Badly Done, Emma Lee

Nothing brings me more joy than bringing friends together.

It is happening. It is finally happening!

I am walking through the Oxford Circus tube station with Deidre, Hayley, Lexi, and Bingley. I am wearing a sexy, speakeasy-inspired dress and Bingley is wearing pinstriped trousers with suspenders and an au courant fedora set at a rakish, Gatsby-esque angle.

We are only minutes away from meeting Johnny Amor!

My stomach is twisted in knots. I wonder if Patti Stanger feels this anxious before her millionaire mixers? I wonder if Johnny will see Deidre from across the smoky speakeasy and fall head over heels in love with her? I wonder if silly old Bingley is the man to put a permanent smile on my best friend’s face? I wonder if Hayley and Brandon will make the love connection they have been unable to make back in Northam?

A lot is riding on this evening. The romantic futures of six people. My reputation as a matchmaker. Honestly, the stakes could not be higher.

We meet Brandon outside the station.

“Hello, Brandon,” I say, smiling.

“Hello, Emma Lee. You look lovely.”

“Thank you!” I hug him. “I am so glad you decided to join us. We are going to have the best time! And Hayley is here.” I grab Hayley’s arm and pull her closer. “Doesn’t she look fab?”

I tamed Hayley’s wild curls into soft waves that frame her face and give her a sexy, smoky eye. If there were a runway in Oxford Circus, Hayley would stomp the sugar honey iced tea out of bony old half sister. Annalise who?

“Hello, Hayley,” Brandon says, smiling. “You look lovely, too. I have never seen you in a dress.”

That’s right, darlin’. Get an eyeful of all that!

We walk the short distance to The Lucky Pig, and I swear, I feel the heat from the sparks of attraction passing between Hayley and Brandon. It’s chemistry, y’all! Bring me a bucket of water because I’m on fire!

Johnny Amor said he would meet me out front. He did not tell me what he would be wearing, so I am searching the street for a man in a pink velvet suit. Which is ridiculous, really, because Bingley has sent me dozens of screenshots of Johnny’s Insta feed, and I know he owns many suits and they are not all pink.

“Hello, love,” a voice purrs in my ear. “You must be Emma Lee. I would know you anywhere. Who else but an angel has hair the color of moonbeams?”

“Johnny Amor!”

I spin around, and my breath catches in my throat. Johnny Amor is more gorgeous in person than on his Instagram feed. He is wearing big white oval sunglasses that remind me of a pair Mick Jagger might have worn when he was courting Jerry Hall, and his dark brown hair is combed into a cool, updated pompadour. He is wearing a black tuxedo trimmed in black velvet and a black-and-white, silk-polka-dot shirt open to expose a sprinkling of dark hairs. On his fingers, chunky silver rings one expects a rock star to wear.

“I am Bingley,” Bingley says, thrusting his hand between us. “Knightley’s brother.”

“Knightley?” Johnny asks. “Who is Knightley?”

“Emma Lee’s boyfriend.” Bingley frowns at me. “At least, I think he is your boyfriend. Have you two shagged yet? Are you a thing or what? He bought you a dog and took you to a posh French restaurant.”

Sweet Mother of Pearl! Is Bingley cockblocking me? He knows I am not interested in Johnny Amor, that I am trying to make a match for Deidre, so what is he doing?

“A dog and a posh French restaurant in the Cotswolds?” Johnny Amor whistles. “They’re a thing, mate.”

“Coveting your glasses,” Bingley says to Johnny. “Versace, Style Rebel.”

“Thanks.” Johnny grins, and I swear I think I feel the heat from a spark of attraction passing between them. “I am feeling your fedora.”

“Johnny Amor!” I pluck the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. “Let me introduce you to my other friends.”

I start with Deidre, who is wearing a little black dress with stripy tights and black Mary Janes, which, I think, is tame for her. Deidre smiles. Johnny smiles. I swear, I do not feel the heat from a single spark of attraction pass between them.

Once all the introductions have been made, we go into The Lucky Pig. Johnny reserved us a booth near the stage. We slide in and he orders us all a round of gin cocktails.

I am wondering where Knightley is when Brandon leans over and whispers, “Knightley might be a little late. Annalise was not pleased with the artwork on her cover flat, so they are meeting to see what can be done to make her happy.”

“Annalise?”

“Annalise wrote a novel about the modeling industry.”

Of course, she did. Supermodel. Photographer. Why not add published novelist to her Wikipedia? Yes, she has a page, I checked.

“Did she?”

“It’s brilliant!” Brandon gushes. “The next Devil Wears Prada, but sexier, snarkier.”

Of course it is.

I try to spark conversation between Johnny Amor and Deidre by asking Deidre about her favorite bands, hoping she will name a few of Johnny’s favorite bands and they will discover they are soul mates. Deidre is in to electric dance music. Johnny hates electric dance music.

I try to spark a conversation between Hayley and Brandon by asking Brandon to tell us about his latest adventure; turns out it was a three-day boating trip in the Mediterranean with a group of friends and—gasp—guess who was there? Annalise bloody Whittaker-Smith!

