It's Got To Be Perfect. Haley Hill
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screwed up my face.
‘Triangular shoulders.’
‘Bad.’
‘Skinny calves.’
‘Yuk.’
‘Lumberjack shirt.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Flat bottom.’
‘Eew.’
‘Furry neck.’
‘Nasty.’
‘Whiny voice.’
‘Worse.’
‘Pointy fingernails. Head like a grape. Hyena laugh. Upside-down eyebrows. And what about the guy with the goatee?’
‘He looked like a gnome.’
‘He could have shaved it off.’
‘That’s not the point. He chose to grow it in the first place. I couldn’t trust a man with such bad judgement.’
He sighed and lifted his arms above his head.
‘Don’t you think I deserve to meet a great guy?’
‘Well,’ he said, planting his feet on the carpet, as though reverting to his default sexuality, ‘I think I deserve a room full of Playboy Bunnies and a permission slip from my girlfriend. But I’m not going to get that though, am I?’
I lunged forward and slapped him on the arm. ‘You shouldn’t want Playboy Bunnies. You’re supposed to be in love.’
‘Oh, yes, I forgot. You also believe that a man who loves you should never so much as imagine having sex with anyone else because that’s disloyal.’
‘I have good values.’
‘You have idealistic values. There’s a distinct difference.’
I sighed, feeling like a deflated balloon at the end of a party.
Matthew’s expression softened as he shuffled up next to me and wiggled his fingers in my face. ‘Are my hands manly?’
I inspected them and then laughed. ‘You’ve had a manicure?’
He frowned. ‘Well, what about your feet, Miss Perfect?’ He glanced down at my size eights. ‘They wouldn’t look out of place on a seven-foot basketball player.’
I kicked off my shoes and wiggled my long toes.
‘Seriously though, no one is perfect. You have to abandon your quest for the ideal man or you’re only going to be disappointed. And even if you do find a man possessing all your requirements, who’s to say he’d want to date a banana-footed fussy pants?’
I huffed and then folded my arms. ‘So, instead, I’m supposed to settle? For someone I don’t fancy or even like?’
He took a sip of wine and stared at me.
‘Or should I have stayed with Robert, forgiven him for calling off our engagement? Because, yes, of course, every relationship has its ups and downs. And as for his webcam chats with naked Ukrainians, and his extensive porn collection, well, I should stop being such a fussy pants. I need to adjust my expectations.’
Matthew’s expression suddenly morphed into his newsreader face. ‘That’s not what I’m saying.’
‘So, what are you saying?’
He looked me in the eye. ‘If Robert didn’t look like your perfect man, if he wasn’t a good-looking investment banker who drove a Ferrari, would you have fallen in love with him?’
I took another large gulp of wine, swished it around my mouth and considered what he had said.
‘The issue is,’ he went on as though having been chimed in by Big Ben, ‘you made too many assumptions based on the fact that he looked perfect to you.’
I nodded, taking in the headline but wanting the full story.
‘So, my wise guru, if my perfect man might not look like my perfect man, then how am I supposed to know who he is?’
‘Well, firstly,’ he said, raising a finger, his face fighting a smile. ‘We’ve already established that there are no perfect men. That’s error number one in your pursuit of love. You really must pay attention.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Okay, then. I stand corrected. As you are the fount of all knowledge on this matter, are you going to find Mr Not-so-perfect-but-right for me?’
He laughed. ‘What, like your personal matchmaker?’
I nodded. ‘You know me. You know what I’m looking for. So go find him. I’ll pay you in wine,’ I said, before refilling his glass.
Matthew stared at me for a moment, then pulled his glasses down to the end of his nose and picked up the notepad and pen from the coffee table.
‘Right, young lady,’ he said, adopting a matronly voice. ‘You say you want to meet a wealthy man. Could you explain why this is so important to you?’
I giggled. ‘So I can live in a big house and have a nice lifestyle, without having to worry about money.’
The cringe crept in as soon as I had said it.
‘Well, madam,’ he began, peering over his glasses, ‘in this day and age, a lady can go out and achieve such things without the aid of a man. So, you’re just being a lazybones. I’m going to cross that one off your list.’
‘Er,’ I said, trying to interrupt but he—or she—was in full flow.
‘And what’s all this about appearance? You say you want a handsome man. Don’t we all, dear?’ he said as he hoisted up his imaginary bosoms. ‘But those good-looking ones are often a bit full of themselves and rather high maintenance, don’t you think? I’ll cross that off too.’
In quick succession Matthew’s alter ego went on to annihilate every characteristic on my tick list. When he began to question whether it was essential that my soulmate be a man, I downed the last of the wine and took myself off to bed.
Later that night, while I was trying to sleep, images flashed through my mind—goatees, tapered jeans, naked Ukrainians, hairy nostrils—and I began to wonder if Matthew was right.
If I had been deluding myself by expecting the 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 no matter how rational the argument, I’d rather remain single than settle for someone who smelled of pickled onions.
I pulled the duvet over my head and wondered if I really had believed that love would come packaged as a six-foot-three investment banker. Perhaps it wasn’t as simple as having not yet found the right man. Maybe it was me? Maybe my judgement was off.
Throughout the night, the questions kept coming. I lay there, tossing and turning. And thinking.
I wanted answers. I needed answers.
Just before dawn, a shimmering light suddenly filled the room. It could have been a street lamp, either that, or Eros had been sent to summon me. I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. It was then that the idea came to me, flitting through my mind at first, skittish like a butterfly, but then it settled and I couldn’t shake it. When my focus eventually adjusted to the bright white light which was pouring through the window, I realised that the path to my destiny had been lit up like a runway.
It was up to me to find the answers. Not only for myself but for others too.
I would begin by reclaiming Cupid’s bow from soulless software. Then, using Matthew’s questionnaire as a template, I would lead an army of matchmakers across the land. Noisy eating and tapered jeans would be banished for ever and unconditional love, shared values and mutual