Читать книгу It's Got To Be Perfect - Haley Hill - Страница 11

‘WHAT ABOUT THEM? They’re cute,’ I said, pointing to a group of men by the bar.

‘I don’t think so,’ Cordelia replied with a dismissive flick of her Jennifer Lawrence hair. ‘Your first clients have to be super eligible.’

With her sleek frame encased in a Vivienne Westwood pinstriped dress and her long legs elongated further with red Dior stilettos, she looked the image of timeless elegance. I couldn’t help but feel inferior. My ensemble wasn’t dissimilar, albeit a high street version on a high street body, but for me, it didn’t come so easily. With a smudge of Benetint and a light dusting of powder, Cordelia personified Hollywood glamour. However, my less-impressive result required hours of prep, more foil than a Christmas turkey, and a paranoid avoidance of neon lighting. People who loved me, or those who saw me in candlelight said I looked a bit like Holly Willoughby. The rest said Beverley Callard.

Cordelia slipped her arm through mine and led me away from the men—who she had culled for ‘drinking pints in a champagne bar’—then marched us on to a balcony which afforded a panoramic view of the bar.

‘No. No. And no,’ she said, scanning the crowd and dismissing everyone in sight. ‘Where have all the hot men gone?’

I laughed. ‘That’s what I’ve been asking for the past two years.’

‘They must be hiding out somewhere,’ she said, craning her neck around a gilt pillar. ‘This is supposed to be the champagne bar of the moment according to the FT.’

I checked my watch: it was six o’clock on a Thursday evening. We were in the heart of the financial district and the bar was jammed, teeming with enough men to send the Weather Girls into cardiac arrest, but, according to Cordelia, no one was good enough.

‘They don’t have to be outrageously good-looking, do they?’ I asked, feeling far less discriminatory since my dressing down from Matthew. ‘All I need are normal people who are single.’

She tossed a sheet of golden hair behind her shoulders. ‘You want to avoid the stigma that other agencies have, don’t you?’

I nodded.

‘Well, the only way to do that is to have the uber-eligible as your first members. It’s a bit like a celebrity endorsement. You know, if they’re doing it, then it must be good.’

‘But no one really believes that Cheryl Cole dyes her own hair over a sink at home? Why would they believe that a gorgeous man has trouble finding love?’

‘Because he does. Everyone does. That’s the reason you have decided to become a matchmaker, is it not?’ Her voice was sympathetic, but the pinched expression betrayed her impatience.

I nodded again, looking around the bar at the seemingly contented patrons. What if it was just me? What if no one wanted or even needed my help?

‘Ah, here we go,’ she said, gesturing towards two men who had just swaggered through the doorway. ‘That’s more like it.’

Both well over six feet tall with dark hair, and wearing Savile Row suits, they sauntered in like they’d stepped off the cover of GQ magazine. One of them glanced my way and flashed a smile. I took a deep breath, sucked in my tummy and weaved my way through the crowd towards him.

‘Well, hello,’ he said, when I’d reached him.

‘Well, hello yourself,’ I replied, attempting a Cordelia-style hair flick which resulted in several drinks being spilled behind me. He laughed: a soft, sexy, George Clooney drawl, not the high-pitched Road Runner warble that appeared to be coming from my mouth.

‘So, what brings a gorgeous girl like you to a place like this?’

Back straight, tummy miraculously still in, I looked him in the eye and declared my purpose. ‘I’m headhunting for eligible men.’

He raised one eyebrow, and his friend, who was standing beside him, leant in closer.

‘You’re what?’ the friend asked, head cocked like a befuddled puppy.

‘I represent an exclusive dating agency,’ I explained, easing into character, ‘and I’m looking for men good enough to date our female clients.’ Technically, I decided, that wasn’t a lie.

They both laughed, but were clearly intrigued.

‘This, I absolutely have to hear,’ George Clooney drawl said. ‘Have a drink with us. If your female clients are anything like you then I could be persuaded.’ He waved a fifty at the barman. ‘I’m Mike, by the way, and this is Stephen.’ He nodded vaguely in his friend’s direction.

‘Ellie,’ I replied.

He slipped his arm round my waist and kissed me on the cheek. When Stephen stepped in to repeat the process, I wondered why I hadn’t considered this career change years ago.

