It's Got To Be Perfect. Haley Hill

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      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.’

      Steve nodded and then hurried back to the bar, where a stern-faced Brigitte began prodding him on the shoulder.

      Harriet had an impressive CV. At twenty-eight, she spoke four languages, had lived in ten different countries and was now working for an American bank in London. She had an interesting family background: her French mother was a professor in neuroscience and her Swiss father was a senior officer in the military. However, the conversation seemed more like a job interview than an open exchange. Unlike William, Harriet only managed a few conservative sips of her award-winning Burgundy.

      I decided to get straight to the point. ‘So,’ I said, leaning forward, ‘what kind of men do you like?’

      Her cheeks flushed and she picked up her glass and took a sip.

      I pointed to a dark-haired man with cute dimples standing at the bar. ‘How about him?’

      She threw a casual glance over her shoulder, and then looked back at me, shaking her head.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Looks like a womaniser.’

      I raised my eyebrows. ‘What makes you say that?’

      She looked over at him again, this time pausing longer. ‘He’s too good-looking. I don’t date men like that.’

      ‘You don’t fancy good-looking men?’

      She took another sip. ‘Successful relationships aren’t based on that.’

      ‘What, sexual attraction?’

      She shook her head. ‘I need someone who fits in with my family, my culture and who matches my intellect.’

      ‘Even if you don’t fancy them?’

      She took another sip, though this time it was more of a gulp.

      I scanned the room once again and noticed a man with a broad smile and blond hair who was sitting on a sofa. ‘Okay, what about him?’ I pointed.

      She turned to look. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head.

      ‘Why not?’

      She went to put her glass down then lifted it to her mouth again. ‘This might sound a little mean.’

      ‘Go on.’

      ‘He’s not sophisticated enough.’

      ‘Because?’

      ‘Button-down collar.’

      ‘Okay,’ I said, scanning the room, searching for someone who might fit her ideal. I settled on a dark-haired man with intelligent eyes and a Hermes belt. ‘Him?’

      She looked over, her gaze sizing him up. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, someone like him.’

      Her glass was half empty when she excused herself for a trip to the Ladies’. I watched her glide across the room, and then have an awkward ‘after you, no after you’ dance with cute dimples at the bar. I noticed his head swivel, following her as she walked away. However, Mr Hermes belt ignored her as she swept past, seemingly more focused on looking up Brigitte’s skirt as she leant over the bar.

      When she returned from the toilet, her make-up and composure refreshed, she continued describing her future husband.

      ‘I need a man who can fit in with my life,’ she began, her face expressionless. ‘He would have an international background, like myself. And a successful career. He’d have to want a large family. And, most importantly, he would need to be from an upper-class family.’

      I raised my eyebrows again. ‘Why?’

      ‘It’s important to have shared values,’ she said, staring ahead.

      I shrugged my shoulders and pretended to make notes, hoping I hadn’t sounded so clinical when I’d listed my requirements to Matthew no less than a month ago.

      When she’d finished the last of her wine, she dabbed the sides of her mouth with a napkin and bid me a pleasant evening. I leant forward to kiss her goodbye, but she sidestepped my advances and then offered me her hand to shake instead, as though there had been a gross misunderstanding and she was, in actuality, hiring me to assist her in a business merger.

      When I sat back down to yet another refilled glass, I checked my watch and tapped my pen on the table. My next client, Jeremy, was late. Due to my lack of faith in the network coverage in the bar, I nipped upstairs to give him a call. As I approached reception, I saw Brigitte leaning over the desk, boobs squeezed together, bottom in the air as though she were inviting penetration. With a slow deliberate lick of her lips, she pressed a piece of paper into the palm of a man standing in front of her.

      ‘Ahh, Ellieeee. Dis ees Jirimie,’ she purred as the man spun round, and flashed me a smile.

      ‘Blatch, Jeremy Blatch,’ he said, in the manner of an international spy.

      Although a little slick, he was breathtakingly handsome, as though he’d just walked off the set of a Hugo Boss photo-shoot. Wearing a grey suit and a white shirt, and with floppy dark blond hair framing dazzling blue eyes, he looked every inch the fantasy Mr Right most women dreamed about.

      Suspecting that Brigitte had just passed on her number, and concerned she may try to straddle him if I left it a moment longer, I suggested to Jeremy that we go downstairs to the bar.

      ‘That’s a first. I’m usually invited СКАЧАТЬ