After a quick glance at the wine list, and with gracious diplomacy, Harriet explained that 2005 was a temperamental year for Rioja and that she’d ‘prefer a glass of the 2007 Mersault, if possible.’
Steve nodded and then hurried back to the bar, where a stern-faced Brigitte began prodding him on the shoulder.
Harriet had an impressive CV. At twenty-eight, she spoke four languages, had lived in ten different countries and was now working for an American bank in London. She had an interesting family background: her French mother was a professor in neuroscience and her Swiss father was a senior officer in the military. However, the conversation seemed more like a job interview than an open exchange. Unlike William, Harriet only managed a few conservative sips of her award-winning Burgundy.
I decided to get straight to the point. ‘So,’ I said, leaning forward, ‘what kind of men do you like?’
Her cheeks flushed and she picked up her glass and took a sip.
I pointed to a dark-haired man with cute dimples standing at the bar. ‘How about him?’
She threw a casual glance over her shoulder, and then looked back at me, shaking her head.
‘Why not?’
‘Looks like a womaniser.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘What makes you say that?’
She looked over at him again, this time pausing longer. ‘He’s too good-looking. I don’t date men like that.’
‘You don’t fancy good-looking men?’
She took another sip. ‘Successful relationships aren’t based on that.’
‘What, sexual attraction?’
She shook her head. ‘I need someone who fits in with my family, my culture and who matches my intellect.’
‘Even if you don’t fancy them?’
She took another sip, though this time it was more of a gulp.
I scanned the room once again and noticed a man with a broad smile and blond hair who was sitting on a sofa. ‘Okay, what about him?’ I pointed.
She turned to look. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Why not?’
She went to put her glass down then lifted it to her mouth again. ‘This might sound a little mean.’
‘Go on.’
‘He’s not sophisticated enough.’
‘Because?’
‘Button-down collar.’
‘Okay,’ I said, scanning the room, searching for someone who might fit her ideal. I settled on a dark-haired man with intelligent eyes and a Hermes belt. ‘Him?’
She looked over, her gaze sizing him up. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, someone like him.’
Her glass was half empty when she excused herself for a trip to the Ladies’. I watched her glide across the room, and then have an awkward ‘after you, no after you’ dance with cute dimples at the bar. I noticed his head swivel, following her as she walked away. However, Mr Hermes belt ignored her as she swept past, seemingly more focused on looking up Brigitte’s skirt as she leant over the bar.
When she returned from the toilet, her make-up and composure refreshed, she continued describing her future husband.
‘I need a man who can fit in with my life,’ she began, her face expressionless. ‘He would have an international background, like myself. And a successful career. He’d have to want a large family. And, most importantly, he would need to be from an upper-class family.’
I raised my eyebrows again. ‘Why?’
‘It’s important to have shared values,’ she said, staring ahead.
I shrugged my shoulders and pretended to make notes, hoping I hadn’t sounded so clinical when I’d listed my requirements to Matthew no less than a month ago.
When she’d finished the last of her wine, she dabbed the sides of her mouth with a napkin and bid me a pleasant evening. I leant forward to kiss her goodbye, but she sidestepped my advances and then offered me her hand to shake instead, as though there had been a gross misunderstanding and she was, in actuality, hiring me to assist her in a business merger.
When I sat back down to yet another refilled glass, I checked my watch and tapped my pen on the table. My next client, Jeremy, was late. Due to my lack of faith in the network coverage in the bar, I nipped upstairs to give him a call. As I approached reception, I saw Brigitte leaning over the desk, boobs squeezed together, bottom in the air as though she were inviting penetration. With a slow deliberate lick of her lips, she pressed a piece of paper into the palm of a man standing in front of her.
‘Ahh, Ellieeee. Dis ees Jirimie,’ she purred as the man spun round, and flashed me a smile.
‘Blatch, Jeremy Blatch,’ he said, in the manner of an international spy.
Although a little slick, he was breathtakingly handsome, as though he’d just walked off the set of a Hugo Boss photo-shoot. Wearing a grey suit and a white shirt, and with floppy dark blond hair framing dazzling blue eyes, he looked every inch the fantasy Mr Right most women dreamed about.
Suspecting that Brigitte had just passed on her number, and concerned she may try to straddle him if I left it a moment longer, I suggested to Jeremy that we go downstairs to the bar.
‘That’s a first. I’m usually invited upstairs,’ he said with a wink.
I stepped back, surprised to find myself immune to his charms. It seemed my mind had adjusted from its instinctive default of perceiving men as potential boyfriends for myself, to assessing them objectively on behalf of others. Right then, I saw him as prime stock for the single girls of London.
Once settled in the bar, he unbuttoned his jacket. Through his slim-fit white shirt, I noticed the outline of a tight stomach and taut pecs. Oblivious to my X-ray assessment, or politely ignoring it, he ordered a Martini.
‘I want to meet someone special,’ he said, before I’d had the chance to begin questioning him.
‘I’m tired of meeting airheads and bimbos,’ he continued, nodding in the direction of Brigitte, who just happened to be wiggling past our table. When she saw Jeremy looking over, she bent down to pick up something from the floor, waving her bottom in the air like a mallard. He looked away, evidently unimpressed.
‘No, I’m being unfair,’ he continued. ‘Some of the girls I’ve dated have been remarkably clever and successful.’ He paused, and then looked a bit strained. ‘It’s just, I don’t know …’
‘You haven’t found what you’re looking for?’ I said.
‘Yes, you’re right. I haven’t.’ He looked down to stir his Martini.
‘I thought it was shaken and not stirred?’
He laughed, looking quite chuffed with the analogy.
Unlike William and Harriet, Jeremy seemed to have no inhibitions when talking about his personal life and relayed his childhood with a mix of passion and nostalgia.
‘Life used to be so simple,’ he said, having described the farm in Somerset where he grew up. ‘When did it get so complicated?’
He downed his Martini, and then went on to explain how he’d play outside all day with his dog, Rusty.
‘He never left my side. He didn’t care how much I earned or what car I drove.’ He threw a glance to the ground. ‘And back then neither did I. Now life is all about work.’ He picked up his phone. ‘And the reason I’m working so hard—’ he frowned at the screen ‘—is so that one day I can have