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It's Got To Be Perfect: A laugh out loud comedy about finding your perfect match
Haley Hill
‘High drama and lots of laughs’ - Fabulous MagazineEllie Rigby isn’t holding out for a hero; she just wants a decent guyBut the promise of meeting thousands of ‘likeminded singles’ has come to nothing and she is fed up negotiating the minefield of one online dating disaster after another.In a moment of clarity, Ellie realises that she must take matters into her own hands. Her mission? Reclaim Cupid’s bow from soulless software and become a matchmaker herself. Now, as her client list grows, Ellie becomes a matchmaking expert.She knows now that twenty eight is the most eligible age for a woman, that most relationships fail and, most of all, that it’s got to be perfect.Until a match with one of her clients changes everything…



HALEY HILL is a fresh new voice in romantic fiction who has previously found success in the self-publishing world. Prior to launching her fiction career, Haley launched and ran the Elect Club dating agency—and is an expert in all things dating! Haley lives in south London with her husband and twin daughters.




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To all the fabulous clients who laughed, sobbed and, on occasion, vomited their way into my heart.
And to James for bearing with me.
‘If you look for perfection, you’ll never be content.’
Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

A Note to the Reader (#ulink_6de47b22-d265-5ed4-ae79-3995a0fad941)
While this book is inspired by what the author learned and experienced during her career as a matchmaker, none of the characters portrayed are in any way based on real people. Just as Ellie Rigby is not Haley Hill, the names and characters in this book are a product of the author’s imagination. Although real places are referred to throughout, they are all used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents
Cover (#ua32a5044-2084-5927-bf4a-87ba83478abd)
About the Author (#u1da9a512-f5e3-5740-8e35-1610102e0060)
Title Page (#u53b8324a-c64f-553f-9b99-41b39759af4f)
Dedication (#u5932ce17-5197-5714-8f24-b8f211283242)
Epigraph (#u4ce8c295-5e5b-57ca-b158-258ae981e704)
A Note to the Reader (#u76b2aae8-ceae-5663-bb8e-76ea2526a738)
PART ONE (#uee4b4685-5727-5461-b79d-68b4fd86a389)
Chapter 1 (#ub71d463e-53f0-5202-a514-ce6a96fc2e71)
Chapter 2 (#ubb5543f5-dcb1-56d3-b391-27350966ba01)
Chapter 3 (#u0eecb5e0-57fd-599c-851e-e0b3331f5ded)
Chapter 4 (#u77b9d625-d259-503f-8e16-d1bf76d8b54d)
Chapter 5 (#ufd856e0d-51a7-511f-988d-59fe8c2f84d5)
Chapter 6 (#u256703c3-4b9d-5849-ab81-aada7d5d3bba)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
PART TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Love Is... Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

PART ONE (#ulink_78d59711-7830-54d0-a39a-72554b55e734)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_495ceaf7-8cb2-5c4d-b366-55b81b9101cd)
IT WAS A bitter November evening when I found myself in Be At One in Covent Garden, 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 fatty,’ he said, getting up from his chair and sitting down next to me. ‘But I’d say you’re more a size ten 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 glanced at my watch and then downed my mojito. This date hadn’t even made it to eight p.m.
The bar’s heavy door slammed shut behind me and the icy air hit me like a slap in the face. I don’t know why I hadn’t just told him the truth, protected my online dating sisters. Instead, I’d found myself garbling an implausibly long-winded excuse, involving a twenty-four-hour veterinary surgery and a fictional cat undergoing pioneering bowel surgery. I pulled up my scarf and began the familiar trudge to Charing Cross station, wondering what crimes I must have committed in a past life to warrant such karmic retribution.
Eight months prior, spurred by heartbreak and lured by the promise of meeting thousands of ‘like-minded singles’, I’d embraced online dating with gusto, envisaging it to be like shopping for a husband: ooh, add to basket. But after what can only be described as intensive participation, I’d begun to learn that the slick profiles—comprising impressive credentials and enticing photos—often omitted pertinent details such as a clubbed foot, sexual deviance. Or a wife. Occasionally, I’d found one who walked and talked like a normal boyfriend, only to reveal a deep dark shadow that would have even sent 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.
I let out a succession of sighs as I traipsed through the streets. It seemed that while I was being groped in Be At One, London’s entire population had paired off, and then gone on to organise some kind of flash mob snog-a-thon. Couples criss-crossed 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. Even my name, Eleanor Rigby, the lonely subject of a Beatles’ song, would have been perfect for the credits. By the time I’d reached Charing Cross station, I was humming ‘all the lonely people’ and wondering if anyone would come to my funeral. I leant back against a railing and stared up at the sky. It was only two years since Robert had proposed, on bended knee in the pouring rain, declaring that he would love me for ever. We would have been married by now. I watched the stars glinting in the distance and willed fate to rethink its plan for me.
A man, seemingly oblivious to miles of unclaimed railing, came and stood right next to me and began noisily eating a Big Mac. I glared at him, then stared back up at the sky and began to wonder more about love. I’d spent my entire career analysing chemical reactions, albeit from behind the shield of polycarbonate safety goggles, in the controlled environment of the laboratory at ChemPlant. There, the outcome was predictable. I understood the variables and had learned precisely what it took to create an unbreakable bond, a bond that could withstand all manner of tampering. The elements didn’t need a dating website. Carbon and oxygen didn’t need to make small talk over the gentle flame of a Bunsen burner to determine whether they were right for each other.
‘So how do you feel about polyamory?’ asks carbon, eyeing up oxygen’s electrons.
I glanced back at the man just as he shoved a fistful of fries into his mouth. I tutted. Perhaps I’d been naive to think it was possible to manipulate chemistry outside a laboratory, and maybe an online enhancement of the Collision Theory wasn’t really the answer for me, or for all the other singles in the world.
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.
I snatched the glass and took a sip. ‘Turns out, selling T-shirts in Thailand was the pinnacle of his entrepreneurial endeavours.’
He smirked. ‘Well, there are around seventy million people in Thailand and they all need T-shirts …’
I unravelled my scarf and collapsed down next to him on the sofa. ‘Yes, but I suspect they knew better than to buy them from a guy on a beach working to pay off his drug debt.’ I took another sip. ‘And he was about half my height. Like he wasn’t going to be found out.’
Matthew laughed. ‘Maybe he was planning to win you over with his personality?’
‘Indeed. Now, was it the tales of childhood animal torture? Or perhaps the moment he almost stabbed the waitress with his fork? I just can’t decide which indicator of mental instability it was that won me over.’ I wriggled out of my coat and then threw it on the floor. ‘No more internet dates. I’m done.’
He topped up my glass. I took another glug and then stared helplessly up at the ceiling.
‘Where have all the good men gone?’ I sighed.
He slapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Ellie, please, no. Not Bonnie Tyler.’
I laughed. ‘I don’t need a hero, just a decent guy.’
‘And what, pray tell, is a decent guy?’
‘One who doesn’t have nasal hair, a porn addiction or a personality disorder.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘No nasal hair? That would be a tricky one.’
‘You know what I mean, tufts sprouting out of nostrils. Or one nostril even, that was weird.’
He laughed.
I turned to him. ‘What? What’s so funny?’
‘Do you realise that every time you come back from a date, you’ve added something else to your tick list?’
He picked up a pen and notebook from the coffee table in front of him. ‘Symmetrical nasal hair,’ he said, pretending to write.
I heard a strange groan. A quick glance at the TV implied that either it came from me or a horny hippopotamus.
‘But I have to discriminate somehow. I mean, look at my choices so far. It couldn’t really get any worse, could it?’
‘The male attracts the female by using his tail to spray her with faeces,’ David Attenborough announced proudly.
Matthew raised his eyebrows at the disturbing image on the screen. ‘See, it could always get worse,’ he said, and flipped his legs up onto the sofa. ‘So, where were we? Yes, your tick list. When we met, you must have been, what, fifteen?’
I nodded and took another gulp of wine.
‘Well, back then, you said that the only thing you looked for in a boyfriend was a cute smile.’
I laughed.
‘Then,’ he continued, adopting a bizarre cover-girl-like pose, ‘after a month or so, your requirements had progressed to a boy with a cute smile and a car.’
I could see where he was going with this.
‘And now, let me think, what are your requirements now?’ He moved his hand over his mouth in a dramatic shock gesture. Before I had a chance to respond, he continued. ‘He has to be aged between thirty and thirty-five (preferably thirty-three), over six feet tall, good-looking, successful, independently wealthy, fit and sporty, confident (not arrogant), intelligent, interesting, well educated and have a great sense of humour.’
‘Well—’
He put his hand up in a flamboyant stop sign. ‘I haven’t finished yet. In addition to that, he has to be sensitive yet masculine, affectionate and attentive, but not clingy. He must think you’re the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, cherish you for eternity and have manly hands.’
I tried to speak, but Matthew rattled on.
‘And now, since your recent bout of internet dating, you’re discounting men for the most trivial of things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Tapered jeans.’
‘Trivial?’
‘Deck shoes.’
I screwed up my face.
‘Triangular shoulders.’
‘Bad.’
‘Skinny calves.’
‘Yuk.’
‘Lumberjack shirt.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Flat bottom.’
‘Eew.’
‘Furry neck.’
‘Nasty.’
‘Whiny voice.’
‘Worse.’
‘Pointy fingernails. Head like a grape. Hyena laugh. Upside-down eyebrows. And what about the guy with the goatee?’
‘He looked like a gnome.’
‘He could have shaved it off.’
‘That’s not the point. He chose to grow it in the first place. I couldn’t trust a man with such bad judgement.’
He sighed and lifted his arms above his head.
‘Don’t you think I deserve to meet a great guy?’
