The Love Market by Carol Mason Read Free Book Online

wars. And yet, I can’t find anything about his personal life. Nor is he on ‘Facebook’, not that I would have really expected him to be.
    I type in the words “Patrick Shale, contact information”, and hold my breath. But all that comes up is the name of a literary and talent agent who, it seems, represents him. I try again, “Patrick Shale, email”, not expecting the result to be any different.
    But hang on….
    There is a Patrick Shale, with an email address, who lectures in the journalism school of Ryerson Polytechnical University, in Toronto.
    My heart springs out of my body.
    It has to be him.

Six
     
     
    I have to go down to Manchester for a Fake Date. To meet a potential client—a lawyer who was referred to me by one of my female clients, the sparkly and infectious Trish Buckham. Trish is a highly successful lawyer herself, even though you’d never know it by her micro-minis, funky hairstyle and foul mouth. She has been on a couple of coffee-meets, because she prefers the quick exit strategy, rather than the way I normally like it to happen—in a restaurant, where you’re forced to get to know your match for the time it takes to consume a civilised meal. She never sounds over the moon when I ring her about a possible match. So sometimes I wonder if her heart really is in meeting someone, or if she’s doing it just to convince herself—or others—that she’s trying.
    It’s usual for clients to refer friends to me, but it’s almost always people I’ve already successfully matched who will refer a friend, usually one of the same sex. So this is a bit different. Before taking on new clients I will meet the women for lunch as well as talk to them a lot on the phone. I always make the men meet me in a restaurant for dinner, in a fake date situation so I can see them the way a female date would see them, and iron out their kinks before I put them on The Love Market. Manchester is a bit out of my net, but Trish all but begged me to help him.
    My train’s at twenty past ten, so I drop Aimee off at school at ten to nine, then plan to run a few errands around town before heading to the station. Just as I’m pulling out of the school drop-off area, I see Rachel’s mum’s shiny white Range Rover pulling in behind me. I put the car in ‘park’, wait until she has waved off Rachel, and then I get out of my car just as she is about to pull off.
    ‘Sorry,’ I tell her, when she gets out. ‘I didn’t mean to flag you off the road like a policeman, Sandi!’ We exchange a bit of friendly chatter and I try not to imagine her cozying up in bed with her husband and them talking about me and Mike and assuming one of us must have had an affair. I tell her that Aimee is sad she hasn’t been invited to Rachel’s party when every other girl in her class has.
    As she listens, nothing moves except for her blonde hair blowing around her face in the early April wind. Then her expression hardens. ‘I’m sorry, Celine, I wasn’t really aware… They don’t really tell you things any more, do they? They think they’re so independent now.’ She blushes, avoids my eyes, and holds onto her hair to stop it blowing—something I think she wants me to know is irritating her, to communicate that it’s going to be a short conversation. ‘You know, it’s not really up to me to tell her who to be friends with.’ She tries a smile, her hand up by her ear, her Rolex gleaming from under her jacket’s sleeve. ‘They go through phases, don’t they?’
    I feel my spine elongating and try not to come off as though I’m growing myself to doff her on top of the head with my cheap handbag. ‘You know, Sandi, Aimee’s been very down since her fall. Not being able to compete for the gymnastics trophy after the months of hard work she put in—’
    ‘It wasn’t Rachel’s fault she had an accident! Aimee didn’t have to make her feel so bad for winning!’
    ‘I was going to say, it absolutely devastated her.’ This