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

by Haley Hill

  ‘Where were we?’

  ‘Example.’

  ‘Oh yeah, okay, here’s one. We were at my villa, on the terrace, champagne, sunset … everything you birds love.’

  I sighed.

  ‘So I suggested we have a drink in the hot tub.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She went all psycho on me.’

  ‘Psycho?’

  ‘Yeah, freaking out.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I dunno. All I did was point out that the chorine levels might damage her bikini, and that it was probably best she leave it on the side.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Another slurp. ‘Then she started ranting on about how I just saw her as a pair of tits.’ He laughed.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Because it’s all bollocks.’ He paused to laugh again. ‘She was happy for me to fly her out here and pay for everything, and she turned up with her massive tits, flashing them every chance she got. Then she had a go at me for looking at them.’

  There were more giggles in the background. ‘Are you sure you actually want a relationship? Because this isn’t Rent-a-tit.’

  He laughed again. ‘I think you mean tits. I can’t see how anyone would want just one. But there’s definitely a business idea there. I’ll give Stelios a call. Easytits, I can see it now.’

  He slurped again. When I heard another voice in the background, this time in Spanish, I hung up the phone before my mind could begin to pair nationalities with nipple shades.

  Outside the club, my heels dug into the softening tarmac. The stuffy inner city air slid into my lungs like treacle from a spoon. Taxis and buses sighed like packhorses ready to drop, while red-faced office workers, sweating into their suits, funnelled between and beside them, seeking the path of least resistance, eyes focused on their goal, brains programmed with aspiration.

  Just when I thought nothing could distract them, one by one, their heads swivelled, and the pavement cleared, like the sea parting for Moses. It was as though the city held its breath while Kerri’s tiny frame and double Fs, squeezed into a child-size white linen dress were carried on four-inch Manolo Blahniks towards me. Women’s eyes narrowed to a toxic green, men’s jaws unhinged as their spellbound gaze followed her path, heads bobbing in time with her chest as it bounced braless towards the club. With a broad grin, she skipped towards me, but I sidestepped her, opened the door to the club and bundled her in.

  Once she was seated at the bar, and I had introduced her to a now chirpier Steve, I bolted up the stairs and back onto the street, armed with the Dictaphone I’d purposely concealed in my bag that morning. Men were still dithering on the pavement, appearing dazed as though they’d just witnessed some sort of supernatural phenomenon. I pressed “record” and approached the first group I came to.

  ‘Hi,’ I said breathlessly, in an unfit rather than sexy manner. ‘Mind if I ask you about that girl you just saw?’ After an initial moment of unified bafflement, my question seemed to intensify their trance. ‘What did you think of her?’

  ‘Hot,’ said one of the men, staring ahead.

  ‘Hot as hell,’ another one added, blowing on his fingertips.

  I turned back to the first one. ‘Would you date her?’

  ‘Fuck yeah.’ His eyes darted around as though he were envisaging the scenario.

  ‘Would you marry her?’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  I frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Er, because she’s hot.’

  ‘What if she was stupid?’

  ‘Even better.’ The finger-blower laughed.

  My eyes narrowed. ‘What if she was diagnosed with breast cancer and had to have a double mastectomy?’

  For a moment, their grins subsided, but then the finger-blower’s laughter rumbled up again.

  ‘Still, she’s got a great arse.’

  They laughed and globules of saliva scattered like shrapnel across my face.

  I wiped it off with my sleeve. ‘But then you were diagnosed with testicular cancer and had to have your balls chopped off?’

  The laughter stopped.

  I stepped towards them. ‘The surgery went wrong. There was necrosis. Then gangrene. It spread to your penis. It had to be amputated. What then?’

  They stepped back, smiles fading.

  ‘Would her arse matter then, eunuch boys?’

  They backed away, mumbling various excuses about returning to work. I shrugged, fully confident my approach had come across more hard-hitting journalist than mentally unstable matchmaker.

