Match Me If You Can. Michele Gorman
and quirks in the process. Those golden nuggets of information were what made her so successful in finding love for them.
‘Have you ever been in love?’ she asked.
Jokey Paul disappeared. Aha, she thought, there’s the nugget. ‘Tell me about her.’
‘We went out in Oz,’ he said. ‘We were just kids, at school together. Anabelle. Her name was Anabelle.’
‘And it ended because …?’
He shrugged. ‘Nothing dramatic. She moved away, that’s all, to Cairns where her mum got a good job. She was a biotech chemist. Her mum, I mean.’
‘You didn’t keep in touch?’
‘For a while, but it was pointless. I couldn’t go there and she wasn’t coming back. So that was it. Does that mean I peaked romantically at sixteen?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said, matching his smile. ‘There are a lot of women in London.’ Though competing with young Anabelle, perfectly preserved in Paul’s memory, wouldn’t be easy. Catherine ran across that problem quite a lot, actually. The One That Got Away Syndrome. She’d bet anything that Paul dated women younger than him, and got bored when the novelty wore off.
But aside from Anabelle he didn’t seem to have any serious hang-ups. She felt like she could work with him.
‘So you’re in banking,’ she said, consulting her initial telephone notes, ‘as head of Investment Operations. Is that interesting?’
‘S’pose it’s all right.’ He sounded like a grumpy teen.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘There’s not much to tell, really. It’s just a job.’
He wasn’t rude about it, or bitter. Just … meh. As they talked more about his likes and interests, she had a hard time finding anything to raise him above the thousands of other good-looking, solvent men in London. He’d have to be better than this if he wanted to measure up. Yet she felt he did have something.
‘Why are you thinking about using a relationship consultant now?’ she asked.
‘Is that a polite way of asking if I think I need to?’ He smiled. ‘Nah, it’s not that hard to meet women. Waving your Platinum Amex in the right bars is like chumming the water.’
Catherine felt herself bristle. ‘The women are the bait?’
‘No, the money’s the bait. The women are the sharks. That was fun when I first moved to London but it gets old after a while.’
So she was right about him. ‘What are you looking for now?’
He paused. ‘Quality, I s’pose. Someone who’s got everything I’m looking for and is really together, you know? She’s comfortable in her own skin and knows what she wants and doesn’t need to play games. But I don’t seem to attract that kind of woman.’
‘Why not, do you think?’ Catherine had to tread carefully here. She wasn’t in the business of making people feel bad, but she also didn’t want to over-promise.
He laughed. ‘I guess I’m too rough around the edges for them. They’re used to blokes who know their wines and which fork to use and all that bullshit. I’m just a hick from Queensland who wants to enjoy myself.’
‘Are those other things important, do you think?’
When he sighed, Catherine caught another glimpse of the man beneath the Amex card.
‘I’m starting to think they are,’ he said.
She wanted to disagree with him, but it was true. The women she looked after did expect a certain amount of finesse in their dates. Not that it was the most important thing. It was all just packaging, really.
One of the most important parts of her job was figuring out which of their services would give the client the best chance of finding love. RecycLove was for the people who liked the idea of choosing loads of dates to go out with. It sounded like Paul had had enough of that. The proper matchmaking service, Love Match, was best for would-be romancers who treated dates like they did dental appointments – an inconvenient necessity. She didn’t mind these clients who expected her to find a lover to match their requirements. But there was a third, rarer type of client who most interested her.
They were the diamonds in the rough.
The work she did with them didn’t have an official name. She didn’t advertise it and not even Richard knew much about the details.
People did come to her though, when they heard from former clients about how Catherine was able to mould people into the perfect romantic prospect.
She only had time to take on a few of these clients, so she was very picky. As she listened to Paul, her excitement started to fizz. He seemed to have all the important qualities women looked for. Already she could see that a few tweaks here and there would make a big difference to his chances of finding the woman he wanted. Maybe all he needed was a good polish.
Could she do it? Could she improve him?
She realised she’d gone quiet when she noticed him studying her. ‘Well, if you don’t feel that you’ve got some of the superficial attributes that your dates look for, I might be able to help you make a few changes.’
She always felt nervous when she pitched like this. She really wanted him to say yes.
‘Do I need more kerb appeal?’
She could tell he was teasing her. ‘Probably just small things, to help you stand out and meet more of our clients’ requirements.’
‘So this is a makeover, like one of those DIY programmes where they fill the house with purple velvet and candles?’
‘Of course not. Purple velvet clashes with your eyes.’ She smiled at her own joke. ‘But I could assess you and give you some guidance if you’d like.’
He stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘And this is all part of the package deal? Do you really think it’ll help?’
‘It can’t hurt,’ Catherine said.
‘Thanks for that blinding vote of confidence. I’ve got nothing to lose then. Where do I sign?’
As Catherine prepared the contracts, she had to wonder whether this was a good idea.
Yes, he did remind her of Richard … Richard in the early days before they both got so serious about life.
Of course, they hadn’t been serious back then. They’d been only kids, really, when they met. Richard had talked to her first, on the first day of class as they’d crowded into their second year economics lecture at uni. Well, he’d smiled first anyway. Knowing her, she’d done most of the talking. What had started with shared jokes in class soon expanded to shared notes and study dates around exam time. So far so platonic.
Then they ran into each other at a party that some of the third years were throwing. Pressed together by their dancing classmates, heat and alcohol threw their friendship into a sexy new light. At least they did for Catherine. It took Richard a few weeks to catch up, but once he did they spent as much time together out of their clothes as they did in them.
Catherine did start wondering after a while whether there was more to Richard-and-Catherine than shared class notes and drunken fumbling. There was something about him. It wasn’t his looks – pale gingers were an acquired taste. But he was comfortable in his own skin, when most of the other boys covered up their self-consciousness with twattishness.
But she wasn’t about to spook him with any declarations. She’d done that to a boy once before, in school. He’d never spoken to her again. This time she planned to make a tentative query about their future that she could totally backtrack on if she needed to.
When he arrived for dinner with a bottle of wine, she kissed him hello like she always did when they