The Matchmaker

by Catriona Innes

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy; General Fiction

Synopsis

For Caitlin Carter, love means business.

She's taken matchmaking back to basics. There is no swiping left. No creepy location tracker. Definitely no unsolicited pics of areas of the anatomy literally no one wants to see. She's made dating great again: personal, patient... and profitable. Her startup is going from strength to strength, the brand her very own happy marriage (her wedding went viral), and now she even has celebrities wanting to use her services.

Caitlin is living the perfect life.

Except it's all a perfect lie. And Caitlin doesn't know how long she can keep it up.

In an era of social media and dating apps, when we have never been more connected yet more isolated, the matchmaker is a story about love, loss and loneliness, and learning to accept your reality.

This is an emotionally charged funny and warm novel, perfect for fans of The Man Who Didn't Call by Rosie Walsh, Some Kind of Wonderful by Giovanna Fletcher and It Started with a Tweet by Anna Bell.

Release date: November 28, 2019

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

She tugs at her sleeve, causing orange lint to float off her jumper and circulate around her, like smoke from a cigarette. Her cheeks are rosy, sprinkled with freckles, and when she smiles one dimple appears. It’s impossible not to fall in love with that smile.

Except, I’ve not seen that much of it since I arrived in this restaurant, twenty minutes ago. I’ve been watching, counting on my fingers each time it appears: once, when she got here; the second, when the waiter brought her wine; and the third, when she spotted me, in my itchy wig, tucked in the booth next to hers.

I’m straining my ears over the buzz of conversation around me, catching snippets of what’s happening on her date, trying to figure out what’s gone wrong. Why she’s sitting there, not so much with a frown on her face but an impassive look, like she’d rather be anywhere else. From the mirror, strategically angled and placed near them a few hours ago, I can see the way he swirls his wine glass, his hand peppered with black hairs. I’m trying to assess the body language – he’s leaned in and I can hear his laugh every now and then, nervous and throaty, but she never joins in.

An Aperol Spritz is clunked down in front of me, the ice cubes jangling together and in slides Bobby; he smells of garlic and butter, and even the sight of him makes my tummy grumble.

‘Ah! It’s the Matchmaker!’ he booms and I fly my finger up to my lips, shhhing him. He side-eyes me, sheepishly. ‘Sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I always forget you’re meant to be a mystery.’ Then he tugs at my wig: a black bob that’s less Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction and more Edward Scissorhands. ‘Not your finest,’ he says, shaking his head.

‘You’re telling me,’ I say, ducking under a napkin to scratch underneath the wretched thing.

‘So.’ He rubs his hands together. ‘Who are we spying on tonight?’

I point to the booth behind us.

‘Ah, pretty,’ he says of Elena, my client.

‘Smart too, I just know they’re perfect for each other.’ I smile at him, proudly.

He laughs, easily, heartily. ‘That’s sweet, but it’s not been going so well for you of late. I miss all the kissing.’

I elbow him in the stomach, playfully. ‘You do not miss all the kissing,’ I say. ‘You’re the one who phoned me up every night, “Caitlin, duck, please, I can’t stand it, they’re slobbering all over my best booth”.’

‘Better than, “Caitlin, duck, you’ve set him up with his brother”.’

‘It wasn’t his actual brother,’ I squeak. ‘Just someone who looked, emmm, a lot like him.’

We settle into silence, listening in on them.

‘Well, I had to tell her to put the cheese in the oven,’ James is saying, guffawing slightly. ‘It was the only place you couldn’t smell it! You can’t have that stinky cheese ruining the palate of a fine Bordeaux. What a ridiculous thing to bring!’

Bobby grimaces at me, shaking his head. ‘He’s a vintage wine importer,’ I whisper. Bobby nods, then sings, ‘That don’t impress her much,’ under his breath.

‘She’s a chef,’ I add, defending my match. But looking at Elena it’s clear that Bobby is right. Her eyes dart all over the restaurant each time James speaks, and now she looks down, staring intently at the menu.

