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

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

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.’