It's Got To Be Perfect: A laugh out loud comedy about finding your perfect match. Haley Hill

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СКАЧАТЬ she replied, wiping her hand on a napkin, ‘and this is my friend Ellie.’ She waved him on to me as though he were an annoying fly. ‘She’s a matchma—’

      ‘Gorgeous,’ he said, looking me up and down, ‘but obvious. You’re much more interesting.’ He leant back towards her.

      I laughed, relieved to have escaped the slimy hand kiss. Although after her blatant attempt to offload him onto me, I was struggling to decide whether she deserved rescuing. Just as I was weighing it up, one of his friends stepped forward.

      ‘Sorry about him,’ he said in a gentle American accent, his smile confirming teeth too perfect to be British. ‘I’m Nate.’

      He offered me his hand. I took it, reciprocating the firm grip.

      ‘And this is Josh.’ His other friend moved forward with his hand out too. I was mildly perturbed by the level of hand-shaking involved but quickly realised it was an excellent opportunity to check for wedding rings. These two were in the clear. I looked more closely at their all-American faces, the sort that seemed instantly familiar. Did I know them from somewhere? They didn’t seem to recognise me, so I went on to explain my plans to reintroduce the world to deep and meaningful love. Nate looked fascinated, but Josh looked terrified, as though implementation of my business model necessitated the distribution of nuclear warheads to the Middle East.

      ‘How will you match people?’ he asked, brow furrowed.

      I looked around the bar, hoping Eros’s messenger might appear with a comprehensive matchmaking strategy inked onto a scroll.

      ‘Various methods,’ I said eventually and with surprising conviction.

      ‘And your marketing strategy consists entirely of tapping people on the shoulder and asking if they’re single?’ Josh asked, studying my business card.

      I nodded, realising how implausible it sounded out loud.

      ‘But how will you discriminate?’ Nate asked, brow furrowing further.

      I glanced over at Timothy, who was now attempting to mount Cordelia on the bar stool and we all laughed.

      By now, Cordelia’s handbag was no longer functioning as a makeshift shield and her facial expression had shifted from disgust to one resembling genuine fear. My laughter quickly subsided as I watched his stubby fingers pawing at her thigh.

      I prodded his upper arm. ‘Excuse me, Timothy, isn’t it?’ I said.

      He looked startled as though I had interrupted him mid-copulation.

      I glared at him. ‘You’re obviously an intelligent man.’

      He smirked.

      My anger welled. ‘So I’m surprised you have failed to pick up on any of the glaringly obvious signs that my friend here would rather lick the inside of a Delhi toilet bowl than remain in your company for a second longer.’

      He leant back against the bar and thrust out his gut. ‘She seems to be enjoying herself—’

      I stared at his belly, trying not to imagine him naked. ‘Enjoying herself?’

      He nodded, still squeezing her thigh.

      I knocked his hand away from her leg.

      ‘Enjoying what exactly?’ I continued, hands on hips. ‘A middle-aged, married man trying to bribe her to have sex with him? Yes, that must be it. I mean, what girl wouldn’t be tempted by the exciting prospect of all the glittering diamonds she could acquire simply by straddling your flabby paunch and pretending your piddly cocktail sausage was a donkey schlong?’

      Timothy’s eyes widened.

      ‘And what about your wife?’ I continued, gesturing to his wedding ring. ‘Does she know you’re sleazing around bars groping any body part you can get your doughy little digits on? Or more likely she’s relieved that she doesn’t have to have sex with you any more. Grateful for the fact that you can’t get it up, unless you’re with a girl who’s half your age and half your weight?’

      I paused for breath, keen to continue, when suddenly I felt Cordelia’s grip on my arm. She led me towards the staircase, then tossed my coat at me.

      ‘A simple goodbye would have sufficed,’ she said.

      I glanced back. Josh was giggling and Nate gave me a thumbs-up.

      I shook my head. ‘Men like him think a restraining order is playing hard to get.’

      She laughed. ‘You can’t be a matchmaker if you’re going to shout at everyone who isn’t behaving how you’d like.’

      ‘Yes I can, when it’s my business.’

      She laughed. ‘Dictator dating. Love it.’

      I huffed, wondering if it was feasible to restrict my services to those I felt morally deserving. ‘But those other two, they seemed nice—looked so familiar.’

      She paused on the step below me, and looked up. ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you?’

      ‘Or is it that they all look the same, those American preppy types?’

      ‘You’re seriously telling me you don’t know who they are?’ she said, striding ahead in her structurally engineered Diors.

      I followed her down the stairs as speedily as my Primark peep-toes would allow. ‘What do you mean? Who are they?’

      She shook her head. ‘You’ll have to figure it out.’

      ‘Fine,’ I said, folding my arms, which was a brave move considering my questionable stability.

      She smirked, clearly entertained by my wobbly sulk. ‘So where to next?’

      ‘The target was fifty men and women by the end of the night.’

      ‘Right,’ she said and glanced at her watch. ‘Let’s head to Apt.’

      A three-tiered bar in Mansion House, Apt was where all the office workers within a half-mile radius ended up for ‘one more drink’. After which, the original plan was generally abandoned in favour of an alternative, which most likely involved sambuca shots, a few grams of cocaine, terrible dancing and inappropriate liaisons with colleagues.

      ‘But we’ll have to go right now though,’ Cordelia said, ‘before they’re too wasted to bother with.’

      We flagged a cab. Although we were within easy walking distance, Cordelia insisted Dior heels were not made for walking, especially in the city, where she was convinced cobbles and cobblers were in a conspiratorial partnership.

      When we arrived at Apt, there was a queue around the block and a one-in-one-out entrance restriction. Having decided that it was imperative, in the name of love, that I find a way to push in, I made a beeline for a group of men who were swaying precariously at the front of the queue. Thrusting my shoulders back, I adopted my most convincing smile and paired it with a less clumsily executed Cordelia hair flick.

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