‘He’s nervous,’ I say. ‘He’s funny, I swear.’

He had been when I’d phoned him earlier in the week, one final assessment to see whether he was right for Elena. His job had sounded so interesting then, he had so many anecdotes that he filled me in on, poking fun at himself as he did so. There was the time he was paid to find what his client insisted was an incredibly rare, Portuguese wine … and James found it on the bottom shelf at a large branch of Sainsbury’s. Or when he was on a trip to France and was encouraged to smash the grapes with his feet, and halfway through he remembered he had a verruca.

‘Can’t you step in?’ asks Bobby.

I shake my head. ‘Not unless she asks me to,’ I say. I know the signal: Elena will excuse herself to go to the bathroom, and I’ll follow her in there for a debrief. But I do really want to help. This isn’t quite as bad as the brother story, or the woman who mainly wanted to use her dates to rope people into an aloe vera pyramid scheme, but it’s not going well.

‘Go over there and spill a glass of wine,’ I say to Bobby.

He side-eyes me. ‘How will that help?’

‘I promise it will!’ I say, grinning just slightly at him. But I’m not so sure.

He holds his hands up in defeat and slides out, pulling his notebook out of his striped apron with a flourish. ‘If I get a bad TripAdvisor,’ he says, ‘it’s on you.’

I watch as he goes over, adopting his ‘Italian Grandfather’ personality. It doesn’t fool anyone. He thinks claiming he’s first-generation Italian is what keeps his customers coming back, in truth they just love that Bobby even tries to pull it off: his hair is a shock of ginger curls and he calls everyone ‘duck’ in a strong Yorkshire accent.

‘Ah, if it isn’t my favourite customer!’ he says, patting James on the back. James looks up, confused. He’s never been here before. ‘Can I get you anything from our special menu? Something for the lady, perhaps …?’ He reaches over to the menu, expertly knocking James’ glass.

Elena jumps up, causing the wine to splash all over the floor. James leaps up as well and begins to fumble in his pockets, as Bobby tries – and fails – to mop the mess up with flimsy paper napkins. ‘I know I’ve got a handkerchief in here somewhere,’ James is saying. Which is perfect, as it will show Elena how much of an English gent he is: she listed Hugh Grant as one of her celebrity crushes.

Then I hear her say: ‘Hold on, what’s that?’ Her voice is sharp, and both Bobby and Elena are staring at the table. James has gone bright red.

‘They’re, they’re …’ I can’t see what’s in his hand in the mirror. I try to poke my head over the booth, to get a better view. Bobby has begun to laugh as James glares at him.

‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ she says, firmly. I follow her as three waiters flock to the table, jiffy cloths in hand.

‘What the fuck was that?’ she shrieks at me as soon as I walk through the door. She’s standing by the sinks, both hands on her hips.

‘Um. You’ll have to tell me, I didn’t actually see what happened.’

‘He mopped up the wine with pants, Caitlin. Pants he’d pulled from his pocket.’

‘What type of pants?’ It’s the only thing I can think of as I try to scramble for an explanation.

‘What does it matter?’ she says, exasperated. ‘I’m going. I thought you were good at this.’

‘I am good at this!’ I say, even though – thinking about it – Bobby is right. I’ve not been on fire lately.

‘That man out there’ – she points to the door – ‘is not a Harry.’

‘He could be a Harry, if you gave him a chance.’

She begins listing James’ traits on her fingers. ‘Boring, obsessed with wine, has a slight monobrow—’

I interrupt her. ‘Hey, that’s not fair. You said you liked a hairy man.’

She continues with her list. ‘Tells strangers to put their cheese in the oven, has a big-knicker fetish—’

‘Wait, did you say big knickers?’ My mind has stumbled upon something that could save this whole date.

‘Yeah, huge. Like old lady ones, covered in roses. It’ll be a fetish, trust me. I have the worst luck in men. I once was dating this guy, right, shagging loads of women and he kept their bras as souvenirs. I went to his house and he had a drawer full of them. Stolen, Caitlin. That’s why I went to you, to weed out the shitheads.’

