It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker (31 page)

‘What do you mean? So, he just wanted sex and not a relationship?’

‘Yes with you, at that time, he wanted sex but definitely not a relationship,’ I explained.

‘So, I was right. He isn’t looking for a relationship.’

‘That’s not what I said.’

She sighed.

‘Look, under all their silly bravado, men are secretly hoping to meet the girl of their dreams. Someone they think is gorgeous and sexy and with a personality they could fall in love with. However, if that doesn’t happen, then the second best outcome is sex, generally with the hottest, most willing girl.’

Pete produced another tool from his bag.

‘Oh right, so he would just have sex with anyone then?’

‘Some men would, but not all. It depends how discerning they are. The key is to learn to give off the right messages to attract the more discerning ones. Talking of which, weren’t you chatting to Greg last night too? What happened there?’

‘He didn’t seem too keen.’

I laughed. ‘He’s probably a bit put off by the fact that every time he’s tried to chat to you, you’ve blown him off.’

Pete looked up, a little alarmed.

‘I mean, you’ve rejected him,’ I said. ‘And then to see you leaving with another guy …’

She sighed again. ‘I’m not very good at this, am I?’

I laughed. ‘Find me someone who is.’

When I’d hung up the phone, a pungent aroma wafted through the air. I put my hand over my mouth, but not after I’d already imagined tiny airborne sewage particles clinging to my skin, wafting up my nose, sliding down my throat, then crossing my lungs and percolating into my bloodstream.

‘Sounds like your job deals with more crap than mine,’ Pete said with a chuckle, as he donned some industrial gloves.

I smiled.

‘It’s a different world now,’ he said. ‘Women weren’t like that in my day.’

‘Yes it’s a funny world,’ I said, adopting what I hoped was a brisk and conclusive tone.

I’d already spent over two-hundred pounds of old-fashioned pricing, pouring him tea and feeding him biscuits, I didn’t want to further increase the bill with an extended debate on relationship philosophy in a post-feminist era.

‘Women these days. You want it all,’ he continued, standing up and then wiping his apparatus on my cream towel. ‘You want all the rights without the responsibilities.’ He flushed the toilet. ‘Like you, for example, you live on your own, but you still need a man to fix things around the house.’

My mouth opened, and then closed again, as I thought better of reminding him that I was paying him with money I had earned, not asking for help in exchange for bottom sex.

‘In my day, it was easier. Roles were clear. Men and women knew their place.’

I laughed. ‘They didn’t have a choice.’

‘Women need men.’

‘And men need women.’

‘Women aren’t what they used to be. They used to cook, clean, keep a lovely home. Have modesty. Respect for themselves.’

‘Cooking and cleaning is having respect for themselves?’

‘Marjorie would turn in her grave is she could see the young women today …’ He shook his head ‘… drinking like sailors, letting men take them up the alley on the first night. I don’t know.’

After he’d relieved me of £300 and reiterated the point that I needed a good man in my life, Pete set off to rescue another misguided maiden from a leak she had no man to fix.

As he walked away, leaving the faint outline of sewage footprints on my carpet, a strange thought popped into my head. Well, it was more of an image than a thought: I saw Emily’s mother enjoying a pot of tea and some chocolate biscuits, then perhaps a glass of Mateus Rose? After my daydream had progressed to Prompt Pete plunging his tool into Emily’s mum’s cistern, I wondered if I should pass on the number of a good old-fashioned plumber.

After I’d scrubbed away the fallout from the toilet, I decided a soak in the bath might prepare me for a night of unsolicited concern from Cordelia and Caro. Further texts had informed me that the location of their intervention was to be the local
tapas
restaurant. This seemed somewhat of an anticlimax after their flamboyant channel-crossing gesture of friendship. From the apparent urgency of their return, I was almost expecting a televised intervention comprising a multidisciplinary team of experts, a shocking diagnosis and culminating in an enforced admission to a specialised clinic.

As I sank into the bubbles, watching them pile on top of each other and stretch out into rainbow arcs, I remembered my chemistry teacher describing the millions of tiny surfactant compounds that held bubbles in place. He’d explained that one part loved the water, the other part hated it, yet both polar-opposite reactions were required to hold the structure in place. If the formation of a simple bubble had such complexity, then how could we even begin to grasp the dynamics of an interaction between two, continuously evolving human beings in an uncontrolled environment. With an exasperated sigh, I popped the biggest bubble, pulled the plug and then climbed out of the bath.

