Match Me If You Can

‘This morning.’ She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I don’t stink, do I?’

‘No. But I’m surprised you don’t get a rash from sitting around in sweaty clothes all day.’ It drove her nuts that Sarah refused to make any effort whatsoever with her appearance. Granted, she had the kind of wide-eyed, fine-boned pleasant face that didn’t need much make-up, but she wouldn’t even use moisturiser. That was fine at twenty-eight, but she was asking for wrinkles by the time she was Catherine’s age. And it was a crime to keep such pretty, long dark-blonde hair tied back day and night in a messy, occasionally greasy, ponytail. She needed an intervention, really. Maybe they should just drag her kicking and screaming to a salon appointment.

Catherine noticed that Rachel’s bedroom light was on. ‘Rachel’s back from her date?’ she asked.

‘Not unless she came in quietly while I was asleep.’

They both laughed at the idea of Rachel doing anything quietly.

‘It must be going well,’ Catherine said, kicking off her suede heels so she could massage her aching feet.

‘Maybe we should ring to make sure she’s okay?’

Sarah wore her worry like a heavy winter coat, in all seasons.

‘She probably won’t appreciate the interruption.’

‘But it’s getting late,’ Sarah continued, her green eyes widening even more than usual. ‘Something might be wrong. What if her date’s got her tied up in his car? Or his basement, or maybe he’s taken her to a remote valley in Wales.’

Imaginative didn’t even begin to describe Sarah’s thought process sometimes. ‘Text her if you want to,’ said Catherine.

‘But what if he’s duct-taped her fingers together? He’d only need one piece for each hand, you know.’ Sarah wrapped her own slender fingers with imaginary tape. ‘Then she couldn’t text back.’

‘She couldn’t answer your call either, could she? Or he might have thrown her phone in the Thames along with all the other evidence.’

Catherine immediately felt bad about teasing Sarah when she saw her expression.

‘I’m positive that she’s fine,’ she conceded. ‘If she’s not back in an hour, we’ll call her, okay?’

But they only needed to wait a few minutes before Rachel careened into the living room. Her deep auburn hair stood up in wild cowlicks and curls and her teal wool coat was mis-buttoned. With pale green tights under her burgundy and yellow wasp-waisted dress, it was no wonder she described her style as 1950s Contrasting Colour Wheel.

She looked like she’d just escaped from Sarah’s imagined Welsh valley, but Catherine knew better. Rachel always looked like she’d been out in a gale.

She flung herself on the sofa, aiming for the space between her housemates but missing due to an abundance of bum cheek. She had all the curves that Catherine and Sarah wished they had. On a shelf together they’d be wooden bookends to her Ming vase.

Sarah drew her arms around her friend as she sat half in her lap. ‘It was a good date, then?’

Rachel laughed. ‘My bikini wax appointments are more fun. I ditched him after the first drink.’

‘But you were out for a long time.’

‘I met up with James.’

‘You’ve been seeing a lot of each other lately,’ Catherine said.

‘Eight hours a day for the past five years. We do work together, remember?’

‘And play together, apparently. Still just friends?’ Catherine couldn’t resist asking.

‘Catherine, I wouldn’t go back there for all the Prada in Selfridges.’

‘It never hurts to ask.’

‘It’s after midnight,’ Rachel said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be off duty?’

‘As if a matchmaker is ever off duty.’

Chapter Two (#ulink_5f269066-f163-5f52-a61b-ac5883d92e16)

Rachel (#ulink_5f269066-f163-5f52-a61b-ac5883d92e16)

‘You are a really good architect,’ Rachel told herself again. ‘You are ready for this. You’ll nail it.’ She studied her reflection. ‘But you’re a wanker for talking to yourself in the mirror. And your outfit’s all wrong.’

She sucked in her tummy and peered at her lilac dress. If she was a little less curvy she could have borrowed something from Catherine’s form-fitting monochrome closet. Maybe something in confidence-inspiring beige. Their stuffy corporate clients would probably appreciate that more than her bright swingy frock and loudly contrasting tights.

Not that her clothes were totally to blame for the impression she made. Her hair also had a lot to answer for. Deep red and wavy, it rejected any attempt to look composed. She didn’t exactly whisper sophistication so much as shout colour-blind cat lady. And while it was nice to be mistaken for one of the junior architects, today she wished she looked all of her thirty-one years.

She unclasped the chunky red fabric flower necklace and stuffed it into her bag. It clashed with her hair anyway, which was starting to frizz from the damp November day.

Stifling a yawn as she reached her desk, she was tempted to lay her head down, just for a second. Instead she dialled her mum’s office.

By the third ring she knew it would go through to voicemail.

‘Hi Mum. I’m just getting ready for my presentation. It’s this morning, remember? I just really wanted to … Well anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes after.’ She was about to hang up when she thought she heard a click. ‘Hello Mum? Hello? Oh. I thought you picked up. If you get this message before ten thirty, call me, okay? I’ll just be going through the presentation one more time.’

Hanging up, she clicked again through her slides. Midway through, the screen began to blur. Just a little rest was what she needed …

She opened one mascaraed eye when James set a steaming takeaway cup on her desk. The aroma made her nose twitch.

‘I figured you could use this,’ he said, handing her a pastry bag to go with her coffee. ‘You weren’t actually kipping, were you?’

Stretching, she glanced at the wall clock. ‘Just a little one. Chocolate croissant?’ she guessed. ‘Ooh la la.’

‘Oui madame, zis eez zee least I can do,’ he said in a pathetic French accent. ‘Seriously, I’m sorry I kept you out late.’ Remorse was written all over his boyish face.

‘Don’t be,’ she mumbled. ‘I figured if I stayed up I might be tired enough to sleep. Stupid plan.’

She’d watched her bedside clock pass two a.m., then three, with her mind racing over the pitch this morning.

She sipped the hot sweet coffee. ‘God that’s good, thanks,’ she said. ‘You feel okay?’

He slurped the last of his drink. ‘No thanks to you.’

‘You didn’t have to finish the bottle, you know.’

‘Oh but I did, Rach. You wouldn’t help me.’

Like she’d risk a hangover on the most important morning of her career. She had the tolerance of a toddler on antibiotics anyway. ‘I meant you could have left it unfinished.’