‘No, it’s not that!’ My voice is raised, triumphant. ‘He is a Harry!’ Harry is my husband. The man every woman wants – or thinks she wants. It was our wedding day, so perfect the pictures went viral, that helped my business get off the ground.

Elena raises an eyebrow at me. ‘How?’

‘Those pants are his mum’s. I remember now, she’s very frail. He looks after her, visits her every day and does her washing.’

‘Bullshit!’

‘Not bullshit. Go back out there and ask him, say, “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this” and he’ll tell you the exact same thing.’

That’s if he even is still out there. If I were him, I would have scampered by now.

‘Well, that’s nice,’ she says, reluctantly. ‘But that doesn’t stop the fact that he’s boring. Wine is all he’s talked about.’

We’re now back on even ground. I have well-worn lines to help with boring dates.

‘You know, people are rarely one hundred per cent themselves on first dates,’ I say. ‘They get nervous, and they try to show off. I think that’s what he’s doing, as he is an amazing match for you.’

She wrinkles her nose. ‘That guy?’

I put my hands up. ‘Guide’s honour. Look, I don’t blame you for thinking he’s dull. I’ve been listening and he’s not really selling himself. But trust me, go back out there, get to know him and you’ll see he’s someone really special. He’s not one of your old dickhead exes. I promise.’

She pulls out her mascara, begins piling it on. ‘You’d better be right about those pants.’

A cubicle door clatters open, and a woman in towering red heels comes out. ‘Hey,’ she says to Elena. ‘A big-knicker fetish ain’t so bad, you ever tried to squeeze yourself into PVC? Uncomfortable as fuck.’

We all nod in unison. ‘OK,’ says Elena. ‘Tell me one more thing about him and I’ll go back out.’

‘Has he told you about his fish tank yet?’ This was what I matched them on, they’re both fascinated by tropical fish. I was so excited when I found out, it was so rare to find two people, in my piles and piles of applications back at the office, who both had such a niche hobby.

She looks at me quizzically. ‘He’s got an aquarium? Does he …’ She pauses. ‘Does he like Tetras?’

‘Yes, he absolutely does.’ I have no idea whether he likes Tetras or not. I’m assuming it’s a kind of fish … but then it could also be a nineties video game.

‘And what’s more, Elena, is that when I put you two together, I felt it … the Kick.’

‘The one you felt with Harry?’

‘The very one.’ This is my USP. The ‘Caitlin Kick.’ It’s like this rumble in my stomach, not quite a nervous flip, more like a little earthquake. As if the ground beneath me has shaken, just slightly. I first felt it with Harry. I remember looking at him and just knowing that he was going to be someone special in my life.

‘But it’s up to you to decide if you feel something for him too,’ I’m saying to Elena, but her eyes are glazed over – it’s like I’ve handed her a reason to go back out and try again. I think most people just want a guarantee that it will all be worth it: the small talk, the first arguments, the bravery of putting yourself into someone’s hands, knowing they could hurt you at any given moment.

‘An aquarium, eh? Who’d have thought it?’ she says, almost rushing out.

‘Whatever turns you on,’ says the woman. I laugh and follow Elena out.

James is, by some miracle, still at the table. It’s all been mopped up now, and I see Bobby, over in the kitchen. He waves the wine-sodden knickers at me. I give him my best ‘don’t be mean’ glare.

‘You came back!’ James says as Elena sits back down. ‘I didn’t know whether to order us another bottle, so I’ve got a beer coming your way. I remember you said you liked it.’

I settle myself back into the booth, smiling. ‘Now, the pants …’ James is saying. I can almost hear the flush in his cheeks. ‘There is a reasonable explanation …’

He tells her. That his mum is struggling, arthritis has taken over her body and she finds most things difficult. ‘She doesn’t bake any more, hasn’t really since my dad died,’ he’s saying, while Elena makes caring tutting noises.