‘Well,’ he said, planting his feet on the carpet, as though reverting to his default sexuality, ‘I think I deserve a room full of Playboy Bunnies and a permission slip from my girlfriend. But I’m not going to get that though, am I?’
I lunged forward and slapped him on the arm. ‘You shouldn’t want Playboy Bunnies. You’re supposed to be in love.’
‘Oh, yes, I forgot. You also believe that a man who loves you should never so much as imagine having sex with anyone else because that’s disloyal.’
‘I have good values.’
‘You have idealistic values. There’s a distinct difference.’
I sighed, feeling like a deflated balloon at the end of a party.
Matthew’s expression softened as he shuffled up next to me and wiggled his fingers in my face. ‘Are my hands manly?’
I inspected them and then laughed. ‘You’ve had a manicure?’
He frowned. ‘Well, what about your feet, Miss Perfect?’ He glanced down at my size eights. ‘They wouldn’t look out of place on a seven-foot basketball player.’
I kicked off my shoes and wiggled my long toes.
‘Seriously though, no one is perfect. You have to abandon your quest for the ideal man or you’re only going to be disappointed. And even if you do find a man possessing all your requirements, who’s to say he’d want to date a banana-footed fussy pants?’
I huffed and then folded my arms. ‘So, instead, I’m supposed to settle? For someone I don’t fancy or even like?’
He took a sip of wine and stared at me.
‘Or should I have stayed with Robert, forgiven him for calling off our engagement? Because, yes, of course, every relationship has its ups and downs. And as for his webcam chats with naked Ukrainians, and his extensive porn collection, well, I should stop being such a fussy pants. I need to adjust my expectations.’
Matthew’s expression suddenly morphed into his newsreader face. ‘That’s not what I’m saying.’
‘So, what are you saying?’
He looked me in the eye. ‘If Robert didn’t look like your perfect man, if he wasn’t a good-looking investment banker who drove a Ferrari, would you have fallen in love with him?’
I took another large gulp of wine, swished it around my mouth and considered what he had said.
‘The issue is,’ he went on as though having been chimed in by Big Ben, ‘you made too many assumptions based on the fact that he looked perfect to you.’
I nodded, taking in the headline but wanting the full story.
‘So, my wise guru, if my perfect man might not look like my perfect man, then how am I supposed to know who he is?’
‘Well, firstly,’ he said, raising a finger, his face fighting a smile. ‘We’ve already established that there are no perfect men. That’s error number one in your pursuit of love. You really must pay attention.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Okay, then. I stand corrected. As you are the fount of all knowledge on this matter, are you going to find Mr Not-so-perfect-but-right for me?’
He laughed. ‘What, like your personal matchmaker?’
I nodded. ‘You know me. You know what I’m looking for. So go find him. I’ll pay you in wine,’ I said, before refilling his glass.
Matthew stared at me for a moment, then pulled his glasses down to the end of his nose and picked up the notepad and pen from the coffee table.
‘Right, young lady,’ he said, adopting a matronly voice. ‘You say you want to meet a wealthy man. Could you explain why this is so important to you?’
I giggled. ‘So I can live in a big house and have a nice lifestyle, without having to worry about money.’
The cringe crept in as soon as I had said it.
‘Well, madam,’ he began, peering over his glasses, ‘in this day and age, a lady can go out and achieve such things without the aid of a man. So, you’re just being a lazybones. I’m going to cross that one off your list.’
‘Er,’ I said, trying to interrupt but he—or she—was in full flow.
‘And what’s all this about appearance? You say you want a handsome man. Don’t we all, dear?’ he said as he hoisted up his imaginary bosoms. ‘But those good-looking ones are often a bit full of themselves and rather high maintenance, don’t you think? I’ll cross that off too.’
In quick succession Matthew’s alter ego went on to annihilate every characteristic on my tick list. When he began to question whether it was essential that my soulmate be a man, I downed the last of the wine and took myself off to bed.
Later that night, while I was trying to sleep, images flashed through my mind—goatees, tapered jeans, naked Ukrainians, hairy nostrils—and I began to wonder if Matthew was right.
If I had been deluding myself by expecting the perfect man to give me the perfect life, and to behave perfectly at all times, then what was I supposed to do instead? I couldn’t talk myself into fancying someone, and besides, I knew no matter how rational the argument, I’d rather remain single than settle for someone who smelled of pickled onions.
I pulled the duvet over my head and wondered if I really had believed that love would come packaged as a six-foot-three investment banker. Perhaps it wasn’t as simple as having not yet found the right man. Maybe it was me? Maybe my judgement was off.
Throughout the night, the questions kept coming. I lay there, tossing and turning. And thinking.
I wanted answers. I needed answers.
Just before dawn, a shimmering light suddenly filled the room. It could have been a street lamp, either that, or Eros had been sent to summon me. I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. It was then that the idea came to me, flitting through my mind at first, skittish like a butterfly, but then it settled and I couldn’t shake it. When my focus eventually adjusted to the bright white light which was pouring through the window, I realised that the path to my destiny had been lit up like a runway.
It was up to me to find the answers. Not only for myself but for others too.
I would begin by reclaiming Cupid’s bow from soulless software. Then, using Matthew’s questionnaire as a template, I would lead an army of matchmakers across the land. Noisy eating and tapered jeans would be banished for ever and unconditional love, shared values and mutual respect would glisten in our wake. I smiled and gazed up at the ceiling. No longer would I be confined to a lab, staring at a titration beaker, pondering the most cost-effective way to synthesise fertiliser, instead my days would be spent nurturing budding romances from under a pile of thank you notes, and my nights sleeping soundly, content in the knowledge that I had helped unite all the lonely hearts of the world.
All I would have to do is quit my job at ChemPlant, figure out how to survive on a maxed-out overdraft, then set about discovering the formula for love.
I’m going to be a matchmaker, I decided, throwing off the duvet, I’ll start today.
And so, I did.

Chapter 2 (#ulink_6fdcc0c6-e28c-5b49-9e01-9470577aae6a)
‘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.

Chapter 3 (#ulink_9cee6c6f-271e-556c-8068-b7abcd2665e7)
BARRISTERS, ADVOCATES, SOLICITORS, heads of PR, heads of HR, heads of marketing, marketing consultants, business consultants, business analysts, risk analysts, CTOs, CEOs, CFOs, PAs, EAs. Despite the grown-up titles, the business cards I’d laid out on my coffee table seemed to stare up at me with the expectancy of a classroom of school children.
I picked up my phone and panic-called Cordelia.
‘How am I qualified to help them when I can’t even help myself?’ I asked.
‘Seriously? I haven’t even had my morning latte and you’re throwing that conundrum at me?’
‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to start. I don’t—’
She interrupted me with a sharp sigh. ‘Take a deep breath and calm down.’
I breathed in obediently.
‘Now, what exactly are you worried about?’
‘How am I supposed to match them? Where do I start? Should I be using psychological profiling? Astrology? Cosmopolitan’s latest compatibility quiz?’
‘Or what? Adding up the letters in his name and hers like we did at school?’ She laughed. ‘Come on, we all know none of that rubbish works.’
I scratched my head. ‘Well, according to the most recent studies, psychological profiles are good indicators of compatibility.’
‘According to whom? Those who commissioned them, I assume. Look, I think you’re overcomplicating things. No need to reinvent the wheel. Why not stick with what’s worked for centuries?’
‘Which is what exactly?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, rich men and pretty girls. That seems successful.’
I laughed. ‘Yeah, for the divorce lawyers.’
‘You have to give people what they want.’
I sighed. ‘What if what they want isn’t good for them?’
‘It rarely is.’
‘And what about the men who aren’t rich or the girls who aren’t so pretty?’
She laughed. ‘Leave that to Darwinism.’
I huffed. ‘That theory suits you.’
‘It suits mankind,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go now. Some of us have proper jobs. But remember you’re selling a dream, not reality.’
Following a gentle reminder that the Dior shoe-buying department would never lead the world to peace, I hung up the phone and considered what she had said. If true love was a dream, then what was reality? Disillusioned brides and philandering grooms? Or if Cordelia was right and natural selection would favour the richest men and the prettiest girls, then what would happen to the rest of us? Would we fade to extinction? Nature, it appeared, was already trying to phase out asymmetrical nasal hair.
I knew my doubts shouldn’t dissuade me from taking action so I went on to email everyone whose card I’d collected with a light-hearted, ‘meet me for a drink, no obligation’ kind of invite. Matthew emerged from his room rubbing his eyes, hair upright on his head like he’d slept in a high voltage chamber.
‘What is that?’ he asked, looking down at the cards on the table. ‘Some kind of corporate snap? Is this what you’ve been doing all night?’
I peeled myself off the sofa. ‘Cuppa?’
He nodded and picked up a card.
When I walked into the kitchen, the morning rays sliced through the blind, as though desperate to shed some light on the situation.
‘Don’t match Teresa with Patrick Greene,’ he shouted after me.
I switched on the kettle wondering what he was on about.
‘Teresa Greene. Trees are green,’ he explained when I returned.
I rolled my eyes. ‘I hope to find them more than just a socially acceptable name,’ I said. I snatched the card from his hand and replaced it with his Dennis the Menace mug. I looked at Dennis then back at Matthew, then back at Dennis. Matthew patted down his hair, but as soon as he removed his hand, it sprang back up.
‘So what happens next?’ he asked.
‘They meet me for a drink and a chat about what they’re looking for. Then I match them.’
‘And then?’
‘Everyone lives happily ever after.’
He nodded his head from side to side as though he were weighing up his left and right brain. ‘How are you going to match them?’
‘They tell me what they want and I give it to them.’
He scrunched up his nose. ‘But most of us don’t actually know what we want. We just think we do.’
I sighed. ‘I’m not in the mood for one of your Marxist the-media-constructs-our-thoughts lectures.’
