It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker (17 page)

Spread the love!

Mandi

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

The light faded, a black cloud moved across the sun and another email arrived in quick succession.

To: Ellie

From: Mia

Subject: Fairy annoying

The business has real potential. But Mandi is doing my head in – I can’t work with her.

Mia

I puffed out my cheeks and rapped my fingers on the table. It had been naive of me to think they would work well together. After all, they were more Tom and Jerry than Richard and Judy, but individually they both had clear strengths. A bit like the contradiction within my own mind, I decided, given that I was still idealistic but now from my experiences also part-cynic.

‘If I can resolve their differences then perhaps I could resolve my own,’ I explained to Matthew after I called him for advice.

‘Have you been reading those self-help books again?’

‘Here I am, trying to better myself and resolve my inner conflict, and all you do is take the piss.’

‘That’s what I do, remember.’

‘Fair point. So, any advice?’

‘Champagne silk.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Sorry, picking a tie.’

‘A tie?’

‘For the wedding.’

‘Oh, right. Were you going to send me a Post-it note?’

‘Yes, already sent. So, back to fairy and scary.’

I laughed. ‘What should I do?’

‘Let them fight it out.’

‘Really?’

‘Two extreme views generally settle in the centre somewhere eventually.’

‘Yeah, that’s worked really well in the Middle East.’

‘Trust me, scary will soften and fairy will harden.’

‘Do you know how dodgy that sounds?’

He sighed. ‘Call Cordelia.’

‘I have – she’s not answering.’

‘To the left.’

‘What?’

‘There’s a guy between my legs with a tape measure. Can I call you back?’

When the line went dead, I stared at the laptop screen until an email from Cordelia arrived, then I stared at the screen for a little longer, until I had plucked up the courage to open it.

To: Ellie

From: Cordelia

Subject: Dr Stud?

Dr Dud more like. Worst date of my life. You are in serious trouble.

C x

Usually offering three kisses, she had trimmed it down to one. The last time that happened was when she thought I’d slept with her boyfriend. Not good. It seemed bad matchmaking was a crime equal to a betrayal of the worst kind. The sooner I got the hang of it, the better for all concerned.

Cordelia finally returned my call just as I was walking to the club.

‘His hands were everywhere,’ she explained. ‘Despite the fact that we’d been in a public place and I’d remained fully clothed, it still felt as though he’d given me a full internal examination by the end of the evening.’

‘And what is his problem with women: “They belong in the kitchen or, if they’re naughty, sometimes in the basement”?’

‘He was joking.’

‘Was he?’

‘He has an off-the-wall sense of humour.’

‘Based on his deep-seated beliefs that women are inferior and only there to entertain and serve him.’

‘I think you’re over-reacting. He’s very sweet when you get to know him.’

‘No thanks. Anyway, Harry and I have been talking.’ She paused. ‘And … I’ve decided to move to Spain with him.’

Following a lengthy debate about whether, given her family history of melanoma, it would be wise for her to move so many degrees closer to the equator, I shrugged my shoulders and conceded. We settled on the promise of quarterly visits and weekly phone-calls.

After I’d hung up the phone, I marched towards the club. The Edwardian townhouses flashed past in my peripheral vision, estate agent signs tied to their railings. The residents of London seemed as transient as the clouds in the sky. Someone had added an “i” between “To” and “Let” on one of the signs and I wondered how many smiles it would evoke, before it was wiped off or washed away.

Before heaving open the door to the club, I checked my phone and saw a text from Caro:

We’ve been reposted to Iraq. Leaving tomorrow! Good-bye drinks tonight? Xxx

We? Since when did such couple-centred terminology, commonly reserved for announcing pregnancy, expand to encompass that of military command?

Deserter x

I texted back, adopting a Cordelia-style “withdrawal of kisses when offended” approach. How could she leave me at this critical juncture? And what was with these sudden life-changing decisions? Were we all simultaneously experiencing some kind of early onset mid-life crisis? I’d abandoned a respectable career to pursue international recognition as a professional matchmaker. Cordelia had quit her equally respectable job to live with her inconsistent boyfriend at his mum’s beach flat in Spain. And now, Caro, chasing her military-clad toyboy into the aftermath of a war against, well we weren’t quite sure so let’s call it “terror”. At least Matthew was behaving like a normal person: marrying his adorable fiancée at an appropriate age. But, for all I knew, he could have been writing a Post-it note that very moment, explaining that instead, he was moving to Bangkok to live as a ladyboy and that the tailor had been measuring him for a champagne silk minidress.

