Almost Perfect

HELENA CARTER IS MAKING MONEY FROM THE MISERY OF OTHERS

The manager of Abalone’s shot Gwen a worried look when she walked in. She ignored it, and headed over to a girl at a table with a lot of stickers.

‘Hi!’ she said.

The girl looked up, and grinned, professionally.

Gwen eyed her up and didn’t like her. The woman was very polished. Everything about her reminded Gwen of the people who came in to do training courses when she was in the police. Great, great people skills but as shallow as a bucket. All open questions and big smiles and no bloody use in a crisis.

‘Hello! Welcome! Is this your first time at speed-dating?’

‘Er, yes. Yes it is.’

‘Lovely,’ said the woman. ‘Well, it’s ten pounds, it’ll be a lovely evening, and there’s a free cocktail at the bar. What’s your name?’

‘Gwen Cooper.’

The woman looked at Gwen for a beat, and then wrote out ‘Gwen Cooper’, and handed it to her on a sticky badge.

Gwen grinned goofily. ‘Why do they never make these things nice so that they don’t ruin an outfit, eh?’

The woman looked at the badge. ‘Please don’t take it off. We’ve got some gorgeous men here tonight and we’ll be kicking off in a couple of minutes. Why not have a mingle and enjoy your complimentary Bellini?’

Gwen swished to the bar, where a small group of women were nervously making scrabbling small talk. In a corner, like they were penned up, a clutch of men stood. They looked sullen.

‘Oh god,’ Gwen thought. ‘None of these people look like killers. This is just going to be a completely embarrassing nightmare.’

And then Rhys walked in.

Gwen picked up her free cocktail, downed it, and walked swiftly to the loo.

Rhys walked in, in time to see Gwen darting to the loo. He grinned and marched up to the table.

‘Evening, luv. I’m here to find the love of my life, or whatever comes along.’ He smiled and the woman gave him a plastic flicker of interest.

‘Well, it’s ten pounds, it’ll be a lovely evening, and there’s a free cocktail at the bar. What’s your name?’

As Rhys told her she scribbled on a sticker and continued in a flat voice, ‘Please go and join the bachelors. Don’t forget the lovely free cocktail or beer waiting for you at the bar. We’ll be starting in just a few minutes.’ She put the sticker on him.

‘Hey!’ said Rhys. ‘You’d think they’d come up with something that didn’t ruin an outfit.’

He walked off, and the woman at the desk watched him go, curious.

‘We’re going to be late,’ said Emma.

Yes, but you look fabulous. You have nothing to worry about.

‘Really?’

Of course. If there was anything wrong with you, you know I would fix it. I’m not letting you in there unless you’re perfect, girlfriend.

‘Perfect?’ Emma liked the word and repeated it.

Yes. You’re going to be the best person there. You know it. You can have whoever you want. Now go on – let’s make a storm.

Emma pushed open the door.

As she walked in, she breathed in, closed her eyes, and then opened them. First she took in the group of women at the bar, all of them turning to look at her. Emma gave them all a wide, unthreatening smile. She could hear Cheryl’s voice in her head: You are better than them! But she didn’t, she couldn’t believe it. Some of the women smiled back. It was the kind of look of quiet comradeship and sympathy that women gave each other when stuck waiting for an unfairly late bus.

She looked at the men in their little area. She noticed some quiet nudging and glancing in her direction. Hello, boys, she thought, and gave them the curiously bored look that Cheryl had taught her.

She barely glanced down at the woman running the speed-dating. ‘Emma Webster,’ she said, taking the sticker and placing it proudly on her lapel before striding to the bar.

Helena Carter had been running speed-dating for a few years. It made her a tidy little profit. She did, it was true, work in PR. But she found this a nice little sideline, and, as she told her few friends, ‘I really feel nice – it’s making a difference in people’s lives, that’s what it is, you know. I’m really giving something back.’

If you’d asked for her opinion of Gwen, Rhys and Emma, it would have gone as follows.

Gwen: Don’t go giving yourself airs that you’re too good for this, darling. You’re not. You’re here, aren’t you? You’ll be lucky to find something with an attitude like that. And I think you bite your nails. I’ve seen your type. Three speed-dates in, and you start slugging back the cocktails, and then you’re either being helped into a taxi, or a man called Barry.

Rhys: Aw, what a sweetheart. He’ll do very well here. First-timer. I can tell – a bit nervous, but a real sweetie. Bet you he has a lovely flat and a nice job. Good old bit of Welsh charm – and there’s nothing wrong with that. If he doesn’t get snapped up, I’ll try and see if he needs a bit of coaching. I bet he’s not been back on the scene for long. Perhaps he’s just out of a marriage. Oh. I could take those broken wings and make you fly.

Emma: What is she doing back here? I mean, it’s unsettling. She looks so good – has she been dieting, or sprayed on the tan, or just found a new hairdresser? I dunno, but she looks knockout, the cow. Of course, I shouldn’t begrudge her her looks, but she’s really come on in leaps and bounds. She’s made an effort. She used to look like she’d been dressed by her cat. Ah well. If there’s hope for her, there’s hope for all of us.

Emma got herself a drink from the bar, and inhaled it, glancing around nervously.

Bloody chill, girlfriend! Leave everything to me, and you know you’ll be brilliant.

Yeah, thought Emma. I’ll just look at a few people, and if I don’t like them, then I can go home, we’ll log in to Are You Interested? and laugh at strange men’s curtains.

God, you are thrilling. And I’m taking the liberty of tweaking your metabolism just a little. A little less adrenalin, a little more…

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Emma decided this was the best drink she’d ever tasted. She caught her reflection in the mirror and grinned. I am looking fantastic, aren’t I?

See? Now, let’s get on with this.