‘So, you headhunters, do you hunt alone? Or in packs?’ Mike asked, handing me a glass of champagne.

‘In pairs,’ I answered, glancing over my shoulder, wondering where Cordelia had gone. ‘I’m here with my friend.’ I stood on tiptoes to look above the heads. ‘Cordelia. Now where is she? Ah, over there.’

I pointed her out. She was immersed in conversation with a tall olive-skinned girl who was blessed with the rare combination of endless limbs, tiny bottom and big boobs. As if to add further insult to the rest of the female population, she had also been awarded a super bonus prize of waist-length glossy brown hair.

‘So, you do the boys and she does the girls?’ Mike asked with a wink.

‘No, we do both,’ I replied, waving Cordelia over.

Mike raised his eyebrows. ‘You do girls and boys? Excellent.’

He smirked and then topped up my champagne.

Moments later, Cordelia returned and introduced her new acquaintance, Megan, whose bee-stung lips and emerald-green eyes now made the rest of her attributes seem decidedly average. Mike nudged me and then laughed. Stephen was transfixed, as if the befuddled puppy had encountered his first T-bone steak.

‘We’re not supposed to pair them off before they sign up,’ Cordelia said, pulling me away from Mike. ‘Or spend the entire night talking to one guy,’ she whispered in my ear.

Mike reached for the champagne bottle. Just as he went to top up my glass again, Cordelia placed her hand over the top.

‘We can’t stay,’ she said, before handing me my coat.

Mike’s brow creased, his expression revealing something more than simply a dent to his ego. Although he’d already made it clear that he would never need to use a dating service, he was quick to add that he’d be happy to ‘help me out’ if I couldn’t find any men for my female clients.

‘Only if you get desperate though,’ he added, pressing his business card into my hand.

I nodded and smiled, before hurrying after Cordelia.

‘Right, be completely honest with me,’ Cordelia said as she marched into the night. ‘Are you really doing this dating thing for the good of the people? Or …’ She let the door swing shut in my face.

I heaved it back open, with the aid of a slow-to-respond doorman and then glared at her. ‘Or what?’ I asked.

‘Or,’ she began, marching along the pavement, ‘are you looking for a man for yourself?’

I scrunched up my nose. It was a valid question, and one that I wasn’t quite sure I had an answer to.

‘I want to help people,’ I said, tottering behind her.

‘Since when?’ she asked, turning to face me and throwing up her hands. ‘You know I love you to bits. You’re my best friend.’ Her expression softened. ‘It’s obvious you have a good heart: you donate to charities, you adore animals, you help old ladies, you even smile at ugly babies. But people—’ she looked around as though searching for an example ‘—the unimpaired, adult kind—’ she pointed vaguely at the pedestrians around us ‘—you’ve never really had much time for them.’

I frowned, wondering what had prompted such dramatics.

‘Come on. They irritate you. With their eating in public, dithering on pavements, wearing bad clothes and saying inane things. People get on your nerves. You spent the past five years hiding from them in a lab. So why now, suddenly, do you want to help them?’

I squinted across the street at a man grappling with a cumbersome kebab, and I wondered if she was right.

‘And then in the bar,’ she said, pointing back as if to remind me of its location, ‘with that guy. You had that smitten look you get.’

‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘It’s not as though I can prevent my most base level desires from reacting to a stimulus. Pupils, cease dilation, for now I am a matchmaker, born of higher purpose.’ Then I glared at her shoes. ‘And besides, it’s not like you haven’t exploited the perks of your job at Dior, is it?’

She looked down and smiled. ‘Fair point,’ she said, admiring her red Mary Janes as if for the first time. Then she looked up and her eyes met mine. ‘I just want to make sure you’re doing this for the right reasons.’

I watched Kebab Man, now heading towards us with iceberg lettuce stuck to his chin, and I mustered a smile.

‘I’ll make a good altruist,’ I said, before leaning into the road to hail a passing taxi. Next stop, the Royal Exchange.

When we arrived at the eminent sixteenth-century building, Cordelia pointed up at the Duke of Wellington statue, in the manner of a tour guide. ‘He defeated Napoleon, was Prime Minister twice and still managed a twenty-five-year marriage,’ she said.

‘Well, he deserves a statue, then,’ I said, striding up the stone steps.