Victoria strutted down the staircase, wearing camel-coloured trousers and a tight cashmere jumper, her trademark ponytail swinging almost triumphantly. She looked like the cat that got the cream, or had stolen someone else’s cream. In fact, the expression in her eyes seemed a bit catty. Catty, catty cream-stealing bitchpants.

‘Whatever is this about?’ she asked nonchalantly, as she slipped her narrow hips into the chair in front of me.

By now, I had worked myself into a silent rage, certain I was about right the wrongs of centuries of women. Today Victoria was going to pay. Retribution was nigh.

‘You know full well what this is about. Your behaviour is unacceptable,’ I said, gripping the glass of wine in front of me, fighting the urge to tip it over her. ‘So, unless you have a good explanation, I have no choice but to terminate our working relationship.’

‘Our working relationship?’ She sat back in her chair and let out a nasal laugh. ‘If you’re referring to Jeremy, it takes two to tango.’

‘From what I saw you were tangoing all over Jeremy.’ My fingers twitched on the glass stem. ‘You’re supposed to be Harriet’s friend.’

‘They had broken up.’

‘That’s not the point. It’s an unspoken rule never to touch your friend’s ex as a matter of respect. Surely you know that?’

‘Not in my rule book.’

‘What – the bitches’ guide to man-catching?’

Her face dropped, but I decided that now I’d started, I may as well finish.

‘When I first met you, you were rude, obnoxious and offensive. Since then my opinion has only deteriorated. You deliberately set out to seduce Jeremy, for what reason I do not know, but without consideration for anyone’s feelings but your own. And there are two exceptionally nice people who have been hurt in the process.’

Her face began to crumple.

I kept on. ‘But despite your best efforts, Jeremy didn’t want you. Did he
?
He wants Harriet. He loves Harriet. Not you.’

Her lip quivered and her eyes welled with tears, but I wasn’t done.

‘Hand it over,’ I said.

She looked down.

‘Hand me your phone. I want to see the photo.’

She looked up, her eyes flooded with tears and then pushed her phone across the table.

I flicked through the images, which seemed exclusively of Victoria in an array of designer outfits, and against an array of spectacular backdrops. When I came to the photo of Jeremy and his manhood, the phone seemed to throb in my hand. It was enormous, rippled with veins and almost purple in colour. I had never seen anything quite like it. Just as I was about to hit delete, hoping the image hadn’t had sufficient time to fully imprint on my memory, I noticed something odd in the background. I zoomed in. I saw a terrified-looking puppy holding something in his mouth. Something sliver which looked like a blister pack of tablets, I zoomed in some more. The letters “V” and “a” were just about visible next to the dog’s pink gums.

‘Ah ha,’ I said, looking back up at Victoria, ‘now it all makes sense.’

About to extend my tirade, to include police reports and a possible prison sentence, I stopped when her shoulders began to heave and her bottom lip quivered.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

Her head fell into her hands. When she lifted it back up again, it was as though her bitchy mask had been washed away to reveal a little lost girl, one whose kitten I’d just murdered.

I handed her some tissues. ‘I didn’t mean to be so harsh.’

‘I deserved it,’ she said between sobs, her body shuddering as she gasped to breathe.

Once Steve had noticed what was going on, he nodded for us to go into a private room next to the bar. I helped her up and with my arm around her, I led her into the room and towards an armchair, but when Steve closed the door behind us, she collapsed to the ground and then curled up into a ball on the floor. She sobbed uncontrollably while I sat next to her, holding her hand.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said repeatedly.

Soon Steve reappeared with the cup of tea I’d ordered and he also lay down two tumblers of cognac.

‘Thought you might want something stronger,’ he said. A faint smile appeared on her red, blotchy face. She drank both in quick succession, so we ordered some more.

