It's Got To Be Perfect: A laugh out loud comedy about finding your perfect match

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

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.’