Prior to it being established as scientific fact, few could honestly espouse an unwavering belief in the existence of a ‘soul mate’.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, then, when TrueLink claimed its ability to find the one, single individual perfectly matched to any person’s multi-faceted, ever-evolving self, it was met with considerable degree of scepticism.
But they were right. After fifteen years of operation, TrueLink had managed to find a single, 100% match for each and every one of their many millions of customers, and the success of their methodology had been undeniably, irrefutably proven.
No divorce had ever been registered among its many successful pairings. No infidelity committed, or secrets concealed. What's more, never had it ever come to pass that a customer could find themselves in the position of choosing between two ‘soul mates’.
Because while each customer might find themselves with plenty of potential suitors, never was there more than a single other individual walking the planet that could boast to be matched to you 100%.
And it worked both ways. Because if that one love-lost individual were to walk through the doors of TrueLink’s myriad offices, they too would get a single complete match: you.
—
“Huh.” The man leaned back into his chair, furrowing his eyebrows over expensive horn-rimmed glasses. “Now that’s… interesting.”
“Interesting?”
'Interesting' was not the word I had been hoping to hear. Not after I’d been made to run the entire procedure again. Three days of living inside a clinically clean approximation of a hotel room - cycling through controlled meals of oats, chicken, rice, broccoli, each meal interspersed with examinations (cardio psychometric, situational judgement, numerical reasoning, psychological typing) and blood tests. And I’d done it twice.
“And you say you’ve been following the program throughout the entire process? No midnight snacks? Perhaps a glass of wine in the evening, or a cigarette or two from your window?”
“I wasn’t provided a window.”
He nodded sagely, pinching his tongue between his thumb and forefinger to wet them before leafing through the parcel of papers in his lap. “Well then I don’t know how to say this, but it would appear that your True Mate has passed.”
“Excuse me? Passed? As in -”
“Deceased, yes. And some time ago.” He placed the stack of papers onto the desk and slid them over to me.
NAME: CECIL PERCIVAL ABERNANTHY. BORN: 17 FEBRUARY, 1892. HEIGHT: 5 FEET, 11 INCHES. OCCUPATION: SURGEON. INTERESTS: READING; GARDENING; HIKING.
“1892? That would make him -”
“152 years old, had he not died in 1940. Boating accident, it seems.” The doctor leaned over, flicking to a later page and stabbing into it with a bony finger.
DATE OF DEATH: 29 MAY 1940. LOCATION: NORTH SEA (51.069, 2.102). CAUSE: DROWNING.
“I don’t suppose you would mind us keeping ahold of these documents, would you? Only, this is quite the extraordinary find. We’ll reimburse your fees for the privilege, of course.”
He didn’t wait for my answer, likely gleaning from my absent expression that no answer was forthcoming.
“You are of course entitled to your own copy.” He continued, brushing down his jacket as he stood. There was an energy to him. An anxious energy, like a child before the Christmas tree on Christmas eve. He was excited.
“It seems you have a reasonable number of near-perfect matches. Eighty-million over 90%. Seventeen at 99!”
He paused, then nodded curtly, muttering some final notes as he thrust papers into his briefcase to leave.
I should expect my full results via mail within the week. There’ll be papers to sign at reception on the way out.
And, Really, an extraordinary set of results.
And, did I know they now offer tests to establish my ideal first date? I can let the receptionist know on the way out, should I be interested.
And, By all logic, such a result simply shouldn’t be able to exist. Fascinating, truly.
And then he was gone, and with him Cecil, my one, indisputable, perfect person. Gone before I was born.
—
At approximately five dates per week - breaking only for national holidays and one unbearable period of chicken pox - it had taken just shy of four years for me to reach the landmark occasion that was my thousandth date.
Not a happy milestone, admittedly, but without having made much of a dent into my 80 million potential suitors, I assured myself that I had, in truth, very little to worry about. After all, one thousand was such an insignificant number when compared to the remaining seventy-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, that it would be actually quite spectacular to find tonight’s suitor the most appropriate of them all.
Regardless, I did make something of an extra effort. Dress, nails, haircut. Shave. After all, tonight was a 99%er, one of only five I had seen so far (best to savour them, I figured. Spread them out).
Tonight’s date was Martin O’Reilly. Two years my senior, and at five feet, nine inches, a reasonable height. He was well groomed; full head of hair. A bit of greying at the roots, but in an attractive way. A good sign that he didn’t feel the need to dye it.
He worked as an architect, which meant almost certainly a good income, though I liked to think such things didn’t factor much into my results. Worked in the city. My city. Which was less of a coincidence as it may seem.
