been drizzling on and off all week, April showers that showed no sign of giving way to May flowers anytime soon, and if she couldn’t arm herself against potential bad news, at least she could stay dry.
IF CAMILLE HADN’T known better, she’d have taken Yvonne Vickers for a prospective client. The writer looked to be in her late thirties, with the body fat percentage of an Olympic athlete and blond hair boasting natural-looking highlights affordable only to someone with a six-figure income. The kind of woman who understood it was more about looking good in a T-shirt and jeans than in designer labels. Who, if she was looking for a husband (she wasn’t wearing a ring, Camille had noticed), would see it as an enhancement, not the antidote to lonely spinsterhood.
“What do you say to those who call your profession antiquated?” Yvonne smiled as she lobbed the question at Camille, tape recorder whirring on the table between them.
“We’re not all like Yentl in Fiddler on the Roof. ” Camille gave a dry chuckle. It was a common misconception. She, for one, was the furthest thing from the stereotypical Jewish shadchen . She wasn’t even Jewish and if old-world matchmakers put a premium on modesty and virtue, she was all about style, flair, and the loosening of inhibitions. “Besides, my clients are the ones calling the shots, not their parents. They decide when and who they’ll marry. And believe me, the majority of them don’t have any trouble finding dates on their own.”
Yvonne eyed her quizzically. “Why do they need you in that case?”
“They’re busy with their careers and don’t have the time to keep testing new waters,” Camille explained. “Or in some cases, they’ve struck out a few times and don’t trust their own instincts.”
Yvonne arched an eyebrow. “But isn’t that just a highbrow form of pimping?”
Another misconception, this one not so benign. Camille struggled to hide her impatience. “My clients are looking for a life partner, not someone to have sex with,” she replied evenly. “It’s a simple matter of expediency. What might take them years, I can accomplish in weeks or months.”
The writer looked vaguely disappointed at not being able to get a rise out of her, but quickly moved to the next question. “So, Ms. Harte, what makes for a good match, in your experience?”
“Similar backgrounds and values mostly. That, and common interests.” Camille paused before going on. How to put it delicately? “I also have to keep in mind certain, um, physical preferences.”
Yvonne rolled her eyes, momentarily dropping her professional stance. “You’re telling me. The guys I’ve gone out with? Most were overage frat boys obsessed with big tits,” she confided.
Camille, aware of the whirring tape recorder, didn’t comment except to say, “I can’t deny looks are at the top of the wish list for most of my clients,” she replied with a small shrug. “Though women are more willing than men to overlook . . . certain flaws if the rest of the package is to their liking.”
“You mean if the guy’s filthy rich?” The blonde gave a cynical laugh.
“Well, yes, there’s that. But money isn’t everything.” I certainly didn’t marry for money. Edward was a struggling med student at the time. Rail-thin and badly in need of a haircut, with the pallor of someone who spent his days in a library carrel when he wasn’t in class. No, what had drawn her to him initially, in addition to the handsome face peering from under all that hair, was his inherent kindness and intelligence. “Mainly what women want is someone who’s smart and nice and can make her laugh.”
“And who’s good in bed,” Yvonne supplied. Camille smiled and sipped her Perrier. The blonde’s eyes dropped to Camille’s left hand. “You’re married, I take it.”
“Coming up on twenty years.” Camille’s face relaxed in her first heartfelt smile of the interview.
“How did you and your husband
IF CAMILLE HADN’T known better, she’d have taken Yvonne Vickers for a prospective client. The writer looked to be in her late thirties, with the body fat percentage of an Olympic athlete and blond hair boasting natural-looking highlights affordable only to someone with a six-figure income. The kind of woman who understood it was more about looking good in a T-shirt and jeans than in designer labels. Who, if she was looking for a husband (she wasn’t wearing a ring, Camille had noticed), would see it as an enhancement, not the antidote to lonely spinsterhood.
“What do you say to those who call your profession antiquated?” Yvonne smiled as she lobbed the question at Camille, tape recorder whirring on the table between them.
“We’re not all like Yentl in Fiddler on the Roof. ” Camille gave a dry chuckle. It was a common misconception. She, for one, was the furthest thing from the stereotypical Jewish shadchen . She wasn’t even Jewish and if old-world matchmakers put a premium on modesty and virtue, she was all about style, flair, and the loosening of inhibitions. “Besides, my clients are the ones calling the shots, not their parents. They decide when and who they’ll marry. And believe me, the majority of them don’t have any trouble finding dates on their own.”
Yvonne eyed her quizzically. “Why do they need you in that case?”
“They’re busy with their careers and don’t have the time to keep testing new waters,” Camille explained. “Or in some cases, they’ve struck out a few times and don’t trust their own instincts.”
Yvonne arched an eyebrow. “But isn’t that just a highbrow form of pimping?”
Another misconception, this one not so benign. Camille struggled to hide her impatience. “My clients are looking for a life partner, not someone to have sex with,” she replied evenly. “It’s a simple matter of expediency. What might take them years, I can accomplish in weeks or months.”
The writer looked vaguely disappointed at not being able to get a rise out of her, but quickly moved to the next question. “So, Ms. Harte, what makes for a good match, in your experience?”
“Similar backgrounds and values mostly. That, and common interests.” Camille paused before going on. How to put it delicately? “I also have to keep in mind certain, um, physical preferences.”
Yvonne rolled her eyes, momentarily dropping her professional stance. “You’re telling me. The guys I’ve gone out with? Most were overage frat boys obsessed with big tits,” she confided.
Camille, aware of the whirring tape recorder, didn’t comment except to say, “I can’t deny looks are at the top of the wish list for most of my clients,” she replied with a small shrug. “Though women are more willing than men to overlook . . . certain flaws if the rest of the package is to their liking.”
“You mean if the guy’s filthy rich?” The blonde gave a cynical laugh.
“Well, yes, there’s that. But money isn’t everything.” I certainly didn’t marry for money. Edward was a struggling med student at the time. Rail-thin and badly in need of a haircut, with the pallor of someone who spent his days in a library carrel when he wasn’t in class. No, what had drawn her to him initially, in addition to the handsome face peering from under all that hair, was his inherent kindness and intelligence. “Mainly what women want is someone who’s smart and nice and can make her laugh.”
“And who’s good in bed,” Yvonne supplied. Camille smiled and sipped her Perrier. The blonde’s eyes dropped to Camille’s left hand. “You’re married, I take it.”
“Coming up on twenty years.” Camille’s face relaxed in her first heartfelt smile of the interview.
“How did you and your husband
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