Match Me If You Can. Michele Gorman
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She had a point. Personally, Catherine wasn’t a golfing fan either. ‘What about other sports? You said no to any sporting interests. How about football? That only takes an hour and a half and he can do it in the local park.’
Georgina sighed in a way that made Catherine’s heart leap. Was she actually going to relax one of her demands? She dared not hope.
‘It’s a mindset as much as the activity itself,’ she said. ‘But I suppose, as long as he’s not obsessive about it, then it’s okay.’
Victory! Catherine wanted to pull the front of her top over her head and run around the office making V-signs.
Of course, she wouldn’t do that.
‘Rugby?’
‘Okay.’
‘Billiards?’
‘That’s not a sport,’ Georgina said.
‘No, it’s more of a pub pastime, I suppose.’
‘The pub? Now we’re getting into a whole different world of problems.’
Catherine knew when to drop the subject. ‘What about beards? Is that a definite no-go? Even if they’re handsome and aren’t wedded to facial hair? For lots of men it’s just a phase, and they can often be persuaded to lose it.’
Georgina made a non-committal noise.
‘Is that a yes?’
‘S’pose. But I’m not going to go out with anyone who looks like a lumberjack. I don’t care if he’s got Bradley Cooper’s face underneath all that hair.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Catherine, running her finger down Georgina’s list. ‘Now, let’s talk about language fluency. I know you speak French, so maybe it isn’t necessary for him to as well?’
‘No, that’s non-negotiable. I don’t want to be the only one planning our French holidays.’
Catherine thought for a moment. ‘What if he’s a member of a concierge service like Quintessentially? The consultants there can book the entire thing for you. All you have to do is turn up at the airport with your bag and your passport. In fact, they could plan all your holidays. It really would be a big advantage.’
‘Hmm, I like the sound of that,’ Georgina said. ‘Fine then, please only find me dates who’re Quintessentially members.’
Bollocks, that backfired. There were probably even fewer of those than there were fluent French speakers. She let out a sigh. Win some, lose some. She had one more battle to fight, and then she really did have to go.
‘Shoes without socks. Georgina, that really is getting too particular. Is it a hygiene issue? Because Boots does decent foot spray and—’
‘It’s not hygiene,’ she said. ‘It’s Sloaney. I can’t stand those South Ken types. You just know he’s going to fnar fnar fnar at his own jokes and have fond memories of all the times he was bummed at school. No, he must wear socks.’
Catherine had to hand it to Georgina. She may be about as flexible as Woody Allen but she did have a reason for every demand she made.
* * *
‘So so SO sorry I’m late!’ Catherine hurried into the restaurant twenty minutes later full of smiles and excuses.
The blonde young woman bounced up from her chair when Richard stood to kiss Catherine hello. ‘I am so happy to finally meet you!’ Magda said, nearly pushing Richard out of the way so she could clasp Catherine to her. ‘You have no idea how much Richard talks about you.’
‘Congratulations on your engagement,’ Catherine said, noting the huge round diamond sparkling on her finger.
So this was Magda. Her wide, ice-blue eyes were framed by darkly mascaraed lashes, set in a flawlessly smooth square face that was much more Cameron Diaz than SpongeBob SquarePants.
In the nanosecond that they stood together, Catherine committed Magda’s figure to memory. As tall and as slim as she’d been at twenty-three, there was nothing to fault there. Catherine adjusted her beige jumper, wishing she’d worn a dress. But she hadn’t wanted to seem as if she was making an effort.
Mission accomplished, she thought crossly.
When she took a seat across from Magda at the small square table, the girl scrunched up her shoulders, gurned and giggled like they were sharing the most exciting secret imaginable.
Maybe that was the attraction for Richard. Magda seemed to be the inverse of Catherine – a bubbly-looking blonde instead of a sensible brunette. Catherine was Hobbs and M&S. Magda was Gucci and, Catherine was betting, Agent Provocateur. And instead of her straight, smooth dark locks, Magda’s hair looped in huge curls. If those curls could talk they’d say, Take me to the bedroom.
‘I got caught up at work,’ Catherine said.
‘I think what you do is fascinating,’ gushed Magda. ‘You have to tell me all about it. Richard never tells me anything.’
She pushed out her pillowy bottom lip.
‘Oh, well, there’s not a lot to tell, really. We’ve got two businesses – the website and the dating agency. I’ve been working mostly on the website lately.’ She didn’t make eye contact with Richard in case he took that as a judgement. ‘But I’ve recently signed an interesting client. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it, actually, Richard. But not tonight, obviously.’
‘No, no, please do,’ Magda said. ‘I insist! After all, I am sort of involved now that Richard and I are getting married.’
Catherine saw Richard wince and realised that he was nervous. Though she couldn’t work out who he was wincing at.
And really, she should be squirming, not him. She was the one sitting across from her replacement, like the spare laptop that he couldn’t quite bring himself to get rid of. But no, it wouldn’t even occur to Richard how this might grate on her ego. He was too busy pretending that it was normal for his ex-wife to have dinner with his fiancée.
And, she realised, it was more about her ego than her heart. After everything that had happened she couldn’t really imagine being with him now. But that wasn’t to say she wanted his upgrade to be easy.
Petty? Yes. Understandable? She thought so.
She found herself relaxing as she explained that she’d offered Paul and Georgina the remodelling service. Ah, the sweet influence of work! It was such a clever business model. Clients paid them to be both their customers and their product. The more clients they had buying, the more product they had to sell. So spending a few extra hours to improve their success rate would be worthwhile. She didn’t expect Richard to object. After all, she was spending her time, not his.
She was surprised, though, by how many questions Magda asked. That girl wasn’t kidding. She did want to know every detail.
‘Shall I choose some wine?’ Richard said after the waiter went away for the second time with an empty order pad.
He started flipping through the wine menu, running his finger down each page as if he was looking for something special.
Catherine suppressed a smile. He’d choose the fourth or fifth cheapest wine. He always did. He was just too proud to admit he didn’t know much about it.
Did Magda know this, or was she impressed by his sommelier impersonation?
‘See anything interesting?’ Catherine couldn’t help asking.
‘Hmm, there are a few good vintages,’ he said. ‘I think we’ll like this one.’ He pointed out his choice to the waiter.
She wondered what else Magda didn’t know.
Did he still claim that he made his own pesto because he’d found the perfect basil at