Indeed, each one of the 99%ers with whom I was matched happened to either work or live nearby. This, I tried not to think about too greatly, fearing the inevitable spiral of questioning how significantly such a seemingly trivial thing as proximity factored into producing a perfect match, and from there, it was a short journey to questioning whether, should such a thing as ‘location’ factor heavily into the calculation, would it not follow that the match who lived the farthest away had slightly more preferably qualities in other regards?
Perhaps someone who was rated lowly on account of being on the other side of the globe might actually be a better match than any of the high-scorers who lived nearby! And what did that mean for Cecil, the man who achieved a perfect score, while failing to even exist within the same universe?
I was doing it again. Spiralling. I’d promised myself I would give date number 1000 a fair chance. Martin seemed like a good man. He deserved as much. Besides, coincidences do happen. That’s what a coincidence is, after all.
—
The date started reasonably enough. He picked me up in his own car: silver, electric. Expensive-looking, but in a sensible way. Clean, but not obsessively so.
There was a television screen, one of those small ones about the size of an old tablet device, strapped to the passenger seat headrest. Strange, on account of the fact that he’d claimed not to have any kids, but then perhaps it was for a close niece or nephew or something to that effect. And if that weren’t the case, well, the fact a man could be hiding a secret family and still match with me at 99% was something I might have to bring up in therapy.
We drove - at a relatively consistent 2 miles above the speed limit - to a quaint restaurant across town, during which he made sure to ask me all the correct questions - how long had I lived in the area; what did I do for work - nothing too intrusive, like some of the interrogations I’d received from men who had to feign interest. Just small talk. Pleasant.
He was courteous to the valet, with whom he shook hands fervently, sliding the man a folded bill as he did so in a subtle and suave and practised movement, and at the entrance to the building, held the door as he prompted me to proceed ahead of him (not by any measure something I require, though I admit to having appreciated the effort to be gentlemanly).
He did not pull my chair out for me to sit, which I would have found both archaic and insulting, and when seated, he explained to me that he’d frequented the restaurant many times before. So much so, in fact, that he’d come to find very good friends in the owners: a delightful couple - one Indian, the other French - both of whom shared a love of cooking and experimentation that resulted in a marriage of culinary traditions unlike any other.
I listened with a smile, lips kept sealed so as to not seem too eager, and because I had read that men prefer dainty, toothless smiles, presumably as showing teeth can make them feel threatened.
Martin listed off recommendations, to which I listened diligently, nodding to each in turn. Duck liver parfait with a plum chutney on toasted brioche bread; millet cutlet with a chickpea masala and mint sauce; fish stew with fillet of hake and gurnard.
“You pick,” I said as he finished, not least because I remained quite unsure as to what much of it was.
An elderly man, whom Martin greeted as one might an old friend, arrived at our table with some glasses and a bottle of sparkling water. His name was Ilyas, Martin explained, before introducing me as his date.
Ilyas looked to me as though in disbelief, turning his head to stare intermittently between Martin and me, eyes wide in feigned shock.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Surely not! How can such a buffoon land a beauty like yourself? Ilyas had said in a thick French accent. Ah, I understand, you must have lost a bet!
He was charming, the old man, and while I felt no attraction to the man, I must admit to having wondered at how much ‘age’ factored into the equation. Would Ilyas score highly, perhaps? I quickly tried to throw the thought away, ashamed at myself for having conceived it. I did that a lot, over the past four years. Men, women. I didn’t want to - didn’t even intend to - these sorts of thoughts just popped in my head every now and again. It was hard to get away from.
When it came time to order, Martin surprised me by doing so in fluent French. With each item he listed, Ilyas smiled and nodded approvingly, offering an occasional quip, to which both men would laugh, and to which I was not privy by fact of not speaking French.
Why had Martin chosen not to continue engaging the old man in English, I’d wondered. Clearly, the old man was fluent in it. Was it simply to impress me, or did he order that way each visit? And what if it had been the other owner who arrived to take our order? Did he know Hindi? Urdu? I made a note to ask him once Ilyas had left.
“Have you ever tried rice beer?” Martin asked, bringing my attention back to the table.
“I can’t say I knew beer could be made from rice.”
“Every time I visit, I end up staring at it on the menu, but I’ve never had the courage to try it.”
He paused, and then, placing his hands quickly on the table, turned to Ilyas. “You know what - if not tonight, then when? Two bottles of rice beer, please. Unless -,” back to me, “you don’t fancy it?”
“No, no,” I replied, not wanting to dampen his enthusiasm. “That sounds nice. Let’s try it.”
“How did you come to learn French?” I asked once the waiter had left to fetch our drinks. “Do you know any other languages?”
