Page 2 of The Match Faker

‘But I—’ Before I had a chance to set her straight, she cut me off.

‘Your aunt Mary said you’d been corrupted by the devil and needed Jesus, but isn’t prostitution one of the oldest professions in the world? At least that’ll never get replaced by technology!’

My cheeks heated. It was no surprise they’d been talking about me. This family had more gossips than a tabloid newspaper.

‘I don’t employ escorts. I run a professional matchmaking agency. I help people find love.’

‘So there’s no escorts or prostitutes?’ She raised her voice. I was glad the music was loud so no one else could hear her question.

‘No.’ I shook my head.

‘But that doesn’t make sense.’

‘What?’

‘I said that doesn’t make sense!’ she repeated.

‘Why?’ I frowned, wishing I’d plucked three glasses of champagne from the waiter’s tray instead of one.

Just as my aunt opened her mouth to reply, my cousin’s sons crashed into the DJ. His laptop plummeted to the floor and the music stopped.

‘If you run a professional matchmaking agency,’ she yelled, somehow not realising the hall was now deathly silent, ‘then why are you still single?’

Mic. Drop.

Everyone’s eyes spun so fast in my direction I was surprised they didn’t get whiplash.

The heat of a hundred gazes burned into me. My pulse raced.

It was bad enough that Aunty Doreen wanted an update on my love life, but now, everyone in the hall was staring, waiting for an answer too.

Most singletons could just shrug their shoulders or complain about how rubbish the men were on dating apps. But when you were supposed to be a matchmaking expert, that wasn’t going to fly.

It was like a plumber having a broken toilet. Or a dance instructor with two left feet.

‘Oh, y’know.’ I forced a smile, wishing the ground would swallow me up. ‘It’s like the builder who’s so busy fixing other people’s homes, he never has time to do his own.’ I laughed awkwardly, sweat pooling under my armpits.

‘Awww.’ She patted me on the head like a wounded puppy. ‘Hopefully, you’ll find someone before you get left on the scrap heap. How old are you now? Twenty-nine?’

I glared at the DJ to see if he was any closer to putting the music back on, but like the entire hall, he was too busy eavesdropping on my car crash conversation.

People had even moved closer to get a front-row view of me dying of embarrassment. Any minute now someone would start handing out popcorn.

‘Thirty-two,’ I murmured, swallowing the lump in my throat.

‘Oh…’ She winced. Groans from sympathetic spectators echoed behind me. ‘Better get a move on!’

‘I… excuse me.’ I hurried through the crowd, trying to ignore everyone’s sad stares. The DJ chose that moment to play the next track.

As Akon’s ‘Lonely’ boomed around the hall, I sighed. If he had to play a song about flying solo, I’d prefer Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies’. At least that was empowering.

‘You okay?’ Mum asked as I passed her near the exit. Dad’s arm was wrapped around her waist and my stomach twisted as I saw pity written across their faces. I supposed it was to be expected.

When I’d arrived, the first thing Mum asked wasn’t how I was, but whether I’d brought a date.

After saying I hadn’t and seeing the disappointment in her eyes, I’d headed to the toilets. Which was exactly where I was going right now.

‘Course!’ I straightened my shoulders. ‘I’m fine.’

---