It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker (3 page)

‘Right. Bride in the boudoir. We need to get you fitted.’

Before I could protest, Edwina and Filippo had bundled me into the bedroom and began scanning my body with a device that Filippo referred to as a Fastidio adipose scanner.

The beauty of which, Filippo informed me, was to take measurements at the same time as highlighting any problem areas. After I’d been presented with a print-out of my Fastidio body graph and pre-wedding action plan, Filippo nodded at Edwina.

‘
Le cent-mille
?’ he said.

Edwina took a deep breath and nodded, then carefully extracted a dress from the rail.

As I stepped into it, she explained that the name of the limited-edition piece was derived from the hundred thousand crystals sewn on by hand in Belgium. Apparently, there was a three-year waiting list for made-to-measure orders. While Edwina tightened up the bodice, Filippo reassured me that as a diamond-package Fastidio bride, I would be awarded priority and the option of an interest-free payment plan.

When she’d finished making the final adjustments, Edwina stepped back, clasped her hands together and let out a deep sigh. Filippo kissed his fingertips.

‘
Bellissimo,
’ he said, ripping a sheet from the mirror like a magician.

I saw my reflection then stepped back, taking a sharp breath. I barely recognised myself. Somehow ten inches had disappeared from my waist and been cunningly displaced elsewhere. To my chest, it seemed. And against the ivory satin, my usually pasty complexion and honey-blonde curls could have even passed for English rose. I twirled around, feeling like one of those figurines advertised in the Sunday newspaper supplements. I’d be called something like Jezebel or Cressida. I swished my skirt from side to side and let out an excitable giggle. My hand shot over my mouth. It had been years since I’d made a sound like that. When I swished again, I giggled some more.

By now Filippo had hurried back to his laptop and was typing frantically on his keyboard. Then, with one seemingly triumphant tap, he took a deep breath and looked up.

‘Fastidio Weddings are proud to present …’ He threw his arms in the air as though leading an orchestra to crescendo. ‘… Mr and Mrs Robert Titus Hoffman’s virtual wedd –’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Where’s the groom gone?’ Filippo sprang up from his seat, waving his hands above his head. ‘Groom. Groom. Groom!’

I looked over to where Robert had been standing. Only a half-empty bottle of whiskey remained. By now Filippo was pulling back the curtains and peering out the window.

‘There,’ he said, pointing. ‘He’s outside. Bride, go get him. Hurry, hurry.’

I put my hand up. ‘But the groom shouldn’t see the –’

Filippo grabbed my coat from the stand and lobbed it at me. ‘Put this on. Go. Go. Go.’

As I skipped down the communal stairs of the mansion block, sunlight poured through the skylight and bounced off the crystal chandelier. Despite the weight of the dress, I felt a lightness in my step. I stopped by the window halfway down and peered outside.

Only this week, Robert had said that if the Edmundson deal went through, we could buy one of the townhouses opposite. I found myself grinning as I imagined walking up the stone steps then through one of the imposing doorways.

Until I’d met Robert, I’d spent years drifting purposelessly though dead-end jobs and flatshares, but now I was about to join his world of dinner parties, fine wine and filter coffee. I leaned forward and squinted: number twelve had a “For Sale” sign.

If I stood on tiptoes, I could see straight into the front room. It looked a bit rundown, but the idea of a renovation had always appealed. I quickly calculated the timelines in my head. It would take three months to knock through and extend, making it open-plan. Then probably another six weeks to install one of those sleek kitchens with handleless drawers. I’d already decided on white gloss units with a slate granite work surface, although I hadn’t yet committed to a shade of splashback. Something contrasting, I imagined. As I trotted down the last flight of stairs, I counted the months out on my fingers. If we were married by August, we could be in our new house by Christmas.

I stepped over a pile of flyers for Bikram Yoga and pushed open the front door. Robert was on the pavement, leaning against the wrought iron railings.

‘Had to take a call,’ he said, lifting his phone. Then he looked me up and down and frowned. ‘Bloody hell. Have you got Filippo and the team hiding out under there?’

I pulled the coat tighter over my dress and smiled. ‘Edwina said the full skirt is the most forgiving.’

He chuckled.

I leaned against the railings next to him. ‘I don’t blame you for scarpering,’ I said. ‘That Filippo’s quite a character, isn’t he?’

