Page 25 of The Match Faker

The audacity of that man.

Who the hell did he think he was?

When he started sniggering about the fact I couldn’t find myself a boyfriend, I wanted to wipe that smug smile off his face with a metal sponge.

Aaarrggh.

He’d really pushed my buttons. That was why, even if he’d agreed, this fake-dating farce would never work. To convince people we were together, we’d need chemistry. They’d expect to see attraction. Not two people scowling like they were plotting how to murder each other.

Speaking of looking at each other, why was he staring when I arrived? Trudy said he was eyeing me up, but I wasn’t Liam’s type.

The women he was always papped with were the kind you saw in magazines or on the catwalk. They didn’t have a big bottom, thick thighs and average-sized boobs like I did.

Anyway, I shouldn’t care what Liam thought of me. After tonight’s debacle and how quickly he wanted to leave, that’d be the last time I saw him. Well, face to face. No doubt I’d be tormented with pictures of his naked chest on billboards and buses for years to come.

Annoyingly, he was in great shape.

Whenever his latest advertising campaign came out and I was subjected to looking at his eight-pack (not that I’d counted), I was convinced the photos had been heavily airbrushed.

But the way that jumper clung to his biceps whenever he picked up his drink this evening and the glimpse of his toned stomach that I saw when he stretched told me they hadn’t had to retouch his photos at all.

Not that it was important. He could be the most athletic-looking man in the universe and it wouldn’t make up for his personality.

“I’ll think about it.”

Arsehole.

If anyone had something to think about it was me. Like how I was going to get myself out of this mess.

It was now Friday. Exactly a week away from the first competition interview. When Susie, the lady from the awards, called to set the date, she’d explained that they’d come to my office to see my set-up and ask about my clients. No doubt they’d slip in a question about my relationship status too.

Soon after that they’d schedule the second interview at home, which, again, I was sure they’d want to do with my partner there.

I didn’t know why I hadn’t withdrawn my application when it was obvious I couldn’t take it all the way.

Part of me, the stubborn side, still wanted to enter. Like Trudy said, my relationship status shouldn’t have any bearing on my ability to do my job.

Wasn’t it better for me to be single than in a toxic relationship? They were basically saying I was only worthy of recognition and success if I was part of a couple.

Granted, the nature of my business meant relationships and love were obviously important. But surely I was a stronger candidate than Gillian.

Just like when I met people and knew they were meant to be together, every time I saw Gillian, I got the feeling she wasn’t as angelic as she seemed.

I hated to say it because I believed women should support other women (given how hostile she was to me, I didn’t think she shared that sentiment), but I’d always thought she’d seemed overly friendly with some of her male staff.

Then at a conference earlier this year, I’d seen her coming out of a toilet cubicle with her younger male personal assistant, both adjusting their clothes. And I’m pretty sure they weren’t in there checking her diary.

Whatever she chose to do was her business, but she was married with two children, and if I was going to be judged because I was single, it didn’t seem fair not to question her values as a married person too.

To me, having a cheater as a winner was much worse than having a singleton like me.

Anyway, even if one day the unofficial rules were changed, the only way I’d have a sniff of getting to the finals this year was if I found a partner.

Trudy and I had been through our contacts again and drawn blanks.

My ability to matchmake was a blessing, but when you were searching your friendship groups for a prospective fake boyfriend, it was a curse. I’d paired up so many of our friends that there were no singles left.

‘M.’ Trudy called my nickname, snapping me out of my thoughts.

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