He continued. ‘Attraction is an entirely biochemical reaction set off by a combination of characteristics to which our genetic programming and social conditioning respond.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘It’s flawed. Look at the divorce rate.’
‘We don’t marry everyone we fancy.’
‘Thankfully.’
I glared at him. ‘There’s more to love than attraction. We aren’t robots driven by neurotransmitters and hormones. We have something called free will. We can think independently from our physical drives and conditioning.’
His full-body laugh caused him to spill tea all over the table. It quickly seeped onto the business cards. I dabbed them with my sleeve but, already, the corners had started to curl.
After Matthew had left for work, I looked back down at the cards and reshuffled them. Then I gazed out of the window at the sky, hoping to be the recipient of some kind of divine inspiration. But, instead, a bird dropping landed on the pane. I watched the greyish gloop slide down the glass, undigested berries lagging behind and I wondered if I too might have bitten off more than I could chew.
That evening, Cordelia had refused to come headhunting for clients again, complaining that her feet hurt, so I’d bribed my other friend Kat, to come instead. We’d settled the negotiation at five rose petal Martinis and a taxi ride home.
‘If we sieve through the hookers and the sugar daddies, I’m sure we’ll find some decent people here tonight,’ Kat observed, scanning the bar. We were at Zuma in Knights-bridge, a favourite with the ‘chilled-out jet-set crowd’, according to Harper’s magazine.
I took in the chic minimalist interior and smoothed down my dress, trying to act as though it had been thrown on nonchalantly, rather than the result of three hours of unsatisfactory pontification. Kat leant over the glass bar, her red Gucci dress nipped in at the waist and plunging at the neckline. Three barmen leapt towards her, their attention darting between her Bambi-brown eyes and her perfectly plumped cleavage.
‘We need some cocktails,’ she declared, pushing her sleek dark bob behind her ears.
Following a flamboyant display of glass juggling, and some kind of cocktail shaker courtship dance, eventually we were presented with two rose petal Martinis. The baby-faced barman grinned victoriously. He leant over the bar and kissed Kat on the lips.
I pulled her back. ‘Kat.’
‘What?’ she asked, grinning.
I shook my head. ‘I’d prefer us to focus on the men who’ve actually gone through puberty.’
She threw a glance over her shoulder and then strode towards a table of businessmen who appeared to be engaged in a serious takeover-bid-type conversation. When she reached the table, her presence diverted their concentration like a resistor in a circuit. Once she’d delivered her opening line, they all laughed and the best-looking one pulled up a chair for her to join them.
Watching from the bar, and sipping my Martini, I wondered where Kat’s self-assurance came from. Was it lots of cuddles as a child? Or perhaps, as once discussed during an especially interesting episode of Dr Phil, it was a pseudo-esteem masking a deeper insecurity and a need for external validation. Maybe it was simply that big boobs and a pretty face were so well received that the usual fears of rejection and public humiliation weren’t there.
Dragging myself away from my appallingly amateur psychoanalysis, I decided that confidence was something I would have to fake, at least until I’d figured out how to source it naturally. I took a gulp of the Martini and then sidestepped towards a group of girls.
They had long legs, dark hair and tanned skin and looked as though they were the result of some kind of accelerated breeding programme between Megan and Stephen whom I’d met the night before. I smiled at the one nearest to me. She sucked on a pink straw protruding from a fussy cocktail and eyed me up suspiciously.
‘Are you a journalist?’ she asked between sucks.
‘No.’ I laughed. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘You look like one.’
I glanced down at my black dress and then back at her. Once I’d worked my way up the seemingly endless legs protruding from tiny leather hot pants, my eyes lingered on her chest, braless and buoyant under a cream silk camisole.
She glared at me. ‘What do you want?’
Her features, enhanced to cartoonish proportions, reminded me of a creature from Avatar.
‘I’m headhunting,’ I said.
The rest of the girls’ necks swivelled towards me. ‘You’re a model scout?’ one of them asked.
I shook my head.
‘Party promoter?’
I shook my head again, suspecting the truth might be a tremendous disappointment. ‘I’m looking for single girls who want to meet eligible men.’
When I’d explained my plans to unite lonely hearts across the globe, the girl next to me flicked a mane of hair extensions over her shoulder.
‘We only date footballers,’ she said.
I stepped back. I’d read about girls like her in gossip magazines. There might have been one on Dr Phil too. I was intrigued.
‘Why?’ I asked.
She stared at me in disbelief, as though I’d just told her I’d never watched Big Brother.
‘Der, because they earn £150k per week and I’m on £7.99 an hour.’
She went on to proudly list the benefits of her past encounters with Premier League players, which included but was by no means exclusive to: designer clothing, cosmetic surgery, jewellery allowance, provision of luxury accommodation, sports car, private-clinic abortions and a six-figure pay-off at the end. It sounded more like a job than a relationship. I’d also noted that out of the men she’d named, most were married.
‘Why do you date the married ones?’ I asked, less to highlight the moral issue, which I suspected wasn’t a concern, but more to question the real purpose.
She laughed. ‘It’s not like we expect them to leave their wives.’
‘Well what’s the point, then?’
‘Once you’re in with the footballers, sometimes they pass you on to their teammates, the ones who aren’t married.’
‘They’re like matchmakers too,’ the only blonde in the group chipped in with a beaming smile.
‘Or pimps?’ I suggested.
‘Hey!’ Kat interrupted as she bounded up to me, and began theatrically fanning herself with a handful of business cards. ‘Check these out.’
She thrust them in my hand and then opened her bag to reveal dozens more.
‘Am I done now?’ she asked, glancing over her shoulder. I followed her gaze and saw the underage barman grinning widely, as though his expression had been fixed since Kat’s kiss. ‘His shift finishes soon. Can I?’
‘Okay. Go on then,’ I said, checking my watch. ‘I suppose I could do with an early night.’
The blonde girl looked at me, then back at the other girls and then back at me. ‘Want to come with us?’ she asked and the rest of the group nodded vaguely.
Once we were in the taxi, the girl in the hot pants, who I now knew was named Carmen, explained more about the party.
‘You only get invited if you’re in with the promoters,’ she said, checking her make-up in a compact mirror.
‘And they only invite girls from agencies,’ another girl added.
‘What agencies?’ I asked.
‘You know, for glamour models, promo girls, dancers,’ Carmen said.
The blonde girl, who I would later learn was Kerri, smiled. ‘They want pretty bubbly girls there.’
‘Bubbly?’ I asked.
‘You know: fun, social.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I don’t suppose they invite the wives or girlfriends?’
They laughed.
‘So,’ I said, ‘if you win the hand of a Premier League prince, would you let him come to these parties?’
Suddenly their faces contorted as though I’d suggested one of them don a boiler suit.
When we arrived, I noticed there were no men in the queue, which snaked for a mile around the block, but the girls were huddled together in the line, shivering in the skimpy clothing that was required to gain entry. Boobs were hoisted up, squeezed together or spilling out. Skirts were sprayed on, tops were slashed at the sternum, and legs were elongated with six-inch heels. Every attribute was exploited to secure its maximum market value. Tonight, it was time to cash in their assets.
The men, it was explained to me, were safety tucked up inside, readily paying £500 for a £10 bottle of vodka. I was soon to learn that the mark-up could be justified when the beverage was delivered with a sparkler and a gaggle of nubile girls.
Despite the sleek modern interior, each step down the staircase was like taking a step back in time. Men sat wide-legged at tables, downing drinks, and pulling girls onto their laps as though patrons of a medieval whorehouse. Girls wiggled past the VIP area, until the chosen ones were summoned to straddle their prince’s lap.
With rock-hard nipples poking through her camisole, Carmen was immediately ushered into the VIP area. She blamed the forty-minute queue in ice-cold air, but her friends claimed she’d deliberately tweaked them before catching a footballer’s eye.
‘It’s not fair,’ one of them whined. ‘My tits are better than hers.’
‘And she copied my hair colour,’ another one, who I think was called Chastity, said. She went on to explain that the player in question was a reserve they were all targeting. After reading a recent interview, in which he stated he preferred brunettes, she had dyed her hair. The others, except Kerri, had copied. ‘Lucky cow,’ she added as she watched him pull Carmen onto his lap.
I waved my hand in front of her face. ‘Earth to twenty-first-century woman.’
She looked at me and frowned. ‘What?’
‘Don’t you want more than that?’
She looked back at Carmen and the footballer and then laughed. ‘More than a rich husband and the perfect life, what more is there?’
‘Oh, let me think.’ I scratched my head. ‘How about independence? Self-respect? To be treated as a human being rather than a collection of body parts?’
She scrunched up her face.
‘You know you’re not going to look like that for ever, don’t you? What are you going to do then? When the VIPs don’t want you any more?’
She stepped back and looked at me as though I were one of those crazy people you sidestepped on the street, in case they might bop you over the head or throw you in front of a car or something.
‘You’re just jealous,’ she said, before pulling up her skirt to reveal another inch of tanned thigh.
The loud music thumped through my head and, for a moment, I wondered if she might be right. But when she started jiggling her boobs at a group of men walking past, I turned around, did my best to block out the noise around me, then fought my way back through the crowd.
At the coat check, where the stern-faced assistant was doing a terrible job of pretending to look for my coat, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see Kerri, her face framed with soft blonde curls. Under a spotlight, I could see beyond the false eyelashes and thick eyeliner and into her eyes.
‘I want more,’ she whispered, before handing me her number scribbled on a beer mat.
When I arrived home, I found Matthew, clearly drunk, staggering around the communal hallway, holding a pizza box in the air.
‘A gift for you,’ he said, laying it down at my feet, ‘in exchange for entrance to our humble abode.’
‘Forgot your keys again?’ I asked, fumbling in my bag for mine.
He nodded.
I opened the door and he lurched forward and, in what looked like one move, landed on the sofa, pizza box still horizontal.