‘Although he was shagging around the entire time,’ she added with a smirk. ‘Dirty bugger.’

I tutted and shot a disapproving look back at the statue, wondering if his wife had regretted the choice she’d made: assuming love would come packaged as a duke on a stallion.

Once inside the courtyard, we made our way past Bulgari and Boodles and upstairs to the lounge bar. Immediately I felt as though I should be negotiating the terms of a FTSE 100 company buyout, rather than contemplating the least embarrassing way to approach potentially single strangers. Cordelia and I perched on some upholstered bar stools and glanced at the wine list, which according to the barman comprised those made exclusively from ancient vines. Once he’d wandered off with my credit card, I decided that if I was to be mingling with city workers, I should at least have the vaguest comprehension of what a FTSE 100 company was. Cordelia, who had once dated a trader, offered me a crash course on city finance.

When she’d concluded with a dubious interpretation of the stock market, I peered around the room to look for potential clients. Straight away three men approached the bar. They stood right next to us. I hoped they hadn’t mistaken us for call girls.

The oldest one, who had a bit of a paunch, purposely bumped Cordelia’s knee.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ he said with a lecherous smile. ‘Now, the least I can do is to buy you a drink to make up for my clumsiness?’

‘I already have one, thanks,’ she replied, and swivelled her bar stool away from him.

Undeterred, he walked around the other side and wedged his paunch between us, and then leant in towards Cordelia.

‘How else could I apologise? Dinner?’ A dribble of saliva hung off his bottom lip.

‘No, thanks,’ she said, swivelling her bar stool back the other way.

He grabbed the seat and spun her back towards him. ‘Diamonds? There’s a jeweller’s downstairs. Pick anything you’d like.’

‘I’m fine. Thank you,’ she said, peeling his hands off her chair, an action which only seemed to embolden him further.

A few minutes later, following what amounted to a clockwise–anticlockwise bar stool spin-off, he thrust his leg through the foot stand to anchor it and deposited a sloppy kiss, complete with blob of saliva, onto her hand.

‘I’m Timothy,’ he said, platinum wedding ring shining for all to see.

‘Cordelia,’ she replied, wiping her hand on a napkin, ‘and this is my friend Ellie.’ She waved him on to me as though he were an annoying fly. ‘She’s a matchma—’

‘Gorgeous,’ he said, looking me up and down, ‘but obvious. You’re much more interesting.’ He leant back towards her.

I laughed, relieved to have escaped the slimy hand kiss. Although after her blatant attempt to offload him onto me, I was struggling to decide whether she deserved rescuing. Just as I was weighing it up, one of his friends stepped forward.

‘Sorry about him,’ he said in a gentle American accent, his smile confirming teeth too perfect to be British. ‘I’m Nate.’

He offered me his hand. I took it, reciprocating the firm grip.

‘And this is Josh.’ His other friend moved forward with his hand out too. I was mildly perturbed by the level of hand-shaking involved but quickly realised it was an excellent opportunity to check for wedding rings. These two were in the clear. I looked more closely at their all-American faces, the sort that seemed instantly familiar. Did I know them from somewhere? They didn’t seem to recognise me, so I went on to explain my plans to reintroduce the world to deep and meaningful love. Nate looked fascinated, but Josh looked terrified, as though implementation of my business model necessitated the distribution of nuclear warheads to the Middle East.

‘How will you match people?’ he asked, brow furrowed.

I looked around the bar, hoping Eros’s messenger might appear with a comprehensive matchmaking strategy inked onto a scroll.

‘Various methods,’ I said eventually and with surprising conviction.

‘And your marketing strategy consists entirely of tapping people on the shoulder and asking if they’re single?’ Josh asked, studying my business card.

I nodded, realising how implausible it sounded out loud.

‘But how will you discriminate?’ Nate asked, brow furrowing further.

I glanced over at Timothy, who was now attempting to mount Cordelia on the bar stool and we all laughed.

By now, Cordelia’s handbag was no longer functioning as a makeshift shield and her facial expression had shifted from disgust to one resembling genuine fear. My laughter quickly subsided as I watched his stubby fingers pawing at her thigh.

I prodded his upper arm. ‘Excuse me, Timothy, isn’t it?’ I said.

He looked startled as though I had interrupted him mid-copulation.

I glared at him. ‘You’re obviously an intelligent man.’

