Alice Brown's Lessons in the Curious Art of Dating (39 page)

Whatever the answer, one thing was clear: it was over. She and John were over. If Audrey wanted him, she could have him.

And if
that
was settled, then something else became obvious too. Finishing with John sucked. And of all the many reasons
why
it sucked, it sucked most because it was
she
who’d been such a sucker. She’d brought this misery upon herself by getting carried away with her own sugar-coated imagination, she told herself harshly as yet another set of movie credits rolled. Ginny had told her she was daft to think a knight on a white charger solved anything. Well, she needed to stop dreaming, get her head out of the clouds and live in the real world. What kind of grown woman still believed in happy endings anyway? Life wasn’t like that. Ginny had warned her that she might get to kiss the frog only to find out that he was nothing more than that: just a frog. Well, she’d kissed her frog and now she’d learnt her lesson. From now on she, Alice Brown, was going to be practical. All that love stuff was for other people: her clients, not her. She obviously couldn’t handle it.

She lifted her chin and tried to jut it out defiantly, just as she’d seen her boss do so many times before. Yes, she needed to become hard-headed. Maybe Sheryl was right
after all. Maybe love really was just a business and she was just a businesswoman. Love wasn’t something to do on your own time, on evenings and at weekends. If she could just stick to Sheryl’s way of thinking, she’d be OK. John and her broken heart and smashed dreams wouldn’t matter. Life would go on, and in a few weeks’ time she’d be perfectly fine. After all, she had been before – before the ball and the flowers and the coffee shop. She’d have her friends, her job and her garden; that was all she needed. Life would be settled . . . safe. She tried to ignore the fact that the dazzling, colourful world John had opened up to her had suddenly switched back to grey.

After a weekend of miserable self-flagellation and pep talks, it had been a relief to come back to work. But now she was here – surrounded by hope and romance – it didn’t feel like much of a refuge.

And then Maurice Lazenby arrived without an appointment.

Despite the mildness of the day, Maurice was dressed for the cold, his coat fully buttoned and his scarf folded neatly around his neck as though his mother had dressed him. Beneath his immaculately combed hair and the perfect white line of his parting, his face was as wintry as his attire.

‘Miss Brown,’ he complained, ‘I put my misgivings aside and went to the three lunch dates you organized for me. I met that scruffy artist woman who looked as if she’d just rolled out of bed. And the coarse lady taxi driver who kept trying to engage me about sport. The head teacher was passable, but not what I’m looking for. So you’ve failed.’

Already feeling weakened, Alice was shocked. She’d been so positive that one of her matches for Maurice would be perfect – but her judgement was obviously failing all round. She’d thought she knew about people – she’d prided herself on seeing people’s true characters, on getting the
real them
– but it was becoming clear that she knew nothing at all.

‘I don’t know what to say. You really didn’t like
any
of them?’

‘No.’

‘But they were different from the other women you’ve been matched with? More individualistic?’

‘Well, yes. But they still weren’t right, and that’s all that matters.’

‘Of course. But I thought . . . I was so sure . . . It’s just that I’m . . .’

‘Wrong! Again!’

‘. . . sorry,’ Alice finished softly, looking forlorn.

‘Look,’ Maurice offered, ‘you seem like a nice girl, and I can see you gave me more consideration than most.’ He looked critically around the office. ‘But the point is, you haven’t found me the woman I’m after, and so you leave me with no option.’

‘Oh, Maurice . . .’

‘I really must insist on being handled by Ms Cracknell. She’s the expert. I need to be her personal responsibility.’

‘But please, I . . .’

‘No, really, Miss Brown. The time for buts is over. Ah, I see Ms Cracknell’s in her office. Well, in which case, there’s no time like the present . . .’

If it was possible, Alice’s battered heart sank even deeper. Audrey was irritated by interruptions at the best of times. But her standard irritation turned to bad-tempered alarm when she saw Maurice striding into her office. She threw Alice a murderous look through the glass. But then she regained her composure and Alice heard her say, ‘Maurice! How marvellous to see you!’ in a tone that sounded fractionally genuine. And then Maurice closed the glass door behind him.

Alice bent her head and watched them through her lashes. This was a disaster. In fact, her whole life was a disaster. Everything she’d thought about everyone was wrong, and now, to cap it all, Maurice was giving Audrey both barrels. If the circumstances hadn’t been so bad she might have found the sight of Audrey being royally ticked off funny; she’d never seen Audrey fail to get a word in edgeways before. But this was bad. Very bad. Audrey might be taking the punishment now, but the minute Maurice left, she’d be sure to punish Alice harder. She’d be furious with her for getting her accosted like this, and Alice didn’t know whether – today of all days – she was strong enough to take it.

She grabbed her mobile and texted Ginny.

Are you back? Really need to talk . . .

And then Audrey’s glass door swung open.

Alice straightened in her seat, tried to force her face into a bright, professional smile, and ignored the sick feeling creeping up from her stomach.

Maurice finally left. Audrey shut the door behind him and closed her eyes in relief. That man really was unbearable, with his petty moaning and search for a perfection that didn’t exist. And even if such a perfect woman did exist, she’d hardly stoop as low as Maurice. But most annoying of all was that somehow, in the middle of his diatribe, Audrey had agreed to take on his case herself. She couldn’t believe she’d done it! Maybe it was the professional flattery he’d been piling on, or maybe it was just to get him out of her sight as quickly as possible. Whatever, it was a complete disaster. As if life wasn’t appalling enough with John refusing to take her dates, she’d just banged a nail into her own coffin by condemning herself to regular – and no doubt lengthy – conversations with Maurice Lazenby until she managed to find him a partner. Which realistically would be never.

