The Love Club

Sunday nights are always the same; a slow blur of wine and Gilmore Girls. Usually, I splurge on some sort of dessert, something I eat in a hurry when I become too sleepy to go on and need to sober myself up a bit.

Sundays are my days off. I hate my days off.

For six days throughout the week, I’m immersed in e-mails and meetings with clients. My living room becomes an organized mess of sticky notes and planners, notebooks and pens littering the floor and any other flat surface available. My phone rings incessantly to a point where I am forced to put it on silent just to focus on the task at hand. Being busy is what I live for. I’m at my best when I’m under stress and over-caffeinated.

Understandably, Monday mornings are worse.

I wake slowly, the alarm on my phone already a minute and a half in due to my heavy drowsiness. The hangover hasn’t kicked into full effect yet, but I’m positive it will the moment I make a move to sit up. Somewhere in my apartment, Gatsby is making a mess with her litter box, something she likes to do to punish me for my sloppy nights on the couch with a bottle of wine.

My tongue feels thick in my mouth and I reach over to my bedside table where a bottle of water is waiting. This Sunday night binge-drinking-and-dessert-eating thing has become a routine for me. I’m so obsessed with work that it’s almost physically impossible to keep away from it, but my father insists I take a personal day off to keep me sane. He says too much work isn’t healthy.

Neither is drinking a bottle of wine in one night alone on a couch, but it’s the only thing that will keep me from compulsively reading over my clients’ files.

Luckily, I’m back to work today. Letting the water wet my tongue, I somehow gather the courage to sit up. The room is unsteady, which was what I had already anticipated. Sighing, I force myself up into a standing position, allowing myself only a moment to adjust my equilibrium problem before making my way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. Gatsby is there, licking her paw as she waits by her food bowl. She’s purring as I pull out the can of kitten food, but I know the bitch has trailed her litter all over the floor in the hallway.

After I’m done feeding my cat, I’m free to eat. My eyes scan the contents of my freezer and I’m completely un-amused. Felicity had insisted we meet for lunch yesterday, which kept me from my weekly trip to the grocery store. I’m out of both waffles and Toaster Strudels, which is what my breakfast diet mainly consists of. With a sigh, I turn to the cabinet above the dish washer and pull down a box of Lucky Charms I’m positive are stale by now. Since I have no milk, I don’t bother with a bowl, opting instead to pull the bag out and dig right in with my fingers. On my way out of the kitchen, I grab a painkiller to numb my throbbing headache.

It’s one of those rare sunny days in London, which is unfortunate for my hangover. The light is being filtered in through the large windows that make up the far wall of my living room, warming the carpet beneath my feet as I shuffle to the couch. Blindly, I reach for the remote and turn on my TV to a music station that calms my nerves on days like this. I feel so completely behind on everything, though I know I worked beyond what I needed to on Saturday to be caught up. My inbox is overflowing, and though my phone is still in my bedroom, I’m sure I have more than a few new voicemails.

My fingers deftly feel around in the Lucky Charms bag for the marshmallows. It’s not exactly the breakfast of champions, but it will have to do until I can make it to the supermarket later in the afternoon. It’s 9 o’clock now and I have a few hours worth of work to do before I can even begin to imagine leaving the house.

I begin with the e-mails, deleting improbable pleas or anything with wedding related subject lines. I’ve never been a fan of weddings, which is ironic in the business I’m in. It’s all too over-the-top and cheesy for my taste; I cringe to think of them. Invitations to bridal showers and ceremonies are inevitable, and while I appreciate the gesture, they’re the first to be moved to the trash bin.

What I’m left with now is a few dozen e-mails from potential clients, but I’m not quite ready to dig into that yet. Instead, I stand and begin to walk back to my bedroom to pluck my phone from the charger. Gatsby is clawing at my pillow defiantly, and I hook my arm beneath her as I reach over my bed for the black iPhone. She lets out an angry mew of protest, but this doesn’t stop me from picking her up and setting her down on the floor, giving her rump a light kick in the direction of the door. She’s glaring at me, but it will pass after a few hours of basking in the sunlight, which is her favorite pastime when I’m ignoring her to do work.

As predicted, my phone begins to buzz in my hand. Usually, I let these calls go straight to voicemail, but in this case, I answer, the name lit up on the screen exactly the one I was about to search my contacts for.

“Casey! How did it go?”

Despite my grumpy mood, I force myself into a friendly tone of voice. My dad likes to make fun of me for the way I slide from my usual baritone voice into a chipper soprano, but no one wants a matchmaker with the voice of Morgan Freeman. I point this out to him incessantly, but he just likes to tease.

“It was wonderful, like you said. Once I got it out there, everything kind of fell into place.”

“That’s good to hear,” I respond enthusiastically before shoving another handful of cereal in my mouth.

Casey had been one of the cases I was more reluctant to take on. In her e-mail, she seemed sincere enough. Upon meeting her, however, I discovered the root of her problem was not only meeting men, but being interested in them. She was hopelessly infatuated with her best friend, a man she’d known since her days in primary school and kept in touch with just enough to leave her hanging on.