“Just French, I’m afraid. Lived over there for a few years while studying. Beautiful place. Architecture unlike any other. Have you been?”
I hadn’t. Truth be told, I hadn’t so much as left the North, let alone cross a border. Not to say I hadn’t dreamt of it. Of visiting France, that is. Staying somewhere on the coast, overlooking the sea. Only I know that it wouldn’t be healthy for me, acting like that. Like a widow in mourning, ruminating on the life of a man who I never even knew.
“Not yet. Maybe one day.”
“Oh you should,” Martin said. “And the food - my God, the food. I tell you, nothing beats picking up a fresh baguette and slice of brie and a bottle of wine and just sitting by the The Seine, watching the world go by.”
“That does sound nice,” I said, picturing the scene in my head. The cool, mossy scent of the water; the condensation carving its path down the bottle of wine. Men and women in beautiful clothes, flirting and gossipping over cigarettes and coffee. “Maybe if this goes well, we can visit together one day.”
“Madame,” Ilyas said, arriving with our drinks and decanting mine into a tall, thin glass. “And for you,” he said, passing Martin the bottle.
“Oh, you need a glass.”
“No, no,” Martin corrected me, “Ilyas knows, I prefer to drink it this way. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not,” I said profusely, apologetically. I chose not to linger on the oddness of having professed to never trying rice beer before, and yet seemingly having a preferred way of consuming it. Probably the case that he prefers all beers from the bottle, I thought, pulling my attention down and to my own drink.
It looked lighter than any beer I’d had before; a pleasant golden hue, like unharvested hay, with a thin and airy ceiling of bubbles dancing at the surface, spitting flecks of white as it did.
I took a sip, and found it pleasantly mild, less complex than those made from wheat and hops, which I tended to find too difficult to drink in any great capacity.
I wondered if Cecil might have enjoyed such a thing, being from London, but then, was such a thing even available at the sort of pubs Cecil would have frequented? London back then was a lot less metropolitan than it is now, after all. I suppose I always imagined him as an ale drinker, really -
“Blimey, that’s nice,” Martin said, looking to me with eyebrows cocked, waiting for me to respond in turn.
“It’s lovely.”
“Ha!” Ilyas clasped his hands together in delight. “I shall let Pari know you approve. I believe she will soon be done preparing your food, I shall check.” He bowed slightly, spinning on his heels.
“This place really is pleasant,” I said, the two of us watching the old man trundle his way back through the swinging doors and into the kitchen. “Thank you for taking - for agreeing to take me. I know it must have been strange, receiving a message out of the blue like that -”
“Not at all! It’s the way things go nowadays, isn’t it? Besides, it was a delight to receive. I assumed you had been given my name by TrueLink?”
“Y-yes,” I replied, regretting having set the conversation on this course. It was inevitable - how else would I have known to reach out to him, this man I’d never met, enquiring as to whether he might consider that we spend an evening together - but these sorts of discussions always concluded uncomfortably.
“I know it’s cynical, but you get to a certain age and -”
“You can’t afford to keep wasting time on men who aren’t worth the energy. I get it. I don’t think that’s cynical at all. It’s practical, really.”
“But you’ve never taken the test yourself?” I asked, before I could catch myself. “I’m sorry, that’s a bit personal.” Why, why, why, why. You’re doing it again. Why do you always do this?
“No, no, it's fine. Really,” he said. But it wasn’t, I could tell. It was evident in the way he flattened out the napkin on his lap, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. The way he cast his sight downwards, unable to look me in the eye as he lied, even if he was only lying to protect my feelings. “I don’t mind. Actually, I-”
“No, please,” I interrupted. “I- I don’t want to know.”
It was true; I didn’t. Not tonight. Not with date 1000; Mr 99%. What answer was there that didn’t carry in its stead the premature damning of our relationship; the death knell to a connection that hadn’t even been given an opportunity to form?
Either he hadn’t - in which case he would be destined to live the rest of his life, our life, wondering if there was perhaps someone better out there - or he had, in which case he would know for fact that he had. Because I was not his 100% match. She was still out there, somewhere, anywhere. Anywhere, that is, but for here, sitting opposite him now, in the guise of me.
And if he knew that, and was here anyway, driving me to his favourite restaurant, treating me as a gentleman would, impressing me with his knowledge of French and swooning me with images of Paris, City of Light and Love, then - why?
Did he not mind keeping her waiting? Was he not eager to start on their perfect life; to build their own ‘labour of love’? Certainly, it couldn’t be written off as a simple case of a man too lazy to endure the effort of tracking down his one and only. Here was a man who worked a big, city job and who travelled the world. Or at least Europe. India, too, maybe. I still hadn’t asked. Regardless, that is not the lifestyle of a lazy man.