‘I understand,’ she says. ‘Now, shall we start again? Tell me about some of your hobbies … apart from wine, that is.’

‘OK.’ He nods. ‘Well, you might think this is boring, most women do, but hey! What do I have to lose? This date couldn’t get much worse.’

She laughs. ‘True. Go on, tell me.’

‘I have my own fish tank, an aquarium.’

She gasps, overdramatically. ‘No. Way. I have a fish tank, too!’

His eyes widen, and he leans forward, conspiratorially.

‘What’s your favourite fish?’

‘Tetras! Yours?’

Please, James, say you like Tetras. I’m willing him on so much that I almost don’t hear his answer.

‘Oh, I love Tetras … but I’m also really fond of the clownfish.’

They begin to chat excitedly about the different personalities of their fish and Bobby – sensing the shift in mood – gives me a thumbs up. I mock-wipe my brow, feeling the wig shift to the side. I begin to tuck into my spaghetti – it’s gone cold but it doesn’t matter. Bobby’s tomato sauce (or ‘red sauce’ as he calls it secretly to me) is the best in town. The chatter and the laughter in the booth soothes me – it won’t be long until I can go home. Elena requested that I only stay for the first hour. That’s almost past now but I want to stay a little longer: he’s leaning forward, listening intently to something she’s saying and she’s smiling now, her face lit up by the candlelight. I love basking in that excitement, that chemistry.

I chuck some cash down on the table and write Bobby a little note, thanking him for the evening. He’s over in the corner enthusing about how the streets of Rome inspired his decor. I don’t want to interrupt, so I slip out, giving Elena a discreet wave.

Outside, there are huddles of people spilling out of pubs, clutching beers and laughing. The first signs of Christmas are beginning to show: Bobby’s laced fairy lights around his doorway, and I can see a few trees in windows above. A couple are snuggled up on a doorstep, the smoke from their breath in clouds around them. They clink their Corona bottles and peck each other on the lips. I glance quickly away, just as they spot me staring. The line of taxis is tempting … but I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck and begin to walk home. It’s about half an hour from here but I like sneaking glances in pub windows, looking at who is inside, sensing the excitement of the season.

I glance down at my engagement ring. There are flecks of red in the milky opal that are lit up by the street lights. It’s meant to be bad luck, to have an opal engagement ring, but I’d wanted one since I was a little girl. Harry must have known this somehow, maybe from my mum, and he played on the idea – the night he’d proposed I’d come into our living room to find him knelt on one knee surrounded by open umbrellas. Pink ones, spotty ones, see-through ones, all scattered across our living room floor. The cat that always showed up at our back door, a sleek black thing, was wandering around, and Harry had placed the ring on an upturned broken mirror, which he’d sprinkled with salt. He’d thought of everything, there had even been a ladder propped up on the inside of the door that I’d walked under without noticing. ‘No day can be unlucky if I’m with you,’ Harry had said. I’d been so happy I’d not been able to stop crying for two whole hours.

I think back to Elena and James, the way he was looking at her. I try to hold onto that, tight in my heart. I hope they’ll end up, one day, feeling as lucky and happy as I did that evening.

‘Verity, what’s going on?’ I’m shouting for her to hear me; the music channels are on and Whitney’s pumped up, dancing around on screen in a purple dress. I take a sip of my wine, fully expecting to wince at first and then slowly get used to the pungent flavour. But instead it goes down smoothly. I reach for the bottle. It’s usually just plonked at my feet so I can help myself. But it’s not there.

‘Where’s the wine?’

She pokes her head out the door, bringing with her a waft of melting cheese. ‘In the fridge, you need a top-up?’

‘No, just wondered what it was .’

‘Pinot, from Marks and Sparks, I think.’

She retreats back into the kitchen and I look at the carpet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much of it before. The magazine clippings she uses for her look books – usually spread out all over the floor – have been neatly stacked and shoved to one corner. I reach down through the sofa cushion’s gaps, which are usually stuffed with chocolate wrappers. But nothing rustles.