The first step, I informed her, was telling him. Once she’d done that, she could move on. It was apparent to me that the romance she was hoping for with him was one that would never happen. This was due in part to his long-term girlfriend, but also with the absolute incompatibility of the two. Sometimes things that work in friendships don’t translate well to relationships. Try getting that through someone’s thick skull, though.

“What’s the next step?” Casey’s voice sounds eager on the other end of the line.

I pause a moment, chewing on my stale cereal as I lean my head against one of the windows that make up the far end of my living room. Below me, traffic is backed up for a mile and a half. I watch the pedestrians as they zig-zag through the cars, not bothering with a crosswalk.

“I found you a candidate,” I tell her after swallowing down the mouthful of sticky marshmallow. I’m in desperate need of orange juice, so I turn to head into the kitchen, stepping around Gatsby’s sprawled form on the hardwood floor, a square of sun framing her body.

Candidate is a term I use loosely. More often than not, it means match, but this time I say it in earnest. It’s true that I’ve stumbled across who I believe is Casey’s soul mate, but I won’t know for sure until I meet him in person for an interview. In fact, I have this scheduled for later in the afternoon, but I don’t tell her about Willem. Instead, I launch into a story about Kevin, a male who has been in my database for a while, but I’ve been unable to force into love.

The story I tell Casey is about an intelligent man with a great sense of humor who is looking for love. The story I keep to myself is that I’ve already found Kevin’s match, a tall curvy blonde with a bubbling personality named Alexa. As it happens sometimes, Kevin is afraid of commitment, daunted by the idea that I have actually found the woman he will marry and spend the rest of his life with. It happens this way occasionally, my clients insisting they still want to shop around despite the fact that I’ve already done my part. This is when they get sent into the pool of potentials for current projects, mostly playing the role of distractors while I seal the deal with someone else. It works out quite nice for me, having a bench full of men or women waiting to come up to bat. They’ll strike out for sure, but in the meantime, I’m finding a player to hit that home run. It all makes this matchmaking charade a bit more believable. Most others don’t find a soul mate on the first try.

“I don’t know, Mina. I mean, I only talked to Edgar last night. I wasn’t expecting you to have someone already ready for me…”

“This is what you wanted, Casey,” I remind her, pulling the orange juice from my fridge as I blindly feel around in a nearby cabinet for a glass. My fingers settle on one and I pull it out, turning it over and setting it down on the counter. With my hip, I bump the refrigerator closed and sigh as my headache returns.

“I told you I move at a fast pace. It works better for both of us that way.”

“I know, but–“

“When I hang up with you, I’m going to text Kevin your number. He’s going to play it cool for a few hours, but you’ll probably get a call from him around one o’clock. He’ll want to meet for drinks, maybe tonight or tomorrow, and you’re going to say yes because that is your one job.”

I pause, not only for dramatic effect, but to take a swig of the orange juice I’ve successfully poured in spite of the slight vertigo I’m currently experiencing. I make a mental note to look into a different brand of wine when I go to the supermarket in the next few hours.

“Your job is to take what I throw at you, go out, and have fun. Connections are made best when you’re at your most relaxed, so if you’re uncomfortable with whatever he wants to do, make your own suggestion, but go out with him. It’s what you’re paying me for.”

Technically, she’s paying me to set her up with Willem, but this works better to get my point across.

On the other end of the line, I can sense her weighing her options as she listens to my reason. She’s giving in just as I knew she would, because people don’t get in contact with me to shy away from dates. They call me when they’re desperate.

“You’re right,” she sighs after a minute, and I smile before taking another sip of my drink.

“I’ll talk to you soon, Casey,” I promise just before hanging up.

OJ is my hangover miracle drug, and I’m feeling better already. My conversation with Casey has me in a brighter mood now that I know I have her on track. As I slide the juice carton back into the fridge, I pull up Kevin’s number and begin typing a message to him, including Casey’s number at the end. I press send and take my phone, along with my glass of juice, back into the living room as I plop down at my spot on the couch.

Gatsby is eyeing me again in that way she sometimes does when she’s being perceptive. She’s beginning to forgive me for last night, but the look she’s giving me makes me feel heavy with guilt. It’s like she knows I’m intentionally setting Casey up with a man in order to distract her and wants to voice her disapproval.

“I have to at least give the illusion of being normal, Gatsby,” I snap at her, but she doesn’t look away. With this sort of scrutiny, the prospect of shifting through e-mails of potential clients is even less appealing than before, and I slam my laptop shut before stretching. I ignore Gatsby’s stare as I turn to the bathroom to brush my teeth and start my day.

–

“You’re a day late,” Duncan frowns at me from behind the register.

I shrug innocently as I begin unloading my basket onto the conveyor belt.

“Stepmum was insistent on meeting for lunch. It threw me off my schedule,” I reply, watching as he slides my Eggos across the scanner. He clicks his tongue like he’s disappointed and I try to bite back a smile.

