us, her eyes flitting between me and Steve.
‘Yes, please,’ I replied, picking up my pen and clipboard as though I were about to take notes. Realising my actions were a little premature, I placed them back on the table. ‘Please send him down, Brigitte.’
Her gaze was locked on Steve, tracking him as he backed away.
After he’d ducked down behind the bar, presumably to get my wine, she shook her hair and strutted back towards reception. As her tiny toned bottom wiggled up the staircase, I looked down at the red dress I’d borrowed from Kat. It had tracked her curves like a second skin, but on me it seemed ill-fitting, digging in where it shouldn’t and gaping where it should dig in. Since learning that I looked like a journalist, whatever that meant, I’d decided to ramp up the glamour a bit. According to Kat, this required a gel-filled bra, uncomfortable shoes and a GHD attack on my hair.
As I took a couple of glugs of the wine Steve had just delivered, moments later, I caught sight of a tall man, wearing a pinstriped suit and grappling with an oversized rucksack. He began carefully navigating the spiral staircase, which seemed somewhat of a challenge due to the dim lighting, his height and the apparent weight of the rucksack. After a few hairy moments, he lost his footing on the final step and did an impromptu leap that sent him into the bar. Attempting to steady himself against the wall, he inadvertently grabbed the frame of a large decorative mirror, which under his weight, swung on its pivot, throwing him again off balance and culminating in an awkward encounter with a couple on a sofa. When the ordeal was eventually over, he straightened his suit jacket, looked up from his polished brogues and scanned the room like a hedgehog about to cross a motorway. I rushed over to greet him and led him back to the table, hoping to avoid further calamity.
‘It’s lovely to see you again,’ I said once we had sat down at the table.
‘Likewise,’ he said, climbing out from under the gargantuan rucksack. His eyes flickered over my dress, zoomed in on my maxi-boosted cleavage and then settled on the wine list in front of him.
‘Let me get you a drink,’ I said. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’
He looked startled, as though I’d just offered him a syringe full of heroin.
‘Er, yes, why not?’ he stammered, one hand still gripping a strap of the rucksack, the other trembling on the table.
Once I’d filled his glass, almost to the top, he wrapped his hands around it. I let him take three big gulps before commencing my questioning. From our initial conversation at Apt, which had been significantly impaired by his flamboyant dance moves, I’d only managed to scribble a few notes down. However, I recalled that at some point, during a prolonged bottom wiggle, he’d told me that he was thirty-four, an accountant, and that he enjoyed playing tennis and growing herbs in his garden.
Halfway through his first glass of wine, he went on to explain that he had never been married, had no children and reminded me that he enjoyed playing tennis. He was also keen to clarify that the herbs were basil and rocket (‘nothing dodgy’).
By the time he was on the second glass of wine, his grip loosened on the rucksack and he detailed the exciting career prospects within accountancy. And then explained how, in order for him to fulfil his potential, his hobbies, namely tennis, would have to take a back seat for a while.
By the third glass of wine, he told me he hated his job and that tennis was his life.
By the fourth glass of wine, he told me that one of the herbs was marijuana and that he hadn’t had a girlfriend in five years.
‘I’m a social outlier,’ he said, taking another gulp. ‘According to statistics, single men of my age are having sex at least twice a week.’
I laughed. ‘Yeah, and men never lie?’
‘Why would they, in an anonymous survey?’
‘It isn’t a numbers game.’
‘One would be good.’
‘One is all it takes.’
He giggled. ‘That’s what they said in my sex education classes.’
I smiled. ‘So, the one, what would she be like? What are you looking for?’
He sat back in the chair and laced his fingers together. ‘I don’t know, someone nice.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Is that all?’
‘Hang on,’ he said, before ducking down to rummage in his rucksack. When he had resurfaced, he handed his phone to me. ‘Here you go. Scroll through.’
I flicked through the images: a girl wearing a tennis skirt and holding a racket, two girls wearing tennis skirts while playing doubles, a girl wearing a flat-fronted tennis skirt and pumps, a girl wearing a pleated tennis skirt, a girl lifting up her tennis skirt and showing her bottom.
‘Okay, I get it,’ I said, handing the phone back to him. ‘You like tennis skirts.’
He looked up and smiled.
‘How about a girl who wears a tennis skirt when she plays tennis?’
His grin widened. ‘How often does she play?’
I leant back in my chair and sighed. ‘Why don’t you just buy one of those real-life dolls and dress her up in tennis whites?’
He looked down at the floor. ‘I just want a nice girl to spend time with, that’s all.’
‘Well, forget the tennis skirts and focus on the woman, then.’
He nodded. ‘Okay, just tell me what I need to do.’
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