When the residual foam had slid off my body, forming a small frothy puddle at my feet like the remnants of a snowman, I studied my reflection in the mirror, wondering if I might recognise the girl I had been five years ago. My body looked no different, albeit lacking the soft glow of youth. My hair was the same, though a slightly darker shade of blonde. But my mind – and the thoughts it contained – were like those of a different person. I looked down at the floor tiles, scrubbed to a gleaming white, knowing that it would be impossible to tell the state they had been in only a few hours earlier. I wished it were that easy with people. To wipe us clean and to start again, without holding onto the crap that life throws at us. When I wrapped a towel around me, watching the last of the bathwater spiral down the plughole, I decided that finally it was time to leave my past behind.

When I walked into the bedroom, a ray of sunlight seemed to bypass the clouds and shoot through the window and into my eyes. I closed them, but the yellow streak continued to pulse around my head, intensifying as it did. When I slowly opened my eyes, there was only one thought that remained: Nick.

Recognising the familiar stabs of longing, I tried to conjure an antidote, an alternate plan for the future. But it was difficult to believe in anything else. I didn’t really want to move to the country and hoard things. I didn’t even like chutney. I wanted Nick, and everything that he was. I wanted us to have paella arguments or even failed attempts at bottom sex on our silver wedding anniversary. I didn’t want to mould him into my perfect man. I just wanted us to be together again. There was no point me moping around, hoping that at any moment he might abseil down from my roof and then burst through my window wearing a black onesie and brandishing chocolates.

I stared at my bedside table for a moment, at the bottom drawer where I’d hidden the letter weeks ago. Before I could stop myself, I ripped open the drawer and yanked out the letter. Just as my fingernail tore through the envelope, I was interrupted by Caro and Cordelia hammering on my front door.

‘We’re here!’ they bellowed.

I opened the door and they barged in, dropping their suitcases to the floor and then flinging their arms around me.

I stiffened. ‘I was about to open the letter,’ I said.

I felt their grip loosen, then Cordelia stepped back, snatching the letter from my hand.

‘Let’s have a drink first.’ she said in a bizarrely theatrical sing-song voice.

Caro, uncharacteristically silent, made a beeline for the bottle opener. ‘Been on Facebook today?’ she asked, then twisted the opener into the cork.

I frowned. ‘No, you know I hate all that networking “talk about me, more about me” crap. I mean, who cares if some girl you haven’t seen since junior school is “so excited it’s the weekend”.’

Caro wrenched out the cork and Cordelia looked at me with a quizzical frown.

My throat felt dry, my heart started racing. ‘Why, what does it say?’

Caro looked to the floor, and Cordelia’s expression changed from one of concern to one of panic, as she snatched the bottle from Caro and began pouring.

My hands started trembling and the Arctic chill returned.

‘He’s met someone, hasn’t he?’ I asked, struggling to form the words. ‘That’s why you’re here.’

Caro thrust a glass into my hand. ‘Drink,’ she said.

I stared at the glass, but was unable to move. ‘Who is she?’

Cordelia leaned forward and tipped some wine into my mouth. ‘You’re not going to like it.’

I swallowed. ‘Who?’

Caro leaned forward and tipped my glass again.

I swallowed again. ‘Who?’ I repeated.

‘We never liked her.’

‘Who?’

‘I can’t,’ Caro said.

‘Tell me.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘You have to.’

‘You tell her,’ she said to Cordelia.

‘You’re the one that saw it on Facebook,’ Cordelia said, knocking back her wine.

‘Will somebody please tell me!’ I screamed.

‘Write it down,’ Cordelia said, throwing Caro a pen.

Caro looked around for some paper.

I flipped over the notes I’d made on Joanna’s alley antics and then threw the pad at her. Caro wrote each letter, slowly and deliberately as though it were an entry for a calligraphy contest. I downed my wine and then ripped the page away from her. As I read the letters one by one, my mind struggled to register.

