I fidget in my seat as Meredith drones on with advice, warnings, and the basics of the game, still trying to wrap my head around becoming the first girl on Matchmaker. It sounds like a rehash of a thousand other ‘relationship’ shows, but they’ve got some cool twists that make it seem a bit game-show, like a spinning wheel of potential dates and pressing the button to choose a guy. There’s something about cards with pictures of the guys and me on them, but I’m too nervous to listen to Meredith go over the details. I’m still so much in culture shock that I guess I’ll just have to roll with it as it happens.
I still can’t believe they chose me. I know there were thousands of women who sent in videos that were probably far sexier than mine. But Meredith told me it was my personality and girl next door beauty that so endeared me with the producers. Apparently, when they saw me talking and just being myself, they decided that they had to have me.
It’s been an ego boost that they chose me, but while I feel a sense of pride, I can’t help but feel the pressure. As the first Matchmaker, I feel like I’m going to have to be extraordinary. And I’m just . . . ordinary.
Just the thought of the pressure is making it difficult for me not to hurl my breakfast all over Meredith’s Louboutin heels.
And then there’s the tagline for the show. “Matchmaker . . . where you’ll find your match and your happily ever after.”
To me, it’s almost eyeroll-worthy, but who knows? Maybe it’ll catch on.
“You just said the guys are here for their own reasons,” I interrupt as Meredith plays the credits music for me. “Am I supposed to become a great actor and fake it?”
Meredith makes a face, sort of like she wonders how I got through high school being this stupid. “Not necessarily. There might be a couple of genuine men here looking for love. It’s your job to weed out the real from the douchebags, something I don’t think you’ll have a problem with. And if you do, that’s what I’m here for—to help you choose and go down the right path. It might be a flawed process, but people do occasionally find real love on these shows. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” She pauses, looking reflective, and I wonder what her past is on this kind of show. “Now listen . . .”
She goes back to explaining the rules, but I get lost in my thoughts. Does anyone really find love on a TV show? I mean, I love watching them myself, but I’m not stupid. I don’t expect them to live out their lives together after the show. Hell, the tabloids usually start popping up about couples splitting shortly after the show ends. Even if they do get married, it’s only a countdown until the inevitable divorce.
Still, I can’t deny that I’m feeling somewhat excited under all the anxiety. Even if I’m probably not going to find true love, getting to go out with a bunch of hot guys and do crazy, adventurous things sounds fun to me! Who knows, maybe one will be worth dating afterward. What single girl wouldn’t be onboard with that?
Meredith is still going on about details of the show that I really should be paying close attention to when I hear footsteps and clicking heels behind me, followed by voices.
“Don’t you even try it, biatch,” a sassy, high-pitched male voice hisses. “I’m doing her makeup first.”
A woman’s sultry laugh follows. “Go ahead, sweetie. I’ll try my best to keep her foundation pristine when I wash her hair.”
“Bitch, please. You fuck up my makeup and I’ll fuck up your life.”
Standing in front of me, Meredith stops talking and shakes her head in disapproval at the newcomers, but I can’t help but laugh. Curiosity forces me to turn my head to get a look at the pair.
A curvy woman with pink hair done in pinup curls and a petticoat peeking out of her circle dress approaches me, a smile on her face as she looks me up and down. “Hey, sweetie,” she says, flashing a smile that I’m not sure is genuine. “I’m McKayla Quinn.”
“Nice to meet you, McKayla,” I begin to say, “I’m—”
She talks right over me, waving her hand. “You can call me Buffy. It’s what everyone calls me anyway. I’ll be your hairstylist for this shindig. But do me a favor. After I’ve spent hours making your hair perfect, keep it that way and we’ll get along quite well. Hmm?” She finishes with a big open-mouth wink.
I smile politely. “I’ll try my best—”
“And this is Brangelina Cooper,” McKayla says over me again, gesturing at the flamboyantly dressed man beside her. He’s tall and thin, wearing a pink shirt and designer blue jeans, his hair dyed platinum blonde with pink streaks. I think he has the bluest set of eyes I’ve ever seen and dimples that make me jealous. I wish mine were half as cute.
“His real name is Brad,” McKayla continues, not even pausing to take a breath, “but he likes to be called Brangelina for some reason.”
Brad scoffs. “Bitch, that’s because I embody Angelina’s beauty and Brad’s hotness. And I’ve got a better ass than both.”
“Apparently, no one’s told him that Brad and Angie are finished,” McKayla mutters. “And his ass isn’t that good.”
It’s difficult to hide my smile as Brad offers me his hand and I take it.
“Excuse her,” Brad says, smirking at McKayla. “She doesn’t get out much. I’m delighted to inform you that I’ll be your makeup artist while you’re here.” He leans in close and I catch a whiff of a woodsy feminine fragrance. “Between the two of us, we’ll keep you primed and polished for your every close-up! I’ll have your face looking beat and snatched at all times.” He boasts as he flicks his wrist and snaps his fingers.
“Any questions before I take off?” Meredith asks, drawing my eyes back over to her. Judging from her body language, she isn’t pleased at the interruption but she doesn’t outright say anything. The look on her face alone says it all.
I have a million and one questions running through my mind, but I’m too tongue-tied to ask any of them. Plus, I don’t want her to know that I was only half listening to her sermon. Instead, I slowly shake my head. “No, none right now.”
“Good. I’ll leave you in the dynamic duo’s capable hands before we parade you in front of the producers.” Meredith’s expression doesn’t match her complimentary words as she looks at the two like they’re children. “They want to see how you’ll look on camera all dolled up.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Mere,” McKayla says in a way that makes Meredith grit her teeth, “We’ll take good care of her.”
“We promise,” Brad echoes. “She’ll look better than any fifty-dollar Sunset hooker by the time we’re done.”
Meredith lets out a dramatic sigh, raising her head to the ceiling. “Lord, if you two weren’t so good at what you do, I’d . . .” she trails off, not finishing the threat.
“I don’t care what you do with us as long as you pay me,” McKayla says distractedly, turning her eyes on my hair. It looks like she’s already making plans on the styles she wants to use.
“I know that’s right,” Brad echoes. “A bitch gotta eat. Those happy meals are expensive.”