It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker by Haley Hill Read Free Book Online

laughter and inwardly apologising to my better self, I followed Cordelia through to the main bar area, down the staircase and into the blackness of the basement.
    Two hours later, as shirts were being shed and city workers danced a drunken version of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”, Cordelia and I retreated up the stairs and out of bar.
    ‘That’s the hard part over with,’ she said, handing me a stack of business cards.
    Later, when the beat of the music had faded into the distance, the faces of all the people we’d met that night flashed through my mind. I gripped the cards tighter and wondered if, when it came to it, they would trust me enough to put their hearts in my hands.

Chapter Five
    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 gazed out of the window and into the early morning mist and suddenly the incredible irony of the situation hit me.
    ‘How am I qualified to help them when I can’t even help myself?’ I asked Cordelia after panic-calling her.
    ‘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 don’t know, rich men and pretty girls. That seems successful.’
    ‘Yeah, for the divorce lawyers.’
    ‘You have to give people what they want.’
    ‘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?’
    ‘Leave that to Darwinism.’
    I huffed. ‘That theory suits you.’
    ‘Look, 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 wanking 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.
    After I’d emailed 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 laughed. ‘I hope to