It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker by Haley Hill

their eyes betrayed an excited recognition.
    ‘Do they know each other already?’ I asked Cordelia. She sighed. ‘They were listed as The Times most eligible bachelors last week. Everyone knows them. You have to sharpen up.’
    As the night progressed, the assets stretched: American Express pre-authorised inflated bar bills and the girls hammed up their sexuality. While the men with the biggest budgets gained territory around the bar, it was the girls wearing the least clothes who secured the most champagne, only to be usurped only by those who were grinding against pillars or pretending to be lesbians.
    ‘Is that really it?’ I asked Cordelia, while the men gawped at Stacey and Lacey who appeared to be reenacting a scene from one of Robert’s videos, which I think was entitled, “Pussy-hungry College Girls” .
    Cordelia laughed. ‘If you wave a sausage in front of a dog’s nose, it won’t be able to think about anything else.’
    I rolled my eyes. ‘Come on, men are more sophisticated than that, aren’t they?’
    ‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. ‘When there are no sausages, they can be delightful company.’
    ‘But if there are sausages everywhere they go, then surely the urge would abate, and they’d suffer from some kind of aversion, like sausage fatigue?’
    ‘Sausage fatigue?’ she said, flicking a sheet of blonde hair over her shoulder. ‘You mean because there is an endless supply of boobs and bums on offer, men will get desensitised?’
    I nodded.
    ‘Well they already are,’ she said, pointing at Stacey who was now pretending to bite Lacey’s nipples through her top. ‘Those two will have to get their internal organs out in a few years to even warrant a second glance.’
    With that, she shuffled off, head held high, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her skirt was working against her.
    When Stacey and Lacey’s sideshow was over, I noticed Caro, tailing three tall muscular men as they strutted around the room like silverback gorillas. After I’d caught her eye, she rushed towards me, flapping her arms excitedly.
    ‘They’re RAF pilots!’ she squealed, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. ‘Did you know that’s my ultimate fantasy?’
    I rolled my eyes, recalling the million times she had described the scenario.
    ‘He’s an injured pilot ran aground in a field and you’re a virginal milkmaid who comes to his aid,’ I said in a dull monotone.
    She fanned her flushed chest. ‘Well, thinking about it, it would be unlikely that there would only be one pilot in the aircraft. Maybe it would be more plausible with three?’
    I shook my head and watched her stride across the room, sticking her boobs out and hitching up her skirt.
    As the night drew on, the walls of the cave grew damp and sticky. Styled hair softened, sweat glowed though face powder and natural scent overpowered the synthetic. Masks slipped and inhibitions gave way to instinct.
    This wasn’t an orgy. This wasn’t a bunch of teenagers on spring break. These were professional people, who, earlier on, had been sharing awkward exchanges about the economy and current affairs. Now they were writhing on leather sofas: tongues locked, limbs entwined, hands up skirts, down tops, under shirts, down trousers. The candles, once flickering gently, were now burning violently, wax dripping down their shafts.
    Perched on a sofa in the only uninhabited alcove, I looked on, watching an equities trader dry-humping a pretty florist at the bar. He really reminded me of something. Now what was it?
    ‘Randy dog,’ a man’s voice said, directed at me.
    Yes, that’s it, I thought, before looking up to see a broad smile beaming down at me. We both turned back to see the subject’s bottom bobbing up and down with increasing momentum.
    ‘He’s with me, I’m sorry to say,’ he said, still grinning.
    I smirked. ‘Can’t you put him on a leash then?’
    He laughed, then sat down, fixing me with the most beautiful brown eyes I had ever