Printed from WriteWords -

Matchmaker, matchmaker

by  Stacey

Posted: Tuesday, April 29, 2003
Word Count: 2089
Summary: another bit of chick lit

“Arabella needs a fella” I offered enthusiastically.
“Oh yeah, tasteful Sam, very tasteful.” My significant best can be so sarcastic.
“Well you suggest something then Miss. I’m–brimming-with-fantastic-ideas” Ahem. Yes I can be a bit that way inclined too.
“Ok”, Gabi gestured nonchalantly, “If I was in your shoes babe, which, quite frankly, is a place Id rather not be” she said turning her nose up in the direction of my Jimmy Choos (Gabs hates heels, in fact, she hates anything remotely girly-give her a pair of battered timberlands over this seasons Prada kitten heels, she’d go for the latter any day.) “Id think of a gimmick. I mean, you’ve been at this job what, a day, (In fact, Id been here one month tomorrow but Gabs was a pro at exaggerating) and already these editorial imbeciles have put you in charge of two whole sodding pages!”
Ok, pause-for the sole benefit of you, my inquisitive reader. Right, so this new job I've landed myself with, is as a small-time journalist for the once again, rather small-time magazine ‘Optimum’. Now, I say my job is small-time as it involves writing the teeny weeniest almost invisible, blink or turn the page too quickly and you might just miss it article on what’s hot and what’s not in the nearby area. And lets face it, where I reside right here in Boxmoor, the land of snore (that’s what me and my friends used to call it at school after we heard some older sixth form kids saying at down the chippie) there’s normally a lot less hot than not stuff happening.
Now, up until one and a half days ago my main activity of the working day was

drooling on my half eaten packet of quavers with a congealed orbit chewing gum stuck to my cheek dreaming of Robbie Williams. (Clearly all of these occurrences happened whilst asleep at my desk, hence the need for more excitement in the workplace.) However, my actually not too mean but surprisingly sweet supervisor, Sally had begun to wander past my office (which sounds impressive, and actually makes me sound quite important, when in fact it is no bigger than a small shoebox), at around the same time each day and notice well, that I wasn’t exactly hard at work. Being surprisingly sweet Sally, she asked if it was because I was unhappy with my job. I explained slightly red faced (after yanking the gum off my cheek) that I loved working for Optimum, but just needed a bit more excitement, more of a challenge. Bingo.
You know in those cheesy cartoons when the baddie finds out where the treasure is hidden and his animated eyeballs turn into pound signs? Well that’s the best way I can describe how I looked when Sally told me about this new opening for ‘The Optimum Matchmaker’. Cha Ching. Ever since I was a wee sprite I may as well have belonged in a box of those Round tree Matchmaker chocolates. There was no one better than Samantha Lincoln at shooting those arrows of love. I was little miss cupid.
It all began when I was barely nine and my big sis, Janey, then fifteen, had ‘officially the biggest crush ever’ (her words, of course) on Lee Hobbs, an Oasis type grungy 17 year old who had just moved in two doors away from us. Lets just say I was more of Janey’s saviour than annoying kid sister back then. I used to be willing to fall arse over tit for Jane, I thought she was the bee’s knees, the coolest girl in our town. Which, inevitably explains why when she asked me countless times a week to

go and co-incidentally ride my bike along the pavement outside our houses whenever Luscious Lee was due to leave his lodgings, I would happily oblige. What an idiot I hear you cry. But, much to my benefit it was doing this kind of kiddie stuff for Janey that earnt me her respect, which of course I loved. Since those days, I have to admit we are the closest, joint at the hip siblings there ever were.
Ok, sorry getting a bit carried away, back to me and my Barbie bike. So, it was either Janey begging me to ‘Pleeeeaaasssee Sammy, fall off your bike again right in front of him and as he helps you up go on and on about how whenever you have these little accidents when we’re out, I always help you, and I’m such a great sister, and I’ve got all these great clothes and I’m really popular, bla bla bla…’ Which of course, gullible guts Sam would do. Or sometimes she’d plead with me to call one of my equally Janey worshipping friends over to play. And then, same situation, us silly things would get booted outside at four forty five when her love was due back from college, and she’d literally relay us a script of what to talk about, all complimentary about Janey, of course. And believe it or not, these childish games began to work. Ok, so the first few efforts were poorly noted and we barely got a nod of recognition, but after four or five times, we got a knowing smile, the sixth time he actually spoke to me, asking when he was going to get the opportunity to be properly introduced to this wonderful sister of mine. The eighth time, (after Id dragged him to my door the time before to meet Jane) he walked straight past me, and up to my front door. Ding-dong.
Oh you don’t need to know the rest..girl meets boy, boy meets girl they fall in love. And now the part you might not of expected, Mrs.Jane (she dropped the ‘y’ aged eighteen) Hobbs, is currently expecting her second baby. Yes, that’s right, it really was a match made in heaven, they have been married for four years. Sigh. It