‘Poor you, Audrey,’ Bianca called across the office sympathetically. ‘That was the worst Mauricing I’ve ever seen!’

Audrey turned away from the door and targeted her eyes on Alice.

‘Alice Brown, are you determined to lose me all my clients?’ she asked in a voice that could cut glass. ‘Or are you just concentrating on ditching the male ones?’

Bianca and Cassandra let out horrified gasps. Matchmakers would rather ditch their own grandmothers than their male clients.

Alice froze. ‘Oh God, has Maurice quit?’

‘If he had, it would be down to you,’ Audrey sniped. ‘Thankfully I was on hand to persuade him to stay.’

Alice slumped in relief, but Audrey thundered on.

‘Not only have you upset Mr Lazenby, but I also received notice this morning of another of your dissatisfied clients leaving.’

Alice looked confused.

‘But what I don’t understand is – what could possibly have prevented you from making a match for an upwardly mobile, perfectly acceptable-looking young man like Steve Walker when we have dozens of desperate women on our books who’d settle for anything?’

‘Steve’s gone?’

‘Yes, Mr Walker’s gone! Why would he stay? You weren’t sending him on dates!’

Alice squirmed. ‘I . . . I had my reasons.’

‘I don’t give a fig about your reasons! He’s a client. You’re a matchmaker. You find him women to meet. It’s not rocket science!’ She was in no mood to be fobbed off. This was serious. Her neck flushed with the seriousness of it all. ‘If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times. We have to cherish every single man on our books. They’re more
valuable than the women. We can afford to lose dozens of them!’

‘Actually, I think Steve leaving could be a good thing.’

‘Good thing?’ Audrey thundered with maximum sarcasm. ‘How could it possibly be a “good thing”?’

‘I don’t think he joined for the right reasons.’

‘He joined for £300 and £100 a month. They sound like jolly good reasons to me.’

‘But he’s had loads of dates. Fifteen! And he didn’t want to meet a single one of them again for a second date. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

‘Not especially. You obviously made fifteen poor matches.’

‘My matches were good,’ Alice asserted with surprising conviction.

‘Not good enough,’ Audrey shot back.

‘I just had a funny feeling about Steve,’ Alice offered lamely. ‘Something about him made me suspicious, so I phoned all fifteen of his matches to ask them again about their dates. And do you know what? They all said exactly the same thing . . . That the date was going well, that they were flattered by how interested he was in them, and that he seemed incredibly keen. So keen, in fact, that he pushed to go home with every single one of them.’

Alice was clearly waiting for Audrey to be outraged by this news of his ungentlemanly advances, but Audrey was damned if she was going to give her the satisfaction. Instead she growled, ‘You’re supposed to be a matchmaker, not Miss Bloody Marple. So fifteen matches didn’t work? Big deal; match him with fifteen more.’

Alice pushed on.

‘. . . And when the ladies said no, he suddenly cooled. By the time I’d phone him the next morning, he’d have cooled so much that he didn’t want a repeat date with any of them. Now, doesn’t that make you question his motives? Doesn’t that make you think he wasn’t in this for real? And if he wasn’t for real, what about all those women he disappointed?’

Alice’s eyes were saucer-large with earnestness. In another world, Audrey thought suddenly, a world with no employment laws, consequences, or staff members to act as witnesses, she would have slapped her.

‘So Mr Walker wasn’t as keen on your ladies as their vanity led them to believe,’ she snarled viciously. ‘But what about all the women who now
can’t
be set up with him? What about the loss to our male–female ratio? What about the loss to my bank balance? Who am I supposed to set our female clients up with now –
Mr Fresh-bloody-air?
’

Something she said made Alice stand to attention. Through the mist of her rage Audrey could see her studying her peculiarly.

‘Are you saying I should have sent Steve on inappropriate dates just to make up the numbers?’ she asked strangely.

‘What I’m saying, you imbecile, is that Mr Walker was an asset to this agency, and thanks to you, he’s gone.’

‘Asset?’ The bunny nose wrinkled up.

‘God, give me strength!’ Audrey snorted angrily. ‘Have you learnt nothing all these years?’

‘I can’t make matches I don’t believe in,’ Alice declared
primly. ‘The client has to find love; and if they can’t find love, they at least have to learn something about themselves that will help them on their journey.’

‘Journey? We’re a dating agency, not the path to spiritual bloody enlightenment. And now we’re one man down, and everyone’s job just got harder.’

Very evenly Alice said, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t be held responsible for Steve’s unethical behaviour.’

‘Just like you can’t be held responsible for Maurice barging into my office to complain about yours?’ Audrey spat venomously. The more calmly Alice protested her innocence, the more furious Audrey felt. And right now, she felt fit to burst.

‘I’ve been thinking about Maurice as well,’ Alice said quietly. ‘I don’t think anyone we match him with will be good enough for him.’

‘So what are you suggesting? That we “lose” him too, just because he won’t settle for your shoddy, second-rate matches?’ Audrey drew herself up, ready to explode. She’d had enough of Alice Brown with her high ideals and her big eyes and baggy cardigans, her spinster bike, her unbrushed hair and her offensive footwear. She, Audrey Cracknell, was only human, and she’d had as much as any decent person could be expected to take. This was the final straw, the nail in the coffin, the fat lady waddling once too often onto the stage to sing. She felt a well of fury rising in her chest, about to erupt.