She moved to the sink and began washing her hands—slowly, with deliberate movements, lathering soap between her long, graceful fingers. Chloe caught sight of the smartwatch on her wrist: sleek, iridescent, clearly expensive.
“But what are you doing in here?” Wendy asked, watching Chloe in the mirror. “Are you avoiding someone?”
“Bad date,” Chloe admitted.
“Sleazy or boring?” Wendy asked, her tone light and knowing.
“Rude,” Chloe said.
“Poor love. How long have you been looking?” The question landed harder than Chloe expected, and she was struck by Wendy’s choice of words.
“Too long,” she said quietly.
“I know that feeling,” said Wendy, drying her hands on a paper towel with the same precision she’d used to wash them. The bathroom was nicer than you might expect, given the decor in the pub: there was moisturizer as well as soap, and even a magnifying mirror for doing makeup. Wendy took a moment to moisturize her hands. Then she stepped forward and pressed a soft, clean hand over Chloe’s. This tactile display of empathy pushed Chloe over some edge she hadn’t even known she’d been teetering on. A sob rose unbidden as Wendy’s sympathy untethered the full weight of her loneliness, and she lifted a hand to her mouth, trying to keep it in.
“Sorry,” she said briskly. “I’m fine, it’s just one date, it doesn’t matter. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“It’s not just one date, though, is it,” Wendy said, tilting her head, eyes trained on Chloe’s face. “It’s the opportunity cost, the evening you don’t get back, the hope, the anticipation, the ‘what if?’ extinguished again and again. It’s walking home deflated, wondering if you have the energy to do it all again. It’s wondering if all men are awful, or if your standards are just too high.”
“Yes. Exactly,” Chloe whispered, her voice cracking.
Wendy enveloped her in a long-limbed hug. It was so unexpected, but Chloe found herself leaning into it, breathing in theexpensive scent of almond oil in Wendy’s hair. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been hugged by someone other than her parents.
“Never apologize for wanting more,” Wendy said into her shoulder.
When she released Chloe from the hug, she turned to retrieve her handbag from the sink. From an inner pocket, she pulled out a small gray business card, gilt-edged with a gold “PP” embossed in the center and a QR code below it. “I’ve only got one of these left,” Wendy said, biting her lip as she passed the card to Chloe.
“What is it?” Chloe asked.
“It’s the future,” Wendy said. “Trust me, it will change your life, it changed mine.” She gestured toward her own reflection. Chloe raised an eyebrow.
“But what’s PP?”
“Perfect Partners. It’s a dating service,” Wendy said, lowering her voice. “But it isn’t like anything you’ve ever tried—”
Her phone buzzed and Wendy glanced at the screen and smiled. “Just coming, sweetie,” she said as she answered it, then quickly reapplied her lip gloss in the mirror, before turning back to Chloe. “You need a referral to get an appointment. Just give my name.”
Then she blew Chloe an air kiss, pressed a finger to her lips, and whispered, “Shhh, don’t tell the men.” Then she was gone, heels clicking against the tile, hair swishing behind her.
Chloe looked down at the card, intrigued. She pulled out her phone and scanned the QR code. A web page blinked open. The logo readPerfect Partners, the font sleek and futuristic. The home page was populated with images of incredibly attractive people. Underneath was a single line of text.
Looking for the perfect partner? Don’t wait for fate. Take happiness into your own hands.
The website gave no further details about what the company was offering, how to sign up, or what it cost. Just a number to call and a message:For inquiries, please call to book a consultation.Whatever Perfect Partners was, she couldn’t find anything about it on Google. She could only find something called Perfect Partnerz with a “Z,” which was a tacky adult website. Whereas this looked exclusive, discreet, and like something Chloedefinitelycouldn’t afford. But after seeing Wendy, she felt inspired—inspired not to waste another minute of her evening with Sausage Fingers.
Back in the bar, she returned to the table but didn’t sit down, she just picked up her jacket and said, “I have to go.”
“How come?” Tom asked, eyebrows knitted in incomprehension.
“Because I feel lonelier here with you than I would on my own.” She gave him a tight smile. “Oh, and I did mind that you were late and that you asked to swap seats. Enjoy the game.” Then she turned and she walked out the door without a backward glance.
—
When she got back toRichmond, the house was dark. Her parents must have already gone to bed. Her family home was a ramshackle sixteenth-century cottage, half-swallowed by wisteria, sandwiched between two grand Queen Anne mansions. It looked misplaced on the street, as though the world had evolved around it but the house had stubbornly refused to budge. Chloe loved that about it, and when she’d moved out of Peter’s, it was the only place she’d wanted to go.
Letting herself in, she crept through to the kitchen. The dishwasher had finished, so she took a moment to empty it, then laid out a cafetière, bowls, and cutlery for breakfast. On instinct, she pulled a Post-it note from the phone table, scribbledFARTS BEAK, and stuck it to her dad’s chair. They had taken to writing each other anagrams after reading an article that claimed it could help ward off dementia.
Upstairs, she sat down on her childhood bed and looked around at all the mementos of her youth. The framed drama awards above her dressing table, the fake Oscar Sean had given her in first year. Photographs of long-lost friends, their faces plump with youth. She stood up and peeled one photo from the mirror—the Lincoln gang in their second year at Oxford, when they’d all still been close. The four of them were dressed in costume forA Midsummer Night’s Dream. Chloe had played Puck; Akiko, Titania; and Sean, Bottom. John, their music director, wore a green velvet smoking jacket and a crown of ivy.
