve got a big enough sample size you’ll be able to pinpoint the most eligible criteria in a man and a woman. Height, age, colouring, education and even name.’
‘Yeah, hold the headlines. Women want men who are tall, dark, handsome and preferably not called Marvin.’
He laughed. ‘Seriously, though–’
‘Look, I have more important things to be doing right now than engaging in another we-live-in-a-brainwashed-society debate.’ I held my head in my hands. ‘I’ve promised all these people that I’ll help them.’ I lifted my head and stared at the pile of papers. ‘Two hundred and something promises. So far, not one has been fulfilled.’
‘You need help.’
‘I hope you mean practical and not psychological.’
He smiled. ‘Promise me you won’t make any more promises until you’ve found someone to help you?’
My phone buzzed and, five minutes later, I’d ended the call with yet another firm promise. Matthew’s look burned as much as the cup of tea he’d just handed me.
‘It was a journalist,’ I said.
He frowned.
‘From Glamour magazine.’
Still frowning.
‘I couldn’t say no.’
He frowned further.
‘It’s free publicity in a leading woman’s magazine.’
His frown softened.
‘She needs three eligible bachelors for a feature.’
His eyebrows lifted.
‘By tomorrow.’
He smiled and then flexing his non-existing muscles, coiffed his morning bouffant and struck a pose against the doorframe. ‘Well, one down, two to go.’
‘You’re not exactly a bachelor,’ I said. ‘Oh and congratulations by the way. On your eng
agement.’
With a sheepish look on his face, he sat down next to me. ‘Sorry, I should have told you sooner.’
I sighed and once again explained that I was, in fact, okay and not about to break down at the very mention of anything wedding-related. And that perhaps, after ten years’ of friendship, a Post-it note left on the fridge was not the most appropriate way to inform me.
After a moment’s silence, he leant forward and picked up one of the profile forms. ‘Right, let’s get these Claires on some dates.’
Two hours later – following a victorious high five – I ran into my bedroom and wiggled into a navy shift dress. It was borderline in terms of snugness but sufficient for purpose, so long as I didn’t eat or breathe. I grabbed my bag.
The moment the door to the flat clicked shut behind me, something felt different. The chill in the air had lifted, the frost on the grass had melted and tulips poked their heads out from the soil as though they had awoken from a deep sleep. But it wasn’t until I looked up to see the sun edging out from behind the clouds, and felt its warmth on my skin, that I realised just how long the winter had been.
With spring in my step, I skipped towards the station and began phoning the eligible bachelors I’d recently acquired to ask if they might like to take part in a “once in a lifetime opportunity” to reach an audience of over one million women. Sadly, most of them didn’t share my enthusiasm for international media exposure while labelled as a lonely single and politely declined. But by the time I’d arrived at the bar, and after I’d reiterated that Glamour was the title of the publication and not the nature of the shoot, Mike and Stephen had agreed. Also, a barrister called John was a maybe depending on his schedule.
Nestled comfortably in my favourite leather chair with a glass of wine, I was preparing to meet Alistair, an architect who had sent an online enquiry, when a text message somehow squeezed its way through the walls of the underground vaults to appear on my phone.
Fancy “crashing” at mine again tonight? X
Caro’s text included a photo, which was taking its time to download. Baffled, I shook my head and then looked up to see Marie wiggling towards me, her boobs bobbing up and down in a too-tight v-neck jumper.
‘Aylee. There ees a man to see you,’ she said, stopping and placing her hands on her hips as though she’d reached the end of a catwalk. ‘I sind im down?’
I nodded, then, preoccupied with my search for magazine fodder, began to assess all the groups of businessmen in the bar. The journalist had asked for eligible men, which she’d defined as good-looking and wealthy. In fact, she may have said wealthy before good-looking. Either way, the purpose of the feature, as she’d gone on to explain, was to highlight the struggles such men have finding women who can see beyond their looks and wealth. I suspected it wasn’t in my best interests to point out that an airbrushed photograph, alongside an article discussing their net worth, may not be the best way.
The appearance of a pair of shoes coming down the staircase broke my trance. In other contexts, when meeting someone new, it was a face-on affair and the whole person came into focus at once. But, because the lounge bar was underground, I met most of my clients feet first, which, although a little strange, afforded me time to assess areas often otherwise neglected.
After the black leather brogues, came expensive-looking charcoal grey trousers. I took a sip of my wine. Nice thighs. Smart belt. Fitted blue shirt. Great chest. Lovely muscles. The room suddenly felt hot and stuffy. My face flushed and my breathing quickened. His face came into view. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. It was Nick.
Striding towards me with his gorgeous smile at full capacity, he held his hands up.
‘I’m Alistair,’ he confessed.
While emitting a machine-gun like laugh, I proceeded to spill half my glass of wine down my chin and dress.
‘It’s the only way I could get to see you,’ he explained, looking on sympathetically as I dabbed my chin with a napkin, ‘what with you being so busy and independent.’
I smiled inwardly and then moved my phone away from the puddle of wine on the table.
‘Can I sit down?’
‘Yes, sorry, sure,’ I said, glancing at the screen which had just lit up.
‘So how long have we got? How long would it take you to discover Alistair’s deep and dark inner soul?’
