we craved so deeply that somehow we found a way to construct it in our minds.
Although I knew I was a long way from finding answers, that night, after I’d packed away the photos, I slept more soundly than I had done in months.
BARRISTERS, ADVOCATES, SOLICITORS, heads of PR, heads of HR, heads of marketing, marketing consultants, business consultants, business analysts, risk analysts, CTOs, CEOs, CFOs, PAs, EAs. Despite the grown-up titles, the business cards I’d laid out on my coffee table seemed to stare up at me with the expectancy of a classroom of school children.
I picked up my phone and panic-called Cordelia.
‘How am I qualified to help them when I can’t even help myself?’ I asked.
‘Seriously? I haven’t even had my morning latte and you’re throwing that conundrum at me?’
‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to start. I don’t—’
She interrupted me with a sharp sigh. ‘Take a deep breath and calm down.’
I breathed in obediently.
‘Now, what exactly are you worried about?’
‘How am I supposed to match them? Where do I start? Should I be using psychological profiling? Astrology? Cosmopolitan’s latest compatibility quiz?’
‘Or what? Adding up the letters in his name and hers like we did at school?’ She laughed. ‘Come on, we all know none of that rubbish works.’
I scratched my head. ‘Well, according to the most recent studies, psychological profiles are good indicators of compatibility.’
‘According to whom? Those who commissioned them, I assume. Look, I think you’re overcomplicating things. No need to reinvent the wheel. Why not stick with what’s worked for centuries?’
‘Which is what exactly?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know, rich men and pretty girls. That seems successful.’
I laughed. ‘Yeah, for the divorce lawyers.’
‘You have to give people what they want.’
I sighed. ‘What if what they want isn’t good for them?’
‘It rarely is.’
‘And what about the men who aren’t rich or the girls who aren’t so pretty?’
She laughed. ‘Leave that to Darwinism.’
I huffed. ‘That theory suits you.’
‘It suits mankind,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go now. Some of us have proper jobs. But remember you’re selling a dream, not reality.’
Following a gentle reminder that the Dior shoe-buying department would never lead the world to peace, I hung up the phone and considered what she had said. If true love was a dream, then what was reality? Disillusioned brides and philandering grooms? Or if Cordelia was right and natural selection would favour the richest men and the prettiest girls, then what would happen to the rest of us? Would we fade to extinction? Nature, it appeared, was already trying to phase out asymmetrical nasal hair.
I knew my doubts shouldn’t dissuade me from taking action so I went on to email everyone whose card I’d collected with a light-hearted, ‘meet me for a drink, no obligation’ kind of invite. Matthew emerged from his room rubbing his eyes, hair upright on his head like he’d slept in a high voltage chamber.
‘What is that?’ he asked, looking down at the cards on the table. ‘Some kind of corporate snap? Is this what you’ve been doing all night?’
I peeled myself off the sofa. ‘Cuppa?’
He nodded and picked up a card.
When I walked into the kitchen, the morning rays sliced through the blind, as though desperate to shed some light on the situation.
‘Don’t match Teresa with Patrick Greene,’ he shouted after me.
I switched on the kettle wondering what he was on about.
‘Teresa Greene. Trees are green,’ he explained when I returned.
I rolled my eyes. ‘I hope to find them more than just a socially acceptable name,’ I said. I snatched the card from his hand and replaced it with his Dennis the Menace mug. I looked at Dennis then back at Matthew, then back at Dennis. Matthew patted down his hair, but as soon as he removed his hand, it sprang back up.
‘So what happens next?’ he asked.
‘They meet me for a drink and a chat about what they’re looking for. Then I match them.’
‘And then?’
‘Everyone lives happily ever after.’
He nodded his head from side to side as though he were weighing up his left and right brain. ‘How are you going to match them?’
‘They tell me what they want and I give it to them.’
He scrunched up his nose. ‘But most of us don’t actually know what we want. We just think we do.’
I sighed. ‘I’m not in the mood for one of your Marxist the-media-constructs-our-thoughts lectures.’
He continued. ‘Attraction is an entirely biochemical reaction set off by a combination of characteristics to which our genetic programming and social conditioning respond.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘It’s flawed. Look at the divorce rate.’
‘We don’t marry everyone we fancy.’
‘Thankfully.’
I glared at him. ‘There’s more to love than attraction. We aren’t robots driven by neurotransmitters and hormones. We have something called free will. We can think independently from our physical drives and conditioning.’
His full-body laugh caused him to spill tea all over the table. It quickly seeped onto the business cards. I dabbed them with my sleeve but, already, the corners had started to curl.
After Matthew had left for work, I looked back down at the cards and reshuffled them. Then I gazed out of the window at the sky, hoping to be the recipient of some kind of divine inspiration. But, instead, a bird dropping landed on the pane. I watched the greyish gloop slide down the glass, undigested berries lagging behind and I wondered if I too might have bitten off more than I could chew.
That evening, Cordelia had refused to come headhunting for clients again, complaining that her feet hurt, so I’d bribed my other friend Kat, to come instead. We’d settled the negotiation at five rose petal Martinis and a taxi ride home.
‘If we sieve through the hookers and the sugar daddies, I’m sure we’ll find some decent people here tonight,’ Kat observed, scanning the bar. We were at Zuma in Knights-bridge, a favourite with the ‘chilled-out jet-set crowd’, according to Harper’s magazine.
I took in the chic minimalist interior and smoothed down my dress, trying to act as though it had been thrown on nonchalantly, rather than the result of three hours of unsatisfactory pontification. Kat leant over the glass bar, her red Gucci dress nipped in at the waist and plunging at the neckline. Three barmen leapt towards her, their attention darting between her Bambi-brown eyes and her perfectly plumped cleavage.
‘We need some cocktails,’ she declared, pushing her sleek dark bob behind her ears.
Following a flamboyant display of glass juggling, and some kind of cocktail shaker courtship dance, eventually we were presented with two rose petal Martinis. The baby-faced