‘So how did the matchmunting, I mean, headhating …’ He stuffed some pizza into his mouth. ‘How did all that go?’
I sighed and slumped on the sofa. ‘Vacuous girls and sleazy men.’
He swallowed and wiped his face with his sleeve. ‘That’s how the clubs make money. Hot chicks and rich dicks.’
‘Yeah, I know, but I didn’t think I’d have to sell the concept of love, I thought that was a given.’
He offered me some pizza. ‘You know the magic wears off after midnight, don’t you?’
‘Party pooper,’ I said, taking the least offensive-looking slice.
A moment later, he sat up, his hair almost springing to attention and pointed his finger in the air.
‘That’s it. That’s what you need to do,’ he said.
‘What, poop at parties?’
He laughed. ‘No, not the poop, just the party.’
I looked down at the cheap meat and greasy cheese that I was about to consume and threw it back into the box, realising that Matthew was right. If I didn’t like what was on offer, then it was up to me to provide an alternative.

Chapter 4 (#ulink_ffd350cb-c1da-582d-b7f3-2f4d0475ca16)
THERE WAS A chill in the evening air but I felt hot and dizzy. I opened my coat as I strode alongside the Thames and let the icy breeze whip around my body. With each stride, my temperature dropped.
Having stood side by side for over a century, the giant Edwardian town houses seemed to peer down at me with intrigue. They had undoubtedly witnessed many a young girl hoping to change the world, but tonight, as the commuters bulldozed past me, it was as though they were nudging each other and placing a bet on how long I would last. Lifting my chin up, I reminded myself of the findings from my market research: forty per cent of London’s population was single. I continued ahead, the wrought-iron street lamps casting pools of yellow light that seemed to beckon me towards my destination.
When I arrived, the door looked like any other on the street, apart from a shiny brass plaque inscribed with a picture of a bowler hat and a polite reminder that only members were welcome. After weeks of pondering a suitable venue for meetings with clients, I’d concluded that one with a bar would be most appropriate. This unpretentious private members’ club, hidden in ancient vaults beneath the Strand seemed to be the perfect match. I pressed the bell, then waited for the receptionist to buzz me in.
A staircase lined with blood-red carpet led me to reception. With each step, it was though I were venturing deeper into the heart of London, leaving behind the hard surface to discover the secret underworld, the pulse that kept it alive. Behind a mirrored desk, in what felt like a dark cave, stood the receptionist, her lips as red as the carpet, her hair as black as the frame behind her. She tapped a nail file on the counter like a bored teenager.
‘Yes.’ She sighed, the vague glance in my direction quickly redirected to her long scarlet nails.
Once I’d introduced myself, and gone on to explain that every day, and night, for the foreseeable future I would be interviewing prospective clients in the bar, she readjusted her tight black minidress and leant forward with interest, thrusting out her firm tanned boobs in response to the mention of eligible men.
‘I look after your cleeants,’ she purred in a sultry French accent, punctuated with a sex kitten giggle.
I thanked Brigitte for her help, then followed the throb of the music and the flickering wall lights down the second staircase, tunnelling deeper into the vaults. At the foot of the stairs was a lounge bar, where leather chairs and low tables nestled in shadowy alcoves. A bronze bar stretched across one side of the room, shining and glimmering like an oasis on a desert night. The music pulsed through to the other chambers—a restaurant, and two further bars—like blood from ventricles.
Selecting an alcove near the foot of the staircase, I positioned the chair facing outwards so I could see the clients when they arrived. Tonight I had three consultations: William at six p.m., an accountant who I’d met while dancing ‘Gangnam Style’ at Apt; at seven p.m. it was Harriet, a risk analyst Kat had found at Zuma; and, finally, Jeremy at eight p.m., a friend of model Mike who I’d met at the champagne bar. I laid my new clipboard on the table and stared at the blank sheet of paper, my heart pounding in time to the quickening tempo of the music.
‘Evening,’ said the barman after he’d swaggered over to my table, his shirt tight with muscles. ‘Looks like you could do with a drink.’
With a gravelly London accent and shaved head, he seemed more ‘Guy Ritchie movie’ than ‘private members’ club’, but his eyes twinkled with a charm that brought a smile to my face.
‘Glass of white, please, whatever you recommend—’ I squinted at his name tag ‘—Brigitte?’
He laughed and then lifted up the tag. ‘Must’ve picked up the wrong one this morning. I’m Steve.’
‘Okay, Steve, my wine is in your hands.’
He started flicking through the list and paused somewhere about halfway through. ‘White Rioja,’ he said, reading from the page. ‘It’s unpretentious, elegant and full of character.’
I peered at the menu. ‘It’s also £15 a glass. Do you have something less elegant and more lacking in character?’
He flicked back a few pages. ‘The house is approachable and inoffensive and £6 a glass.’
‘I’ll have a bottle.’
He nodded and then glanced up. I noticed one of his eyelids was twitching. I followed his gaze to see Brigitte wiggling down the staircase, her long, tanned legs balanced on Louboutin heels, her eyes fixed on Steve like a cat stalking a mouse.
‘Ellieee, your sex o’clock ees ‘ere. I sind eem down?’ she said once she’d approached us, her eyes flitting between me and Steve.
‘Yes, please,’ I replied, picking up my pen and clipboard as though I were about to take notes. Realising my actions were a little premature, I placed them back on the table. ‘Please send him down, Brigitte.’
Her gaze was locked on Steve, tracking him as he backed away.
After he’d ducked down behind the bar, presumably to get my wine, she shook her hair and strutted back towards reception. As her tiny toned bottom wiggled up the staircase, I looked down at the red dress I’d borrowed from Kat. It had tracked her curves like a second skin, but on me it seemed ill-fitting, digging in where it shouldn’t and gaping where it should dig in. Since learning that I looked like a journalist, whatever that meant, I’d decided to ramp up the glamour a bit. According to Kat, this required a gel-filled bra, uncomfortable shoes and a GHD attack on my hair.
As I took a couple of glugs of the wine Steve had just delivered, moments later, I caught sight of a tall man, wearing a pinstriped suit and grappling with an oversized rucksack. He began carefully navigating the spiral staircase, which seemed somewhat of a challenge due to the dim lighting, his height and the apparent weight of the rucksack. After a few hairy moments, he lost his footing on the final step and did an impromptu leap that sent him into the bar. Attempting to steady himself against the wall, he inadvertently grabbed the frame of a large decorative mirror, which under his weight, swung on its pivot, throwing him again off balance and culminating in an awkward encounter with a couple on a sofa. When the ordeal was eventually over, he straightened his suit jacket, looked up from his polished brogues and scanned the room like a hedgehog about to cross a motorway. I rushed over to greet him and led him back to the table, hoping to avoid further calamity.
‘It’s lovely to see you again,’ I said once we had sat down at the table.
‘Likewise,’ he said, climbing out from under the gargantuan rucksack. His eyes flickered over my dress, zoomed in on my maxi-boosted cleavage and then settled on the wine list in front of him.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ I said. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’
He looked startled, as though I’d just offered him a syringe full of heroin.
‘Er, yes, why not?’ he stammered, one hand still gripping a strap of the rucksack, the other trembling on the table.
Once I’d filled his glass, almost to the top, he wrapped his hands around it. I let him take three big gulps before commencing my questioning. From our initial conversation at Apt, which had been significantly impaired by his flamboyant dance moves, I’d only managed to scribble a few notes down. However, I recalled that at some point, during a prolonged bottom wiggle, he’d told me that he was thirty-four, an accountant, and that he enjoyed playing tennis and growing herbs in his garden.
Halfway through his first glass of wine, he went on to explain that he had never been married, had no children and reminded me that he enjoyed playing tennis. He was also keen to clarify that the herbs were basil and rocket (‘nothing dodgy’).
By the time he was on the second glass of wine, his grip loosened on the rucksack and he detailed the exciting career prospects within accountancy. And then explained how, in order for him to fulfil his potential, his hobbies, namely tennis, would have to take a back seat for a while.
By the third glass of wine, he told me he hated his job and that tennis was his life.
By the fourth glass of wine, he told me that one of the herbs was marijuana and that he hadn’t had a girlfriend in five years.
‘I’m a social outlier,’ he said, taking another gulp. ‘According to statistics, single men of my age are having sex at least twice a week.’
I laughed. ‘Yeah, and men never lie?’
‘Why would they, in an anonymous survey?’
‘It isn’t a numbers game.’
‘One would be good.’
‘One is all it takes.’
He giggled. ‘That’s what they said in my sex education classes.’
I smiled. ‘So, the one, what would she be like? What are you looking for?’
He sat back in the chair and laced his fingers together. ‘I don’t know, someone nice.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Is that all?’
‘Hang on,’ he said, before ducking down to rummage in his rucksack. When he had resurfaced, he handed his phone to me. ‘Here you go. Scroll through.’
I flicked through the images: a girl wearing a tennis skirt and holding a racket, two girls wearing tennis skirts while playing doubles, a girl wearing a flat-fronted tennis skirt and pumps, a girl wearing a pleated tennis skirt, a girl lifting up her tennis skirt and showing her bottom.
‘Okay, I get it,’ I said, handing the phone back to him. ‘You like tennis skirts.’
He looked up and smiled.
‘How about a girl who wears a tennis skirt when she plays tennis?’
His grin widened. ‘How often does she play?’
I leant back in my chair and sighed. ‘Why don’t you just buy one of those real-life dolls and dress her up in tennis whites?’
He looked down at the floor. ‘I just want a nice girl to spend time with, that’s all.’
‘Well, forget the tennis skirts and focus on the woman, then.’
He nodded. ‘Okay, just tell me what I need to do.’
