I am a Matchmaker, and I’m a long way from what was once my family’s home. Us Sullivans were put on this earth to bring together two halves of a pair and make a whole. I’ve been here drifting through these brutal but beautiful Badlands for a long time now, and I’m half a world away from where my great-grandfather once roamed the equally rugged lands of West Cork.
He rode the seas before you or your parents; even your grandparents were born to the Land of the Long White Cloud, Aotearoa. He came to New Zealand on a ship with billowing sails and a cargo of Irish folk seeking a better future and a sniff of gold. Only he knew that some wouldn’t get either without his help. You see, we know something, us Sullivans, something I’ll share with you now. It’s not a fortune having been made that makes the world continue to go round – oh no, it’s love, and that’s our business.
The years have gone by, and the book we carry has been passed down with many a successful match made between its pages. You, yourself, might be a product of a Sullivan’s meddling, you just never know. It’s all there, inscribed in our book if you care to take a look.
This last wee while, I’ve been keeping my eye on a right pair; young Isla Brookes and her grandmother Bridget, the two most stubborn women I’ve ever witnessed walk the West Coast. They’ve both got it wrong along the way but it’s not too late, it’s never too late to call the Matchmaker, and when they do, I will come.
That’s enough about me and mine though; now it’s time I told you their story.
Two weeks or thereabouts earlier…
Isla Brookes was a woman on the edge of a nervous breakdown. The fact she was teetering on the brink of something terrifying was not common knowledge, and she intended to keep it that way. She’d told anybody who’d asked or needed to know that in a couple of days she’d be off-grid for a few weeks. She was taking a much-needed sabbatical from her job as an Interior Design Consultant for Upscale Development, a high-end London property development company. The reason? Stress – she needed to step off the corporate ladder and take some time to heal, because the collapse of her relationship with Tim was still so very raw.
Maura and Henry, whose flat she’d fled to when she’d found the strength to finish things with Tim, or Toad as she now thought of him, had made her very welcome. However, she had no wish to become a permanent fixture on their couch. It was a couch upon which she’d spent too many afternoons pondering what she was supposed to do next. What did you do when you were told you were on the verge of a breakdown? She wondered, fingering the packet of anti-depressants she’d been prescribed, it was all new to her. She needed to remove what was causing the stress from her life – that’s what the harried NHS doctor had told her. Well, she’d done that by finishing things with Toad and taking an extended leave of absence from work. There was more to it than that though, Isla knew. Toad and her job were symptoms, neither were the full-blown illness.
If she were honest, she wasn’t sure she even wanted to be here in England anymore and, putting the pills back in her handbag, she picked up the telly remote. Dr Phil loomed large on the screen. She knew she wasn’t ready to go home to New Zealand either. What was it she’d read once? Oh yes, that was it; in times of stress or upheaval, you shouldn’t make any life-changing decisions. So, that meant she shouldn’t throw the towel in on her life in London and head off to an Ashram in India just yet. Maybe therapy was the answer then? But she didn’t want to go to some stuffy Harley Street specialist. No, she wanted something more holistic than that. And that was where Google came in. It was a marvellous thing, Google, she thought while tapping in the words holistic therapy.
As soon as Break-Free Haven Lodge popped up, Isla knew she’d found her answer. She gazed longingly at the red barn-style buildings set in rural acreage. She’d go to the States to seek help. Isla explored the website feeling more and more certain she was on the right track as she read about the various hands-on treatment programmes and counselling sessions on offer. The rustic exterior of the complex belied the calming oasis housed inside. Oh yes, she thought, her fingers tip-tapping her name into the contact form provided. This was a place where she could regain her mojo.
The British were far too ‘closed mouths’ and ‘stiff upper lips’, the Americans were much more into ‘talking about things.’ Look at the way they all managed to work their problems out on Dr Phil, she thought, glancing over to the telly where there was a lot of smiling and clapping going on. Isla knew she’d gotten to the point where she needed to talk, or she’d go under. She was lucky in so much as she’d been given a warning that something had to give. Now it was up to her to heed that warning. That didn’t mean she had to tell anyone she was going to a mental health retreat, though.
So, the word she was putting about on the street was that, to try and get some perspective back on what she was doing with her life, she was going to float like a free spirit around California for a fortnight. Yes, she knew it sounded very Eat, Pray, Love but this was her story and if it stopped people asking too many questions, then she was sticking to it.
Unfortunately, as she sat cradling the phone between her ear and her shoulder, it was a story that was not going down well with her mum, Mary. Isla had taken a deep breath knowing she could no longer put off the inevitable and had called her to tell her mum she would be incommunicado as of Friday. The conversation was going pretty much as expected.
‘I don’t like this Isla,’ Mary muttered. ‘And this connection isn’t very good. You sound odd like you’re a long way away.’
‘I’m in London Mum; you’re in Bibury. It’s