makes you sick, doesn’t it? Well, it certainly makes me sick, being a depressive singleton.
So, now you know, I am a pretty impressive little matchmaker. Which brings me nicely back to my point, our love seeker Arabella (what an unfortunate name, poor girl) desiring a sultry, seductive, sexy, & sensitive man to share candlelit dinner’s with..mmm..Don’t we all! So anyway, picture the scene, me and Gabs (not an everyday part of my office furniture, but today she threw a sicky after downing way too much free champagne at her cousins wedding last night), attempting to word this particular ad as well as possible, as if we were to receive any responses, and this might be a good time to add, we rarely ever do, then we were ready to snap him up if for any reason Arabella found he wasn’t what she was looking for-please god, let there be a miracle. However, in the nicest way possible, judging by the picture our lovely Arabella attached to her ad, she was definitely in need of a Jenny Jones Makeover-to say the least, so maybe, just maybe, our prayers could be answered.
Now this is going to sound so corny, so typical, and so unbelievable but we could never have planned for what happened next. We heard one of those dadadadada-da-da knocks on my office door, and what with it being ten thirty five on a Monday morning, on top of us being lazy sods, it took us almost ten minutes from that knock to negotiate who’s turn it was to open the door. Gabs. I left her to it whilst putting my head straight back down to work on this bloody ad. “Sam”, Gabi questioned strangely, no more than five seconds after answering the door.” Yes Gabs”, I answered in the tone you’d give a child on they’re fourth attempt of asking you to buy them an ice cream. “Um, no really Sammy!” She never calls me Sammy. Ever. Obviously this gave me the inclination that maybe I should look up. Oh-my-

god. No, really, Oh-my-god. Seriously now, I want you to imagine Janice from friends saying it. There you go, now I think maybe you understand the extremity of the situation. You know those spotty twenty six year old greasy haired I-still-live-with-my-mum delivery boys? Well this wasn’t one of them. Yes, he was a delivery boy-or maybe man would be a more appropriate address. Now think of the complete opposite of the latter explanation. Times it by two Johnny Depps and three Jude Laws. Add George Clooney's bum. Oh, and a pinch of Enrique Iglesias’ smile. Now add it all together in one big Tom Cruise shaped mixing bowl. I’ll give you a moment to calculate the finished result.
Got it? Thought so. So now if you will, jump into my shoes for a brief moment. (Denim & cork Jimmy Choo wedges, in case you were wondering)What would you do? Now remember my success in the lurve department. Crap, to put it bluntly. So when faced with that person you wish you only knew existed, let alone had the chance to meet them, had just walked into your office. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Thank god for all of us, (including you my friend, yes I was noticing my shoes were two sizes two small for you and pinching quite a lot, so you are free to step out now), ‘he’ broke the ice. ‘Um..package for Miss.Samantha Lincoln?’ He questioned seductively in my direction in such a Beppe De’marco voice-but without the cheese. Yum. Yes, my mind works that way too, and upon offering me his package, I did find my eyes travel down to his Khaki Trouser department if you know what I mean.
Fluttering my maybellined eyelashes, I shot Mr. Perfect my best smile and answered happily,' That’s me!' As he reached out to hand me the parcel, (we will refer to it as that from now on as I’m finding his you know what rather distracting) my heart was

racing at about two hundred miles an hour. I caught Gabs eye as I took the pen out of his hand to sign for the ‘parcel’, and she mouthed to me ‘Go for it!’ I wish. As I handed the pen back to him, which I had probably wet with my nervous perspiration, his gaze caught mine for what seemed like a lifetime, but was in fact four seconds. Wow. ‘It was really nice meeting you Samantha Lincoln’. Now, under every normal circumstance I despise being called that, but coming from his mouth, what a gorgeous one too, he could say it 'til the cows come home. And more. I replied coyly, 'You didn’t catch your name, sorry'-Clever I thought. Well done Sam. Two seconds later, I hastily took back my self-admiration, after noticing his rather large nametag on his shirt. Whoops. Thankfully Martin Drake saw the funny side, whilst I was busy going over my married name in my head..Mrs.Sam Drake. It definitely worked. Now, I don’t know why or how, but it was definitely my lucky day. Martin leant over my desk, possibly not wanting Gabs to hear what he was going to say, or more likely to give a whiff of his Hugo Boss, and handed me a card out of his shirt pocket. ‘This is my personal number-if you need any help with any packages in the future; please don’t hesitate to give me a call. Samantha.’ Gulp. Thank god I was sitting down cause if I weren’t, my knees would have definitely buckled leaving me helpless on the floor.

You don’t need to know the rest-I’m sure you've got the picture. Lets just say, Arabellas search has been put on hold for a while. Well, at least ‘til tomorrow cause I’ve got a date with Martin tonight, and I have to leave work immediately to plan my outfit. So, me and Gabs, drag ourselves out of the office, doing our best my-whole-body-aches-please-feel-sorry-for-me- face. (Remember, I’m also faking 'the sicky'

now-I told Sally I’d caught it off Gabi-and bless her M&S cottons, she believed me and sent me straight home to bed.) But as soon as we exit the building I’m practically skipping with excitement. Gabs reaches out and gives me a huge hug. 'He better have a brother’, she whispered into my shoulder. With that we were arm in arm in fits of
giggles, heading down the high street to shop ‘til we drop. After all, Little Miss Matchmaker herself had a date to prepare for now.

Story Ends