After he’d left, scaling the staircase like a mountain goat, rucksack now slung casually over his shoulder as though it were a small handbag, I sat back in the chair and thought about the past hour, and how it had taken four glasses of house white for William to open up. I drew a big cross through the earlier notes I’d made, resolving to abandon any formal matching strategy from now on, and to work from my instinct instead.
It wasn’t long before I caught sight of my next client, Harriet, slinking down the staircase like a catwalk model. What William had made appear to be a formidable feat, she pulled off with the elegance of a jaguar.
‘Ellie?’ she asked as she approached.
I gestured for her to take a seat.
She slipped her gently curved hips into the leather chair, then pushed her caramel hair behind her ears and fixed me with fawn-like eyes. She was wearing a simple black pencil skirt and a fitted shirt; there was nothing overtly sexual about her, yet the softness of her skin and the fullness of her lips revealed an intrinsic appeal, leagues above Brigitte’s long legs and enthusiast cleavage. There was something else as well and it wasn’t just silky skin wrapped around perfect bone structure. There was some kind of aura, a presence she had about her.
‘Evening, ma’am.’ Steve addressed Harriet as though she were royalty. ‘Would you like a glass of the white Rioja?’ It seemed he knew better than to offer the house white.
After a quick glance at the wine list, and with gracious diplomacy, Harriet explained that 2005 was a temperamental year for Rioja and that she’d ‘prefer a glass of the 2007 Mersault, if possible.’
Steve nodded and then hurried back to the bar, where a stern-faced Brigitte began prodding him on the shoulder.
Harriet had an impressive CV. At twenty-eight, she spoke four languages, had lived in ten different countries and was now working for an American bank in London. She had an interesting family background: her French mother was a professor in neuroscience and her Swiss father was a senior officer in the military. However, the conversation seemed more like a job interview than an open exchange. Unlike William, Harriet only managed a few conservative sips of her award-winning Burgundy.
I decided to get straight to the point. ‘So,’ I said, leaning forward, ‘what kind of men do you like?’
Her cheeks flushed and she picked up her glass and took a sip.
I pointed to a dark-haired man with cute dimples standing at the bar. ‘How about him?’
She threw a casual glance over her shoulder, and then looked back at me, shaking her head.
‘Why not?’
‘Looks like a womaniser.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘What makes you say that?’
She looked over at him again, this time pausing longer. ‘He’s too good-looking. I don’t date men like that.’
‘You don’t fancy good-looking men?’
She took another sip. ‘Successful relationships aren’t based on that.’
‘What, sexual attraction?’
She shook her head. ‘I need someone who fits in with my family, my culture and who matches my intellect.’
‘Even if you don’t fancy them?’
She took another sip, though this time it was more of a gulp.
I scanned the room once again and noticed a man with a broad smile and blond hair who was sitting on a sofa. ‘Okay, what about him?’ I pointed.
She turned to look. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Why not?’
She went to put her glass down then lifted it to her mouth again. ‘This might sound a little mean.’
‘Go on.’
‘He’s not sophisticated enough.’
‘Because?’
‘Button-down collar.’
‘Okay,’ I said, scanning the room, searching for someone who might fit her ideal. I settled on a dark-haired man with intelligent eyes and a Hermes belt. ‘Him?’
She looked over, her gaze sizing him up. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, someone like him.’
Her glass was half empty when she excused herself for a trip to the Ladies’. I watched her glide across the room, and then have an awkward ‘after you, no after you’ dance with cute dimples at the bar. I noticed his head swivel, following her as she walked away. However, Mr Hermes belt ignored her as she swept past, seemingly more focused on looking up Brigitte’s skirt as she leant over the bar.
When she returned from the toilet, her make-up and composure refreshed, she continued describing her future husband.
‘I need a man who can fit in with my life,’ she began, her face expressionless. ‘He would have an international background, like myself. And a successful career. He’d have to want a large family. And, most importantly, he would need to be from an upper-class family.’
I raised my eyebrows again. ‘Why?’
‘It’s important to have shared values,’ she said, staring ahead.
I shrugged my shoulders and pretended to make notes, hoping I hadn’t sounded so clinical when I’d listed my requirements to Matthew no less than a month ago.
When she’d finished the last of her wine, she dabbed the sides of her mouth with a napkin and bid me a pleasant evening. I leant forward to kiss her goodbye, but she sidestepped my advances and then offered me her hand to shake instead, as though there had been a gross misunderstanding and she was, in actuality, hiring me to assist her in a business merger.
When I sat back down to yet another refilled glass, I checked my watch and tapped my pen on the table. My next client, Jeremy, was late. Due to my lack of faith in the network coverage in the bar, I nipped upstairs to give him a call. As I approached reception, I saw Brigitte leaning over the desk, boobs squeezed together, bottom in the air as though she were inviting penetration. With a slow deliberate lick of her lips, she pressed a piece of paper into the palm of a man standing in front of her.
‘Ahh, Ellieeee. Dis ees Jirimie,’ she purred as the man spun round, and flashed me a smile.
‘Blatch, Jeremy Blatch,’ he said, in the manner of an international spy.
Although a little slick, he was breathtakingly handsome, as though he’d just walked off the set of a Hugo Boss photo-shoot. Wearing a grey suit and a white shirt, and with floppy dark blond hair framing dazzling blue eyes, he looked every inch the fantasy Mr Right most women dreamed about.
Suspecting that Brigitte had just passed on her number, and concerned she may try to straddle him if I left it a moment longer, I suggested to Jeremy that we go downstairs to the bar.
‘That’s a first. I’m usually invited upstairs,’ he said with a wink.
I stepped back, surprised to find myself immune to his charms. It seemed my mind had adjusted from its instinctive default of perceiving men as potential boyfriends for myself, to assessing them objectively on behalf of others. Right then, I saw him as prime stock for the single girls of London.
Once settled in the bar, he unbuttoned his jacket. Through his slim-fit white shirt, I noticed the outline of a tight stomach and taut pecs. Oblivious to my X-ray assessment, or politely ignoring it, he ordered a Martini.
‘I want to meet someone special,’ he said, before I’d had the chance to begin questioning him.
‘I’m tired of meeting airheads and bimbos,’ he continued, nodding in the direction of Brigitte, who just happened to be wiggling past our table. When she saw Jeremy looking over, she bent down to pick up something from the floor, waving her bottom in the air like a mallard. He looked away, evidently unimpressed.
‘No, I’m being unfair,’ he continued. ‘Some of the girls I’ve dated have been remarkably clever and successful.’ He paused, and then looked a bit strained. ‘It’s just, I don’t know …’
‘You haven’t found what you’re looking for?’ I said.
‘Yes, you’re right. I haven’t.’ He looked down to stir his Martini.
‘I thought it was shaken and not stirred?’
He laughed, looking quite chuffed with the analogy.
Unlike William and Harriet, Jeremy seemed to have no inhibitions when talking about his personal life and relayed his childhood with a mix of passion and nostalgia.
‘Life used to be so simple,’ he said, having described the farm in Somerset where he grew up. ‘When did it get so complicated?’
He downed his Martini, and then went on to explain how he’d play outside all day with his dog, Rusty.
‘He never left my side. He didn’t care how much I earned or what car I drove.’ He threw a glance to the ground. ‘And back then neither did I. Now life is all about work.’ He picked up his phone. ‘And the reason I’m working so hard—’ he frowned at the screen ‘—is so that one day I can have that life back.’
During his second Martini, he went on to explain how his dad went bankrupt when Jeremy was eight years old, and that the family had had to move to London for work. And that they couldn’t afford to take Rusty with them.
‘I begged my dad to keep him, promised I would find a job to pay for his food.’ He gripped the Martini stirrer. ‘But he wouldn’t listen.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘It was a cold day that day, so cold.’
‘What day?’
‘The day my dad shot Rusty with a .38 special.’
My hand few to my mouth. I heard a snap and then saw the Martini-stirrer fall to the table in two pieces.
‘That was the moment I vowed never to be poor again,’ he said.
After he’d blinked his tears away, we ordered more drinks. Then he explained how, when they’d first moved to London, he’d bunk off school and wash cars and windows to help his mum out with the bills and that by the age of eighteen, he had grown it into a national cleaning company.
‘And now, six businesses later, I find myself running a hedge fund,’ he said, sinking back into his chair.
‘What a story.’
‘Yeah, great, isn’t it? Now I get to wear this bloody suit every day and pretend to be someone I’m not.’ He laughed, though I could tell it was forced. ‘And now, I’m embroiled in this ridiculous life. I own a watch that allows me to dive to a depth of three hundred metres. I can turn my Bang and Olufsen sound system on from my desk. I employ someone to book my flights, wash my underpants, clean my toilets and buy my clothes. I have twelve thousand square foot of property that I hardly use, a forty-foot yacht and a car that can accelerate from zero to sixty in two seconds.’ He sighed. ‘The women I meet, they don’t want me. They want a lifestyle.’
I cocked my head and thought about what he’d said.
He leant forward and picked up the broken stirrer. ‘I guess I’m looking for an old-fashioned girl.’ He paused. ‘I want a big family, and a wife who has the time and patience to nurture our children. Not work all hours or shop all day while some stranger plonks them in front of the TV.’ He looked at me, his eyes clouded to the dull blue of his silk tie. ‘Are there any women like that left in the world?’
I nodded while the image of Harriet flashed through my mind. I tried to suppress it, after all, nothing on paper would put them together, but there was a strange feeling niggling in my stomach. And I knew it was more than a litre of house white.
Later that night, vivid dreams disturbed my sleep: a party, Harriet shaking hands with faceless men from behind a Venetian mask, William laughing, waving a joint and wearing a tennis skirt, Jeremy dressed as a dog and holding a shotgun and Brigitte, naked, sprawled across the desk at reception. I woke abruptly when I felt myself falling down a never-ending staircase, blood-red carpet spiralling into darkness. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding as I gasped for air. That was when I realised that there was no going back, that I couldn’t let them down.