Last night Verity had made it clear that I would not be spending another Saturday night working. I was to come over for tea. ‘Do not come over unarmed,’ she’d announced. I’d shown up with a bottle of good wine but the fridge was already stocked up.

She settles in beside me, clutching a Snoopy mug filled to the brim. ‘Who you looking at?’ She snatches my phone off me – I’m two years back on Polly Lee’s Instagram.

‘Do not like anything!’ I yelp, trying to grab it back off her.

She laughs. ‘Oh, I just might …’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’

I look over her shoulder – it’s Polly Lee’s daughter’s fifth birthday party. She set up mini long wooden tables in the garden and covered them in vintage tea sets, and there were little French fancies at each place setting – the child’s name iced on them.

‘Can you believe these cakes are vegan?’ Verity’s reading the caption allowed. ‘And sugar-free.’

‘I had two … gotta treat yourself,’ I say, filling in the rest from memory.

‘I want to smash five Mr Kiplings in her face,’ Verity says. ‘Who is this smug bitch?’

‘She’s not that bad, she was the PR exec at my old firm.’

‘Have you had a lobotomy? Everyone was hideous to you there!’

‘OK,’ I sigh. ‘She was actually really mean. But look at her life, it’s just perfect.’

‘There’s nothing perfect about living sugar-free – remember when I tried it?’

‘Remember? I’m still scarred from it!’

It was back when Verity and I lived together – in this top-floor, tiny flat that we rented simply because it had a balcony. The floor of every room – even the hallway – was covered with an array of fabrics: sequins, velvet, denim, and we survived on ready-meals and two-for-a-fiver wine from our local shop. One January Verity decided to kick sugar, going cold turkey. She lasted three days – and, on the second, I had walked into the kitchen just as she had smashed a glass in anger at something someone had said on the radio.

‘Is that lasagne I can smell?’ It had to be an M&S ready-meal, that was all Verity lived off of. Verity can’t cook, she’s resolute that there are better things she could be doing with her time.

‘Yep, just something I, y’know, rustled up.’ She tries to keep her face straight, before pealing into giggles. ‘Ah, you know me, Jeremiah cooked it, OK? I just put it in the oven.’

‘Demanding your boyfriend cooks for us … clean house … clean wine glasses, what’s the occasion?’

She looks away, her eyes boring into the TV screen. Now an old Backstreet Boys number is blasting out.

‘No reason, just thought it’d be nice. Been a while since we hung out at mine together. Go on, show me who else you’ve been stalking so I can hate on them.’

I grab my phone back and pull up Morwena Star’s profile. Morwena Star is ridiculous but I kind of love her. She describes herself as a ‘crystal healer’, and her account is full of selfies and shots of her perfectly manicured hands holding up crystals, spouting on about how ‘opal fixes my crown, makes me ready for the day’ while citrine helps her ‘cultivate my sunshine’.

‘Nobody looks like that doing yoga,’ says Verity, pointing at one of her doing a back bend on a sunset beach. ‘Wait, click on that one.’

I pull up one of Morwena sitting cross-legged, under a tree, her eyes shut. I read the caption: ‘Be in the moment, in the now, take time out in nature, away from your phone.’

Verity snorts with laughter. ‘And who’s taking the photo?!’

‘I know it’s stupid but at least she’s created a brand for herself. She’s almost got a million followers.’

‘But it’s all fake, did you not say she’s from around here?’

I nod. I’m not quite sure where she manages to find the beaches or luscious forests, as, after some investigating, I’ve discovered that she lives in Sheffield. A grey hilly city that’s so far from the beach kids have taken to playing in the fountains in the square in the centre on hot days, running in and out screeching while their knackered parents sit on a park bench, sipping cider cans.

‘Fake in a way that’s making her a fortune. She’ll get paid loads for these posts,’ I remind her, thinking of my own feed and how hard I was trying to get the follower count up.