‘I’m a horrible person,’ she said.

‘No, you’re not.’

‘I never used to be horrible.’ She looked down at her nails and picked at a chip in her nail polish. ‘Believe it or not, I used to be a bit like your Barbie of a consultant. The one who was at the party. Candi?’

‘Mandi.’

‘Yes, that’s it. Mandi. But now I’ve become one of those women I used to loathe.’ She continued to chip away. ‘Just like the one who ruined my life.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Long story,’ she said, peeling off the final piece of polish.

‘I’ve got time.’

Three hours passed and we hadn’t moved from the floor. The two armchairs remained empty. When he brought in the final round of drinks, Steve explained how he’d discovered the chairs in a skip outside. The original tapestry had been covered with an offensive synthetic fabric and the antique wood had been painted over. He said it had taken months to restore them.

When I stood up to leave, the room started spinning and it felt as though the armchairs where orbiting me.

‘Got to go to leaving Caro’s party,’ I burbled while steadying myself against the wall.

Victoria frowned, trying to process my words. ‘Someone’s leaving your friend?’

‘No, she’s leaving. We’re celebrating. No, I mean…’

‘Can I come with you?’ she asked, raising her arm in the air for me to lift her.

‘Sure,’ I said, trying to pull her up. ‘Just don’t drug her boyfriend.’

Chapter Thirteen

The sunlight sliced through a gap in the curtains and down my optic nerve like a dagger through the brain. I turned away, rubbed my eyes and noticed something moving under the duvet beside me. My mind raced, or as much as it could given its degree of hungover sluggishness. From the curves of the mound, and a glimpse of blonde hair poking out the top, I could tell it wasn’t a man. I scanned the room, squinting against the sunlight and noticed a crumpled pile of clothes: camel trousers, cashmere jumper. Victoria?

I patted myself down to check my state of dress and was relieved to find my largest t-shirt over the previous day’s underwear.
No embarrassing, I’m-not-really-a-lesbian explanations required today then
, I thought. My ankle began to itch. I pulled back the duvet to see neon pink legwarmers around each ankle complete with matching wristbands. As my mind struggled to reconcile my bizarre attire, images of the previous night flooded my mind.

Caro’s leaving drinks, of course. Initially, it came back in freeze frames, random images filling my mind: mojitos, an Eighties club, tequila. Spearmint Rhino? Finally, the freeze frames merged to replay the entire embarrassing movie in excruciating slow motion.

If this was a true recollection of events rather than a cocktail-induced false memory
, I told myself,
then there would be a troop of lap dancers sleeping in the lounge
. Also wearing legwarmers. I crept out of bed, pushed the door ajar and peered through the crack.

The scene looked like the aftermath of one of Robert’s videos. Four alarmingly orange girls were asleep in various positions on my floor and sofa. They were wearing varied degrees of lap-dancing attire, and in addition, as suspected, they were all indeed sporting leg warmers.

Victoria stirred and poked her head out from under the duvet. ‘Ouch,’ she said, pushing the hair away from her eyes.

‘Morning,’ I said, closing the door. ‘I would offer you a cup of coffee, but I wouldn’t want to wake the …’

I pointed back towards the lounge.

‘I was hoping that was a bad dream.’ She hoisted herself up out of bed, revealing a flash of neon green. She looked down and frowned.

Later that morning, after I’d sent the dancers away, explaining that despite the previous evening’s promises, I hadn’t yet raised enough funds to support a comprehensive exotic-dancers-to-internationally-recognised-matchmakers transition program, but that we would keep them posted on developments, Victoria and I decided to get some fresh air and wandered to the local bistro for brunch.

‘What was I thinking?’ I asked, rubbing my temples, a full English breakfast laid out before me.

‘You were quite funny really,’ Victoria said, stabbing a sausage, ‘rallying around trying to rescue the dancers as though they’d been enslaved in some kind of depraved street brothel.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Most of them told you to piss off.’ She laughed. ‘But you were undeterred. And when you’d incited a four-woman mutiny, you commandeered the microphone and launched into some sort of women’s lib speech about objectification and subjugation.’

‘In leg warmers?’