That left only two remaining options: First, that he simply felt he wasn’t ready, that needed more practice, needed to know when to open doors, when not to pull out chairs. Needed to know whether flaunting his knowledge of French was charming, or boastful. If dictating the order was suave, or chauvinistic.
Or second, something even more nauseating, and demeaning: If he already had his answer - his number one - the woman with whom he’d spend the rest of his life - why rush? Why settle down now, when he was young, and fit, and handsome? There was fun to be had, women to lull, to bed, to dispose of.
No, better not to know.
“Ah, the food,” he said, relief heavy in the lilt of his voice.
I set my napkin on my lap as Ilyas placed before me a white china plate of meat - duck, I think, though I couldn’t be sure - sat atop wilted greens, lentils that steamed with the scent of curry spices and sweet caramel.
“I hope you enjoy it, I picked you my favourite dish,” Martin said, picking up his knife and fork to tuck into his own plate of fish cakes atop more wilted greens.
“It looks delicious,” I said, cutting myself a morsel of maybe-duck and topping it with a meek portion of lentils. Small bites, dainty bites. Men liked that, so I read.
The duck crackled as I crushed it against the roof of my mouth with my tongue. It was sweet, powerfully sweet, so at odds with the mild and earthy lentils that coated my mouth. Each part delectable, but distinct, out of unity.
“Wow,” I said. The surprise was honest, if not the delight. It wasn’t the food to blame for my dissatisfaction, I knew that. It was simply that I’d grown up under the tutelage of a man who believed all food not found within a can and capable of outliving us all was not worthy of consideration.
My childhood was one of spam and pork and beans. Sickly yellowing peas and peeled, boiled potatoes the size and shape of eyeballs. I didn’t enjoy food, and as a result (and to my great shame) it was this diet that I maintained well into my adult life.
Only recently had I began eating better, not wishing to follow my father in passing away at 55 with a heart the calibre of a 90-year-old’s, and because a diet of aluminium-encased food ‘stuffs’ was hard to accommodate alongside a life of dating five times a week. Yet, for all of the fast-food diners and Michelin-starred bistros to which I’d been treated over the past four years, never did my taste buds forget the tastes that raised them.
We ate in silence for some time, letting the sound of cutlery scraping against china fill the absence. Then, out of nowhere, Martin leaned back in his chair, hands rested on his stomach, and groaned. Purred, really.
Mm. Mmm, mmm, mmmm.
And just like that it was over. Martin returned to his food, continued to eat. As if nothing had just happened. As if he hadn’t just acted as though he were in a pantomime. Goldilocks, having had her first taste of the just-right porridge of the littlest bear.
Was that the 1%? I wondered. That noise, the hairline crack between perfect and flawed?
Cecil would not have done something so inane and… ridiculous. He couldn’t have.
I couldn’t say why it bothered me so much. Perhaps it was the food, the smell of which was starting to make me nauseous, or perhaps it was the French, the unashamed showing off like one might expect from a child. If not that, the beer. Or the door. Or it was the fact that he tipped the valet as though he’d copied the movement from a spy movie. Perhaps it was the fact he didn’t hold his hands at ten and two on the drive over. Or did he?
Did he?
I can’t remember.
No matter. It was beside the point. The crack had been acknowledged, and thus it was destined to widen. The score - should it be able to move at all - would move only lower. It could not improve. There was no space. The perfect score had been claimed, impossible though it might be.
Besides, had it the potential to reach 100, then that is where it would have started. 100. That’s what a soul mate was, what it’s meant to be.
—
Martin dropped me home at approximately nine PM. There was no goodnight kiss, or suggestion of a cup of coffee before he headed off.
Watching the taillights of his car disappear into the evening darkness from my living room window, I wondered if he had felt it too. The fracture. If he had, he’d continued to make an effort with me regardless. He was kind like that, I suppose. A gentleman until the very end.
A shame it couldn’t have worked. Still, tomorrow we will try again.
Collapsing into my sofa, I dug between the cushions to recover the beaten notebook I’d picked up at a museum gift shop (they were hosting an exhibition on the evacuation of Dunkirk at the time). It used to have a picture of Rosie the Riveter on the front, though I’d lost the cover along with a number of early pages after the binding had come loose some time last year.
I flicked through the tattered pages until arriving at entry 1,001: Michael Chen. Born: 15 October 1989. Match: 96%. Suggested we go see a movie: a rerun of Sunset Boulevard, playing at the arthouse cinema downtown. One of my favourite movies, actually. I'm looking forward to it.