  The two men I approached next were standing outside a prestigious law firm and wearing pinstriped suits and red braces. I expected to glean a more sensible response from them.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ I felt for the Dictaphone in my bag to check it was still recording. ‘Would you mind if I asked you few questions about the girl who was just here, the one in the white dress?’

  As soon as I mentioned “white dress” it was as though their brains shut down and the contents of their testicles took over.

  ‘That dress,’ the fiftysomething man remarked. ‘Spectacular.’

  The younger man, in his mid-thirties, was staring straight ahead.

  I turned to him. ‘What did you think of her?’

  A smile crept across his face. ‘X-rated,’ he said and then they both smirked.

  I rolled my eyes. ‘So I take it you’d date her then?’

  ‘She looks expensive,’ the older one said, flashing his wedding ring. ‘But so long as she was discreet, I’d happily give her a pearl necklace to complement her dress.’

  His laugh escalated, his eyes squinted to a close and his mouth gaped open, revealing years of decay. I felt an urge to ram the Dictaphone down his throat, pushing it all the way into his stomach so that his acid bile could digest his words.

  When I returned to the club, having left their lecherous laughs to merge with the rest of London’s toxic emissions, I wondered if I should show Kerri my findings. I wanted her to understand that, when presented with a body as sexy as hers, men lost their ability to focus on anything else. And that introducing herself boobs first was tantamount to burying a Rembrandt in the boot of a Ferrari. But after I’d played the tape, I wondered if my approach might have been a little too radical.

  ‘They really said all that? They’re disgusting,’ she said, wiping a tear from her cheek.

  ‘You must know the effect you have?’ I asked. ‘Every man looks at you. And that’s with your clothes on. What about all those photos of you online? The one of you in the purple thong: how did you even get into that position?’

  ‘I like men to look.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It makes me feel good.’

  ‘But men don’t want to think of every Tom, Dick and Harry wanking over their future wife.’

  She looked at me quizzically. ‘But that’s who I am. I’m a glamour model.’

  ‘No. That’s not who you are, that’s what you do.’

  While she processed what I had said, I subtly checked my watch, conscious that time was passing and aware that a small child was going to be deposited at my house in half an hour.

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’ I asked her.

  She looked startled. ‘Nothing, why?’

  ‘I have to go home now, but why don’t you come with me? We can chat more there.’

  I began to pack up my things.

  ‘Sure why not,’ she said, and then grabbed her bag.

  ‘Hope you like kids.’

  We arrived at my flat to find Harriet and Jeremy’s Range Rover pulling into the driveway. Jeremy, still wearing his angst-ridden expression from the morning’s meeting, jumped out of the car. Without so much as an appreciative glance at Kerri, he handed me a bag overloaded with items essential for Henry’s stay. Harriet, unfastening a wailing Henry from his car seat, began the first round of negotiations to extract him from the car.

  ‘Here’s the lovely elephant lady Henry. You lik
ed her, didn’t you?’

  ‘No. Nooooo. I want Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. Waaaaa!’

  Without introduction, Kerri climbed in the back of the car. After a short interim of face pulling, and an impressive repertoire of farmyard animal noises, she lifted Henry out of the car.

  ‘Kids love me,’ she said, patting his back while he clung to her like a Koala.

  Harriet walked towards them, smoothing down her evening dress and then kissed Henry on the head. She looked stunning. Her hair was swept up into a chignon and her make-up was subtle enough to let her features shine through. Kerri stepped back as though she were in the presence of an A-list movie star.

  ‘Remember Plan B!’ I shouted to Jeremy as the driver’s door swung shut.

  I crossed my fingers, hoping he had heard me.

  After Kerri had expertly fed and bathed Henry and then sung him to sleep, we sat down on the sofa with a bottle of wine.

  ‘Right, you remember when we met,’ I said, pouring her a glass

  ‘Yeah, at the player’s party.’

  ‘And you said you wanted more.’

  She nodded.

  ‘That was four years ago.’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Well, we tried it your way.’

  She nodded.

  ‘It didn’t work.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘So, are you going to trust me now?’