‘Ugh, it’s so depressing,’ Verity replies. ‘I just couldn’t do it.’ She takes a swig of her wine. ‘Show me something that’ll cheer me up again.’

So I flick to the folder containing all our old snaps. There’s one of us fresh out of university: I’m wearing a pair of cut-off green tartan tights, a hacked-up denim miniskirt and a blue spotty hoody, and Verity’s in denim hot pants, neon yellow earrings and a black vest. She was going through her Amy Winehouse phase, and had darkened her eyes out and painted her lips red.

‘Still gutted I can’t tame my hair into a beehive,’ she says, patting her Afro.

We begin to scroll through together until we get to the more recent ones. There’s a picture of Verity and I at a hairdresser opening. Verity had been invited by one of her clients, a WAG who’d just been given a hefty divorce settlement and was setting up her own business. I’m in a pinstripe black and white knee-length dress and heels that – you can tell from my face – pinched, while Verity is in a floor-length vintage seventies dress covered in orange flowers. Harry had said she looked like his nan’s carpet, and Verity is throwing her head back laughing … In the background you can see one of the other customers giving her evils. Verity’s laugh is so loud and unapologetic, you’re either caught up in it or you’re wondering where on earth that strange honking sound is coming from.

Then there’s the three of us at my business launch party – Harry’s eyes are two grey circles: he’d been working all day and then helping me all night for weeks in the run-up. He’d ended up falling asleep in the toilets at about 1 a.m. that evening. Next to that there’s the pair of us, holding up the keys to our house, on the doorstep – my hair in pigtails and Harry covered in dust.

She looks at my glass. I’ve taken about four sips from it. ‘Oh, you need topping up!’ She gets up and bustles through to the adjoining kitchen. She’s wearing jeans with bright pink tassels hanging from the butt – they shimmy as she walks, like a twenties dancer in feathers. When she comes back through she squeezes my knee, an old habit of hers, picked up from her grandma. I brush it off. Harry’s face is still dominating my phone screen. She gently takes it out of my hand and places it on the floor.

‘You’ll never guess what happened on set today …’ And she’s off. Telling the story of Jenna Self, an old Love Island contestant she was styling this week. She’s not supposed to tell me this stuff – if any of it got to the press she’d be in big trouble – but she just can’t help herself. We’ve both been celebrity-obsessed since high school. When we lived together we’d spend days curled up on the sofa bingeing on reality TV. Verity would always sit there, analysing the outfits of all the contestants, saying, ‘When I get my hands on her …’

‘Every single outfit I pulled out Jenna would say, “Jenna no likey”, sticking her bottom lip out! Then later on the make-up artist found out she’d nicked all of her nail polishes. She must have slid like twenty bottles into her handbag.’

‘Oh my God,’ I say, my mouth open. ‘Is she still with …?’

‘Chris? Yeah, he picked her up at the end. I swear that guy must be on steroids or something, he’s literally built like a triangle.’

‘It’s so obvious he’s cheating on her,’ I reply.

‘You mean the other week where he was caught in a toilet cubicle with two blondes, and his response was he was “helping them unblock it”?’

‘Yeah, right, Chris the Plumber,’ I say, looking under the sofa for the pile of Heats, Closers and Now magazines that live there. There’s just a faint trace of dust. ‘I mean, I hate her but nobody deserves to be with a cheat.’

Verity’s sitting, picking at the tassels attached to her jeans – one has become frayed and she plays with its ends. ‘Mmmm-hmmm,’ she says before jumping up again. ‘That’ll be the lasagne ready!’

‘Want help plating up?’ I ask, but she insists she’s fine and that I need to relax.

‘How was last night’s date?’ I hear her shout through over the clattering of plates.

‘Total disaster at first,’ I shout back. ‘But I saved it!’

She comes through, hands me a plate, steam rising from a generous slab of lasagne. ‘And how was the wig?’ . . .