Page 6 of The One That I Want

In autumn last year,Tristanwas my client. I was tasked with finding him a wife by his thirty-fifth birthday, which was only forty days away, to ensure he inherited an eye-watering sum (thirty million pounds), meeting an archaic, but incontestable, clause in his grandad’s will. It was either that, or the entire fortune would go to the Avian Wildlife Trust of the Hebrides, and no one in the family would see a penny.

Against my better judgement, professional creed, and everything a matchmaker issupposedto do, I fell in love with him. Fortunately, he fell right back, which we realised in time.Justin time.

‘Meow.’ At my feet, Saffron rubs up against the legs of the stool.

‘Oh, hello, Saffron.’ She’s up there amongst the reasons I love my life, but I’ll never tell her that. It’ll go to her head.

‘Meow.’

‘Go ask Tristan to make you breakfast. He’s chief cook and bottle washer this morning.’

She looks up at me disdainfully before stalking off into the kitchen. I just love her little half-black, half-orange face but she’s lucky she’s so cute, the little minx.

‘Right,’ says Tristan sometime later, ‘I need to head in early this morning.’

Tristan’s an investment banker, which is the main reason we live in the financial district. Pre-me, all he did was work – all work and no play made Tristan a (rather) dull boy, according to our close friend, Jacinda – and he liked the convenience of being able to walk to work. Maybe one day we’ll move but, for now, I don’t mind the commute to Richmond where the agency is based.

And while I’m sitting here checking my socials with bed-hair, half-drunk tea, and very soggy bix, he’s already had his breakfast, fed Saffron, and cleaned up the kitchen.

Tristan smacks a kiss on my lips. ‘Bye, darling. Have a wonderful day.’ He stoops to pet Saffron under the chin. ‘You too, Saffy,’ he says, his voice two octaves higher. We watch him leave and when the door closes behind him, Saffron looks at me, sniffs the air, and heads towards her bedroom.

Like I said, little minx.

‘Thank you so much for coming in.’ Anjali, a tall, slender, south-Asian woman, who looks like she just stepped off a runway, indicates for me to sit in the chair opposite her, then takes a seat behind her desk. ‘So sorry you had to come all this way – I’d stupidly thought I’d be able to get out to Richmond this afternoon.’

I wave her off. ‘Not a problem. Happy to be invited back toNouveau.’

‘That was a smashing article you wrote for us back in March.’

She’s referring to the piece I ‘co-wrote’ as part of a case to reunite two fashion designers. And by ‘co-wrote’ I mean that Isent a pile of scribbles to my colleague, Freya, who gave the piece some shape, then I submitted it to aNouveaueditor, a woman called Bex, who turned it into an article.

It was a huge ask ofNouveauto publish that article, and it only came about because of Anjali’s long-standing friendship with Saskia and Paloma.

‘That’s a generous characterisation of my contribution,’ I say, and we exchange knowing smiles.

‘But a successful case, I hear? I saw that Elle Bliss and Lorenzo just got engaged.’

‘Yes! Absolutely thrilled for them – such a gorgeous couple. And that article was paramount to us making the match, so thank you again,’ I reply. I don’t bother correcting her that Lorenzo is the label, whereas the man behind the world-famous, sexy-but-comfortable shoes is called Leo.

‘There’s no need to thank me,’ she says, ‘especially as I am about to ask the agency to return the favour. Well,ish. It’s not so much a favour from the agency as from you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes – it’s what I’d require of you. In addition to your work as a matchmaker, I mean.’

Intriguing.

‘What did you have in mind?’ I ask, keeping my expression neutral.

‘Well, Sask tells me you used be a psychologist.’

‘Yes, I practised for just over ten years before joining the agency.’

‘And you specialised in…?’

‘Predominantly positive psychology and treatment using CBT – cognitive behavioural theory.’

‘Perfect.’

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