‘I could think of a few other words starting with “c”.’

I laughed and then slid down the fence so Filippo couldn’t see us.

‘Shall we do a runner?’ I whispered. ‘We could elope right now?’

Robert glanced up at the window. ‘He’s probably got Fastidio air patrol and road blocks on speed dial.’

I giggled. ‘I swear he spiked my drink at the wedding show. There’s no way I would’ve signed up for this otherwise.’

He looked up to the sky and sighed. ‘That’s such a relief. I thought you were all for it.’

I smiled. ‘A power trip in purple dictating our relationship? I don’t think so.’

He leaned towards me and brushed a strand of hair away from my face.

‘Who needs a piece of paper anyway?’ he said.

My stomach lurched and I stepped back. ‘I was talking about the wedding planner. I still want the wedding.’

He tensed.

‘Don’t you?’

He looked down at his shoes.

‘Robert?’

He glanced up at me, silent.

My heart raced. ‘Say something, you’re freaking me out.’

He put his hands in his pockets. ‘It is a little soon.’

‘Soon? What do you mean “soon”?’

He stood there, motionless.

My stomach churned. ‘You’re the one who proposed. You bought the ring.’ My throat felt like it was closing and I could hardly speak. ‘You asked me to move in. It was all you.’

He shuffled uncomfortably on the spot. ‘I thought we’d be engaged for a few years before we got married.’

I swallowed. ‘You said as soon as the divorce was finalised.’

He looked back down at his shoes. I glared at him until he looked up again.

‘I need time to tie up a few ends first.’

My hands were shaking. ‘Ends? You have ends to tie up? What’s that supposed to mean?’

His eyes darted from side to side like a ventriloquist’s dummy. ‘My wife just called. She wants to reconcile.’

I stepped back, almost knocking my head against a lamppost. ‘What?’

His eyes finally met mine.

‘You did tell her that’s not going to happen?’

His ran his fingers through his hair. ‘The divorce is going to cost me a fortune.’

The bodice seemed to tighten, like a python wrapped around my chest.

‘What?’ I shouted.

He reached for my hands. ‘It doesn’t have to be the end of us though.’ He squeezed them tightly. ‘You can stay in the flat. We can see each other in the week.’

I knocked his hands away. ‘You want me to be your mistress?’

His looked at me as though that might not be such a terrible idea.

‘Are you insane?’

Immediately, I visualised the three of us as the subject of a Louis Theroux documentary about polyamory in the Western world.

I stared at his face, searching for answers. I looked into his pleading eyes, then down at his mouth, the mouth that had only to curl at the edges to give me goosebumps. I looked at his chest, at the outline of muscles through his shirt. Then at his arms: the strong arms that I thought would hold me forever.

He walked towards me and slipped his hands around my waist. ‘I love you, Ellie. We can get through this.’

I stepped back. ‘Get through this? This isn’t a world war. We were supposed to be planning the happiest day of our lives.’

My heart pounded and my mind whirled. I struggled to hold back the tears as I gazed up at the sky and tried to make sense of it all: the work trips, the late nights at the office, the emergency golf games.

‘You’re still sleeping together, aren’t you?’

He began digging at a weed in the pavement with his foot.

My muscles twitched and adrenalin shot through my veins. I wanted to rip the shoe from his foot and pummel him over the head with it, but before I could act, I caught a glimpse of cappuccino-coloured chiffon in my peripheral vision. I turned to see Caro and Cordelia behind me.

Cordelia, clearly having caught the drift of the conversation was clutching a bag from the “Have a Horny Honeymoon” stand and had a menacing glint in her eye. Just as my thoughts were diverted to our porn-diversion splurge at The Wedding Show, she reached in and pulled out a dayglow dildo.

‘She bought this for you!’ she shouted, waving the oversized phallus at Robert.

He looked at her and lifted his hands as if to say: ‘Thanks, but I’m all good for dildos.’

Cordelia clenched her jaw, and tightened her grip around the girth. Filippo, seemingly anticipating her intentions, darted out the door and snatched the dildo from her as though he were partaking in some kind of bizarre relay race.

