It's Got To Be Perfect. Haley HillЧитать онлайн книгу.
marching along the pavement, ‘are you looking for a man for yourself?’
I scrunched up my nose. It was a valid question, and one that I wasn’t quite sure I had an answer to.
‘I want to help people,’ I said, tottering behind her.
‘Since when?’ she asked, turning to face me and throwing up her hands. ‘You know I love you to bits. You’re my best friend.’ Her expression softened. ‘It’s obvious you have a good heart: you donate to charities, you adore animals, you help old ladies, you even smile at ugly babies. But people—’ she looked around as though searching for an example ‘—the unimpaired, adult kind—’ she pointed vaguely at the pedestrians around us ‘—you’ve never really had much time for them.’
I frowned, wondering what had prompted such dramatics.
‘Come on. They irritate you. With their eating in public, dithering on pavements, wearing bad clothes and saying inane things. People get on your nerves. You spent the past five years hiding from them in a lab. So why now, suddenly, do you want to help them?’
I squinted across the street at a man grappling with a cumbersome kebab, and I wondered if she was right.
‘And then in the bar,’ she said, pointing back as if to remind me of its location, ‘with that guy. You had that smitten look you get.’
‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘It’s not as though I can prevent my most base level desires from reacting to a stimulus. Pupils, cease dilation, for now I am a matchmaker, born of higher purpose.’ Then I glared at her shoes. ‘And besides, it’s not like you haven’t exploited the perks of your job at Dior, is it?’
She looked down and smiled. ‘Fair point,’ she said, admiring her red Mary Janes as if for the first time. Then she looked up and her eyes met mine. ‘I just want to make sure you’re doing this for the right reasons.’
I watched Kebab Man, now heading towards us with iceberg lettuce stuck to his chin, and I mustered a smile.
‘I’ll make a good altruist,’ I said, before leaning into the road to hail a passing taxi. Next stop, the Royal Exchange.
When we arrived at the eminent sixteenth-century building, Cordelia pointed up at the Duke of Wellington statue, in the manner of a tour guide. ‘He defeated Napoleon, was Prime Minister twice and still managed a twenty-five-year marriage,’ she said.
‘Well, he deserves a statue, then,’ I said, striding up the stone steps.
‘Although he was shagging around the entire time,’ she added with a smirk. ‘Dirty bugger.’
I tutted and shot a disapproving look back at the statue, wondering if his wife had regretted the choice she’d made: assuming love would come packaged as a duke on a stallion.
Once inside the courtyard, we made our way past Bulgari and Boodles and upstairs to the lounge bar. Immediately I felt as though I should be negotiating the terms of a FTSE 100 company buyout, rather than contemplating the least embarrassing way to approach potentially single strangers. Cordelia and I perched on some upholstered bar stools and glanced at the wine list, which according to the barman comprised those made exclusively from ancient vines. Once he’d wandered off with my credit card, I decided that if I was to be mingling with city workers, I should at least have the vaguest comprehension of what a FTSE 100 company was. Cordelia, who had once dated a trader, offered me a crash course on city finance.
When she’d concluded with a dubious interpretation of the stock market, I peered around the room to look for potential clients. Straight away three men approached the bar. They stood right next to us. I hoped they hadn’t mistaken us for call girls.
The oldest one, who had a bit of a paunch, purposely bumped Cordelia’s knee.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ he said with a lecherous smile. ‘Now, the least I can do is to buy you a drink to make up for my clumsiness?’
‘I already have one, thanks,’ she replied, and swivelled her bar stool away from him.
Undeterred, he walked around the other side and wedged his paunch between us, and then leant in towards Cordelia.
‘How else could I apologise? Dinner?’ A dribble of saliva hung off his bottom lip.
‘No, thanks,’ she said, swivelling her bar stool back the other way.
He grabbed the seat and spun her back towards him. ‘Diamonds? There’s a jeweller’s downstairs. Pick anything you’d like.’
‘I’m fine. Thank you,’ she said, peeling his hands off her chair, an action which only seemed to embolden him further.
A few minutes later, following what amounted to a clockwise–anticlockwise bar stool spin-off, he thrust his leg through the foot stand to anchor it and deposited a sloppy kiss, complete with blob of saliva, onto her hand.
‘I’m Timothy,’ he said, platinum wedding ring shining for all to see.
‘Cordelia,’ 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