‘I’ve got another consultation in an hour,’ I said, noticing that Caro’s photo download was complete. I squinted my eyes at the image.
‘Great, that means I have your undivided attention until then,’ he said following my gaze. His eyes widened. ‘Is that a milkmaid?’
Lurching forward to reach the phone, I accidentally knocked it on the floor. Nick swooped down to grab it and then stared at the screen. He looked back at me, his mouth open.
‘I don’t think that message was meant for me.’
He smirked. ‘Isn’t that your friend from the party the other night? The one who was chasing those pilots around.’
‘I’m surprised you can recognise her from that angle.’
He looked back down at the screen and turned it sideways, then upside down. ‘She’s got distinctive eyes,’ he said, before handing it back to me.
Our giggles hushed when Steve approached the table. ‘Did I miss something?’ he asked.
‘No nothing, just a funny text, that’s all,’ I muttered.
Steve handed me a glass of wine. ‘Thought you might want another, seeing as you’re wearing the last one.’
I looked back down at my dress, which was now sporting an interesting across-the-boob wine stain.
‘And your boyfriend?’ He turned to Nick. ‘What can I get you, mate?’
‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ I said.
‘Not yet,’ said Nick. ‘A whiskey for me, please.’
Following what appeared to be some kind of fraternal nod of approval, Steve left and I looked across at Nick. His expression fell somewhere between delighted and constipated.
‘So then, Alistair.’ I picked up my pen and notepad. ‘Describe your perfect woman.’
He smirked. ‘A milkmaid with no knickers and inhuman flexibility.’
I rolled my eyes.
‘Or,’ he added, leaning forward. ‘If you don’t have one of those, how about a stunningly beautiful, independent yet busy blonde, wearing a navy dress with an ominous stain?’
I pretended to take notes, hoping my face didn’t look as hot as it felt.
‘I mean you. Just to be clear.’
He reached for my hand. Before he made contact, I pulled my hand away and picked up my glass. Following a long awkward sip of wine, my phone vibrated as another message appeared. It was a long-winded text from John, the barrister, describing his entire week’s work schedule and explaining that it wasn’t compatible with the photo shoot tomorrow.
‘He must be lying,’ Nick said after I’d shown him the text. ‘Men never offer that much detail unless they’re lying.’
I sat back in my chair and rapped my fingers on the table. ‘Doesn’t it take one to know one, though?’ I asked, eyebrows raised.
‘No.’
I leaned forward and looked into his eyes, ‘You could be lying. How can I trust you?’
‘Because, your Honour, as I clearly stated, men offer excessive detail when they’re lying and mine was a one word answer.’
‘Hmm, so I’ll have to let you off on a technicality,’ I said, leaning back again. ‘But I’m watching you.’
I pointed to my eyes and then back at him.
He took a glug of whiskey. ‘So what makes you so suspicious of men?’
I laughed. ‘I could ask the same of you. You’re the one who said John was lying. Anyway, back to the photo shoot, the day’s nearly over and I only have two bachelors.’
‘Do you realise that so far you’ve deflected every personal question I’ve asked?’
‘Have I?’ I asked, immediately aware that I had just proved him right.
‘Okay,’ he finish
ed his whiskey and placed the glass on the table, ‘here’s the deal: I’ll do that bloody magazine shoot tomorrow if you’ll promise to answer one question.’
‘Deal,’ I said reaching across the table to shake his hand. As soon as we touched, I began to feel incredibly self-conscious and pulled my hand back. ‘So what’s the question?’
‘Is there someone?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, is there someone?’
‘Is that some kind of cryptic philosophical question?’
‘Are you with someone?’
‘No.’
‘You’re single?’
‘That’s two questions.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s the same question.’
‘Yes. I’m single. And no, there isn’t anyone.’
‘Okay,’ he said, standing up. ‘That’s all I needed to know.’ His smile beamed down at me and when he touched my shoulder gently, the self-consciousness suddenly returned. ‘You’re off the hook. For now,’ he added before walking way.
When he reached the staircase, Marie was leaning against the banister, her legs and lips slightly parted, her pupils narrowed to slits.
‘Au revoir, Alistair,’ she purred, but he walked straight past her and then threw a glance back over his shoulder towards me.
When he was out of sight, Marie shook her black hair and strutted over.
‘Der ees a woman to see you. I sind er down,’ she said, before re-directing her attention to Steve who was loitering behind the bar.
While I waited, I wondered what exactly it was that Nick thought he liked about me. Had my GHD’d hair triggered neuronal connections linked to images of super-sexy models in marketing campaigns? Or maybe he’d received a string of subliminal messages from the media which programmed him to be especially responsive to navy blue. Or was it more instinctual? My waist to hip ratio? The distance between my eyes? The width of my smile? Maybe, it was Freudian and I reminded him of his mother. Or perhaps it was my smell, an unconscious indication that our immune systems were compatible.
It couldn’t really be my personality. He hadn’t felt the full force of that yet. So it had to be something else. There were plenty of other girls he could have chosen. And I hadn’t exactly been receptive. Maybe he just liked a challenge or had some masochistic urge to be punished. But, whatever the reason was, I decided it was unlikely to be more than a string of assumptions extrapolated from first impressions and resolved to regard it with caution.