He smirked.

My anger welled. ‘So I’m surprised you have failed to pick up on any of the glaringly obvious signs that my friend here would rather lick the inside of a Delhi toilet bowl than remain in your company for a second longer.’

He leant back against the bar and thrust out his gut. ‘She seems to be enjoying herself—’

I stared at his belly, trying not to imagine him naked. ‘Enjoying herself?’

He nodded, still squeezing her thigh.

I knocked his hand away from her leg.

‘Enjoying what exactly?’ I continued, hands on hips. ‘A middle-aged, married man trying to bribe her to have sex with him? Yes, that must be it. I mean, what girl wouldn’t be tempted by the exciting prospect of all the glittering diamonds she could acquire simply by straddling your flabby paunch and pretending your piddly cocktail sausage was a donkey schlong?’

Timothy’s eyes widened.

‘And what about your wife?’ I continued, gesturing to his wedding ring. ‘Does she know you’re sleazing around bars groping any body part you can get your doughy little digits on? Or more likely she’s relieved that she doesn’t have to have sex with you any more. Grateful for the fact that you can’t get it up, unless you’re with a girl who’s half your age and half your weight?’

I paused for breath, keen to continue, when suddenly I felt Cordelia’s grip on my arm. She led me towards the staircase, then tossed my coat at me.

‘A simple goodbye would have sufficed,’ she said.

I glanced back. Josh was giggling and Nate gave me a thumbs-up.

I shook my head. ‘Men like him think a restraining order is playing hard to get.’

She laughed. ‘You can’t be a matchmaker if you’re going to shout at everyone who isn’t behaving how you’d like.’

‘Yes I can, when it’s my business.’

She laughed. ‘Dictator dating. Love it.’

I huffed, wondering if it was feasible to restrict my services to those I felt morally deserving. ‘But those other two, they seemed nice—looked so familiar.’

She paused on the step below me, and looked up. ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?’

‘Or is it that they all look the same, those American preppy types?’

‘You’re seriously telling me you don’t know who they are?’ she said, striding ahead in her structurally engineered Diors.

I followed her down the stairs as speedily as my Primark peep-toes would allow. ‘What do you mean? Who are they?’

She shook her head. ‘You’ll have to figure it out.’

‘Fine,’ I said, folding my arms, which was a brave move considering my questionable stability.

She smirked, clearly entertained by my wobbly sulk. ‘So where to next?’

‘The target was fifty men and women by the end of the night.’

‘Right,’ she said and glanced at her watch. ‘Let’s head to Apt.’

A three-tiered bar in Mansion House, Apt was where all the office workers within a half-mile radius ended up for ‘one more drink’. After which, the original plan was generally abandoned in favour of an alternative, which most likely involved sambuca shots, a few grams of cocaine, terrible dancing and inappropriate liaisons with colleagues.

‘But we’ll have to go right now though,’ Cordelia said, ‘before they’re too wasted to bother with.’

We flagged a cab. Although we were within easy walking distance, Cordelia insisted Dior heels were not made for walking, especially in the city, where she was convinced cobbles and cobblers were in a conspiratorial partnership.

When we arrived at Apt, there was a queue around the block and a one-in-one-out entrance restriction. Having decided that it was imperative, in the name of love, that I find a way to push in, I made a beeline for a group of men who were swaying precariously at the front of the queue. Thrusting my shoulders back, I adopted my most convincing smile and paired it with a less clumsily executed Cordelia hair flick.

‘Like your style,’ said the most sober one, after I’d explained how, by allowing two girls to push in, he was actually increasing his chances of entry. Rugged and stocky, and with a thick Irish accent, he seemed decent enough, although obviously unaware that the door policy was in no way as discerning as I had implied.

‘These girls with you?’ the towering doorman asked him.

He slid his arm around my waist.

‘She’s my fiancée,’ he said, his hand inching down as we walked in, clearly aiming for a bottom grope. When I blocked its path and placed it back on my waist, he turned to me and frowned.

‘A fair exchange, do you think?’ he said. ‘You get the front entrance, and I get the back entrance!’

The entire group erupted in a simultaneous belly laugh. I glared at him, opened my mouth to say something and then immediately closed it again after thinking better of it. His point was valid. Accepting diamonds for sex was much further along the spectrum, but hair-flicking for door entry was most definitely in the same category.

