The Soulmate Agency Page 3

  Willow sniffed and chose some brie and a soft roll. “Serves you right, you must admit that it wasn’t up to your usual standard.”

  He gave a short chuckle, “Well it was up to standard when I recorded it ten years ago. There was some copyright problems with the shots from the aerial cameraman flying the microlight. Without them the programme would have been useless. Anyway, he died and his son, unbeknown to me, gave permission for the documentary to be screened. Your right though, I would dearly have loved to re-record it before it was transmitted.”

  She picked up a couple of olives, “That’s the advantage of being a critic, I am always right.”

  He chuckled again, “Then I won’t tell the group that you branded Kent Town as the ‘scrapings of the soap-opera barrel’ two weeks before it started getting audiences of over nine million.”

  Fortunately she didn’t have time to reply as Angela clapped her hands. “Can we all sit down please, there will be time to replenish your plates after our next contributor, who is staying in – Dahlia.”

  The woman in the chair between Cameron and Derek put down a kebab stick and wiped her fingers on a napkin. Just under five feet tall she was almost the shortest person in the room and, by universal subconscious agreement, definitely the most ugly. Her facial bone structure, with the exception of her nose, was almost as entirely flat as it was square. There seemed to be absolutely no tapering of the cheeks towards the lower jaw, rather the face continued straight down and then straight across in a truly square jaw. Her large forehead, similarly, went straight up towards her remarkably flat head that was covered with a wispy fine blond hair that left small bald patches to gleam through. Likewise her eyebrows were almost invisible thin lines of practically non-existent blonde hairs hanging off of the edge of her huge forehead. To add to the gruesomeness her small piggy brown eyes, with seemingly oversized hooded eyelids, appeared to have been stuck on as an afterthought and as such sat in the centre of crater sized hollows of eye-sockets in which they protruded as if they were about to burst into freedom any second. True to form her ears were both small and laid right back against the skull as if to enhance the square appearance while her nose stuck out like a spout from a teacup. With some people a large Roman nose looks noble, on her it looked ridiculous. Once you could drag you eyes away from the face she still seemed totally out of proportion. Her arms were short, her hands podgy and her legs slightly bowed as if they struggled under the weight of her naturally wide hips and overhanging bosom. She wiped her lips. “I’m Gwen, Gwen Jones. As you can doubtless tell from the name, and the accent, I come from Wales and the beautiful town of Bala. Rather boringly I spent a pleasant childhood in Bala before trying my hand at Bangor University studying Marine Biology. To tell the truth after six months I hated it and it hated me, so I moved to Swansea University to studied Haematology and Histology. I must confess that I loved it from the start.”

  She swivelled her little piggy eyes to peer round the room and see if anybody was listening. If they weren’t listening to her they were probably listening to her Welsh sing-song accent. “After Swansea I did a PhD in the same subject at Sydney University. I’d met this Australian boy at Swansea University see, and thought that I was in love I got my PhD and he got rid of me for some Italian strumpet who cooked pizzas for a living. I spent three years working in one of the Sydney hospitals moping around and working hard before I took a job at The Delhi Infirmary in India. It was a beautiful job, with beautiful people, but my mother fell ill when I’d been there two years and I felt I had to go home.”

  She suddenly tucked her legs up onto the armchair as if trying to assume a foetal position. “She died – it was a long and painful death that I don’t want to talk about. Afterwards I went back to work at Ipswich Hospital in Suffolk. It was on the wrong side of the country for my accent, but the right side to get away from my three worthless brothers, who expected me to look after them and our dad; after all I am only a woman.”

  The last phrase was said with heavy sarcasm. She resumed a normal sitting position. “Why am I here? Two reasons really. Firstly I work nights so a social life is out of the question.”

  She took a deep breath, “And secondly most men take one look at me and either run away screaming or think that I must be so desperate I’ll take anybody. But I don’t want anybody I want somebody who can see past my minor facial imperfections and into the real me.”

