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

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. However, in order to begin my transition to altruism, I knew that I might be required to actually help someone, so 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.
    With their long legs, dark hair and tanned skin, it was as though they were the result of some kind of accelerated breeding program between Megan and Stephen who I had 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 or something?’ 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 hotpants, my eyes lingered on her chest, which was braless and buoyant under a cream silk camisole.
    ‘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 re-introduce the world to deep and meaningful love, the girl next to me flicked a mane of hair extensions over her shoulder.
    ‘We only date footballers,’ she said.
    She went on to explain that, despite the fact that neither her nor her friends were currently in a relationship with a footballer, in the past there had been many encounters. The affairs she described were short-lived, involved regular cash payments, provision of accommodation, full funding for any abortions required and a six-figure pay-off at the end.
    Apparently, this was a routine insurance policy to protect against any negative press coverage.
    ‘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 said with a beaming smile.
    ‘Or pimps?’ I suggested.
    ‘Hey!’ Caro interrupted as she bounded up to me, and began theatrically fanning herself with a handful of business cards. ‘Check these out.’
    She thrust them into 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 Caro’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.
    During the cab ride to the “player’s party” at Whisky Mist, the girls explained how a modern-day princess secured her happy-ever-after.
    ‘You only get invited if you’re in with the promoters,’ said the girl in the hotpants who I now knew was named Carmen.
    ‘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