They had put their faith in me, and now all I had to do was the same.

Chapter 5 (#ulink_eb4fff43-d99f-5dfe-9399-1c8ad6ab4a03)
‘GOOD AFTERNOON, MRS RIGBY.’ The coiffed estate agent held out his hand.
I fixed my gaze on his tie. I couldn’t stand to look at the house in its entirety.
‘It’s Miss,’ I said, staring at yellow stripes on baby-blue silk and trying to ignore the bay windows that seemed to be taunting me in my peripheral vision.
‘Yes, of course. Shall we take a look around then?’
My stomach tightened and I wondered if this wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever had. Matthew had diagnosed me as ‘borderline psychotic’ once I’d told him that I’d made an appointment to view the house Robert and I were once going to buy. He said that it was tantamount to kissing the cold corpse of a loved one as a means to say goodbye.
‘The front door is all original. Beautiful detail in the stained glass,’ the estate agent said, stroking the frame.
I followed him into the hallway and took a sharp breath.
‘Magnificent entrance, don’t you think, Mrs Rigby? Ten-foot ceilings. Original panelling. Simply stunning.’
I nodded, swallowing hard.
‘Expansive lateral space. Great for entertaining.’ The estate agent wandered off towards the kitchen.
I looked around at the oak floors and marble fireplaces and I felt a weight pressing on my chest. I thought back to the last time I was in this house: skipping over the threshold with Robert at my side and a three-carat diamond on my finger. Back when my head was buzzing, a confetti-coloured future dancing around my mind. But now, as I stood in the hallway, staring up the grand staircase, I realised that the life I had planned to live in this house—the dinner parties, the children, the love, the laughter, the miniature schnauzer—would never be mine.
‘Mrs Rigby,’ the estate agent called. ‘Come through to the kitchen.’
I walked down the passage, towards the back of the house and into the open-plan kitchen. It was flooded with light and exactly as I remembered: a white gloss handleless heaven. I stared at the granite surfaces, where I’d imagined being creative with the contents of an organic produce box, then at the walls, where I’d envisaged hanging thoughtfully collected paintings from upcoming artists, then finally at the breakfast table where I’d foreseen bustling family mealtimes with cheeky yet cherubic children.
The bi-folding doors were open onto the garden, where mature trees erupted from a lush green lawn. A rope swing was swaying in the breeze, as though the spirits of my imagined offspring had refused to leave. No one could blame them.
‘You won’t get a better family home in London,’ he said, opening the kitchen drawers so he could then demonstrate the self-closing mechanism. ‘Do you and your partner have children, Mrs Rigby?’
Suddenly, I felt flushed, my heart rate quickened. ‘Er, not yet,’ I stammered, waving the question away.
The agent winked as though somehow he’d mistakenly gleaned that I were about to bear a litter of ankle-biters.
‘Wait until you see the nursery,’ he said, beaming.
I looked around the room. The sunlight bounced off the white gloss units and into my eyes. Bounce. I rubbed my temples. Bounce. My skin felt hot. Bounce. The light seemed to grow brighter and whiter. Bounce. Bounce. My vision blurred and suddenly sharp pain shot through my head.
‘Mrs Rigby? Mrs Rigby? Are you okay?’
I regained consciousness to find the estate agent fanning me with the property pamphlet.
‘Mrs Rigby?’
The image on the front moved closer then further away, then closer. I could feel the dizziness returning. Closer, then further away, then closer.
‘Can I get you a glass of water, Mrs Rigby?’
I snatched the pamphlet from him and threw it to the ground.
He looked startled. Then he smoothed down his tie and pretended to check his watch. ‘Perhaps we should resume the viewing when you’re feeling better, Mrs Rigby?’
I glared at him. ‘It’s Miss,’ I said, clambering to my feet. ‘Not Mrs.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Let’s chat next week, Miss Rigby.’
I had one last look around, kissing the cold corpse on the head, then the agent closed the door behind us. He was right. It would make someone else the perfect family home.
‘What do you mean there aren’t enough champagne glasses?’ raged Cordelia, throwing up her arms, as though she were initiating an angry version of the Mexican wave. ‘This is outrageous!’
Steve took a step back and blinked. ‘I was told that one hundred and fifty people were coming,’ he answered in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘So there are one hundred and fifty glasses.’
He pointed to the table where they stood, looking all polished and proud.
I raised my hand tentatively. ‘There are more people coming than I—’
Cordelia interrupted, still glaring at Steve. ‘We have three hundred guests arriving in—’ she checked her watch ‘—oh, fifteen minutes. They’re each expecting champagne on arrival so you’d better have this resolved.’
With a hair flick that signalled the conversation was over, she flounced off, the length of her stride impaired by the tightness of her pencil skirt. In repose, she looked like a forties screen siren in her skin-tight black-and-white monochrome outfit, but when she walked, particularly at any speed, she assumed the gait of an elongated penguin.
Kat jumped up and down on the spot, her dark bob lifting and falling like a jellyfish on a mission.
‘Champagne cocktails,’ she declared on the final bounce, but our vacant expressions clearly signalled a need for further explanation. ‘In cocktail glasses?’ She peered over the bar. ‘Looks like you’ve got enough of those. We’ll need to name it something in theme, like …’ She paused and put her finger on her chin ‘Cupid’s Crush or Sexy Slush.’
Steve smirked. ‘Sexy Slush?’
‘I don’t think Cupid has a crush,’ I added, immediately aware that it was in no way constructive.
‘Have you got any rose petals?’ Kat suggested ‘Or lychees? I’ll call Mario at Zuma. He knows exactly what to do with a lychee.’
Steve scrunched up his face. ‘One hundred and fifty cocktails in fifty minutes—they’ll get what they get.’
‘Let me help.’ Kat jumped up onto the bar, flipped her legs over and landed, quite acrobatically, on the other side. Brigitte popped up as though she had been hiding there all along.
‘I weel ‘elp Steve,’ Brigitte said, lunging towards him, boobs bursting out of a flimsy halter-necked top.
When I suggested to Brigitte that, given she was the receptionist, she might be best placed greeting the guests at reception, she spun around, rising on her heels. Her green eyes narrowed to slits and she hissed something in French that Cordelia later translated to ‘stupid pouting horse’.
By eight p.m., aside from three hundred luminous pink cocktails lined up like a Texan beauty pageant, the bar was a vision of understated elegance. Cushions lay strewn across the sofas, while freshly plucked flowers leant against crystal vases like models draped over yachts. To the haunting sounds of Bar Grooves as it echoed through the vaults, shadows moved across the walls like the ghosts of parties past.
In the bronze gilt mirror suspended on the wall, a girl looked back at me, the optimism of her orange dress almost enough to distract from the apprehension in her eyes.
‘You look gorgeous,’ Steve said after I’d caught him watching me.
My shoes pinched, my bra was too tight and it was an effort to hold in my tummy. Funny how looking good means feeling bad, I thought as I picked up one of the overdressed cocktails. Only after I’d fought my way through the tacky paraphernalia, and mastered the curly straw, did I feel the warmth of the alcohol burn in my stomach and spread through my veins.
By the time my muscles had started to relax and my breathing had slowed, excited voices began to trickle down the staircase and groups of girls flooded into the bar like migrating salmon. Modelling this season’s Gucci and Dior, they strode into the room with the veneer of a Miss World procession. Pilates-sculpted muscles were vacuum-packed in spa-fresh skin, and finished with St Tropez tans. Hair shone the L’Oreal spectrum of shades from deep chestnut to champagne blonde. Nature’s flaws were concealed by MAC, nature’s blessings were enhanced by shimmer.
A girl with a Heidi Klum body walked down the staircase and straight towards me. ‘Where are the men?’ she asked, scanning the room like an assassin.
I checked my watch. It was eight-ten p.m. ‘They’ll be here soon,’ I said.
She glared at me as though she expected me to produce one from my pocket. I ushered her towards the cocktails.
‘Would you like one?’ I asked.
She took a glass, holding it away from her as though it might explode at any moment.
‘It’s a Cherry Plucker,’ I said, trying to match the enthusiasm with which Kat and Steve had christened it.
Using the umbrella as a probe, she examined the contents with the precision of a pathologist, eventually retrieving a freakishly large cherry, which she held aloft, as though she had located the tumour that had turned an otherwise good cocktail bad. She handed me the glass, but retained the cherry presumably to send it for further testing. With a cocktail in each hand, I took a large gulp of each and then smiled, feeling like a politician at a press conference, making a point out of eating a GM vegetable. As the sugary syrup lined my throat, I looked up to see two men strutting down the staircase side by side, all cheekbones and jawlines. It was Mike and Stephen whom we’d met at the champagne bar.
Throwing the cherry to the ground, Heidi Klum, along with what Steve had described as the ‘Stepford-Wives-in-waiting’, moved towards them like starved piranhas. I took another sip from each cocktail and wondered when it was that the hunters had become the hunted.
Next down the staircase was a pair of pneumatic blondes, teetering and tottering with almost contrived instability. Their bottoms were lifted by five-inch heels and their pretty faces were eclipsed by giant yellow hair. Almond-shaped nipples poked through white vests, and mahogany-stained legs protruded from bottom-skimming skirts. At a glance, they could have been twins. Like dogs and their owners, I thought as I walked towards them, it’s funny how friends grow to look the same.
‘Hiya. I’m Stacey.’ The prettiest one introduced herself. ‘And this is Lacey.’ She pointed at her friend.
‘Where are the men?’ Lacey asked, scouring the room, her pupils constricted like those of a lioness.
‘There are two in there,’ I said, pointing to the crowd that I suspected contained Mike and Stephen. Stacey laughed, but Lacey just looked confused. I checked my watch again: it was eight-twenty p.m. ‘They’ll be here soon,’ I said, before walking away.