  She paused and then added, as if in afterthought, “Oh hobbies. When at University I used to enjoy amateur dramatics and go canoeing, but there’s no natural white water in Suffolk.”

  Angela nodded, “Any questions?”

  Willow rolled her eyes, “Ever considered plastic surgery dear, they can work miracles you know.”

  Angela looked horrified, but Gwen waved a hand to say that she’d answer. “Sure I’ve considered plastic surgery, wouldn’t you? But remember where I work. I’ve seem the legacy of botched plastic surgery or unforeseen effects as the skin ages or the result of infection. No, if God made me like this then why should I get his handiwork altered?”

  There seemed to be no answer to that and by some unseen mutual decision everybody got up to replenish their plates.

  Chapter 8

  Henry

  After the usual milling around everybody soon had a replenished plate and returned to their armchair positions. Remarkably there was little, or no, talking as they did so. Once seated Angela jangled the bag again and pulled out ‘Marigold’ secretly hoping that what she thought would turn out to be the most boring person would not depress the group as they ate.

  “I wondered when you’d get round to me,” said a dapper man in a lightweight light blue suit.

  Dapper was hardly an accurate description, flawlessly impeccable would have been better. Just on six foot tall he lounged in the armchair as if he were relaxing on some sort of holiday break rather than just about to present his life story to a dating agency. His medium blue pinstripe suit was immaculate tailored with trouser creases that looked sharp enough to cut and his pale blue tailor made shirt clung to his lank frame like a glove and emphasised both his style and leanness. To add to the image his dark-blue suede shoes were perfectly brushed and his light-blue socks entirely without wrinkles. He smiled, demonstrating a wide mouth, even white teeth and a pair of sparkling blue eyes. Otherwise his face was lean and featureless beneath glossy black hair that was parted straight down the middle and hung perfectly just above the ears. The only splash of colour on an otherwise blue/black image came from the red silk cravat and matching silk handkerchief stuffed into the jacket top pocket. “I’m Henry Aspen,” he drawled in a slightly Dutch, slightly Cornish accent.

  He wiped his fingers on a napkin after putting down a Samoa he’d been about to bite into. “Just like you’ve probably heard Derek’s voice you’ve probably heard of my fruit-juices. ‘Aspenolli Juices for the critically thirsty.’”

  He paused to let the words sink in. “I guess I’m supposed to start at the beginning, but believe me the beginning in dreary. Suffice to say that I was raised in Belgium by an English father and a German mother until I was seven, then we all came to live in England when my father changed company and worked over here. School was a bore and totally uninteresting, so I’ll give it a miss. However, my social life wasn’t. When I was just fourteen I met Sally. She lived across the street from me, we’re in mid-Canterbury by the way, and she was ten years older than me. Ostensibly I visited her to walk her rather large dog and get some pocket money, in reality the dog preferred to sleep and I preferred to sleep as well; with Sally. You can’t keep much secret in a small street, but it took my parent’s two years to discover that I was having sex with an older woman and by then I was sixteen. My father, one of the old school, gave me a good belting and then told me to do the honourable thing. So I married Sally when I was seventeen and started to work as office-boy to a set of book-keepers. Despite the age-gap it was a very happy marriage and in the ten years we were married I never once re
gretted meeting Sally or marrying her. To tell the truth it was like a dream come true. In that ten years I passed basic accountancy exams and Sally continued to work as a waitress, though she was part-time and afternoons only most of that time. She was not what you might call a morning person. For our tenth wedding anniversary we decided to splash out and went on holiday to far-flung Maldives. It was a marvellous time together and one I will always treasure, but two things happened on that holiday which changed my life. Firstly I tasted proper fruit-juice and secondly Sally died.”

