The Soulmate Agency Read online

  He led her to his car, laughing all the way.

  She never got the fingerprinted as once they were in the out in the bright sunlight it was obvious that she wasn’t a child. He peered at her and then grinned from ear to ear, “You’re Molly Mint, my niece watches you every day.”

  Treasa relaxed. The traffic policeman winked at her and called up his control on the radio. “Alpha nine-six to control.”

  “Control here alpha nine-six, go ahead.”

  “You really must get our new police optician to examine PC Younger’s eyes. There’s no doubt that the young lady has her own ID card and that she is an adult.”

  There was a chuckle on the radio, “Thanks alpha nine-six, message understood.”

  He grinned at Treasa, “They’ll rib him endlessly about this for weeks.”

  The PC himself, clearly having heard the interchange in his radio, strode down the church path and flapped his hands, “Thank you George very much for that, I don’t think.”

  George raised his hands, “Just doing my job. Now I believe that you owe this young woman an apology?”

  He took a deep breath, “I’m very sorry madam if I have inconvenienced you at all, it’s just that we’re having a push on truancy and I thought…”

  She flashed him a smile having decided that he would suffer enough, “That’s quite alright constable, at least you didn’t call out the school truancy inspector.”

  He turned white and hurried up the path, both her and George burst into fits of laughter. She turned to George, “Don’t suppose you could run me back to the gates of Minton Hall?”

  He grinned, “Of course, least we could do to recompense you for the inconvenience.”

  They climbed into his car and he gave her a sideways glance, “Excuse me asking, but you do weigh more than five stone don’t you?”

  “Worried about the seat-belt system? It’s OK I weigh nearer six stone.”

  He drove out of the car-park, ran through the village and turned to go back towards Minton Hall, least he would have done, except that there was a minibus and a car blocking the junction. The collision must have happened a couple of minutes before as the two drivers were remonstrating in the middle of the road while a bus full of small children looked on. George sighed, “That’s all I need, a bus-load of fractious children and a bit of road-rage.”

  As they stopped Treasa took off her seatbelt, “You deal with the adults, I'll deal with the children.”

  She got out of the car and then skipped towards the bus waving her right hand in a sort of figure of eight.

  Twenty minutes later the tow-truck arrived and the local mechanic started the routine to put the car onto his low-loader and pull the minibus’ bumper off of the front tyre. He did this to the accompaniment of ‘Old McDonald had a farm,’ sung with a double clap at the end of every line accompanying the familiar chorus of onomatopoeic words. Eventually he stood back and looked at George. “At least they sound happy.”

  George chuckled, “Stroke of luck, I had Molly Mint on board.”

  The mechanic wiped his hands on a piece of soiled cloth, “My kids love her show, little ‘one spent an hour after he last show pretending to drive, he just sat a chair making all the noises and swerving around imaginary objects. It was sheer bliss.”

  George waved to Treasa, she finished off the last chorus, waved goodbye to the kids and left the bus. The kids all waved enthusiastically as the bus drove them away. They climbed back in the police car and continued their journey towards Minton Hall. “Thanks for that,” said George, “Didn’t want them running all over the place.”

  “Piece of cake,” she replied.”

  George swung into through the hall gates and up the drive. He said casually, “Don’t suppose you’re free tomorrow morning.”

  Treasa narrowed her eyes, “What for?”

  He sighed, “It’s my day-off tomorrow, but I’ve been ‘volunteered’ to do a road safety spot at the local youth club. It’s one of those entertainment days where the children can try our sports and circus skills and have an entertainer in the afternoon. I’ve got the mid-morning slot and as you can imagine I go down like a lead balloon.”

  “What age-range, I don’t do over teenagers.”

  He smiled to himself, she was taking the bait. “I am assured they are all years two and three, guess that means six and seven year olds.”

  She nodded, “OK. But only once, I am supposed to be on holiday.”

  “Pick you up at ten?”

  “Fine.”

  She climbed out of the car, waved to a perplexed Angela and headed for her room, perhaps she could think there.

