All This Time

1 ⦿ in which i tell the truth

"Thank you for coming," I say, smiling pleasantly. "I'm so glad you could make it." Translation: Thank you for coming thirty minutes late, so glad you could find the time in your day to keep your appointment with me.

Across the table, my client is blissfully unaware of my irritation. Liza Donoghue is twenty-seven and looks thirty-five. Her hair falls limply past her shoulders and her tongue is working nervously over her teeth. She keeps sending me sidelong glances like she's trying to make sure I don't know what she's up to, but I suspect she's trying to fish something out of her teeth. I can tell because my Aunt Gwen does the same thing whenever she eats chicken.

Liza shoots me a scowl. "I almost didn't," she informs me, the way she stresses the word almost making me think that somewhere in that mousy brown head she actually thinks she's doing me a favor. "But I did pay you so I figured I might as well get my money's worth."

Her check actually paid for the Kate Spade purse hidden innocently in my drawer but I don't mention that. You see, Liza Donoghue is one of the millions of women occupying this planet who believes in finding Mr. Right. Some women get lucky and marry the guy of their dreams right out of high school and go on to be sickeningly happy with their babies who look cute as a button on a Facebook picture, but smell like poop and breast-milk in real life. Others have to wait a bit longer. But for women like Liza Donoghue, money tends to speed up the waiting process.

The business cards on my desk are eggshell-white. Or maybe it's ivory. Apparently paper comes in a dozen shades of white. On the right corner is a black spider's web, the black paint raised higher than the paper to give the card texture, and smack-dab in the center are the words Charlotte's Web in cursive lettering. Beneath it in capital block print are the words Charlotte Wright and my email, telephone number, and office address.

Charlotte's Web is an upscale alternative to the rigors of dating. After taking my online questionnaire and conducting an in-person interview with me, my clients are entered into the Web, which is what I call the database which will match them to their future Mr. or Mrs. Right. I'm pretty proud of its success rate, but judging from the look on Liza's face, she wouldn't agree with me.

"The last man I went out with was such a zero," she complains. "He worked in a bank as middle management." Her face pinches together like she smells a nasty odor. "He also kind of smelled like ranch."

"Excuse me?" I haven't heard that one before. "As in the dressing?"

"Yup," Liza says, popping the 'p'.

Desperate times call for desperate measures and since I can't afford to return her check, I do the next best thing. I lie. I lie my gloriously toned size six ass off. "You know," I say, leaning conspiratorially forward like I'm about to impart the biggest secret of my life, "as luck would have it, I did sign a contract this morning with a new client who I think would be just perfect for you." I'm really hoping she doesn't wonder when I had the time to do this since it's only 10 a.m.

"Yeah?" She visibly brightens. The gleam in her eye and her suddenly straightened spine mean she's back on my hook.

I smile mysteriously. "Liza, it's only been a few weeks. Compare that to the last five years of bad dates, dead end relationships, and copious amounts of self-pity ice cream which went straight to your hips, and it's a no-brainer. You need me. You really, really need me."

The truth is, I really, really need her. Not that I'd admit that to her, obviously. But with the influx of dating apps, it's harder for a gal to get work as a matchmaker these days. Women like Liza help pay my rent, my student loans, and put food on the table. If they're not satisfied after ten dates, I refund half their money. What I really provide is a dating experience, not true love. But people tend to find love around date six, on average. And it doesn't even have to last; just has to last long enough for them to consider the terms of our contract fulfilled and go on their merry way.