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?’
Back straight, tummy miraculously still in, I looked him in the eye and declared my purpose. ‘I’m headhunting for eligible men.’
He raised one eyebrow, and his friend, who was standing beside him, leant in closer.
‘You’re what?’ the friend asked, head cocked like a befuddled puppy.
‘I represent an exclusive dating agency,’ I explained, easing into character, ‘and I’m looking for men good enough to date our female clients.’ Technically, I decided, that wasn’t a lie.
They both laughed, but were clearly intrigued.
‘This, I absolutely have to hear,’ George Clooney drawl said. ‘Have a drink with us. If your female clients are anything like you then I could be persuaded.’ He waved a fifty at the barman. ‘I’m Mike, by the way, and this is Stephen.’ He nodded vaguely in his friend’s direction.
‘Ellie,’ I replied.
He slipped his arm round my waist and kissed me on the cheek. When Stephen stepped in to repeat the process, I wondered why I hadn’t considered this career change years ago.
‘So, you headhunters, do you hunt alone? Or in packs?’ Mike asked, handing me a glass of champagne.
‘In pairs,’ I answered, glancing over my shoulder, wondering where Cordelia had gone. ‘I’m here with my friend.’ I stood on tiptoes to look above the heads. ‘Cordelia. Now where is she? Ah, over there.’
I pointed her out. She was immersed in conversation with a tall olive-skinned girl who was blessed with the rare combination of endless limbs, tiny bottom and big boobs. As if to add further insult to the rest of the female population, she had also been awarded a super bonus prize of waist-length glossy brown hair.
‘So, you do the boys and she does the girls?’ Mike asked with a wink.
‘No, we do both,’ I replied, waving Cordelia over.
Mike raised his eyebrows. ‘You do girls and boys? Excellent.’
He smirked and then topped up my champagne.
Moments later, Cordelia returned and introduced her new acquaintance, Megan, whose bee-stung lips and emerald-green eyes now made the rest of her attributes seem decidedly average. Mike nudged me and then laughed. Stephen was transfixed, as if the befuddled puppy had encountered his first T-bone steak.
‘We’re not supposed to pair them off before they sign up,’ Cordelia said, pulling me away from Mike. ‘Or spend the entire night talking to one guy,’ she whispered in my ear.
Mike reached for the champagne bottle. Just as he went to top up my glass again, Cordelia placed her hand over the top.
‘We can’t stay,’ she said, before handing me my coat.
Mike’s brow creased, his expression revealing something more than simply a dent to his ego. Although he’d already made it clear that he would never need to use a dating service, he was quick to add that he’d be happy to ‘help me out’ if I couldn’t find any men for my female clients.
‘Only if you get desperate though,’ he added, pressing his business card into my hand.
I nodded and smiled, before hurrying after Cordelia.
‘Right, be completely honest with me,’ Cordelia said as she marched into the night. ‘Are you really doing this dating thing for the good of the people? Or …’ She let the door swing shut in my face.
I heaved it back open, with the aid of a slow-to-respond doorman and then glared at her. ‘Or what?’ I asked.
‘Or,’ she began, 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