‘Hypocrite.’
Maybe it’s a matter of degree, and I probably come off sounding worse, but his mind was still in the gutter.
He doesn’t offer a comeback before fleeing.
Energised by the power reversal, I shove the papers into the top drawer of the bedside table and then down my half-full glass of wine in one go.
The hot butler totally wants me.
Too bad we’re fighting now.
Chapter 6:
‘So, Emilia, what kind of man are you looking for?’
I stare blankly across the table at my matchmaker, a Mrs Polly Wright. She’s middle-aged and well presented. Her auburn hair is tied up in a neat, no-nonsense bun. Her make-up looks natural. The trouser suit she’s wearing is by Dolce & Gabbana (I recognise it from their ad campaign), so I’m guessing she either earns enough in her own right to finance such a wardrobe, or her husband is loaded. People say you should judge a hairdresser by their own hair, so it follows that I should judge Mrs Wright on her own ‘match’. If only I could turn around these photo-frames on her desk to see what Mr Wright looks like.
Oh no. I hope she doesn’t make any lame jokes about finding me my Mr Wright. If she does, I’m going to groan like a walrus dying slowly in the Sahara.
I hate to admit it, but I’m incredibly nervous. The setting might be a traditional wood-panelled office, but I feel as though I’m at the police station in one of those grey interrogation rooms with the single overhead light. Guilty and confused, that’s how I feel. In fact, I don’t even know how to answer her question. All I can think about is Blair. Blair, who dropped me off here fifteen minutes ago, and is currently waiting for me in the car. Blair, who has been polite and respectful towards me for the last several days, even though I know he’s embarrassed and frustrated about our situation. Blair, who I should not be concerned about because I’m in a meeting designed to help me find a husband.
‘Um, I don’t know.’
‘Take your time,’ she says in a soothing tone. I wonder if any of her clients are as panic-stricken as me. ‘I’m here to help you find your life partner. Let’s not be flippant about this.’
‘I just don’t understand who would come to you asking for help,’ I blurt out. ‘I mean, I’ve been sent here by my parents. Well, my mother set this up, as you well know, but my father completely approves. Are the men on your books as spineless as me? Going along with what their mummies and daddies want them to do?’
She stays perfectly calm, clasping her hands and smiling sweetly – more therapist than matchmaker.
‘You are anything but spineless. I think you know that. And no, our clients are not all tied to the wishes of their parents.’
I feel a panic attack coming on. This building is a four-storey townhouse, but I doubt they have the type of fainting room that I’ll need. A cell with padded walls would also suffice. I’m guessing they don’t have that either.
‘Listen, Mrs Wright –’
‘Please, call me Polly.’
‘Okay, Polly. I’m embarrassed that I’m here. Part of me knows I should take this seriously, because maybe this is a good way to meet men who are up to my standards. But the other part is humiliated that I would even have to do this in the first place.’
‘Let me tell you more about what we do here at Tilton & Bree. We’re no ordinary matchmaking service. Our clients are very accomplished men and women. Not just anybody can sign up for our services.’
I fidget in the chair, looking around me for an escape route. A trap door, a rope made out of sheets, a tunnel dug by a single spoon over many years… Anything to get me out of here.
Unfortunately, I know it’s a lost cause. Polly will call my mother if I bolt out of here screaming, and the mess that would cause is definitely not worth the trouble. I’m going to get through this meeting, no matter how many panic attacks I have to stave off to do so.
‘Would you like a cup of
Maybe it’s a matter of degree, and I probably come off sounding worse, but his mind was still in the gutter.
He doesn’t offer a comeback before fleeing.
Energised by the power reversal, I shove the papers into the top drawer of the bedside table and then down my half-full glass of wine in one go.
The hot butler totally wants me.
Too bad we’re fighting now.
Chapter 6:
‘So, Emilia, what kind of man are you looking for?’
I stare blankly across the table at my matchmaker, a Mrs Polly Wright. She’s middle-aged and well presented. Her auburn hair is tied up in a neat, no-nonsense bun. Her make-up looks natural. The trouser suit she’s wearing is by Dolce & Gabbana (I recognise it from their ad campaign), so I’m guessing she either earns enough in her own right to finance such a wardrobe, or her husband is loaded. People say you should judge a hairdresser by their own hair, so it follows that I should judge Mrs Wright on her own ‘match’. If only I could turn around these photo-frames on her desk to see what Mr Wright looks like.
Oh no. I hope she doesn’t make any lame jokes about finding me my Mr Wright. If she does, I’m going to groan like a walrus dying slowly in the Sahara.
I hate to admit it, but I’m incredibly nervous. The setting might be a traditional wood-panelled office, but I feel as though I’m at the police station in one of those grey interrogation rooms with the single overhead light. Guilty and confused, that’s how I feel. In fact, I don’t even know how to answer her question. All I can think about is Blair. Blair, who dropped me off here fifteen minutes ago, and is currently waiting for me in the car. Blair, who has been polite and respectful towards me for the last several days, even though I know he’s embarrassed and frustrated about our situation. Blair, who I should not be concerned about because I’m in a meeting designed to help me find a husband.
‘Um, I don’t know.’
‘Take your time,’ she says in a soothing tone. I wonder if any of her clients are as panic-stricken as me. ‘I’m here to help you find your life partner. Let’s not be flippant about this.’
‘I just don’t understand who would come to you asking for help,’ I blurt out. ‘I mean, I’ve been sent here by my parents. Well, my mother set this up, as you well know, but my father completely approves. Are the men on your books as spineless as me? Going along with what their mummies and daddies want them to do?’
She stays perfectly calm, clasping her hands and smiling sweetly – more therapist than matchmaker.
‘You are anything but spineless. I think you know that. And no, our clients are not all tied to the wishes of their parents.’
I feel a panic attack coming on. This building is a four-storey townhouse, but I doubt they have the type of fainting room that I’ll need. A cell with padded walls would also suffice. I’m guessing they don’t have that either.
‘Listen, Mrs Wright –’
‘Please, call me Polly.’
‘Okay, Polly. I’m embarrassed that I’m here. Part of me knows I should take this seriously, because maybe this is a good way to meet men who are up to my standards. But the other part is humiliated that I would even have to do this in the first place.’
‘Let me tell you more about what we do here at Tilton & Bree. We’re no ordinary matchmaking service. Our clients are very accomplished men and women. Not just anybody can sign up for our services.’
I fidget in the chair, looking around me for an escape route. A trap door, a rope made out of sheets, a tunnel dug by a single spoon over many years… Anything to get me out of here.
Unfortunately, I know it’s a lost cause. Polly will call my mother if I bolt out of here screaming, and the mess that would cause is definitely not worth the trouble. I’m going to get through this meeting, no matter how many panic attacks I have to stave off to do so.
‘Would you like a cup of
Similar Books