I found Kat at the bar, laughing and leaning towards Steve. His attentions were alternating between the cocktail production line and her cleavage, which had a cherry wedged in it.
‘Do they require a garnish now?’ I asked, pulling the cherry out.
She laughed. ‘Lighten up, stresshead.’
I pulled myself onto a bar stool. ‘Where are the men?’
We both turned to Steve as though he were the spokesperson for the entire male species.
‘Men don’t arrive to parties on time,’ he said, pushing another cherry into Kat’s cleavage.
‘But the girls have made the effort to be here,’ I said, pulling the cherry out and lobbing it towards the bin. I missed.
Steve frowned and then picked another one from the overfilled jar in front of him. ‘Desperate,’ he said, handing it to Kat.
‘It’s a singles party. There’s no need to play hard to get,’ she said before popping it in her mouth.
‘That’s the only way to play,’ he replied, screwing the lid on the jar.
It was just before nine p.m. when the rest of the men started to arrive. The beat of the music quickened as Omega watches, Dunhill cufflinks, Church’s shoes and Dax-waxed hair piled into the bar. Musky cologne overpowered the fading vanilla notes and the air grew thick and heady.
While the women had claimed the sofas, the men commandeered the bar, jostling for position and ordering rounds as though their spend was directly proportional to their self-worth. Once the pecking order had been established, the dominant males leant back expansively while the girls eyed up the contents of their ice buckets.
Last into the pit were two men wearing Diesel jeans and Paul Smith jackets, their hair styled as though they’d arrived via a wind tunnel. Cordelia informed me they were entrepreneurs, the co-founders of a well-known online business, which had recently floated on the Stock Exchange. Stacey and Lacey tottered over at their fastest speed, but two brunettes got there first, targeting the men with what looked like a well-rehearsed pincer movement. Their smiles were demure, but their eyes betrayed an excited recognition.
‘Do they already know each other?’ I asked Cordelia.
She let out a dramatic sigh. ‘They were listed as The Times’ most eligible bachelors last week. Everyone knows them. Ellie, you have to sharpen up.’
As the night progressed, the assets stretched: American Express pre-authorised inflated bar bills and the girls hammed up their sexiness. While the men with the biggest budgets gained territory around the bar, it was the girls wearing the least clothes who secured the most champagne, only to be usurped by those who were grinding against pillars or pretending to be lesbians.
‘Is that really it?’ I asked Cordelia, while the men gawped at Stacey and Lacey
Cordelia laughed. ‘If you wave a sausage in front of a dog’s nose, it won’t be able to think about anything else.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Come on, men are more sophisticated than that, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. ‘When there are no sausages, they can be delightful company.’
‘But if there are sausages everywhere they go, then surely the urge would abate, and they’d suffer from some kind of aversion, like sausage fatigue?’
‘Sausage fatigue?’ she said, flicking a sheet of golden hair over her shoulder. ‘You mean because there is an endless supply of boobs and bums on offer, men will get desensitised?’
I nodded.
‘They already are,’ she said, pointing at Stacey who was now pretending to bite Lacey’s nipples through her top. ‘Those two will have to get their internal organs out in a few years to even warrant a second glance.’
With that she shuffled off, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her skirt was working against her.
When Stacey and Lacey’s show was over, I noticed Kat tailing three tall muscular men as they strutted round the room like silverback gorillas. After I’d caught her eye, she rushed towards me.
‘They’re RAF pilots!’ she squealed, flapping her arms excitedly.
I rolled my eyes, recalling the million times she had described her ‘ultimate fantasy’.
‘He’s an injured pilot ran aground in a field and you’re a virginal milkmaid who comes to his aid,’ I said in a dull monotone.
She fanned her flushed chest. ‘Well, thinking about it, it would be unlikely that there would only be one pilot in the aircraft. Maybe it would be more plausible with three?’
I shook my head and watched her stride across the room, sticking out her boobs and hitching up her skirt.
As the night drew on, the walls of the cave grew damp and sticky. Styled hair softened, sweat glowed through face powder and natural scent overpowered the synthetic. Masks slipped and inhibitions gave way to instinct.
This wasn’t an orgy. This wasn’t a bunch of teenagers on holiday in Kavos. These were professional people, who, earlier on, had been sharing awkward exchanges about the economy and current affairs. Now they were writhing on leather sofas: tongues locked, limbs entwined, hands up skirts, down tops, under shirts, down trousers. The candles, once flickering gently, were now burning violently, wax dripping down their shafts.
Perched on a sofa in the only uninhabited alcove, I looked on, watching an equities trader dry humping a pretty florist at the bar. He really reminded me of something. Now what was it?
‘Randy dog,’ a man’s voice said, directed at me.
Yes, that’s it, I thought, before looking up to see a broad smile beaming down at me. We both turned back to see the subject’s bottom bobbing up and down with increasing momentum.
‘He’s with me, I’m sorry to say,’ he said, still grinning.
I smirked. ‘Can you put him on a leash, then?’
He laughed. He sat down next to me, fixing me with the most beautiful brown eyes I had ever seen. ‘I’m Nick,’ he said. ‘Mind if I join you?’
I shuffled up the sofa, eyeing him suspiciously.
‘So you’re the brains behind all this, then?’ he asked.
I nodded. ‘Although there’s not much brain activity happening here tonight.’
He looked around the room and smiled. ‘What were you expecting?’
‘I don’t know … a little more self-restraint.’
He laughed. ‘If you put kids in a candy shop—’ he gestured in the direction of a man, whose hand was emerging from a short denim skirt ‘—they get sticky fingers.’
I tutted, then rolled my eyes while he continued to laugh at his own joke.
‘And you?’ I asked. ‘Haven’t you found a florist to dry hump or a sticky place to put your fingers?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s only one girl who caught my eye.’
‘And?’
‘She seems to have a bit of an attitude problem.’
A smile edged out from the corners of my mouth.
‘I knew you’d crack eventually,’ he said, his hand skimming mine as he reached for his drink. Suddenly, a tingle shot up my arm and a flash of white light ripped through the bar. I looked up, my eyes squinting against the neon beams, as though abruptly awoken from a dream. The music stopped and voices hushed.
‘Time, everyone,’ Steve announced. ‘Bar’s closing.’
The light shone down on us, and when Nick looked at me, it was with such intensity that I suddenly felt as though every pore, every blemish and every scar that I’d hoped to conceal were exposed. A surge of panic raced through my nerves and I jumped up from my seat, mumbling something incoherent about needing to help tidy up. Then I walked away without looking back.
Absent from the comforting canopy of candlelight, the crudeness of reality was unveiled. The guests clambered to their feet and wiped their lipstick-smudged faces as though desperate to reclaim some dignity. From a hidden alcove, I watched everyone leave. My eyes tracked Nick as he sauntered up the stairs, my stomach churning when I noticed a leggy brunette tottering after him. When he smiled at her, the smile that I’d secretly hoped he’d reserved for me, the electricity tripped and the room was plunged back into darkness.
By the time Steve had flipped the fuse, the bar had emptied out. I dropped back down on my seat. Only a few hours earlier, before the guests arrived, the atmosphere had seemed charged and full of anticipation, but now the flowers had wilted, with their stems slumped and petals curled. The candles had withered down to useless stumps, droplets of wax eating away at the polished veneer. Beside them stood smeared glasses containing fluids mixed and merged. Beneath the tables, trampled cherries bled into the carpet.
‘Imagine all the shagging that’s going on tonight, thanks to you!’ Kat said as we shared a taxi home.
‘There might be a little baby being made as we speak,’ Cordelia joked.
I huffed. ‘That’s not how it’s supposed to work. I was hoping for blossoming love not rampant sex.’
‘Don’t the two go hand in hand?’ Kat answered.
‘I’d settle for rampant sex,’ Cordelia chipped in.
‘Rampant rabbit for me tonight,’ Kat said before curling her bottom lip. ‘Not quite RAF pilot. But—’ she paused, retrieving a damp piece of paper from her cleavage ‘—I got their numbers!’
‘So, what about you, Ellie?’ Cordelia asked. ‘That guy you were chatting to—what happened there? He looked gutted when you walked off.’
‘Yes, he was cute but—’
‘He had a cute butt, I saw.’
‘Kat, stop it,’ Cordelia interrupted and looked back at me. ‘But what?’
‘But I don’t have time for a relationship at the moment. I’m concentrating on other things.’
‘That’s utter bollocks!’ Cordelia shouted, waving her arms around. ‘You haven’t had a relationship since …’ She paused, placing her hands back on her lap.
‘You can mention it, you know. I’m not going to break down into a gibbering wreck. Since I got dumped by my fiancé, you meant to say?’
‘No. Since your lucky escape from that twat. That’s what I meant to say. You know it wasn’t your fault.’
‘Look, I really don’t want to talk about it again. It’s in the past.’
‘You never want to talk about it. And it’s not in the past if it’s stopping you from meeting someone new.’
‘I’m fine. I just want to focus on—’
‘Whatever!’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Great strategy. You’ll never get hurt again if you never have a relationship again. Brilliant idea!’ She folded her arms and looked away from me.
‘Okay, that’s enough, ladies!’ Kat interrupted. ‘You can have one of my pilots if you like?’ She turned to me with a silly grin.
‘I’d make sure she washed the milkmaid outfit before borrowing that though,’ Cordelia said, unfolding her arms and offering me her olive branch smile.
I leant forward and put my arms around them both. ‘Stop worrying about me, you two. I’m fine.’
