Mrs Cotton surveyed the room. Six round tables, each with six chairs, were arranged casually, not too formal; each had six discreet notebooks and pencils beside six wine glasses and a slim silvery holder in the centre with a helium balloon swaying gently at the end of a string. Along the wall two trestles pushed together were laid out with a tempting (at least, Mrs Cotton hoped that her culinary efforts proved tempting) array of food. There were white and brown sandwiches cut into triangles (prawn and mayo, turkey and cranberry, cheddar with homemade chutney), sausage rolls (bought but warmed through to take the chill off) and pineapple and cocktail onions on sticks stuck into a melon (she realised these were very 1960s but she hadn’t met anyone yet who turned up their nose at them). All were on plates garnished with tomatoes, cucumber and what she used to call lettuce but now seemed to be known as ‘leaves’. At the end of the table three cake stands overflowed with éclairs, muffins and cupcakes (all homemade but not by her) and, for the health or figure conscious, a fresh fruit salad filled her best crystal bowl.
Everything looked lovely. All she needed now were her guests.
She tried to analyse her feelings. She felt sad, certainly: it was the end of an era. On the other hand, it was exciting, the beginning of another stage in her life. And perhaps it was apt that it was also the beginning of a new millennium. She was a trifle - not nervous exactly - apprehensive: some of the people she knew quite well, others she had not seen for months, one or two she would be meeting for the first and last time. She had rehearsed her announcement but public speaking wasn’t her strong point; she was more of a backroom person, working away behind the scenes, as it were.
She checked her watch. A quarter to seven. The early comers should be here soon. Would there be enough food? Too late to worry about it now. She had no idea, really, how many to expect. She’d gone through her files and invited all her remaining clients, forty-seven in total: You are cordially invited to an informal get together at Robinslee Community Centre on Saturday, 18th December from 7pm. Buffet and music (she supposed her ancient CD player just about qualified). RSVP not necessary – just come!
Perhaps RSVP was necessary, on reflection. As instructed, no-one had let her know they would be attending. Three people had rung to say they would not and one letter was returned marked ‘Gone Away – not at this address’. She plumped for thirty when preparing for the event, with an extra table just in case.
Ten to seven and no-one here yet. Mrs Cotton moved over to the bottles of wine and fizzy water and poured herself a glass of red, large enough to suppress the nerves, small enough not to appear a lush when the guests arrived.
It was hard to believe it was twenty years since she set up the agency. She’d always been a bit of a romantic but her love life had not lived up to the expectations and anticipation of her teen self. Oh, she’d had boyfriends, but nobody special – that is, until Roger broke her heart. He was a charmer all right and swept her off her feet. Trouble was, he swept her best friend and, would you credit it, her own sister off their feet as well – all at the same time. She found out the week before the wedding. After that, she vowed never again and remained true to her word. She threw herself into her career and kept men at a distance, enjoying their company but never committing herself.
When she hit forty, the attractions, such as they were, of the tax office, where she’d been employed since leaving school, began to pall. One afternoon, she was skimming through the local paper thinking vaguely of applying for other jobs when the lonely hearts column caught her eye. Not being interested on a personal basis in securing another half, she had not studied this before in any depth, but now she was struck by the number of unattached men and women seeking partners for ‘outings, fun and maybe more’ as some of the ads were coyly phrased. Many, if not most, seemed to be mature people, separated or divorced, widowed or frustratingly single. And now she came to think about it, where did you meet potential Ms or Mr Right when you were past the clubbing and pubbing stage and might be shy or have children or an elderly parent to care for and therefore found it difficult to get out and join evening classes or do all the other things agony aunts suggested?
In the following days, while she was supposed to be checking tax returns, she found her mind wandering often to this social problem, as she saw it. Then she had an inspiration: why not use her desire for a change of career to create a solution, one that would not only benefit lots of solitary souls but would also satisfy her own, suppressed but not forgotten, romantic leanings? Why not set up a lonely hearts agency? There was clearly a demand for such a service, if the ads in the paper were anything to go by. She wouldn’t call it that, of course; it would sound as if it was catering for desperate people and she didn’t want to give that impression. Even before she’d investigated the feasibility of her idea, she thought of the perfect name – Cupid’s Inspiration.
