LITMIR.BIZ

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a giant needle stuck between my eyes to release my chakra. And all that to be told once again that I have failed to do the very thing that women were made to do.

      Victoria screwed up her face. She’d been at the Botox again. ‘Aw, Ellie, no luck?’

      I shook my head and made a point of theatrically rubbing my barren uterus.

      ‘Third time lucky maybe?’

      ‘Victoria, this was the third time.’

      ‘Oh yes, fourth then.’ Her bouncing quickened. For a moment, there was a glimpse of empathy in her stretched smile.

      I scowled at her. She knew there’d be no fourth attempt.

      She sniffed, and started bouncing higher.

      ‘You could always adopt,’ she said, adjusting her heart rate monitor. And with that she sped off.

      I stood on the street for a moment, not realising I was still holding my stomach, and looked up at Nick’s and my house. Against the rows of magnificent Victorian villas, it looked like the neglected stepchild, stuck on the end like an ill-considered afterthought. While its siblings had been sent to Farrow and Ball finishing school, ours had been pebble-dashed and left to fend for itself against the elements. They say a pet chooses the owner and I wondered if that might be true for a house too. As much as I’d tried to fit in on this street, I was starting to doubt I ever would.

      Up the road, mothers were bundling impeccably presented offspring into shiny cars. For them, life seemed so easy. Most had met their dashing eloquent husbands at top-tier universities, or later, working in some kind of glamorous grown-up profession. They’d gone on to marry in a grand French chateau or palatial Tuscan villa, then breed effortlessly, popping out rosy-cheeked cherubs every year or so, sometimes two or three at a time, while also advancing their careers, renovating and interior-designing their houses and serving quail eggs as appetisers. They even found time to accessorise with chiffon scarves.

      When Nick and I moved here, I wanted to be just like them, but in the past few weeks, the L.K.Bennett riding boots I’d bought on Northcote Road had started to pinch a little.

      My thoughts were distracted by the sight of Victoria’s three-year-old Boden-clad daughter marching out of their front gate, followed by an exhausted-looking woman who I presumed to be the latest au pair.

      ‘Morning, Camille,’ I said, grinning at the little girl a tad overzealously.

      She looked me up and down and frowned. It was as though she could sense I wasn’t biologically qualified to be communicating with her. Then she scooted off, her little ponytail swinging briskly. I watched her for a while, then made my way to the station, dodging stylishly swathed pregnant bellies and designer buggies.

      I arrived at the Canary Wharf office with a large latte in hand. It felt good to be able to pollute my body again without the potential of embryo toxicity bearing down on my conscience. I pushed open the double doors to reception and took a deep breath. My role as CEO may have been usurped by the venture capitalist’s grandson, Dominic, who’d apparently learned everything there was to know about romantic love at Harvard Business School, but what truly mattered was that the dating agency I had conceived seven years ago was now an international corporation. Matthew might believe my motives were questionable, but over the years I had helped thousands of people find love. I took another sip of coffee and smiled. If that wasn’t a legacy worth leaving then what was?

      ‘Afternoon, Eleanor,’ Dominic said in his I’m-American-in-case-you-wondered accent. Then he slammed a file onto my desk. ‘Meeting’s in five.’

      I gulped down the rest of my latte and leafed through the file, which contained the minutes and action points of the last investor meeting. My smile faded. I pushed it to one side and then switched on my computer, so I could at least reply to a few emails before the investors arrived.

      Ten more franchise enquiries. One from Korea.

      Matchmaking in Korea? I wondered. Surely they had more pressing things to worry about.

      Then one from Victoria and her unnecessarily double-barrelled surname.

      Subject title: FW: New hope for IVF-resistant couples.

      I deleted it. Then I glanced at my phone. Nick had called five times. I dropped my phone back down on the desk. I knew it was cruel to extend his two-minute wait to an entire day, but I’d decided that a statement such as ‘You have no hope of ever being a father, unless you substitute me for a fresh-follicled twenty-something or we find a psychologically unhinged surrogate on the internet’ was probably best delivered in person.

      Suddenly Mandi sped past, wearing an oversized neon pink kaftan.

      ‘Meeting time, Ellie!’ she shrilled, leaving the throb of luminous pink in my eyes. Dominic strutted ahead of her, clenching his buttocks as though he were harbouring a hamster in his colon. I screwed up my face, wondering if I had just cause to alert the animal authorities.

      Then I looked back down and continued with my paperwork procrastination, flicking through the post. At the bottom of the pile was a gold envelope. It looked like a wedding invitation. My stomach flipped. The excitement had never waned. I ripped open the envelope, and pulled out a card. It had a watermarked image of a slim woman, grinning and holding a cocktail. We’ve finally done it! was the quote on the front. I flipped it over and read the back.

      Dearest Ellie,

      You are cordially invited to the Divorce Party of Cassandra Wheeler (formerly Stud-Wheeler).

      Where: The Wheeler (formerly Stud-Wheeler) residence.

      When: Friday 14th Feb

      Dress to impress.

      Please bring a bottle. Or five.

      I let out a deep sigh as I slotted it into my divorce party file, which was getting fatter by the day. Then I pulled myself up from the chair to face the meeting and Dominic’s ill-founded plans for my company.

      Before I entered the meeting room, I saw Mandi through the glass walls and her latest assistant, sitting beside her, poised to take minutes as though she were at the G8 summit. The investor panel, which consisted of four heavy players in the tech and entertainment industry, were seated in a row opposite Dominic, who’d commandeered his side of the table as though he were hosting an episode of The Apprentice.

      He stood up when I entered the room. ‘Eleanor,’ he said, gesturing for me to sit beside him in a smaller chair, ‘so nice of you to join us.’

      I forced a smile, then nodded at the investors.

      Straight away, Mandi pulled her pink glittery laptop out of her bag, adjusted her headband and smoothed down her kaftan. I studied her ensemble. It was unlike her to wear anything that wasn’t nipped in at the waist and tailored to her ribcage. She clapped her hands, and looked around, then clapped them again, as though she expected the lights to dim. When they didn’t she leaned over and switched them off herself. Then she plugged her laptop into the projector, pressed a few buttons and a map identical in colour to her kaftan appeared on the wall.

      ‘OK, everyone,’ she began. ‘Are we all ready?’

      Dominic sighed.

      I nodded and smiled. Mandi’s assistant clapped.

      Mandi clasped her hands together and grinned. ‘I have fabulous news. Amazing! The best news ever!’

      ‘You’re leaving,’ Dominic mumbled.

      She ignored him, further dramatising with a drum roll to the table.

      ‘As of this week,’ she continued, ‘we’ve finally done it. We have matchmakers stationed in every continent!’ She pressed a key on her laptop and suddenly pink hearts popped up all over the globe, presumably identifying matchmaker infiltration hotspots.

      She looked around the room and began clapping herself. Her assistant joined in.

      ‘Yay, everyone!’ Mandi

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