"Thank you for coming," I say, smiling pleasantly. "I'm so glad you could make it." Translation: Thank you for coming thirty minutes late, so glad you could find the time in your day to keep your appointment with me.
Across the table, my client is blissfully unaware of my irritation. Liza Donoghue is twenty-seven and looks thirty-five. Her hair falls limply past her shoulders and her tongue is working nervously over her teeth. She keeps sending me sidelong glances like she's trying to make sure I don't know what she's up to, but I suspect she's trying to fish something out of her teeth. I can tell because my Aunt Gwen does the same thing whenever she eats chicken.
Liza shoots me a scowl. "I almost didn't," she informs me, the way she stresses the word almost making me think that somewhere in that mousy brown head she actually thinks she's doing me a favor. "But I did pay you so I figured I might as well get my money's worth."
Her check actually paid for the Kate Spade purse hidden innocently in my drawer but I don't mention that. You see, Liza Donoghue is one of the millions of women occupying this planet who believes in finding Mr. Right. Some women get lucky and marry the guy of their dreams right out of high school and go on to be sickeningly happy with their babies who look cute as a button on a Facebook picture, but smell like poop and breast-milk in real life. Others have to wait a bit longer. But for women like Liza Donoghue, money tends to speed up the waiting process.
The business cards on my desk are eggshell-white. Or maybe it's ivory. Apparently paper comes in a dozen shades of white. On the right corner is a black spider's web, the black paint raised higher than the paper to give the card texture, and smack-dab in the center are the words Charlotte's Web in cursive lettering. Beneath it in capital block print are the words Charlotte Wright and my email, telephone number, and office address.
Charlotte's Web is an upscale alternative to the rigors of dating. After taking my online questionnaire and conducting an in-person interview with me, my clients are entered into the Web, which is what I call the database which will match them to their future Mr. or Mrs. Right. I'm pretty proud of its success rate, but judging from the look on Liza's face, she wouldn't agree with me.
"The last man I went out with was such a zero," she complains. "He worked in a bank as middle management." Her face pinches together like she smells a nasty odor. "He also kind of smelled like ranch."
"Excuse me?" I haven't heard that one before. "As in the dressing?"
"Yup," Liza says, popping the 'p'.
Desperate times call for desperate measures and since I can't afford to return her check, I do the next best thing. I lie. I lie my gloriously toned size six ass off. "You know," I say, leaning conspiratorially forward like I'm about to impart the biggest secret of my life, "as luck would have it, I did sign a contract this morning with a new client who I think would be just perfect for you." I'm really hoping she doesn't wonder when I had the time to do this since it's only 10 a.m.
"Yeah?" She visibly brightens. The gleam in her eye and her suddenly straightened spine mean she's back on my hook.
I smile mysteriously. "Liza, it's only been a few weeks. Compare that to the last five years of bad dates, dead end relationships, and copious amounts of self-pity ice cream which went straight to your hips, and it's a no-brainer. You need me. You really, really need me."
The truth is, I really, really need her. Not that I'd admit that to her, obviously. But with the influx of dating apps, it's harder for a gal to get work as a matchmaker these days. Women like Liza help pay my rent, my student loans, and put food on the table. If they're not satisfied after ten dates, I refund half their money. What I really provide is a dating experience, not true love. But people tend to find love around date six, on average. And it doesn't even have to last; just has to last long enough for them to consider the terms of our contract fulfilled and go on their merry way.
Mostly I just want to put the idea in her head that outsourcing her love life to my company was the best decision she ever made, so why rethink it just because she'd gone out with a few duds? "You have to kiss a few frogs before you find your prince," I wink. Mentally, I remind myself to write that down. That was fortune-cookie good.
Half of matchmaking is salesmanship. Half of salesmanship is confidence. Luckily, I've always had confidence in spades. There's nothing more comforting than someone who can look you in the eye and tell you you're going to get everything you ever wanted, especially when you want to believe it so badly. "Trust me, Liza. You're going to be reaping the benefits of your investment any day now."