  She nodded again and then took a large gulp of wine.

  Three hours later, after we’d rifled through the unpacked suitcases that were currently housing my clothes, Kerri stood before me with a make-up free face. Her hair was tied up, and she was wearing a simple gypsy top, skinny jeans, pumps and a pretty bracelet.

  ‘I think I like it,’ she said, twirling in front of the full-length mirror in my hallway. She ruffled her blonde fringe and giggled. ‘Do you think I would suit Harriet’s colour? Her hair is beautiful. I’d give anything to look like Harriet. She’s stunning. And so classy. Do I look like her with my hair like this? Can I have her life please?’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ I imagined Harriet might warn her.

  Once I’d piled my clothes back into the suitcases, Kerri looked at me, head tilted.

  ‘Aren’t you going to unpack?’ she asked.

  I sighed. ‘Nope, I’m going to live in denial for a few more weeks.’

  Her expression softened. ‘He’ll come round. And if he doesn’t he’s an idiot.’

  There are quite a few idiots in the world though, I thought, placing my own name at the top of the list. Then I zipped up the final suitcase and prepared myself for yet another sleepless night.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Mewwwk. Meeeeewk!’

  Henry’s shouting woke me at 5am. I found him bouncing off the sides of his travel cot as though it were a wrestling ring. My assumption that “mewwwk” was Henry for “milk” was proved correct when he snatched the bottle from my hand, threw his dummy to the ground and thrust the teat in his mouth as though he hadn’t been fed since birth. I sat down beside his cot and began rummaging in his overnight bag for entertainment ideas. Kerri had left last night, so now Henry was stuck with me, a novice of epic proportions, until Harriet and Jeremy returned. Unimpressed by my suggestions of book reading or puzzle solving, he decided his improvised game of pelting me with random objects was much more enjoyable.

  Two hours later, following an onslaught of dummies, toys, bottles, sippy cups, wooden farm animals and ultimately porridge, I sat him down to watch his favourite TV show, starring a family of pigs who appeared to be cooking sausages on a barbecue.

  Keen to maximise my productivity during his down time, I turned my attention towards the search for a solicitor to defend me against my alleged crimes against follicles. After whizzing though the online directories, I left garbled messages on answering machines and submitted multiple “anal follicle count” entitled online enquiries.

  ‘I’ll be happy to represent you for a nominal fee,’ offered David, a solicitor who called me, presumably after receiving one such an enquiry.

  When I asked him about his experience with similar cases, he laughed and went on to explain that he was the founder of a firm that has won ninety-five percent of its instructions and has covered most of the high-profile cases in this field.

  ‘This field? Is it common then?’

  He chuckled. ‘The first case in history, I suspect. We’ll undoubtedly be breaking new ground. I’m sure the New Law Journal will be certain to cover it.’

  ‘You’re being sarcastic aren’t you?’

  He chuckled again. ‘You have nothing to worry about. Her claim is preposterous.’

  We were interrupted by a wail from Henry, which had an intensity that led me to think one of his limbs had been ripped from its socket.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got your hands full,’ David said. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll take care of everything.’

  His voice was soft yet authoritative and I couldn’t help thinking that this was the sort of guy that Kerri should be dating. Not some boob-obsessed playboy but a grown-up man, one who would take care of her and treat her the way she deserved to be treated.

  Noticing that the pig family had been replaced with an overexcited man dressed as a chicken, I realised the cause of Henry’s distress and changed the channel.

  ‘Before you go, can I ask you a quick question?’ I said to David.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Are you single?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Well, er, yes. Yes, I am actually.’

  It was 2pm by the time Jeremy and Harriet came to collect Henry. Not that I was clock watching. By now, Henry and I were having a blast. When I’d realised that all he needed was my undivided attention and access to everything in my flat, then we’d started to get on a lot better.

  ‘Look who’s here,’ I said as Jeremy and Harriet walked in. Henry threw down the remote control he was dismantling and then launched himself into Harriet’s arms. She swung him around and he squealed with delight.