Leaving them still sniggering and inwardly apologising to my better self, I followed Cordelia through to the main bar area, down the staircase and into the darkness of the basement.

Two hours later, as shirts were being shed and coked-up city workers danced their interpretation of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’, Cordelia and I retreated up the stairs and out of the bar.

‘That’s the hard part over with,’ she said, handing me a stack of business cards.

The beat of the music faded into the distance and the faces of all the people we’d met that night flashed through my mind. I gripped the cards tighter, wondering if, when it came to it, they would trust me enough to put their hearts in my hands.

I was hoping Matthew would still be up when I arrived home, but the flat was silent apart from gentle ‘beer’ snores coming from his room. He only ever snored after he’d been drinking beer, never wine or spirits. I’d always thought that was odd. I flopped down onto the sofa in the lounge, realising that it was the small intimacies in a relationship that gave it meaning.

Just as I was drifting off to the hypnotic rhythm of Matthew’s snores, something on the coffee table caught my eye. It was the property magazine that thudded through our letter box every month. Usually I binned them straight away, but, for some reason, I felt inclined to pick it up. There was something familiar about the house on the cover.

Right away, I sat up. My stomach churned as I stared at the wisteria-cloaked walls and beautiful bay windows. The gravel driveway. The willow tree in the front garden. I flicked through the pages to find a photo of a slick-haired estate agent wearing an oversized tie and a capital growth smile. I had never met the man, but I knew I hated him. According to the quote above his portrait, he was delighted to present to the market … my house. Or rather, the house Robert and I were once planning to buy. I sank back down into the sofa and let the publication fall onto my chest. Suddenly, as though the street lights were on a dimmer switch, the room darkened. I felt a heavy weight bearing down on me. I knocked the magazine onto the floor. It made a loud bang and Matthew’s snores momentarily paused. I closed my eyes tightly, willing him to wake up, but he didn’t. When his snores resumed, I sank my head into my hands and let out a deep sigh. It was the first time since I’d packed up my car and wheel-spun out of Robert’s life that I’d felt truly alone.

Until now, I thought I’d been riding the wave of resilience. As it turns out, drinking every night and suppressing three years of memories hadn’t been an ingenious way to avoid the pain. Instead it had only delayed it. I ran into my room and pulled out a box from my wardrobe. Until now, I’d been too scared to open it. I tipped it up and the photos spilled onto my bedroom carpet. I’d heard people say that when you face the enemy, the fear is gone. I never would have believed them until I stared at my old life. The life I’d always wanted, the life I’d almost lived, scattered around me: Robert and I snorkelling on the Barrier Reef, wine tasting in South Africa, skiing in Verbier, laughing and drinking as though our happiness would never end. A tear trickled down my cheek, then another and then, finally, the grief came, like a tsunami crashing through a flood barrier. This time I knew I couldn’t fight it. I threw myself onto the bed, burrowed my face into a pillow and sobbed. My chest heaved as my mind flashed through the scenes that led to our break-up. The feigned look of innocence when I’d uncovered his online indiscretions. The seemingly limitless adult chat sites he’d registered with. Trawling through his messages to other girls. The photos on his phone. He’d told me he would love me for ever. Did he even know what love was?

When there were no tears left, I looked up, expectantly. But nothing had changed. There had been no apocalypse. The world was still turning, Matthew was still snoring. I wiped the remaining tears from my cheeks and then picked up a photo: one a waiter had taken of us tucking in to a candlelit dinner on a beach in Mexico. I looked closer. I would have said this was one of the happiest moments of my life. But looking at it now, through puffy, yet sharper eyes, my smile seemed false, as though instead of sharing a precious moment with the man I loved, I were auditioning for a low budget toothpaste ad. And Robert’s expression looked creepy, as though he were biding his time before he could nip off for a webcam chat with a naked Ukrainian.

At the time I’d felt beautiful, like a goddess. And Robert had been my god. Now, my dimpled cellulite and giant nose seemed to jump out at me and Robert looked like a cross between a Tory MP and a frog. I stared at the image some more, wondering if love could ever be real, or if instead it were something we craved so deeply that somehow we found a way to construct it in our minds.

Although I knew I was a long way from finding answers, that night, after I’d packed away the photos, I slept more soundly than I had done in months.