The questionnaire they’d sent through had taken Chloe hours, so she hoped this wasn’t going to be a complete waste of her time. There’d been forty-two pages of questions. Some were oddly specific: “Would you prefer your partner squeezes the toothpaste from the middle of the tube or neatly roll it from the bottom?” Others were broad and probing: “Describe your ideal partner, using three to five examples from literature or popular culture.”
Chloe had deliberated over each answer. She’d really struggled to limit herself to just five examples of her ideal partner. Allher literary crushes had to be in there, obviously, but what about Adam Brody inNobody Wants This, Baron von Trapp fromThe Sound of Music, and Paul Mescal inNormal People? They had to get a mention too. She ended up adding footnotes to the form so she didn’t need to leave anyone out.
“Hello?” came a female voice over the intercom.
“Hi, it’s Chloe Fairway, I have an app—” She was buzzed in before she could finish the sentence. She took the lift up to the third floor, where she found a stark, empty reception area. Framed photos of couples adorned freshly painted walls. Perhaps fruitful matches, testaments to the agency’s success, like gilded awards on an actor’s mantelpiece.
After only a few minutes, a woman emerged from a door to the left. Chloe guessed her to be in her thirties. She had white-blonde hair and ice-blue eyes and wore a perfectly tailored azure-blue suit.
“This way,” she said with a smile.
She led Chloe to a second room, a small office with bare, bright white walls. In the center stood a clean white desk, sleek and unadorned, with a narrow white computer perched at its center. There was only one hint of color—a single blue metronome sitting on a wall shelf, clicking loudly back and forth.
“Welcome, Chloe, I am Avery, your relationship consultant. Won’t you take a seat?”
Chloe sat in the white chair opposite, and Avery clicked open a file on her computer. Chloe blinked; with so much white in the room, it felt unnervingly bright.
“Thank you for filling in our questionnaire so thoroughly,” Avery said, flashing her a set of perfect, too-white teeth. “It really helps us build up a picture of what you want. But why don’tyou start by telling me, in your own words, what it is you’re looking for?”
What was she looking for? A boyfriend? Her true love? A date for the reunion? Or just a glimpse of hope that not all men were awful?
The metronome ticktocked.
“I’d like to meet someone,” she said nervously. She’d felt confident telling the questionnaire what she wanted, but now, faced with a real person, her mind went blank.
The metronome kept clicking.
Perhaps sensing her hesitation, Avery reached across the desk, extending both hands. Without quite knowing why, Chloe placed her own hands in Avery’s. They felt warm and dry. Avery cupped her wrists, then pressed her thumbs against Chloe’s pulse points.
She then stared, unblinking, into Chloe’s eyes and said in a voice like melted butter, “Tell me what you feel when you think about men.”
Something shifted, loosened, the tight lid on a jar of emotions twisting free.
“Scared. Disappointed,” she said. “But I don’t want to be alone forever.” There was something about Avery’s active listening pose, the hands, so gentle on her wrists, the persistent pressure of the metronome, that made Chloe want to blurt out everything.
“I’ve started to think it might be me,” she admitted. “I’m too tall for most men, my ears stick out when I wear my hair up, but even Hitler had a girlfriend, didn’t he, and I can’t be worse than Hitler, can I?”
Avery blinked.
Chloe took a sharp breath. “In my twenties, I turned down men who were lovely, because some gut instinct told me it wasn’t right. Now, the older I get, the less lovely men seem, and I’m wondering if I missed the boat, if my instincts are off, if I turned down a ten waiting for an ace, and now the cards are almost dealt.” She looked down, embarrassed. “And I know I shouldn’tneeda man to be happy; I don’t. But Iwantto be in love. I want what my parents have. I want the fantasy I read about in books.”
Avery raised a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow at Chloe. “And have you always suffered from low self-esteem?”
“I don’t have low self-esteem,” Chloe said, letting out a shocked, nervous laugh. Avery tilted her head, pressed her thumbs a little tighter into Chloe’s wrists as the metronome clicked persistently on. “Well, I guess I was more confident when I was younger. Who wasn’t, though? My ex, Peter, he could be quite critical, a little controlling at times. I think I lost a bit of myself with him. I’m not sure I ever got it back.” Chloe paused. She didn’t like to think about that time of her life, the person she’d become. She pulled her wrists away and there was a long beat of silence. Avery blinked. “Please don’t write down that bit about Hitler,” Chloe said, chewing on her bottom lip.
Avery sat back in her chair, then pressed her palms together.
“Well, I’m happy to tell you that we think you would make anidealcandidate for our program, Chloe,” Avery said, her face morphing into an expression of delight.
“Really?” Chloe asked.
“Yes. We have an extremely high success rate with clients who have struggled with relationships in real life.” In real life? “But first, I should give you some more context about what we’re offering here. This needs to be the right fit for everyone.” Chloenodded eagerly. “Perfect Partners isn’t adatingservice.” She said “dating” like it was a dirty word. “We provide a revolutionary, highly evolved matchmaking solution. With the technology available to us now, people shouldn’t need to scroll and scroll or date dozens of no’s before finding a maybe. You shouldn’t have to put up with mediocre men.”
Chloe nodded again; Avery’s words made her feel seen.
“We are confident that by using the right data analysis and state-of-the-art algorithms, we can provide theperfectpartner for you. Though the program is still in its infancy, initial trials have shown a remarkable success rate. Clients currently have a ninety-four percent chance of falling in love within the first two months.”
“Ninety-four percent, wow,” said Chloe. She shifted in her chair, feeling strangely uncomfortable without Avery’s thumbs to anchor her.