  He paused and took a deep breath. “About half an hour after take-off Sally went to the toilet at the back of the plane. She couldn’t have been gone more than a few seconds when the plane dropped like a stone. I’m told we ran into vertical wind sheer, the effect was terrifying. Loose objects went upwards and the plane shook like it had been taken hold of by a Dervish. What seemed like an age later the plane flipped over onto its back as it continued to fall. I must confess that I passed out just after that point, as did many other passengers, something to do with lack of oxygen as the oxygen masks dropped towards the roof not towards us. When I came to we were flying straight and level, but low enough to see seagulls sitting on the sea. Anyone who hadn’t been wearing a seat-belt was injured, most with broken bones, two with deep cuts to the head. All three stewardesses had broken arms; it was that sort of accident. There was only one fatality, Sally. She must have broken her neck on the toilet ceiling as soon as the plane started falling; it was a relief to know it was quick and heartbreaking to know that she’d died.”

  He paused, not for effect, but to gather some equilibrium. “I’d taken out travel insurance and, to my surprise as it was only a cheap policy, they paid up. I used the money to start the fruit-juice company. I guess I had the right product at the right time. Started with lime with mango, soon moved on the cherry with cranberry and the rest is history. We now do 151 different flavours, some exotic, some mundane, all profitable.”

  His sparkling traversed the room, “Why am I here? After Sally died I threw myself into the firm, eighty hour weeks and flying everywhere to get good deals and ensure that none of the stuff I was buying was either tainted or somebody’s old stock. Couple of years ago I eased off and employed a couple of good reliable managers. It was then that I missed Sally the most.”

  He looked round again, “Don’t worry, I’m not looking for another Sally, just someone whose not a gold-digger and could be a loveable companion.”

  He frowned, “Someone to share my life with.”

  After a pause to ensure that Henry had finished Angela raised her eyebrows. Willow stopped eating. “Read in the press that you won’t have child labour used in the production of your juices, is that true?”

  “As near as can be,” he replied, “but your definition of child labour and that of some poor family stuck on a Spanish hillside may not be the same. You tend to find the whole family, young and old, working on the farm In cases like that you have to take a pragmatic view, if you don’t buy their fruit because a seven year old helps to pick the crop they might not find a buyer, if you do you can be charged with child exploitation. We take the line that if children help when they are not at school that’s fine. We also provide scholarships in most countries for the underprivileged.”

  Cameron looked up, “Why do you bother with sponsorship in Formula One motor racing.”

  Henry smiled, “Have you any idea just how many countries receive the race broadcasts, or the size of the audience? It’s worth every penny.”

  By some mutual agreement people started returning their now empty plates and picking up cups of coffee. Angela relaxed, she had three to go and Henry had been far better than expected, certainly far better than his tedious application form suggested.

  Chapter 9

  Treasa

  Once everyone was seated Angela plunged her hand into the bag, knowing that this particular person was going to be the most socially awkward for the group. “Tulip,” she announced.

  No-one moved. There was no instant admittance of being the occupier of ‘Tulip.’ After what seemed like an age young woman, who looked more like an overgrown school girl, soundlessly clapped her hands. Overgrown school girl certainly fitted her demeanour. She was wearing one of those types of blue dungarees that have trouser legs and a bib, with shoulder straps, that covers the upper half, a white turtle neck long-sleeve cotton top, black ‘sensible’ shoes and a wristwatch that had a three inch bright red plastic strap around her left wrist. Her face also looked childish, freckles beneath the sparkling inquisitive green eyes, snub nose, and blonde hair gathered in bunches, secured by red elastic bands, each side of her head. She giggled. “I’m Treasa, that’s Theresa without the HE; my grandmother was Irish. Like Derek you might have seen me, but don’t recognise me as I host the morning Children’s slot on the Golden satellite TV channel which is syndicated to the mainstream channels a few days a week.” Her accent was indefinable, but her voice sounded just like a ten year old, all squeaky notes and slushy sibilance.

