Free It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker by Haley Hill

I can have that life back.’
    During his second Martini, he went on to explain how his dad went bankrupt when Jeremy was eight years old, and that the family had to move to London for work. And that they couldn’t afford to take Rusty with them.
    ‘I begged my dad to keep him, promised I would find a job to pay for his food.’ He gripped the Martini stirrer. ‘But he wouldn’t listen.’
    ‘What happened to him?’
    ‘It was cold that day, so cold.’
    ‘What day?’
    ‘The day my dad shot Rusty with a .38 special.’
    My hand few to my mouth. I heard a snap and then saw the Martini-stirrer fall to the table in two pieces.
    ‘That was the moment I vowed never to be poor again,’ he said.
    After he’d blinked his tears away, we ordered more drinks. Then he explained how, when they’d first moved to London, he’d bunk off school and wash cars and windows to help his mum out with the bills and that by the age of eighteen, he had grown it into a national cleaning company.
    ‘And now, six businesses later, I find myself running a hedge fund,’ he said, sinking back into his chair.
    ‘What a story.’
    ‘Yeah, great isn’t it? Now I get to wear this bloody suit every day and pretend to be someone I’m not.’ He laughed, though I could tell it was forced. ‘And now, I’m embroiled in this ridiculous life. I own a watch that allows me to dive to a depth of 300 meters. I can turn my Bang and Olufsen sound system on from my desk. I employ someone to book my flights, wash my underpants, clean my toilets and buy my clothes. I have twelve thousand square foot of property that I hardly use, a forty foot yacht and a car that can accelerate from zero to sixty in two seconds.’ He sighed. ‘The women I meet, they don’t want me. They want a lifestyle.’
    I cocked my head and thought about what he’d said.
    He leaned forward and picked up the broken stirrer. ‘I guess I’m looking for an old-fashioned girl.’ He paused. ‘I want a big family, and a wife who has the time and patience to nurture our children. Not work all hours while some stranger plonks them in front of the TV.’ He looked at me, his eyes clouded to the dull blue of his silk tie. ‘Are there any women like that left in the world?’
    I nodded while the image of Harriet flashed through my mind. I tried to suppress it, after all, nothing on paper would put them together, but there was a strange feeling niggling in my stomach. And I knew it was more than the gallon of house white.
    Later that night, vivid dreams disturbed my sleep: a party, Harriet shaking hands with faceless men from behind a Venetian mask, William laughing, waving a joint and wearing a tennis skirt, Jeremy dressed as dog and holding a shotgun and Marie, naked, sprawled across the desk at reception. I woke abruptly when I felt myself falling down a never-ending staircase, blood-red carpet spiralling into darkness. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding as I gasped for air. That was when I realised that there was no going back. I couldn’t let them down.
    They had put their faith in me, and now all I had to do was the same.

Chapter Seven
    ‘What do you mean there aren’t enough champagne glasses?’ raged Cordelia, throwing up her arms, as though she were initiating an angry version of the Mexican wave. ‘This is outrageous!’
    Steve took a step back and blinked. ‘I was told that one hundred and fifty people were coming,’ he answered in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘So there are one hundred and fifty glasses.’
    He pointed to the table where they stood, looking all polished and proud.
    I raised my hand tentatively. ‘There are more people coming than I–’
    Cordelia interrupted, still glaring at Steve. ‘We have three hundred guests arriving in … ’ She checked her watch ‘… oh, fifteen minutes. They’re each expecting champagne on arrival so you’d better have this resolved.’
    With a hair flick that signalled the conversation was over, she flounced off, the