Duncan has worked here since I moved into my apartment two years back. He’s familiar with my shopping habits and the closest thing to a friend I have. We’ve hung out a few times, but our relationship is mostly composed of lax text messages sent back and forth with sarcastic musings on the daily on-goings of our lives. This is partially intentional on my end, since I know he’s developed somewhat of a crush on me. It’s best to keep him at a distance.

“Aren’t you back to work today?” he asks after reading my total. I swipe my card before answering.

“Meeting with a client in an hour. Thought I’d do my shopping in the meantime.”

He hands me my receipt when it’s done printing and I smile a thanks at him as he helps me load my bags into my arms. There are four of them, large paper sacks, and I’m unable to see much as I clutch them to my body, but he’s giving me that look he sometimes does when he realizes how much I actually have going on.

“You’re such a busybody. I don’t know how you do it,” he comments as I make my move to leave. There’s an impatient mother in line behind me, arguing with her daughter over whether or not it’s okay to buy a Snicker’s bar, so I simply roll my eyes at him and start in the direction of the exit.

The supermarket is right around the corner from my apartment, so I walk the block and a half back, the bags balancing precariously in my arms. When I’m at the door, I pause as I consider how I want to do this. Heaving a sigh, I’m about to set the bags down when the tall form of a man reaches out and pulls it open for me instead.

“Thank you,” I say in earnest, re-adjusting one of the sacks to the best of my ability as I scoot past him. He nods politely beneath a snapback and sunglasses, just before entering the building after me.

“Let me help you with those,” he says, not allowing me the time for a response before he’s grabbing the bags from my hands. I let out a gasp of surprise as my right arm is freed of the weight it previously carried, but I’m relieved that I can finally see again.

I’m turning to him, another admission of gratitude on the tip of my tongue, but I stop before it makes it past my lips. The boy is taking off his sunglasses and slipping them into his back pocket. I watch him silently as he leans down to pick the bags back up, only to turn to me expectantly for direction.

“Do you live here?” I blurt before I can stop myself. No longer have the words left my mouth that he’s grinning at me.

“No, I’m looking for someone. Do you know Mina Underhill?”

At this point I’m blankly staring at him, wondering how the thick Irish accent escaped my initial first impression of him. Of course I recognize the blonde standing in front of me, carrying my groceries, but I’m not exactly the boy band type of gal (though Gatsby would beg to differ after witnessing too many drunken renditions of Kiss You on Sunday nights, sang into a near empty bottle of wine). Sober, I turn the radio off when the opening chords of Little Things starts to play.

“I’m Mina,” I respond. His face lights up at this information and he’s setting my grocery bags down to offer a hand. I accept it hesitantly as he introduces himself.

“Yeah, I know who you are. I’m just slightly confused as to what you’re doing in my apartment building,” I tell him. He begins to chuckle, leaning down once more to pick my bags off the floor before he heads in the general direction of the lift. I follow behind him, curiously eyeing him until we step onto the elevator, him asking which floor. When I tell him, he punches the button before turning to me to speak.

“I was at a wedding a few weeks back for my mate Aidan. Your name came up a few times during the toasting ceremony and I was curious, so I asked Chelsea who you were. She said she’d lost your number but remembered meeting you somewhere over here. You apparently mentioned the building you lived in, so she gave me the address,” he explains.

I remember Aidan and Chelsea vaguely, more so in my recent memory due to the wedding invitation I received in the mail a few weeks back. Like all the others, I tossed it in the bin, but sent a wedding gift.

Their set up was such a simple one that I finished their match in a mere two weeks, a personal best. They’d expressed their gratitude more than a few times, leaving me voicemails here and there that I honestly meant to get back to, but always ended up forgetting. Apparently, I left them with a great impression. This assumption can only be backed up by the fact that one-fifth of the most popular boy band in the world is standing beside me in a lift, holding my grocery sacks.

We’re on my floor before I can formulate a reply, so I simply lead him out into the hallway, down on the left toward my door. Setting down the bags, I pull my key from my purse and push it into the slot, turning it. When it’s unlocked, I gesture for him to go in first. He slides past me easily and I follow a few steps behind, gently resting the bags on the counter. When I turn to him, he has Gatsby in his hands.

“Who’s this little guy?” he asks, scratching behind her ears.

“Gatsby,” I answer as I pull my frozen meals from one of the bags and begin to unload it into the freezer.

“Catsby?”

“Gatsby,” I correct.

When I turn back to him, he’s staring at me blankly in disappointment. He clucks his tongue.

“Well that just seems like an opportunity wasted.”

I roll my eyes and bring my hands to my hips.

“What can I do for you, Niall?”

“Right,” he nods, letting Gatsby back down on the floor. She’s purring, rubbing against his legs like she’s found a new best friend. I glare at her, positive she’s flaunting her newfound love to get back at me for ignoring her all night last night.

Niall clears his throat and I look back up to him.

“I was hoping to discuss some business with you.”

I blink.

“Business?”

He’s blushing now, rubbing the back of his neck in slight embarrassment. His eyes won’t meet mine.

“I think I need your help.”