Bulls-eye. I can practically see her mind wander into stained-glass churches and choked, heartfelt "I do's". Before she starts picking out baby names and nursery colors, I make a point of looking at my watch. "Oh my gosh, I have someone coming by for an interview in a few minutes. Why don't I set up the date and we'll take it from there?"
Liza's on date ten. If this doesn't go well, she'll probably ask for her money back. I've been doing this for five years and I can count on one hand how many people have asked for refunds. Don't get me wrong, I don't bullshit all my clients. I'm good at what I do and my website has hundreds of testimonials from satisfied clients. Not a day goes by that I don't get at least one thank-you email from a newly engaged couple and don't even get me started on how many people still remember me when it comes time to send out Christmas cards. At one point, I had thirty-seven on my mantel and my mother was convinced I was sending them to myself.
Sometimes they're too embarrassed to ask for their money back so they chalk it up as a sunk cost and slink back to their dreary single's lives. I don't mind - it makes me richer. Refunding Liza her five grand won't set me back by too much if I return the purse, but who ever got richer by letting money slip out of their fingers? Or in my case, web. That was the first lesson my dad taught me: you don't get rich by giving away money. Partly why my allowance was so meager, I later realized.
And I really don't want to be poor. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I knew a gal from college who couldn't find a job because she majored in Renaissance literature and a year after graduation I saw her in the supermarket buying store-brand cereal and ninety-nine-cent shampoo. Her hair hadn't been colored and her ends looked ratty and she had quickly averted her eyes when she saw me so we wouldn't have to make eye contact and small talk. I'm not so great at economizing. Then again, I'm also not dumb enough to major in something like Renaissance lit so maybe I'm more savvy than I think. Not that I want to test it out.
I'm selling Liza hope and I'm running on fumes. I'm just hoping I can keep her hooked long enough to get her to date eleven, at which point the terms of the contract are fulfilled and I have no further legal obligation to refund her money. Plenty of people keep going after the first ten dates. Some of them genuinely enjoy the people I set them up with, even if it doesn't pan out for more than an evening, and others just cling on to me like a lifeline because of the glittering promise of future happiness.
"Fabulous," she gushes. She stands up, clutching her purse to her stomach.
I walk her to the door and hold it open for her. Maybe I should feel guilty about capitalizing on someone else's misery, but since it's currently making me bank I choose to absolve myself.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Charlotte." Liza halts suddenly, turning to look at me with faint surprise. "I forgot to ask. It's almost Valentine's Day. Are you and your husband doing anything special?"
It's an unfortunate side effect of the job that because I spend so much time getting to know the minute, intimate details of their lives, my clients feel the need to return the favor and poke into my personal life. Mostly I demur, gazing lovingly at the simple gold band on my finger and saying I don't discuss my love life at work. I don't think my clients realize that I find their questions intrusive. They don't have to take an interest in me and in fact, I prefer them not to. Liza thinks she's being courteous by taking an interest in me, but she doesn't realize she doesn't have to because our relationship is purely professional. Her weird tongue-flossing habit aside, I wouldn't be friends with her even if she wasn't my client.
I twist the ring on my finger, tilting my head to the side. "Oh, you know," I respond vaguely.
She emits a high-pitched girlish giggle. She probably thinks I'm trying to allude to sex in a classy way or something.
"Well, enjoy!" Liza winks. She gives me a little wave and finally passes through the doorway, giving a cursory nod to my secretary as she click-clacks her two-inch pumps to the elevator.
I return to my desk and spend a solid minute staring at the ring. The band is thin and dainty, perfectly complementing the length of my fingers. Artistic fingers, my mother used to call them when I was a kid. Of course, that was before she realized I couldn't draw, sculpt, sing, or play piano.
I sort of want to hurl the ring straight into the wastepaper basket. I got it at a pawn shop and inside someone had it inscribed with "always and forever" and even though I'm not particularly sentimental it's always bothered me that something that once meant so much to someone was sold in a grungy little shop for sixty-five dollars.
Maybe because it represents one of the biggest lies I've told my clients.
I'm not married. I'm not even dating anyone. More importantly, I don't believe in true love, not even a little bit. And I have Wolfram van der Waals to thank for that.