When Ellie Rigby hurls her three-carat engagement ring into the gutter, she is certain of only one thing, that she has yet to know true love.
Following months of disastrous internet dates and conflicting advice from her dysfunctional friends, she decides to take matters into her own hands. Although now, instead of just looking for a man for herself, she's certain her life's purpose is to find deep and meaningful love for all the singles in the world.
Five years on, running the UK's biggest matchmaking agency, and with thousands of engagements to her name, she has all the answers she needs. She knows why eighty-five percent of relationships fail. She knows why twenty-eight is the most eligible age for a woman. She knows that by thirty-five she'll have only a thirty-percent chance of marriage.
Most of all, she knows that no matter what, it has to be perfect. Or does it?
This was a thoroughly entertaining book. I really enjoyed reading it. It was full of laughs and full of energy. There was never a dull moment or a lull in the story which was constantly full-on.
Hayley has a lovely writing style which lead to me picking the book up at every possible opportunity and she takes real life experiences and writes some of them in a light-hearted way and others in a really dramatic way. She seems to take issues that I know between me and my friends we've all experienced and tackle them head-on. I did have moments when I thought she may have been listening to my friends and I when we've been chatting about everyday life! She has certainly done her research!
I shall really look forward to reading more of Hayley's work in the future.
Giveaway
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Other Reviews
Finalist - readers' Favorite (US) Book Awards
Finalist - Best Dating Book 2013
‘As deliciously gossipy as it gets’--Sadie Nicholas, journalist
‘High drama and lots of laughs’--Susan Quilliam, Fabulous Magazine
‘Hilarious and so very, very true’ -- James Preece, The Dating Guru
Excerpt
PART TWO
Chapter Fourteen
‘Blonde hair, blue eyes and big tits,’ he said to Mia.
Fortunately for him, in the four years we’d worked together, she had
learned to temper her eye rolls and her expression was fixed at
something that could have even been described as earnest.
‘Would you consider green eyes?’ Mia asked.
‘No,’ he said, pushing up his sleeves to reveal a diamond encrusted
Rolex. ‘I dated someone with green eyes once. It didn’t work
out.’
I continued typing on my keyboard on the table next to them,
brushing the hair away from my face to sneak a sideways glance at
him.
He wore a shiny grey suit, the garish end of Gucci. His watch
was obnoxiously bling like a bank balance on his wrist, his hair: blond,
highlighted. Tan: deep, natural. Eyes: blue, sparkling. Smile: cheeky,
lopsided. Teeth: even, white. Age: I’d guess, thirty-seven. Height:
around 5ft 7in, unfortunate considering his other physical attributes.
Body language: overtly male, legs splayed, hand near crotch, shoulders
wide. Eye contact: good. Champagne choice: predictably expensive.
Overall assessment: inflated ego, directly proportional to, and fully
dependent on, his net assets.
I looked over at Mia, watching how her dark hair hid her face
as she leant over a notepad and began writing. He sat opposite her, his
hands miming two large beach balls.
‘Like this,’ he said, a self-satisfied smile sweeping across his
face. ‘Are you looking?’
Mia raised her head and the curtain lifted. I could tell she was
fighting to suppress an emotion. I supposed it was either amusement
or rage, but I couldn’t quite tell.
‘Yes, got it,’ she replied. ‘Please continue.’
‘And I like nipples that point upwards.’
‘Upwards-pointing nipples,’ she said, scribbling away.
‘And I prefer pink to brown.’
‘Preferably pink.’ She paused and looked up, eyes narrowed.
‘Is that a deal breaker? The pink nipples?’
He weighed his head from side to side and I pictured a tiny
cluster of brain cells rolling around inside his skull.
‘Yes. Definitely pink. I’m not fussed which shade.’
‘There are shades?’
‘Of course, from light pink, like the colour of your nail
varnish, to a dark pink, a bit like your lipstick.’
‘Wow, you learn something every day.’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t know that.’
‘Surprised?’
‘Yes, you being a –’
‘Matchmaker?’
‘No, being a woman. You must have seen hundreds of your
friends’ nipples.’
‘My friends don’t have hundreds of nipples.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Oh, you mean all those topless pillow fights we have?’
He nodded and winked.
She locked him with Medusa eyes. ‘Right, now your turn.’
‘What else do you need to know?’
She ripped out a sheet of paper from her notepad and slid it
across the table along with a pen. ‘Draw an outline of your penis for
me, please.’
‘An outline?’ he asked.
I giggled inwardly and wondered if he had selected the wrong
word for clarification.
‘Yes, sketch the outline and then add in any unusual features.’
Her expression remained fixed at a plausible serious.
He picked up the pen. ‘Does it have to be to scale?’
‘Preferably. Or else you can indicate the measurements.’
With an expression of intense concentration and with a tight grip on
the pencil, he soon completed the sketch. Then after a further five
minutes of shading and corrections, he held the sheet of paper aloft
for Mia to see.
‘Obviously we’ll have to verify this with a photo,’ she said,
taking it from him and studying it.
He leaned back in his seat. ‘Will you want that signed by my
bank manager?’
‘Ex-girlfriend will do. But if your bank manager is happy to do
it …’
Moments later, after he’d left and the buzz of his phone was fading
into the distance, Mia turned to me with a tight smile.
‘Another Prince Charming,’ she said, handing me the sketch.
‘Good sport though.’
I looked at the drawing, winced and then quickly folded it
away. It appeared, his ego wasn’t the only thing that was inflated.
‘So, what were you scribbling down?’ I asked. ‘A full
psychological profile?’
She shook her head. ‘Shopping list.’
I sighed. ‘Mia.’
‘What?’
‘He’s a client. You’re supposed to be focused on helping him.’
‘I am.’
‘Go on then.’
She laughed. ‘Well, under all the bravado, there’s probably a
lost little boy who just wants to be loved.’
‘Mia. Stop it.’
‘Know any stupid girls with big tits who want a rich guy?’
My mind flicked through its archives. ‘Yes,’ I said, nodding
slowly, ‘but she’s not stupid. She’s quite intelligent actually. Her name’s
Kerri.’
‘We don’t care about her name. What’s her cup size?’
‘FF.’
‘Nipples?’
‘Hang on.’ I picked up my phone and typed her name into
Google images, then handed the phone to Mia. ‘There you go, pink
nipples.’
Mia sniffed. ‘Of course, a glamour model. She looks so
… what’s the word?’ She drummed her fingers on the table.
‘Yes, that’s it. Intelligent.’
I rolled my eyes, something I appeared to have acquired
from Mia. ‘You okay to arrange the introduction?’
‘Sure,’ she said, stuffing her notebook back into her bag.
‘Living the dream.’
About the Author
Haley was born in London in 1977, with a big heart, big feet and big ideals. In 2005, she set up what turned out to be the UK's biggest matchmaking agency. She has since sold it and drunk the proceeds. She lives in Battersea with her husband James, a wine merchant and consequent enabler of her habit, their twin girls and a scruffy hound called Rufus. She spends her days chasing her toddlers around the house, trying to write but mostly just messing about on Twitter.
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