Playing Cupid
Plotting and scheming to engineer the perfect meet-cute
One of my dearest friends is the picture-perfect definition of a catch: a walking advertisement for good genetics and even sweeter disposition. She is the type of woman people would have sang about in old romantic French movies. Whenever I introduce her, she is “my friend who looks like a German model from the 90s with a heart of gold”. I met her in Paris a long time ago through common acquaintances, back when we were both navigating exclusive arrangements. Hers blossomed from casual encounters to an actual relationship, with all the joys and complexities it entails.
It lasted for six years, at a most formative period of her life. With a few more relationships and the learnings that come with it, she may realise she existed in a gilded cage of her own making for the last year. Six years, that is enough time to have a deep impact on her vision of relationships, traditional values and her place within the trophy wife trope. Enough time to imagine what her ideal ring or first property would be. Cheval Blanc weekends, a collection of Chanel that would make Coco weep herself, managers of 3* Michelin stars in her phonebook in case of emergency… He treated her to luxury in a way that would make even the most honest hearts turn a blind eye on any faults. I will not even begin to describe what his “forgive-me gifts” entailed.
But, plot twist that surprises absolutely no one, the relationship between borderline narcissistic A-type executives perpetually “about to divorce”, and much younger, starry-eyed girlfriends blinded by romantic ideals rarely ends well. She was patient, played by the rules, and loved him dearly. Her stubborn heart still does in her own way.
Her emancipation was glacial. It took a long time for her to break up. Even longer for her to stop believing his intentions were pure. As I witnessed her awakening process, I developed some sort of protective tenderness towards her dating life, hoping she’d finally find someone who’d treat her right.
I’m not quite sure how it came up, but during a long dinner with a favourite co-conspirator of mine, I had what can be described as a stroke of match-making genius only the finest espresso martini would beget:
“Remember my pitch for the perfect birthday party? Where you would invite all your old fancy friends, and would hire my gorgeous London friends as loosely-behaved waitresses who would charm everyone senseless? I still believe that’s a brilliant scheme. Your friends would adore you and talk about how great of a party that was forever. I reckon it involves a tad of admin, but I have another idea more… manageable.
You gather three distinguished friends from your social ménagerie for what you’d call a gentlemen night. Think of it as ethical headhunting, but for both of our friend’s heart and checkbook. Like a modern day Emma. Ages 40-55 and single would be best. Recently divorced or separate with desires of rebirth and a fuck-you attitude, even better. It makes everything easier for an ongoing affair, plus she’s a big romantic. She’s not looking for Colin Farell or Hugh Grant1 and decently wealthy. But no billionaires! You’ve already introduced me to three, meaning I can’t possibly flirt with them over a hypothetical meet-cute or love-at-first-sight scenario. Ideally, they would have been enlightened by a previous relationship; Chaumet for big occasions, a couple of bags a year, rent covered plus a card for daily expenses… You know, the usual hypergamy Spiel. Someone LinkedIn respectable but adventurous enough to see age gaps as exciting rather than scandalous. Or, like romantic auction where everyone wins.
You book a table somewhere and start the festivities. We’d conveniently arrive an hour later, fashionably late, after you’ve shared enough drinks to loosen tongues and lower inhibition. Wait for us to settle down at a neighbouring table. Tell your boys you’ve locked eyes with us three times, one too many to be a coincidence. Ask them if you should send us some champagne, or perhaps invite us to join. Upon seeing her, at least one of your friends will try to flirt with her. She is impossible to ignore, the type of face that makes men reconsider their retirement plans. Best case scenario, she finds a lovely suitor and your friend finds a lovely protégée. Worst case scenario, you still win me for the evening. Either way, it’s a whole lot of fun. What do you think?”
I know he is one of my people because he came up with an even better plan:
“How about we stage something bolder? A weekend in one of those countryside estates? I’ll secure adjoining rooms; one for us, one for your friend. We’d have more opportunities throughout the day for fateful or strategic bumping-into each other, and hotel stays make any affair that much sexier. Besides, if everyone retreats to their respective room playing virtuous but changes their mind comes 2AM, they are only one corridor away.”
Now, should anyone feel inclined to scout locations with me over the summer (and/or has three eligible bachelors matching the description above), I’ll conveniently be in London mid-June and mid-July. Among many others and in no particular order, some gorgeous backdrop for this match-making mission could be…
I feel compelled to mention that since I bumped into him in London one gloomy winter day, he’s become my involuntary top pick for documented mature male attractiveness