for my hand, she clutches it in her tiny one, which is encrusted with diamonds, courtesy of her ex-husbands. ‘If only you were Jewish, I would beg you to marry my youngest son, Daniel. Nothing would make me happier.’
‘Oh . . . um, thanks.’ I smile uncertainly, not sure how to take this compliment.
Magda discovered my single status within thirty minutes of my first day at work. By noon she’d demanded my entire relationship history since primary school and by closing time had declared them all schmucks.
‘You would be the perfect couple,’ she says, reaching into her enormous tote and pulling out a concertina-type thingy, which she opens out like an accordion. It’s filled with photographs of her family. ‘See! Here he is!’ She thrusts a picture at me.
I stare at it, my face momentarily frozen in shock.
Think Austin Powers in a yarmulke.
‘I know, he’s handsome, huh?’ She beams, misinterpreting my reaction. ‘Look at those green eyes! And that smile! Have you ever seen a smile like that before?’
‘Um . . .wow,’ I manage, trying to find a positive angle.
Then give up.
Well, really. I’m not shallow. I know looks aren’t everything and that it’s personality that counts, but, well . . . I glance back at the photo and his giant rabbit-sized teeth.
OK, sod it. Call me shallow.
‘And an architect too!’ Magda is swelling up so much I’m fearful she’s going to burst with maternal pride.
‘Wow,’ I repeat. My vocabulary, it seems, has shrunk to one word. Not that Magda has noticed, mind you. She’s too busy beaming at her son’s photograph and polishing it with her sleeve.
‘But it is such a shame because you cannot marry. The Jewish faith passes through the woman.’ She takes a deep, heartfelt sigh. ‘It is wonderful for the feminism but not for you and Daniel.’ She turns to me, her eyespan mecannoteyes downcast.
‘I understand.’ I nod gravely, while inside I feel little bursts of joy. Like tiny fireworks going off inside me. I’ve always been an atheist, but now suddenly I’m a born-again.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She’s still shaking her head.
‘It’s OK. Really, I understand.’ I try to look as sad as I can, while stifling a giggle that’s bubbling up inside. ‘I’ll survive.’
Any minute I’ll start breaking out to Gloria Gaynor.
‘It is a crime that a girl like you is single. A crime!’ she repeats, passionately thumping the reception with her fist. ‘But don’t worry,’ she quickly reassures. ‘Leave it to me.’
I feel a beat of alarm. ‘Leave what?’
‘I married off my brother and three of my cousins. My family call me Magda the Matchmaker.’
Oh my God, this cannot be happening. It’s bad enough having friends try to matchmake, but your boss?
‘I even found someone for Belinda, my sister’s daughter. A nice doctor from Brooklyn. And that was a tough one,’ she confides, lowering her voice. ‘The girl’s a vegan and refuses to shave her legs. I mean, I ask you.’ She throws her hands in the air. ‘I said to her, “Belinda, we’re not in Germany. Buy a razor!”’
I’m like a rabbit caught in headlights.
‘Trust me, your single days are numbered,’ she vows, throwing me a triumphant beam.
Unknown
I stare at her dazedly. Never have I wanted to be part of a...
‘Um . . . great,’ I manage. ‘Lucky me!’
She smiles in consolation. ‘Well, it is no substitute for my Daniel, but it is the best I can do.’ Then, taking one last lingering look at her beloved son, she snaps the concertina of photographs closed. ‘OK, enough of this love stuff. We must go to work!’
Chapter Five
Thankfully I don’t have any time to think about my near-miss with Daniel, or who else Magda is going to try to matchmake me with, as the rest of the morning is consumed in a whirl of activity getting things ready for the gallery event.
There’s masses to do. True to form, Magda impulsively wants everything to happen right now and the date is set forWelle i=“0” widt this Friday.
‘This Friday?’ I squeaked in panic.
‘You want Thursday instead?’ was her reply.
And the scary thing was, I don’t think she was joking.
So while she clatters around the gallery on her five-inch heels, firing off instructions, I start organising. First things first, I draw up a list:
1.
Compile guest list.
2.
Send out invitations.
3.
Write promotional material.
4.
Book caterer.
5.
Hire waitressing staff.
6.
Hang paintings ready to exhibit.
See. I might not have been born with the organisation gene like my sister, Kate, but I’m not completely useless at it. OK, so I admit I’d rather have a