I turn back to Deidre and Johnny only to find Bingley and Johnny deep in conversation.

“. . . pseudo-intellectuals who sit around quoting Finnegans Wake and Atlas Shrugged,” Bingley says, looking at Johnny beneath the rim of his fedora. “Nobody reads Finnegans Wake, not by choice anyway. It’s a grudge read.”

“Grudge read?” I ask.

“A book you read to punish yourself, because you feel guilty for wanting to read something else, something sexier. It’s like a grudge shag,” Johnny explains.

“Grudge shag?”

Bingley sighs and whispers in my ear. “When you have sex with someone you’re really angry at or to get back at someone else. It’s a mad way of thinking, really. Massively mad.”

My cheeks flush with heat.

“Grudge shags serve their purpose,” Johnny says.

“Abso-bloody-lutely,” Bingley agrees.

We finish our gin cocktails and order a second round. The bartender keeps pouring cocktails and the conversations around our table keep flowing—in the wrong directions. Brandon talks to Deidre about her idea for a Queen Victoria–inspired child-rearing manual—and he seems genuinely interested. Brandon talks to Johnny Amor about Irreverent, the indie book publishing company Johnny helped his best friend launch—and Brandon seems genuinely interested. Lexi talks to Deidre about Victorian medicinal practices. Hayley talks to Bingley about the organic gastropub trend. Bingley talks (and talks) about Bingley, his mad, fab life as a lifestyle (emphasis on style) reporter—and everyone is genuinely interested.

Then, Annalise arrives looking like she just walked off a runway, of course. Flawless makeup, flowing hair, towering knee-high boots, and on-point, clingy, metallic minidress. Anyone else would look like Charity Hawkins in that outfit, but not Annalise. She does not look like a pole-twirling, rainmaking stripper from Pigeon Forge. Nope. Not Annalise. She looks like a glamazon, a real-life Wonder Woman.

Of course.

“Hello, Emma Lee,” she says, smirking. “Knightley has been detained.”

We all shift to make room for Annalise (of course) and she scoots in close beside Brandon (where Hayley had been sitting).

Fortunately, we are spared from hearing about how Annalise has become the first woman to land the cover of every Vogue around the world while winning a Pulitzer for her snarkier-than-Devil-Wears-Prada novel, because the live performances have begun.

Johnny Amor says he must head to the dressing room to get ready for his set and asks Bingley if he would like to watch the performance from backstage—Bingley, not Deidre!

I shoot Bingley a withering look, which he ignores.

He blows me a kiss and slides out of the booth, disappearing into the darkness with Johnny bloody Amor.

This evening is not turning out at all as I had imagined. Hayley doesn’t really seem interested in Brandon. Bingley hasn’t spoken a word to Lexi. Johnny obviously isn’t feeling Deidre. And who in the H-E-quadruple L invited Annalise Whittaker-Smith to this party?

The thing is, everyone is having a great time. They are laughing, connecting—even if they aren’t love connecting.

Johnny hits the stage and you know what? He is good. Very good. He has a unique sound—the voice of an old-school crooner with a little Mick Jagger flash and naughtiness added in. I can’t decide if he is a more pop, rock, or indie. He is ambiguous—in more ways than one. He puts out seriously mixed signals—winking at girls and guys alike. Not that it matters. He is funny and clever. Loads of fun to talk to and easy on the eyes (and ears).

I excuse myself to go to the loo, and when I return, everyone is dancing. Annalise and Brandon are dancing together, and Hayley, Deidre, and Lexi are all dancing with the guys from the booth across from ours.

I am the odd man out.

And I feel like sugar honey iced tea.

The more I stand here, watching my friends laughing and having a fab time with their nonmatches, the worse I feel.

I hate The Lucky Pig. There’s nothing lucky about it. I just want to leave. I want to be home, snuggling with Nether Westcote.

It’s not as if this lot requires my matchmaking skills.

What matchmaking skills?

I try to get Lexi’s attention, but she has her back to me. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I have to leave. I send a quick group text, saying I have a crushing headache and am headed home, then run out of the club—and right into Knightley.

“Emma Lee,” he says, grabbing my forearms. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”

“Home,” I cry.

“Why? It’s still early.”

“I am a lousy matchmaker. The worst.”

His lips press together, and I can tell he is trying not to laugh, which only fuels my self-pity fire, and I begin to sob. He hugs me tight and waits for the tears to subside, then asks me to tell him what happened tonight. I tell him about my intention to match Lexi with Bingley, Hayley with Brandon, and Deidre with Johnny, and how it all went horribly, confusingly wrong.

“I thought being a matchmaker was my divinely designed purpose, but I am a terrible, awful, rotten matchmaker.”

I stop talking and wait for him to say something, to refute my self-deprecating assessment.

“You are a bad matchmaker, Emma Lee”—he pulls me close and kisses my forehead—“but you are an excellent match.”

“I am?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely,” he says, looking into my eyes. “You’re my excellent match.”