  Jeremy stood beside her, looking as though he’d sidestepped the ten-tonne truck that had been on track to wipe him out.

  ‘We needed that break,’ he said, lifting Henry from Harriet and onto his shoulders. ‘We had a long talk and we’re going to make some changes.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I said, gathering Henry’s belongings, which appeared to have infiltrated every corner of my flat. Harriet stepped forward, grinning and swinging her arms by her side. ‘We’re moving to France,’ she said.

  Henry’s sippy cup fell from my hand to the floor.

  ‘We’re going to buy a farmhouse and plant vines,’ she explained.

  I looked at Jeremy. He was smiling.

  ‘After all, I am a big eared farm boy.’ He dug Harriet in the ribs.

  ‘The fresh air and countryside will be so good for Henry,’ Harriet went on and then paused to stroke Henry’s leg, which was dangling over Jeremy’s shoulder.

  ‘And Rusty.’ Jeremy added. ‘He’ll love it too.’

  Harriet sighed then stared at Jeremy. ‘And we’d like to build some bridges with my family out there.’

  ‘Bien sûr ma chérie,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her waist.

  I smiled, almost feeling the warmth of their embrace.

  ‘Well Plan B sounds like a winner.’ I looked around the room at my unpacked belongings. ‘Could do with one myself.’

  Jeremy and Harriet glanced at each other.

  ‘Need a hand with those?’ Jeremy said.

  I stepped over a suitcase. ‘Not yet,’ I said, before leading them out.

  Once they’d piled into the Range Rover, which was already brandishing GB stickers, I waved them goodbye. They pulled out of the driveway and sunlight bounced off the rear windscreen and straight into my eyes. I wondered if this would be the last time I’d see them.

  Back in my flat, I felt a chill in the air, so I donned a black polo neck and trousers before brushing the porridge fr
om my hair and slathering on some lip-gloss. Then, once again, closing the door behind me, I marched out of my life and into the lives of others.

  When I reached the station, I stood on the platform and looked up into the sky; it was empty. There were no clouds, no birds, nothing but air stretching up and away towards the end of the atmosphere. I wondered if we would ever truly understand what was beyond. Or why we would even want to. Without the comfort of winter’s low thick clouds covering the world like a blanket, I felt vulnerable and exposed. I wrapped my arms tight around my body and boarded the train.

  The first scheduled meeting was with Cassandra, and I hoped to arrive with enough time to down a double espresso before she joined me.

  ‘Oh. My. God. It’s been too long!’ she screamed across the bar as I came down the stairs.

  ‘You’re early,’ I said, hauling myself onto a stool next to her.

  ‘Red eye.’ She twirled a glass of whiskey in her hand. ‘Just landed, in from JFK. Winds were favourable. You joining me?’ she asked and then took a glug.

  ‘Bit early for that thanks. Double espresso please, Steve.’

  Steve’s head appeared from behind the bar. The dark circles under his eyes made it look as though he was the one who’d just flown in from New York.

  Cassandra looked me up and down. ‘You in mourning or something? It’s like twenty-five degrees outside.’

  I laughed and said I was fine, but neither she, nor the eavesdropping Steve, looked convinced.

  ‘More importantly, how are you?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I’m just fine too,’ she said, taking another glug. ‘Other than the fact I haven’t had a second date in three years.’

  I narrowed my eyes. ‘That’s because you refuse to listen to my advice.’

  I had matched her with, on average, one man per week. Allowing for holidays and, following the advice of a Buddhist guru, a year’s abstinence, it had amounted to one hundred and seven dates. None of which had progressed to a second.

  ‘But I’ve been a good sport, haven’t I? Most people would’ve given up by now.’ she screeched before downing the rest of her drink.

  ‘So,’ I interrupted, ‘if you were an athlete and you had been training for the hurdles for three years. And every day you tripped over the first one and fell flat on your face. Would you keep doing it your way? Or would you perhaps try a different technique?’