It's Got To Be Perfect. Haley Hill
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Название: It's Got To Be Perfect
Автор: Haley Hill
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Короткие любовные романы
Серия: Mills & Boon M&B
isbn: 9781474030908
isbn:
‘Well, madam,’ he began, peering over his glasses, ‘in this day and age, a lady can go out and achieve such things without the aid of a man. So, you’re just being a lazybones. I’m going to cross that one off your list.’
‘Er,’ I said, trying to interrupt but he—or she—was in full flow.
‘And what’s all this about appearance? You say you want a handsome man. Don’t we all, dear?’ he said as he hoisted up his imaginary bosoms. ‘But those good-looking ones are often a bit full of themselves and rather high maintenance, don’t you think? I’ll cross that off too.’
In quick succession Matthew’s alter ego went on to annihilate every characteristic on my tick list. When he began to question whether it was essential that my soulmate be a man, I downed the last of the wine and took myself off to bed.
Later that night, while I was trying to sleep, images flashed through my mind—goatees, tapered jeans, naked Ukrainians, hairy nostrils—and I began to wonder if Matthew was right.
If I had been deluding myself by expecting the perfect man to give me the perfect life, and to behave perfectly at all times, then what was I supposed to do instead? I couldn’t talk myself into fancying someone, and besides, I knew no matter how rational the argument, I’d rather remain single than settle for someone who smelled of pickled onions.
I pulled the duvet over my head and wondered if I really had believed that love would come packaged as a six-foot-three investment banker. Perhaps it wasn’t as simple as having not yet found the right man. Maybe it was me? Maybe my judgement was off.
Throughout the night, the questions kept coming. I lay there, tossing and turning. And thinking.
I wanted answers. I needed answers.
Just before dawn, a shimmering light suddenly filled the room. It could have been a street lamp, either that, or Eros had been sent to summon me. I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. It was then that the idea came to me, flitting through my mind at first, skittish like a butterfly, but then it settled and I couldn’t shake it. When my focus eventually adjusted to the bright white light which was pouring through the window, I realised that the path to my destiny had been lit up like a runway.
It was up to me to find the answers. Not only for myself but for others too.
I would begin by reclaiming Cupid’s bow from soulless software. Then, using Matthew’s questionnaire as a template, I would lead an army of matchmakers across the land. Noisy eating and tapered jeans would be banished for ever and unconditional love, shared values and mutual respect would glisten in our wake. I smiled and gazed up at the ceiling. No longer would I be confined to a lab, staring at a titration beaker, pondering the most cost-effective way to synthesise fertiliser, instead my days would be spent nurturing budding romances from under a pile of thank you notes, and my nights sleeping soundly, content in the knowledge that I had helped unite all the lonely hearts of the world.
All I would have to do is quit my job at ChemPlant, figure out how to survive on a maxed-out overdraft, then set about discovering the formula for love.
I’m going to be a matchmaker, I decided, throwing off the duvet, I’ll start today.
And so, I did.
‘WHAT ABOUT THEM? They’re cute,’ I said, pointing to a group of men by the bar.
‘I don’t think so,’ Cordelia replied with a dismissive flick of her Jennifer Lawrence hair. ‘Your first clients have to be super eligible.’
With her sleek frame encased in a Vivienne Westwood pinstriped dress and her long legs elongated further with red Dior stilettos, she looked the image of timeless elegance. I couldn’t help but feel inferior. My ensemble wasn’t dissimilar, albeit a high street version on a high street body, but for me, it didn’t come so easily. With a smudge of Benetint and a light dusting of powder, Cordelia personified Hollywood glamour. However, my less-impressive result required hours of prep, more foil than a Christmas turkey, and a paranoid avoidance of neon lighting. People who loved me, or those who saw me in candlelight said I looked a bit like Holly Willoughby. The rest said Beverley Callard.
Cordelia slipped her arm through mine and led me away from the men—who she had culled for ‘drinking pints in a champagne bar’—then marched us on to a balcony which afforded a panoramic view of the bar.
‘No. No. And no,’ she said, scanning the crowd and dismissing everyone in sight. ‘Where have all the hot men gone?’
I laughed. ‘That’s what I’ve been asking for the past two years.’
‘They must be hiding out somewhere,’ she said, craning her neck around a gilt pillar. ‘This is supposed to be the champagne bar of the moment according to the FT.’
I checked my watch: it was six o’clock on a Thursday evening. We were in the heart of the financial district and the bar was jammed, teeming with enough men to send the Weather Girls into cardiac arrest, but, according to Cordelia, no one was good enough.
‘They don’t have to be outrageously good-looking, do they?’ I asked, feeling far less discriminatory since my dressing down from Matthew. ‘All I need are normal people who are single.’
She tossed a sheet of golden hair behind her shoulders. ‘You want to avoid the stigma that other agencies have, don’t you?’
I nodded.
‘Well, the only way to do that is to have the uber-eligible as your first members. It’s a bit like a celebrity endorsement. You know, if they’re doing it, then it must be good.’
‘But no one really believes that Cheryl Cole dyes her own hair over a sink at home? Why would they believe that a gorgeous man has trouble finding love?’
‘Because he does. Everyone does. That’s the reason you have decided to become a matchmaker, is it not?’ Her voice was sympathetic, but the pinched expression betrayed her impatience.
I nodded again, looking around the bar at the seemingly contented patrons. What if it was just me? What if no one wanted or even needed my help?
‘Ah, here we go,’ she said, gesturing towards two men who had just swaggered through the doorway. ‘That’s more like it.’
Both well over six feet tall with dark hair, and wearing Savile Row suits, they sauntered in like they’d stepped off the cover of GQ magazine. One of them glanced my way and flashed a smile. I took a deep breath, sucked in my tummy and weaved my way through the crowd towards him.
‘Well, hello,’ he said, when I’d reached him.
‘Well, hello yourself,’ I replied, attempting a Cordelia-style hair flick which resulted in several drinks being spilled behind me. He laughed: a soft, sexy, George Clooney drawl, not the high-pitched Road Runner warble that appeared to be coming from my mouth.
‘So, what brings a gorgeous girl like you to a place like this?’
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