It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker Read Online Free PDF

finishing my glass of wine, Matthew’s alter-ego had annihilated my tick list.
    Later that night, when I lay in bed, images flashed through my mind: men with goatees, tapered jeans, curtain fringes, hairy nostrils. If Matthew was right and I had been deluding myself by expecting a perfect man to give me the perfect life, and to behave perfectly at all times, then what was I supposed to do instead? I couldn’t talk myself into fancying someone, and besides, I knew that no matter how rational the argument, I’d rather remain single than settle for a man who smelled of pickled onions.
    I pulled the duvet over my head and let out a deep sigh. It was then that the idea came to me. At first, it just flitted through my mind, skittish like a butterfly. But then it settled and I couldn’t ignore it.
    What if I could prove Matthew and the rest of the cynics wrong? What if I could show the world that there was a perfect soulmate out there for each of us? After years of bad press, perhaps the time had come to rebrand “Happy Ever After”. To give the disillusioned singles a nudge up the bottom, for even the vaguest contemplation of settling.
    Using Matthew’s idea as a template, I could reclaim Cupid’s bow from soulless software and lead an army of matchmakers across the land, leaving deep and meaningful love, shared values and mutual respect in our wake. Word would spread like an airborne virus and people would travel from far and wide to seek my counsel. My days would be filled nurturing budding romances from under a pile of thankyou notes. My nights would be spent sleeping soundly, content in the knowledge that I had helped unite all the lonely hearts of the world.
    The following morning, I woke from a dream, in which an elderly lady with a kind face sat knitting in front of a log fire. At her feet, playing absentmindedly with the ball of wool, was a plump-faced toddler.
    ‘And if it wasn’t for that wonderful matchmaker,’ she had said, stroking his ruddy cheek, ‘you, little Johnny, wouldn’t be here today.’
    I rubbed my eyes, momentarily confused as to why fast-forwarding generations into the future would manifest in my imagination as a scene from a past century. But when my focus adjusted to the white light pouring through the curtains, I realised that the message was clear. The path to my destiny lit up like a runway.
    Suddenly, it all made sense. The pain and heartache that I’d suffered had all been for a reason, and now, it could be channelled towards the greater good.
    I’m going to be a matchmaker , I decided, throwing off the duvet. I’ll start today.
    And so, I did.

Chapter Four
    ‘What about them? They’re cute,’ I said, pointing to a group of men by the bar.
    ‘I don’t think so,’ Cordelia replied with a dismissive flick of her Gwyneth Paltrow hair. ‘Your first clients have to be super eligible.’
    With her sleek frame encased in a Vivienne Westwood pinstriped dress and her long legs elongated further with red Dior stilettos, she looked the image of timeless elegance. I couldn’t help but feel 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 ruthlessly culled for their unimaginable crime of “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