  Chapter 16

  Derek/Gwen

  Derek and Gwen also opted for the walk into the village. The start of the foot path was indeed easy to find and they set off along a wide track that wound gently between tall trees. For want of something to say Derek asked Gwen whether she liked Minton Hall. “Do you mean the place or the dating agency,” she said with her rich Welsh vowels.

  He shrugged, “Either.”

  She screwed her nose up. “Don’t like the hall, bit too pretentious for me. I prefer things nice and simple, not minimalistic mind, just honest.”

  She glanced up at his face, it betrayed nothing. “As for the agency, they do have a good reputation, that is if you can believe what you read, but it’s all just too convenient. You get this wonderful feedback form about your ideal partner and my form talks about seeking out someone who runs their own company and is neat and tidy. And then I’m supposed to be overwhelmed with surprise when in our group with four men – four men mind, not a roomful – there’s a smart man who owns a company? I don’t think so!”

  Derek chortled way down in his throat. “You’re dead right. My feedback form waxed eloquently as to how I should seek out someone who understood the way public media companies work and who had a good command of English so that we could have what they termed ‘fruitful conversations.’ Never expected Willow to be here, but she probably fulfils their criteria.”

  “You know her?”

  “Been to the same functions once or twice. Certainly know of her. Tongues too cutting for my like and she smokes.”

  Gwen suddenly stopped dead. “Look, can we slow down? This isn’t a race and I can barely keep up with you.”

  Derek’s raised his eyebrows and looked startled. “Sorry, you set the pace and I’ll tag along.”

  The set off again, at about half the pace. Gwen resumed the conversation as if nothing had happened. “Don’t like smokers?”

  He shook his head. “Generally inconsiderate of others, smell like a used ash-tray and all too often die a slow painful death.”

  She grinned, “Take that as a yes then. I must confess after umpteen years looking at smoker’s lungs you wouldn’t catch me anywhere near tobacco in any of its nasty forms.”

  They ambled on. As they approached what looked like a country lane Gwen said, as an offhand remark, “Is that why you selected me? I don’t smoke and I have no idea how the media work, a sort of anti-Angela choice?”

  “Rapport,” he answered decisively, “Rapport, I felt that I could have some sort of amity with you. Willow is just too acerbic, besides she’s disposed of three husbands so getting rid of a fourth would be child’s play.” He oscillated his jaw from side to side as he thought. “Roberta’s nice, but alcoholics frighten me, and I’ve no doubt that she is one.” He shrugged, “Call it a there but for the grace of God complex. There was a time when I might have taken solace in drink had not work taken over.” There was another pause; clearly he liked to think his reasons through. “Riona on the other hand is off the other end of the scale. Aristocratic independent women with an axe to grind are not what I’m seeking. If you’re not careful you get caught between them and their family and ground to death.”

  Gwen made some sort of helpless gesture with her arms and shoulders. “So I’m the safe bet to get you through am I? The choice by default to avoid the others.”


  He stopped and the side of the lane and looked at her. “Not at all,” he said in his distinctive timbre, “as I said it’s a matter of rapport. We could have had a room full of beauty queens and debutantes and I would have chosen you.” They crossed the lane to enter into a slightly narrower track that went gently downhill. “I suppose it’s something to do with chemistry, what do you call it, affinity compounds?”

  They stopped at the top of a flight of ragged steps that had a hand-rail only on the left. Derek circumnavigated Gwen and put himself on her right. They hobbled carefully down the uneven steps and into what was obviously the church/village car-park. He glanced at her. “Who would you have chosen?”

  She sucked in her cheeks, it made her look even more like a mediaeval gargoyle. “You. Henry’s just not my type. I couldn’t stand being a vicar’s wife, no matter how nice Ben is, and Cameron does absolutely nothing for me. He’s like a placebo to me, absolutely no effect. Whereas you,” she looked up at him, “you make my hormones shiver.”

  He licked his lips, “You mean my voice makes your hormones shiver.”