She made sure there was no similar facility already in the area, sat down with her brother who, conveniently, was an accountant, to put together a business plan and approached the council which owned a former butcher’s shop that had lain empty for some considerable time. The council, which its ratepayers would not have been pleased to learn, had long since given up trying to either sell or lease the premises in the current tricky economic climate. It couldn’t believe its luck that someone actually wanted it and was willing to pay rent for it, albeit a modest sum. It quickly agreed to an initial short-term lease, rushed through planning permission for change of use and arranged for the removal of the remaining butchery equipment.
Mrs Cotton – of course, she wasn’t actually a Mrs but decided that ‘Miss’ could be off-putting to clients (“if she can’t find a man for herself, fat chance of her finding me one!”) gave in her notice to the tax office without a shred of regret and embarked upon her new venture with her confidence high – and her bank balance rather low – and got ready to welcome her first clients.
Cupid’s Inspiration was an immediate success. A prominent advert, carefully worded to encourage those who might be a little reticent, appeared in the local free paper three weeks running and she persuaded a journalist to interview her. The resultant publicity was gratifying, even if his headline, ‘CUPID’S ARROW WINGING YOUR WAY!’ was not precisely what she would have chosen. A trickle of clients became not exactly a flood, but certainly a stream, and enabled her to match up men and women who, from the information on the detailed questionnaire she sent out, hopefully had a chance of hitting it off. One or two happy outcomes helped to spread the word and, well before the twelve month lease was due for renewal, she was able to relax in the knowledge that her business was becoming established.
Mrs Cotton sighed. Twenty years! Where had they gone? And where were her guests? She glanced at the sunburst clock over the entrance. Two minutes past seven. She replenished her wine.
The tenth anniversary of Cupid’s Inspiration was celebrated by clients old and new. The business went from strength to strength. Unfortunately, by the fifteenth anniversary, the picture wasn’t quite so bright. There had always been competition, naturally, from the very lonely hearts pages from which the agency had sprung, and from a couple of other companies that had jumped on the bandwagon, as Mrs Cotton rather uncharitably put it. However, she now faced a fresh and growing threat from technology.
Internet dating was, apparently, the latest thing, and not just for the young. Why, one of her own clients, a mature and, she had hitherto considered, sensible person, had ‘met’ someone online and upped sticks and moved down south to be with him! It seemed that the tried and tested method of matching couples from their backgrounds and shared interests was out of date. Nowadays, 'singletons’ (such an awful Americanism!) preferred to do it themselves, so to speak, and had no need of the experience of human nature and gut instinct of the Mrs Cottons who ran ‘old-fashioned’ dating agencies. She looked sadly at the records of individuals on neatly typed white cards that she kept in a filing cabinet which would soon need to be replaced by a database with confidentiality protected under data protection laws.
Cupid’s Inspiration struggled on until, eventually, Mrs Cotton acknowledged that it couldn’t continue. Aside from the ever increasing costs that had to be met from the ever diminishing income, to carry on was unfair to those, relatively few, remaining on the books who renewed year after year in the fading hope that their dream would be fulfilled. No new clients had enrolled since February and, as a consequence, there were simply no new potential partners for them. So, regretfully, she made the decision to wind up the agency. She was of retirement age in any case, she had a small pension from all those years in the Civil Service and would soon be receiving her state pension. She didn’t want to write an impersonal letter to her loyal clients, nor did she want them to read about it in the press. No, she would throw one last party, a final fling to go out with a bang and celebrate the new century at the same time. And, who knows? Perhaps one or two who had not already been introduced because, on the face of it, they weren’t suited, would be struck by ‘Cupid’s winging arrow’!
A quarter past seven. It looked as if no-one was coming. Mrs Cotton went to cover the sandwiches that were gently curling at the edges. She would wait until half past and then pack everything away. Tomorrow she would compose the impersonal letters.
The door swung open and someone almost ran into the room. “I’m not late, am I? I’m so sorry, the bus didn’t turn up…” His voice trailed off as he realised that, apart from the hostess, he was the only person there.
“No, no, you’re not too late; well, you are in a way, it doesn’t look as if anyone else is going to arrive. I was about to give up, Mr ?”
“Williams, Brian Williams. And you must be Mrs Cotton. We haven’t met, have we, just spoken on the phone. What a shame, after all the trouble you’ve gone to!”