Initiating a drunken group hug was a bit of a challenge in the back of a fast-moving taxi, especially as the driver took a sharp corner onto my road at our most vulnerable moment. Kat went flying, bottom over boobs and onto the taxi floor, Cordelia managed to retain her composure for a few seconds and grabbed my arm to steady me, but as the driver slammed on the breaks outside my flat, it was too late. I knew I was going down and that she was coming with me. Flying out of our seats, I landed across Kat, my face cushioned by her inbuilt airbags, but Cordelia continued to slide around the taxi before finally settling between Kat’s legs, her mouth open against black satin knickers, hands gripping her lace-topped stockings. It was like a particularly creative scene from Girls Gone Wild.
The taxi driver did a double take in the rear-view mirror.
‘All right, ladies?’ he said, turning around and looking a little alarmed, but clearly refusing to acknowledge any responsibility in the matter.
‘Yes, we’re fine, thank you,’ Cordelia replied, her recovery marginally thwarted by the penguin ensemble.
When we were vertical again and safely out on the street, I leant in to pay the driver. He looked at me, his eyebrows knitted together, with an unsettling empathy in his eyes.
‘You’re a nice-looking girl,’ he said, peering down my top. ‘You’ll find a man, don’t worry.’
I rolled my eyes and Kat slammed the door.
‘There goes your tip,’ Cordelia said as she waddled after us.
Lying in bed that night, wedged uncomfortably between a fidgeting Cordelia and a snoring Kat, I realised how much the dating game had changed. Before I met Robert, I’d never had to look for a man. They’d always seemed in plentiful supply and ever eager for a date. However, from my observations that night, it seemed that now the men had all the power. And it appeared it was us women who had handed it to them. With a cherry on top.
I wondered if Matthew was right. Had men been socially conditioned by the recent wave of engineered sex bombs—sporting glued-on hair, mutilated boobs and creosoted legs—so that a normal girl didn’t stand a chance any more?
One who wasn’t prepared to strut around with her bottom in the air, proclaiming a love of anal and threesomes?
My temples throbbed at the injustice of it all. As I pulled the pillow over my head to drown out Kat’s snores, I remembered the brunette trotting after Nick, her ridiculously short skirt riding up over her bottom. I felt a rage burning inside. It was as though my blood had been on a low simmer but tonight the heat had been ramped up a notch.

Chapter 6 (#ulink_ed6d8728-221d-537d-990c-6a9b6777c75d)
HE SLAMMED HIS business card on the table ‘This is me. Google me. Now can we talk about what I’m looking for?’
‘Er, hang on,’ I interrupted, picking up his card. ‘Richard Stud. Consultant gynaecologist.’
I looked up to see him shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
‘Is that really your name?’ I asked, assuming he was having me on.
He let out an irritated sigh. ‘Yes. It is. It’s not like my parents gave me any choice in the matter.’
‘Okay. Sorry. It’s just—’
‘I know. A gynaecologist called Dick Stud. I’ve heard it all before. There’s also dermatologist called Mr Cream, so you can use that one for your dinner party anecdotes too if you like.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Honestly, I thought it was a joke. Anyway, I’ve had to live with the name Eleanor Rigby, so I know where you’re coming from.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘It’s a Beatles’ song.’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘About a desperately lonely woman who died a spinster? Anyway, moving on from my issues, let’s talk about yours. Apart from bottom groping in wine bars, what do you like to do in your spare time?’
Two days prior, I’d received a call from a man with a familiar Irish accent. The man explained that he had been headhunted in a bar a few weeks back and wanted to book an appointment to see me. It was only when he arrived that I’d recognised him as the bottom-groper from the queue at Apt. I suppose I could have argued the accuracy of his use of the term ‘headhunted’, or his suitability as a client in general, but something stopped me. When I’d first met him, his jet-black hair and white teeth made him look like one of those cheesy Just for Men adverts. But this time—albeit through the haze of a cherry-plucker hangover—with his bright blue eyes and floppy hair, he reminded me, a bit, of Rob Lowe.
Behind him, the lounge bar gleamed as though it had been the subject of an extreme makeover. In the twenty-four hours since the party, the carpet had been shampooed, the sofas scrubbed and the surfaces polished. Fresh flowers replaced the old, new candles replaced withered stumps and the shadows seemed to have crept back into the crevices. Aside from a few resistant stains, all traces of the night had been erased.
During the prerequisite discussion about his family and career background, I sensed we were both losing interest.
‘Okay,’ I said, improvising a drum roll on the table. ‘Now you get to tell me what you’re looking for.’
He smiled. ‘You’re going to love this.’
‘Go on,’ I said, before taking a sip of coffee.
‘I have absolutely no idea. That’s my answer. I honestly don’t have a clue what I’m looking for. I just want someone nice.’
I smiled. ‘That’s great. Open-minded is the best way to be when dating,’ I said, though not entirely convincing myself. ‘So you don’t have a type at all?’
He shuffled in his seat again. ‘I used to have a type, but not any more. I love all girls: tall, short, slim, curvy, blondes, brunettes, white, black. I suppose the main issue would be settling with just one.’ He laughed.
I frowned.
‘That was a joke,’ he said. ‘I’d be more than happy with one. The right one.’
‘Okay, so how do we find the right one?’
His eyebrows met in a semi-frown. ‘I don’t have any trouble attracting girls, or finding girls I’m attracted to. But—’ he leant back in his seat and looked up to the ceiling ‘—I go off them.’
‘You go off them?’
He nodded.
‘Can you explain?’
He scratched his nose. ‘It’s quite difficult to explain when I don’t really understand it myself.’
‘Try.’
‘Okay, well, when I meet a girl I like, I fall in love easily,’ he explained, still scratching his nose. ‘It’s a bit like a favourite T-shirt. I’ll wear it all the time and then one day I’ll look at it and hate it. And then throw it out.’
‘Because you’ve found a new favourite T-shirt?’
‘Not necessarily. Sometimes. Other times, I’ll just wear other T-shirts until I find a new favourite one.’
Steve appeared at our table. ‘You can never have enough T-shirts,’ he said, nodding at Dr Stud, who then laughed. ‘Any more drinks?’
‘Thanks for the insightful input, Steve, another coffee for me. Still haven’t quite metabolised those cocktails.’
‘You’re better off with water: rehydrate and flush out that acetaldehyde,’ Dr Stud suggested, before turning towards Steve. ‘I’ll have a beer, please, mate. And I like your T-shirt.’
He nodded at Brigitte who was squeezed into a tiny red dress and pouting next to the bar. I turned around. I hadn’t noticed her until now, yet Dr Stud, who’d had his back to the bar, had somehow managed to assess her attractiveness and ascertain that she was something to do with Steve.
‘The male sixth sense,’ I said after I’d shared my thoughts with him. ‘The ability to determine cup size and sexual availability without turning your head.’
He laughed. ‘And the female equivalent? The ability to calculate total net worth with a casual glance.’
I smirked. ‘So do you think what you earn is important to women?’
He laughed, but this time it sounded forced and irritated. ‘Of course. You wouldn’t believe the number of women I’ve pulled just by telling them I’m a doctor.’
‘But that’s not because of how much you earn.’
‘No?’
‘No, it’s more of a profession fetish. You know, a sort of white-coat-hyper-competent-House-meets-George-Clooney-in-ER combined with I’ve-married-a-doctor-didn’t-I-do-well type thing.’
He leant back and laughed. ‘I thought we weren’t discussing your issues?’
My cheeks flushed. ‘Sorry, please continue.’
‘And I think,’ he continued, still half smiling from my outburst, ‘that’s half the reason I get fed up with the girls I date. It’s as though they’re too stupid to plan their own lives, so instead they’re waiting for me to do it for them. It’s pathetic really.’
I opened my mouth to say something, but he continued.
‘I’ve got this friend who quit being a doctor the day she married. She studied for seven years and then only worked for one. What’s that all about? Seriously, what’s the point of putting women through university if they’re just going to give it up when they get married?’
‘But that’s only one girl,’ I said.
He didn’t respond, but simply took a sip of the beer Steve had just brought over.
‘So I think what you’re saying is that you want to date an independent woman?’ I asked, picking up my pen, poised to take notes.
‘That’s what most girls think they are. But they’re not.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I interrupted, now feeling the need to defend my team. ‘Let’s rewind a bit. The night we met. In the queue for Apt.’
‘Yes.’
‘You were pretty offensive.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Grabbing bottoms and making reference to anal sex is likely to put off the intelligent, independent women. We want to be wined, dined and cherished. Not objectified and manhandled.’
He smirked. ‘Manhandled? Do people still say that?’
I frowned. ‘Don’t deflect.’
‘I was hardly Benny Hill chasing you around the club to clown music. Honk, honk.’ He pretended to squeeze a pair of imaginary boobs.
‘It was still disrespectful.’
‘You disrespected yourself, wearing that miniskirt.’
I laughed. ‘It was a dress actually and it wasn’t that short.’
‘It was tight around your bottom. And, yes, it was short.’
‘So you’re saying I was asking for it?’
He shook his head. ‘Of course not. But—’
‘Yes, go on, please.’
‘You wanted men to notice. Or you wouldn’t have worn it.’
‘Is it a crime to want to look nice?’
‘Nice or sexy?’
I rolled my eyes.
‘Okay. So this is how it goes.’ He sat forward in his chair and stared at me. ‘I work my arse off in a job which gives me a good salary and lifestyle. I then use this to wine and dine a woman who feels she is entitled to it just for being her wonderful, beautiful, miniskirted self. And then, if I behave correctly—i.e. spend enough money, shower her with enough compliments, pander to her neuroses—then I am allowed sex. I’m supposed to pretend it is the best sex I have ever had and never want it with anyone else again. From then onward, I am expected to continue this ridiculous charade until she has borne her desired number of children and we are old and withered. Unless I get fed up with her unending list of demands, and leave her, or have an affair, in which case I will be back at square one, only with half my income gone.’
When he had finished, he sat back in his chair and took, what seemed to be, a triumphant sip of beer.

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