  She suddenly bounced into the middle of the circle of armchairs and sang the theme song while performing all the childish actions, she finished up with a tiny tap dance and curtsied open arm flourish. It was remarkable; she could have been a seven-year old hyping it up at a school concert, except that it was a very polished and obviously routine performance. She sat down again and swung her legs like a child. She could do this because her short legs didn’t reach the floor Gwen was short for a woman, Treasa was minuscule being at least a head shorter. However, unlike Gwen, her body, arms and legs were in proportion, a small proportion that is. “The job's a blessing really as I probably couldn’t do anything else. I spent most of my childhood wandering from camp to camp with my itinerant parents who fancied themselves as hippies, so schooling was a sparse pastime.”

  She tucked her legs under her. “My grannie died when I was fourteen and, to my surprise, we moved into her house and stayed put. The school I was allocated to despaired of me as educated I wasn’t and stroppy I was. Suffice to say I spent most of my first year in the sin bin and the next year in the drama department. That came about because one teacher, one out of a set of about thirty, took the time out to talk to me and find out what I liked, and I liked drama.”

  She looked round the room in an exaggerated manner, rather like a schoolchild striving to see if the adults were listening. “My lucky break came when we did a tour of some TV studios. We were shown a children’s programme in production and allowed to have a go. I had a go and got hired.”

  She uncurled her legs and soundlessly clapped her hands, “It’s great fun, you get to act as a child all day long and nobody tells you off and I’ve been doing it for nearly twenty years.”

  She let the words sink in as her demeanour changed from child to adult and tired adult at that. “I suppose you’re surprised,” she said in a mellow adult voice with a wavering Kent accent. “But I have been blessed and cursed with what you might call arrested development as I never grew much after I was eleven and I was short even then. For me the promised teenage growth spurt never came. So I have stayed the right size for the children’s TV job even though I need a little extra make-up now and then.”

  The women peered at her skin, it looked perfect. She gave a slow smile, an adult slow smile. “So, I’m fully employed, happy in my work, content in my studio flat near central London and reasonably happy to be single, so what am I doing here?”

  She chuckled, “After thirty years of trying my father came up with a thirty-three to one treble, that is he bet Ten pounds on three races with each horse being quoted at 33:1 by the bookie. Even I can work out that that comes in at nearly £360,000. Now he’s got the money he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he bought me the week here as a birthday present saying that he would like to see me ‘settled’ before he dies.”

  Her eyes flicked round the room, “Now there’s no offence meant, but currently I’m not in need of a man, and this week is not my ch
oice. So after today’s session I intend to opt out and just treat the place like a hotel and have a good rest. Thus I’ll see you for meals, but probably not in-between.”

  There was a deathly silence until Cameron coughed, “Treasa isn’t your stage name is it, aren’t you known as Molly Mint?”

  She gave a disconsolate grunt, “Unfortunately yes, it wasn’t my choice, but it’s served me well.”

  Willow sighed through her nose, “Twenty years of singing children’s songs, play acting and trying to look happy, sounds like a life sentence to me.”

  “At least it’s better than cutting other peoples lives to shreds using the cover of being called a critic.”

  “Oh touché!” Cried Willow.

  “Besides,” added Treasa, “I do actually enjoy it. As I said you get to act the child and have fun and, as a bonus, make some people happy.”

  Derek gave a polite cough, “I think you’ve undersold yourself madam, are you not really Tereasa McDonald CBE, the CBE being for your work as patron of the charity “Child’s play.”

  She shuffled in her seat, “I’m only the patron and I got the award, really it’s a team effort.”

  Henry’s head shot up as if he’d just sat on a thumb-tack. “Child’s play? Your lot took me for ten thousand bottles of apple juice last year for your Hyde Park event. I didn’t see you there.”

  She grinned, “I was dressed up as Little Bo Peep.”

  Amazement crossed his face, “That was you, I thought…”

  She rolled her eyes, “That’s another reason I don’t need a man, last time a full blown hunk of a male took me out he got called pervert twice and almost arrested.”

  Nobody laughed. Angela coughed, “Perhaps we need to move on, let’s take a five minute comfort break and then continue.”