  She shook her head violently, “Oh no, you’re not going to get away with that. You’re voice is OK, and I suppose it is well known, but my hormones are reacting to your looks and your character.”

  Derek smiled, she didn’t know it, but she’d said the one thing that made him more relaxed with her. She wasn’t with him for his voice. He was fed up with his voice, it earned him a good living and many contracts, but he was more than just an audible output device and she recognised that. He looked around and spotted Treasa entering the church, he carefully steered Gwen towards the village.

  The village was small, just the Saxons church and ten tiny shops; greengrocers, butcher, baker, general stores, newsagents, estate agents and no less four antique shop. At the other end of the village there was a small hotel, The Swan. Derek studied the menu in the window. “They do tea and crumpets,” he said, almost licking his lips.

  Gwen smiled, his body language was just like a school boy wanting a treat. “Sounds good.” She replied.

  The hotel was all low ceilings, dark wooden beams and faded wallpaper. The lounge was cramped with about six leather wing armchairs and three overstuffed chintz settees crammed into a space that should have had half that number. They were all empty. They sat down on each end of a corner settee that curved round the corner of the lounge, this put them effectively one seat apart, but at right angles to each other. Gwen studied the yellowish menu while Derek’s eyes flitted around the room. He suddenly hissed, “Can you order? I’ll pay, but please you order.”

  A thin pimply youth in a threadbare grey dress arrived. Gwen flashed her a smile, “Coffee for two please, a pair of toasted crumpets and a fruit scone, with jam.”

  “Pot or cups?”

  “Pot.”

  “What sort of jam?”

  Derek made some sort of ‘anything will do’ gesture. “Strawberry.”

  “Ain’t got none.”

  “Blackcurrant, in fact anything red. Definitely not Apricot.”

  “Milk or cream?”

  “Cream."

  She walked out swinging her hips and looking indolent.

  Derek sighed, “Sorry about that, it’s just that if I order I start to get peculiar looks and then…”

  She laughed, “Does everybody recognise your voice?”

  “Almost everybody. Most don’t know where from at first, then I start getting asked for autographs and suchlike, or asking me if I enjoyed Brazil when I only did a voice over for some weary documentary.”

  He stretched his legs out, clumped Gwen’s feet and apologised. Gwen laughed, “You’re always the sort of person who sits in front of me at the cinema. Just when I think I’m going to get an unrestricted view this tall person will come in and sit in front of me.”

  “Go to the cinema much?”

  “Every Friday, more or less. One of the local cinema’s reserves three screens for what they call a ‘Gentleman’s viewing’ - I shudder to think what they show. However, the local W.I. objected and they gave another three screens over to ladies only. It fit’s in perfectly with my shifts.”

  The youth arrived with the coffee and edibles and deftly laid them out on the small coffee table in front of them. She plonked down a bill in the middle of the table and left. Gwen poured the coffee out and then realised that, by some slight of hand, the bill had disappeared. She picked up her scone and said softly, “You don’t have to pretend. I know I’m pug ugly. When the sixth form put on a panto for the junior school I played the wicked witch and twelve of the youngsters wet themselves.”

  Derek was sipping his coffee as she spoke and made that sort of noise that indicates the impossibility of drinking and laughing at the same time. He then put his cup down and laughed properly. It started like a deep rumble somewhere down the back of his throat and rose to a thunder like crescendo as he opened his mouth. He took a deep breath, “Forgive me, it was just the thought of…”

  He laughed again and Gwen smiled, he wasn’t laughing at her, but the situation she had described. She decided to ham it up. “At university we did Macbeth, you can just guess what part I had to play.”

  She crooned, “Leg of frog and eye of toad!” In a hag’s voice and Derek chortled.

  “Don’t you mind that sort of casting,” he asked, trying to regain some sort of composure.

  She shook her head, “It has its benefits, we also did The Hunchback of Notre-Dame and I got to play Quasimodo.”