‘Hello, my name is Harry. I work in… well, it’s just a call centre really. At the moment. It’s not what I wanted to do, really, but you know how it is – you doss around after uni, and then you do something for a few weeks, then a few weeks more, and before you know it, you’ve been doing it for eighteen months, and then you’re the manager. But you know, it’s OK – the people are great, and the money’s nice, but my real love is my sport and my mates and surfing. Do you know what the original lyrics to that Beach Boys song were?’

Emma sipped carefully at her drink.

Well?

He is gorgeous, she admitted. He’s got great hair, lovely teeth and piercing blue eyes. And I can tell he’s ripped. She let herself imagine them taking walks along a foreign beach. They looked good together.

But…?

Well, he’s so dull. I can just tell. And so young.

What do you want me to change?

I dunno.

Oh, Emma!

Look, the body’s perfect, but he’s so empty. I mean, can you make him more mature, teach him a foreign language, get him a decent job, some nicer jeans and a cordon bleu cookery course?

…

What was that?

Emma love, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, doll. You know that. But there are limits. Yeah, I can give him more balls, and make him a bit brighter. I can also have a bit of a fiddle with the genes that predispose him to cheating.

Cheating?

Oh yes. I’m afraid he’s never been faithful in a relationship. Those cheekbones were built for cheating. He gave his last girlfriend the clap. And her best friend got it too. And while he’s here making puppy eyes at you, there’s a girl in Newport who thinks he’s The One. But I can change all that. I can make him faithful and pox free.

I don’t know. Would he be the same?

Look, I am bending over backwards for you, sweet cheeks. You’ve got the best-looking fella in the room, and he’s desperate for you. Look, if he’s not a keeper, we can at least get you a shag out of him.

Oh, cheers, Cheryl.

Someone has got very choosy of late.

Of course! I’m nearly perfect, aren’t I?

:-)

Gwen watched as the guy sat down. Ponytail, (too) skinny jeans, black T-shirt with a skull design made 3-D by his beer belly. Too much jewellery. And, oh yes, a mobile phone in a holster. He gave her a big grin, and she just thought, ‘Spots? In your thirties? Oh bless.’

‘Gavin,’ he said, and laughed nervously. ‘This is all right, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ said Gwen. ‘I suppose. I’m Gwen.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘So, are you into modelling?’ Gwen giggled, despite herself. ‘Bless you! No! God, no! When I was twenty and a twiglet, maybe. But no, not now!’

‘Shame,’ the man sighed, genuinely disappointed. ‘I paint orcs myself.’

‘What?’

‘Model orcs.’

‘Right. Uh.’ Gwen fingered her glass. How do people do this? ‘Any other hobbies?’

‘I love going to the cinema. And gaming. MonstaQuest. And do you play Warcraft?’

‘Dear god, no! My friend Owen used to, all the time.’

‘Really? What’s his username?’

‘Oh, he doesn’t play much any more,’ admitted Gwen, tightly.

‘Pity. I hate it when someone leaves their Guild,’ the man looked genuinely sad. ‘Still, I bet I’ve whipped him a few times.’

‘Are you sure? I think he was pretty good.’

Gavin managed a surprisingly roguish grin. ‘I think I’m better.’

‘OK.’ Gwen thought hard and mustered an interest. What was it the Gavins of the world loved? She tried to remember what the staff were talking about whenever she went to dig Rhys out of Spillers Records. ‘So, what about the cinema – I’m guessing films with a high body count and a big space bang at the end?’

He shrugged. ‘Actually, I’m more into my visceral horror – you know, torture porn? Love that stuff!’

‘Really? I’ve always been a bit squeamish, me,’ said Gwen. ‘Never could stand the sight of blood.’ She looked long and hard at Gavin. Do I really have to talk to this moron for a whole five minutes?

‘Shame,’ continued Gavin. ‘There used to be a few clubs in Cardiff, you know…’ He leaned forward, conspiratorially, his breath catching Gwen like a force field. ‘Tales of all sorts of horrors. Like fight club – but with beasts.’

‘What kind of beasts?’ Gwen was genuinely intrigued.

‘Well, you see, people said it was aliens. Aliens fighting humans. But I don’t believe all that. There’s a lot of conspiracy theories – you know how it is with all the stuff that’s been going on in the last couple of years.’

‘Yeah,’ said Gwen, almost impossibly slowly.

‘But lots of it’s nuts. I mean – all this talk of alien visits, and ships in the sky and so on. But it’s all “a friend of a friend”, isn’t it? Have you ever met anyone who’s actually met an alien? Talked to one? No? I thought not.’ Gavin smiled in a satisfied way.

‘No. Not me. I’ve always lived a quiet life,’ said Gwen.

‘Oh, don’t get me wrong – it’s not all blood and gore for Mr Gavin. Sometimes, I like nothing better than to chill at home with a pizza and some boxsets. That can be dead romantic, can’t it?’

‘Oh god, can it?’ sighed Gwen.

One thing that should have alerted Gwen to the nearby presence of an alien device is the fact that this conversation had only taken ten seconds. She had another four minutes and fifty seconds of speed-dating with Gavin to go. And nothing more to say to him.

Emma was talking to some poor kid. He was babbling away about how awful his flat was. ‘See, this bloke moved back to help his folks run a cinema. He let it out dead cheap, and I thought I had a bargain. Real impressive it is – at the back of an old warehouse. The square footage is amazing, although the bathroom leaks.’

Emma was nodding quietly, trying to imagine him with better skin, or a clean T-shirt, maybe, or a bit Scottish, or blond or something.

‘Thing is, it really is an old warehouse. If I meet a girl out and she comes home, she thinks I’m like a serial killer or something. Honestly, before I even start unbolting the hangar door they’re phoning a cab…’

‘And, actually, at the moment, I’m really into World Music.’