I looked back at Robert. Images from Backdoor Babes flooded my mind. Latino Lesbos and bushy beavers. I imagined strippers writhing on his groin. I pictured him in his office emailing “Juicy Lucy” with his hands down his trousers. Then I imagined his wife bouncing through the doorway of their new townhouse and into his arms.

Tears pooling in my eyes, I glanced down at the three-carat diamond nestled in its platinum clasp. Its market value was probably enough for a deposit on a flat. Or a round-the-world trip with Cordelia. Yet, without hesitation, I tore it from my finger. I looked at Robert’s bewildered expression, then across the road at the “For Sale” sign. Every muscle in my body tensed as I swung my arm back and then hurled the ring towards the gutter.

As the ring spiralled through the Mayfair street, the front door creaked open. Edwina and the priest emerged, mouths agape, to witness Filippo leaping into the air like a brightly dressed frog. His eyes bulged as he held the dildo aloft like a baseball bat. He soared towards the ring, ready to intercept it, but his back swing was a little overzealous and the dildo slipped from his grasp. It bounced a few times, rebounded from the curb and then somersaulted after the ring into the gutter. The rest of the Fastidio team edged out, eyes wide, to see the ring twirl on the spot, offering a closing pirouette before the advancing dildo sent it plummeting down the drain.

The sound of the tiny splash it made when it hit the water echoed in my mind for months. With each memory, the tears would come. Tears laced with grief for Robert’s strong arms and the white-gloss kitchen that would never be realised. Ricocheting between cocktail-fuelled nights out with the girls, inappropriate dates and wallowing in bed watching reality TV, I gradually began to piece my life back together. A new bar job. Another flat-share. A different hair colour. Every day I reminded myself that the aching void inside would pass, just as soon as fate delivered “The One”. My Mr Right. The man my friends and family assured me was out there somewhere and would come along when I least expected it.

Two years on and I was still waiting.

Chapter Three

It was a bitterly cold November evening, when I found myself in All Bar One on Regent Street, sitting opposite a man whose head was too small for his body. Below a gelled curtain fringe were squinty eyes, shiny skin and bushy hair sprouting from one nostril.

‘You’re the only girl I’ve met online who isn’t a porker,’ he said, getting up from his seat and then sidling up next to me. ‘But I’d put you more as a size twelve than an eight.’

I forced a smile.

‘I don’t mind a bit of meat though,’ he said, his fingers creeping onto my thigh, tongue edging out in anticipation. His breath smelled of coffee and pickled onions.

I stood up. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said, before offering what turned out to be a rather long-winded excuse, involving a 24-hour veterinary surgery, a fictional cat and implausible bowel surgery.

The bar’s heavy door slammed shut behind me and the icy air hit me like a slap in the face. I pulled up my scarf and began the familiar trudge to Waterloo Station.

Lured by the promise of meeting thousands of “like-minded singles”, I’d embraced online dating with gusto, imagining it to be like shopping for a husband: ooh, add to basket. But after four months of intensive participation, my disappointment was mounting. The slick profiles – comprising impressive credentials and enticing photos – often omitted pertinent details such as a clubbed foot, sexual deviance or, just as in Robert’s case, a wife. Occasionally, I’d find one who walked and talked like a normal boyfriend, only to reveal a deep dark shadow that would have sent even Dr. Phil running for the hills. And after tonight’s offering of a misogynist with hair from the Nineties, I knew it was time to call off the online search.

But as I traipsed towards the Thames, it seemed that while I was being groped in All Bar One, London’s entire population had paired off, and then gone on to organize some kind of flashmob snog-a-thon. Couples crisscrossed my path and flaunted their love.

Enter besotted duo from the left. Cue loving gaze in restaurant. Candlelight, please
.

Despite auditioning for roles such as “happy bride” and “woman in love”, it felt as though I had inadvertently secured the lead in a new blockbuster entitled:
Everyone finds love … except for you
. And when a taxi, transporting a mess of entwined limbs, ploughed through a muddy puddle and splashed water up my leg, I felt more alone than ever before.

When I eventually arrived home, I found Matthew, my long-term friend and short-term flatmate, lounging on the sofa, glass in one hand, wine bottle in the other, a wildlife documentary flickering in the background.

‘So, how was the six-foot-two international entrepreneur?’ he asked, sitting up to pour me a glass.