Mrs Cotton mentally flicked through her client files. Yes, she could recall the details recorded on the white card: Brian Williams was in his 60s, long divorced, own home, in good health, varied interests. She could now add to the list a pleasant manner and a rather attractive appearance. Why on earth had he been languishing in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet?
“Tell you what, Mrs Cotton, why don’t we wait another five minutes and then, if everyone else chooses to miss this wonderful party, blow them I say, you and I’ll tuck in and have a jolly good time!”
Mrs Cotton felt a warm glow.
“Yes, let’s do that, Mr… Brian. And… my name’s Daphne.”
She was looking forward to retirement.
Everything looked lovely. All she needed now were her guests.
She tried to analyse her feelings. She felt sad, certainly: it was the end of an era. On the other hand, it was exciting, the beginning of another stage in her life. And perhaps it was apt that it was also the beginning of a new millennium. She was a trifle - not nervous exactly - apprehensive: some of the people she knew quite well, others she had not seen for months, one or two she would be meeting for the first and last time. She had rehearsed her announcement but public speaking wasn’t her strong point; she was more of a backroom person, working away behind the scenes, as it were.
She checked her watch. A quarter to seven. The early comers should be here soon. Would there be enough food? Too late to worry about it now. She had no idea, really, how many to expect. She’d gone through her files and invited all her remaining clients, forty-seven in total: You are cordially invited to an informal get together at Robinslee Community Centre on Saturday, 18th December from 7pm. Buffet and music (she supposed her ancient CD player just about qualified). RSVP not necessary – just come!
Perhaps RSVP was necessary, on reflection. As instructed, no-one had let her know they would be attending. Three people had rung to say they would not and one letter was returned marked ‘Gone Away – not at this address’. She plumped for thirty when preparing for the event, with an extra table just in case.
Ten to seven and no-one here yet. Mrs Cotton moved over to the bottles of wine and fizzy water and poured herself a glass of red, large enough to suppress the nerves, small enough not to appear a lush when the guests arrived.
It was hard to believe it was twenty years since she set up the agency. She’d always been a bit of a romantic but her love life had not lived up to the expectations and anticipation of her teen self. Oh, she’d had boyfriends, but nobody special – that is, until Roger broke her heart. He was a charmer all right and swept her off her feet. Trouble was, he swept her best friend and, would you credit it, her own sister off their feet as well – all at the same time. She found out the week before the wedding. After that, she vowed never again and remained true to her word. She threw herself into her career and kept men at a distance, enjoying their company but never committing herself.
When she hit forty, the attractions, such as they were, of the tax office, where she’d been employed since leaving school, began to pall. One afternoon, she was skimming through the local paper thinking vaguely of applying for other jobs when the lonely hearts column caught her eye. Not being interested on a personal basis in securing another half, she had not studied this before in any depth, but now she was struck by the number of unattached men and women seeking partners for ‘outings, fun and maybe more’ as some of the ads were coyly phrased. Many, if not most, seemed to be mature people, separated or divorced, widowed or frustratingly single. And now she came to think about it, where did you meet potential Ms or Mr Right when you were past the clubbing and pubbing stage and might be shy or have children or an elderly parent to care for and therefore found it difficult to get out and join evening classes or do all the other things agony aunts suggested?
In the following days, while she was supposed to be checking tax returns, she found her mind wandering often to this social problem, as she saw it. Then she had an inspiration: why not use her desire for a change of career to create a solution, one that would not only benefit lots of solitary souls but would also satisfy her own, suppressed but not forgotten, romantic leanings? Why not set up a lonely hearts agency? There was clearly a demand for such a service, if the ads in the paper were anything to go by. She wouldn’t call it that, of course; it would sound as if it was catering for desperate people and she didn’t want to give that impression. Even before she’d investigated the feasibility of her idea, she thought of the perfect name – Cupid’s Inspiration.
She made sure there was no similar facility already in the area, sat down with her brother who, conveniently, was an accountant, to put together a business plan and approached the council which owned a former butcher’s shop that had lain empty for some considerable time. The council, which its ratepayers would not have been pleased to learn, had long since given up trying to either sell or lease the premises in the current tricky economic climate. It couldn’t believe its luck that someone actually wanted it and was willing to pay rent for it, albeit a modest sum. It quickly agreed to an initial short-term lease, rushed through planning permission for change of use and arranged for the removal of the remaining butchery equipment.
