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

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

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

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

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

A Note to the Reader

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

PART TWO

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Love Is... Extract

Endpages

Copyright

PART ONE

Chapter 1

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

‘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.’