  “‘The Bells! The Bells!’” She intoned. “Must have been the first ever interpretation of the play in Australia with a Welsh Quasimodo and a Nigerian Esmeralda.”

  Derek laughed again before he noticed Gwen’s eyes flitting across his crumpet. He made a supreme sacrifice. “Why don’t we share and each have a crumpet and a scone.”

  She gave him a heart-warming smile, “Sounds good to me.”

  The grandfather clock in the hall struck 3:45pm and neither noticed.

  Angela made her way towards the meeting room with a plan, a cunning plan. She’d decided that probably the best thing to do was to split the group into two sets of four and give them each a task, say discussing how they felt about the Government’s current policy on Civil Registration. If she did this she could put Ben, Cameron, Riona and Roberta in one group and Derek, Henry, Gwen and Willow in the other. This, she thought, would give the women the chance to ‘move over’ to the other man and her carefully conceived plan would be back on track. She swung open the meeting room door, marched in and came to a dead halt. The tea-trolley sat in splendid isolation with the tea-pot gently cooling, otherwise the only signs of life came from a giant bluebottle that was trying to beat its brains out on a window pane. She opened to window to let it out and flopped into an armchair. She’d been running the agency for six years and in that time she’d had the odd couple opt to miss tea on the first day. Once she’d had two couples miss tea, but that had been the disastrous week when by Thursday everybody had gone home empty handed. However, she had never had all four couples; she corrected herself, all four mismatched couples, miss tea in unison. She waited ten minutes and went back to her office on the second floor, muttering about having to do something over dinner. For her the week was beginning to turn into a nightmare, and it was only the first day!

  Chapter 17

  Dinner

  Despite the fact that everyone had missed tea, everyone turned up for the next time-tabled part of the day called ‘Same-Sex Chatter.’ Dinner was set for eight o’clock and this meeting was supposed to last from six thirty to seven thirty. Thus at just on six-thirty Willow, after a quick smoke in ‘Pansy,’ entered the room called Weigela to find only one empty chair in the group of four soft-looking armchairs that were placed almost in the centre of a bland room. She flopped into the empty chair and stretched out. “Well then what are we supposed to be doing now?” She drawled.

  There were embarrassed looks until Gwen waved a tiny piece of
paper that had been on one of the armchairs. “I rather suspect we’re supposed to talk about the men.”

  Willow raised an eyebrow, “Is that what it says?”

  Gwen gave a small cough and read “Take the opportunity to compare and contrast your days. For instance has the pairing arrangements of the afternoon been acceptable to you?”

  Riona thwacked together the wooden edges of her sandals. “Well I don’t want to play ball, seems a bit mean.”

  Willow naturally took charge, she had that sort of personality and the height to go with it. “Right, who’s in favour of a gossip about the men?”

  Nobody stirred.

  “Who’s in favour of a discussion on what we wear for dinner?”

  Roberta grunted, “Not much choice, I’ve got next to nothing with me.”

  Willow looked at Roberta’s tall curvaceous body. “I brought a wrap-round calf-length black seersucker skirt with me, goodness knows why as I rarely wear it. You can borrow it if you like.”

  She opened her mouth, but Riona cut across her. “I’ve got a white blouse, it’s a bit long for me. Has a Chinese style neck; go well with a wrap-round black skirt.”

  Roberta blinked, “I don’t know what to say.”

  Gwen laughed, “Say yes, we women have got to stick together.”

  “Against the men?” Queried Roberta.

  “No against Angela,” said Gwen. Everybody laughed.

  Willow made a clucking noise, “Girls, girls. Now tell me who doesn’t believe a word of their feedback forms?”

  Conversation began to flow freely.

  This picture was almost repeated in ‘Wisteria,’ where the men were meeting. The room was almost identical, as was the circle of comfy armchairs, but the talk was not on what to wear, or feedback forms. Derek arrived last and found the other three talking cars, or rather F1 racing teams. He lowered his frame into the last chair. “Is this supposed to be a male-bonding exercise?” He queried.