Mrs Cotton – of course, she wasn’t actually a Mrs but decided that ‘Miss’ could be off-putting to clients (“if she can’t find a man for herself, fat chance of her finding me one!”) gave in her notice to the tax office without a shred of regret and embarked upon her new venture with her confidence high – and her bank balance rather low – and got ready to welcome her first clients.
Cupid’s Inspiration was an immediate success. A prominent advert, carefully worded to encourage those who might be a little reticent, appeared in the local free paper three weeks running and she persuaded a journalist to interview her. The resultant publicity was gratifying, even if his headline, ‘CUPID’S ARROW WINGING YOUR WAY!’ was not precisely what she would have chosen. A trickle of clients became not exactly a flood, but certainly a stream, and enabled her to match up men and women who, from the information on the detailed questionnaire she sent out, hopefully had a chance of hitting it off. One or two happy outcomes helped to spread the word and, well before the twelve month lease was due for renewal, she was able to relax in the knowledge that her business was becoming established.
Mrs Cotton sighed. Twenty years! Where had they gone? And where were her guests? She glanced at the sunburst clock over the entrance. Two minutes past seven. She replenished her wine.
The tenth anniversary of Cupid’s Inspiration was celebrated by clients old and new. The business went from strength to strength. Unfortunately, by the fifteenth anniversary, the picture wasn’t quite so bright. There had always been competition, naturally, from the very lonely hearts pages from which the agency had sprung, and from a couple of other companies that had jumped on the bandwagon, as Mrs Cotton rather uncharitably put it. However, she now faced a fresh and growing threat from technology.
Internet dating was, apparently, the latest thing, and not just for the young. Why, one of her own clients, a mature and, she had hitherto considered, sensible person, had ‘met’ someone online and upped sticks and moved down south to be with him! It seemed that the tried and tested method of matching couples from their backgrounds and shared interests was out of date. Nowadays, 'singletons’ (such an awful Americanism!) preferred to do it themselves, so to speak, and had no need of the experience of human nature and gut instinct of the Mrs Cottons who ran ‘old-fashioned’ dating agencies. She looked sadly at the records of individuals on neatly typed white cards that she kept in a filing cabinet which would soon need to be replaced by a database with confidentiality protected under data protection laws.
Cupid’s Inspiration struggled on until, eventually, Mrs Cotton acknowledged that it couldn’t continue. Aside from the ever increasing costs that had to be met from the ever diminishing income, to carry on was unfair to those, relatively few, remaining on the books who renewed year after year in the fading hope that their dream would be fulfilled. No new clients had enrolled since February and, as a consequence, there were simply no new potential partners for them. So, regretfully, she made the decision to wind up the agency. She was of retirement age in any case, she had a small pension from all those years in the Civil Service and would soon be receiving her state pension. She didn’t want to write an impersonal letter to her loyal clients, nor did she want them to read about it in the press. No, she would throw one last party, a final fling to go out with a bang and celebrate the new century at the same time. And, who knows? Perhaps one or two who had not already been introduced because, on the face of it, they weren’t suited, would be struck by ‘Cupid’s winging arrow’!
A quarter past seven. It looked as if no-one was coming. Mrs Cotton went to cover the sandwiches that were gently curling at the edges. She would wait until half past and then pack everything away. Tomorrow she would compose the impersonal letters.
The door swung open and someone almost ran into the room. “I’m not late, am I? I’m so sorry, the bus didn’t turn up…” His voice trailed off as he realised that, apart from the hostess, he was the only person there.
“No, no, you’re not too late; well, you are in a way, it doesn’t look as if anyone else is going to arrive. I was about to give up, Mr ?”
“Williams, Brian Williams. And you must be Mrs Cotton. We haven’t met, have we, just spoken on the phone. What a shame, after all the trouble you’ve gone to!”
Mrs Cotton mentally flicked through her client files. Yes, she could recall the details recorded on the white card: Brian Williams was in his 60s, long divorced, own home, in good health, varied interests. She could now add to the list a pleasant manner and a rather attractive appearance. Why on earth had he been languishing in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet?
“Tell you what, Mrs Cotton, why don’t we wait another five minutes and then, if everyone else chooses to miss this wonderful party, blow them I say, you and I’ll tuck in and have a jolly good time!”
Mrs Cotton felt a warm glow.
“Yes, let’s do that, Mr… Brian. And… my name’s Daphne.”
She was looking forward to retirement.