‘Victoria? What? But it can’t be her. That can’t be right.’

‘Yes. Victoria,’ Caro said, pouring herself a large glass of wine.

‘But she was at the party last night. She was dancing with Robert.’ I snatched the glass from her and began drinking. ‘She’s my friend.’

‘She’s no friend of yours,’ Cordelia said.

‘But she was all over Robert last night. It just doesn’t make any sense.’

‘Since when does anything make any sense?’ Caro said, pouring herself a replacement glass.

Cordelia picked up my bag and coat. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go eat.’

Caro loitered behind to finish her wine and then followed us out the door, stuffing the letter into her bag.

That night, it felt as though the world were turning without me. I listened, but I couldn’t hear. I watched, but everything was blurred. I ate, but could taste nothing. I drank glass after glass, but the numbness never came.

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘Welcome to the chalet!’ the staff said in unison, as they lined up to greet us. Their five-star smiles seemed fixed to their faces as though there were a sniper in the rafters, ready to take them out if they dared adopt any other facial expression.

The chalet manager, Kate, stepped forward to shake my hand.

‘Welcome back,’ she said. ‘It’s always a pleasure to host one of your trips.’

Her smile was the most inauthentic of them all. Over the years, I’d seen it range across the full spectrum, from manic child’s entertainer to “Here’s Johnny” in
The Shining
.

While the suitcases and skiing paraphernalia were unloaded from the coach, the guests waded through the deep snow and into the grand entrance hall. This year we had hired three chalets nestled at the foot of the slopes in St Anton. Guided by the results of a wall-sized ski-trip love-match flowchart that Mandi had spent months constructing, we had split the clients into three groups. Each group had been allocated either Mandi, Minky or me as their matchmaker.

‘Nice pad,’ Mr Marbella said, plonking himself down onto the enormous sofa that lined the perimeter of the lounge.

In the centre of the room, a glass flume reached from the polished floorboards to the oak-clad eaves. Inside, the fire roared like a caged animal, the flames burning fiercer and brighter with each crackle. Alongside the lounge, stood an imposing oak table, dressed as if for a royal banquet, silver cutlery laid out around crystal-encrusted candelabra.

‘Oh. My. God. Hot tub!’ screamed Cassandra as she climbed onto the sofa and looked out the window.

Outside, against the star-filled sky, the hot tub bubbled away, lit up like some kind of disco cauldron.

‘I’m going in!’ she squealed, her New York mega-volume bouncing off the cladding. She started unzipping her case.

Mr Marbella flinched and Emily who was sitting on the sofa put her hands over her ears.

‘Don’t tell me I have to
share
a room?’ Victoria flounced down the staircase, ponytail swinging violently. She looked at me with narrowed eyes.

We hadn’t really spoken since her Facebook declaration that she was dating Nick, aside from a brief conversation during which she’d enraged me further by asking me to explain in detail how I felt about it. After I had slammed the phone down and then texted Nick an angry “have a nice life” sort of message, I’d tried to bury both of them in the back of my mind. That was until, insisting she was now single, she’d booked a place on the ski trip, and then turned up at the airport acting as though nothing had happened.

Mike rushed towards her and picked up her suitcase. It had been nearly five years since I’d met him at the champagne bar on my first night of headhunting, but despite his unwavering appreciation of the opposite sex, he’d been insistent that he was still not ready for a long-term relationship, instead preferring to focus his energies on enjoying the journey. I watched him gazing up at Victoria and wondered if that might be about to change.

‘So, do we really
have
to share?’ Victoria asked again.

‘I thought it would be a good way for everyone to get to know each other,’ I replied.

‘You can share with me,’ Mr Marbella said with a wink.

Mike sneered at him. Then Cassandra bolted past in a bikini, heading towards the hot tub.

‘Wait for me,’ Dr Stud shouted, chasing after her, swimming shorts flapping wildly.

‘Why don’t you share with Emily?’ I suggested having noticed Emily slumped on the sofa sporting a sullen expression.

‘Fine,’ Victoria sniffed, before flouncing back upstairs. Mike grabbed her bags, along with his, and sprinted up ahead of her.

With everyone else out of the room, I walked over to Emily and sat down next to her on the sofa.