Match Made in Heaven

AUTHOR'S NOTE

MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN is a departure from my usual Lit offerings. It's in the Romance section, for one! And there's not a cheating wife in sight!

It's a lighthearted, romantic piece that has been written as part of the LITEROTICA ANNUAL VALENTINE'S DAY STORY CONTEST so please remember to give it a rating when you finish.

The premise is loosely based on a dating show that aired in Australia back in the 1980's. I'm sure countries around the world had their versions. Briefly, three contestants of the same gender were hidden from view from a contestant of the opposite gender who asked three questions. He or she would select the answer they liked the best. After all three questions had been asked and answered the contestant would select his or her favourite "hopeful" and the pair would go off on a holiday. Some time later they would return to the show to talk about their trip and whether they were now dating.

I hope you enjoy my version.

Big thanks to my Valentine -- Vandemonium1 -- who proofread MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN and was his usual supportive self.

Happy Reading!

*****

"OUCH! DAMN!"

This feels so right.

Must be love at first sight.

You and I fit like hand to glove.

Must be a gift from the heavens above.

Tilly shook her head and laughed quietly when she heard the combination of Shannon swearing and the opening lines of the catchy tune to Match Made In Heaven waft down the hall. That meant it was seven o'clock. Shannon, Tilly's roommate and best friend, never missed an episode. And that was before she got a job in the hair-and-makeup department of the matchmaking show. The show was Shannon's equivalent of church on Sunday. She also never failed to trip over the corner of the rug that adorned the centre of their living room in her haste to curl up like a kitten in the corner of the lounge. You'd think the girl would learn.

Some call it fate.

Others kismet.

But for you and I destiny's the word.

I would have preferred.

"Hurry up, Till, or you'll miss the start," Shannon hollered, the beginning of impatience tinging her summons to the sofa. If Tilly knew her at all—and she did; backpacking around a country together will do that for you—Shannon would be squirming in her seat, barely able to sit still. And why she was already getting her knickers in a knot was beyond Tilly—they were still playing the opening song.

Doesn't matter which you use.

We're a Match Made In Heaven.

Oh yeah, Match Made In Heaven!

As the jingle drew to a close, Tilly quickly added the finishing touches to the cheese platter she'd been preparing. She grabbed the Sauvignon Blanc and two glasses and performing a balancing act worthy of the high-wire artists from Cirque du Soleil, scurried down the hall to the lounge room. Shannon spared her a glance and a smile before returning her gaze to the television where the host, Gene Winters, had just bounded out, looking like an advert for spray tanning.

"Great hair," Tilly commented, indicating the host with a nod of her head at the same time as she placed the cheese platter on the coffee table in front of them. She poured the wine into the two glasses and passed one to Shannon.

"I touched up his foils and gave it a trim before drying it. His fringe was getting a touch too long."

Tilly smiled to herself—Shannon sounded smug. Tilly sat and nudged her, waiting for Shannon to turn and look at her before flashing an exaggerated wink. "That explains why he looks even more polished than usual."

Shannon grinned and jostled Tilly back.

Shannon was, in Tilly's opinion, the best hair and makeup artist in Sydney. She had that whole edgy and trendy London look happening. Not so surprising, considering that's where she originally hailed from. Even when Shannon was wearing nothing more sophisticated than a pair of cut-off shorts, she still managed to look chic. Tilly knew she lacked the aplomb of her best friend. Her excuse was she'd grown up as the only girl with five brothers. She had no choice but to end up a tomboy. On top of that she was a bookworm. Oh, and she hailed from Yorkshire—a born and bred northerner, more at home in jeans and a plaid shirt.

The next half hour passed quickly, with more than a few laughs from both girls and wistful sighs from Shannon. Apparently, the winning guy contestant had been 'divine', and so having him end up paired with 'blondezilla' whose boobs were as fake as her eyelashes was a waste of a good man.

If it wasn't for Shannon, Tilly probably wouldn't have ever started watching Match Made In Heaven, but Shannon's funny, and at times, snarky commentary—along with her behind the scenes gossip—always made it fun. And, of course, Shannon's howls of horror at some of the answers, usually accompanied by her thumping of their poor couch, were entertainment in and of themselves. Truth be told, Tilly had come to look forward to their weekly viewing of the show almost as much as Shannon did.

When the credits began to roll, Shannon sighed and sipped her wine, then turned to Tilly. "You should go on the show, Till."

Tilly snorted. "What and make a huge idiot of myself in front of millions? Methinks not."

"You wouldn't make an idiot of yourself. We're doing a big bonus show for Valentine's Day. Kind of like two episodes in the one show."

One look at Shannon's face told Tilly how excited she was. It also told her Shannon was planning something. Tilly had a sinking feeling she was about to be conned.

"What? So two shows in one for Valentine's Day?"

Shannon started waving her arms about—a sure sign she was getting excited. "They sure are. The first half will be a girl looking for a guy and the second half a guy looking."

"Why don't you enter?"

Shannon pouted. "I can't because I work for the show." She took another sip of her wine before slyly adding, "But you can."

"So, you want me to so you can live vicariously through me?"

If Shannon had nodded any more enthusiastically, her head would have toppled off her slender neck.

"I don't think so, Shan, it's not really my thing. I'd feel stupid and awkward, and we both know I can't come up with witty, off-the-cuff, one-liners to save myself."

"I'll coach you."

Tilly looked at her friend doubtfully. "I don't think 'Hey, is that a party going on in your pants, and if so, am I invited' is going be a winner here, Shan."

Shannon laughed, nearly spilling her wine. "You're never going to let me forget that party, are you? But, hey, don't knock it. It worked for me as I recall."

"Maybe, but it's not exactly an appropriate response to 'What have you always wanted to do, but have never been game to try?" Tilly said, quoting one of the questions from the episode they'd just watched.

Shannon laughed again. "Oh, I don't know. With just a tiny tweak, it would have gotten my vote."

"Yeah, but you're my best friend."

Shannon smiled. "True, which is why I want you on the show. I want my best friend to meet a wonderful guy worthy of her."

"Um, maybe better I meet him someplace like a library or gallery or something. You know; doing something I like in a place I might actually enjoy visiting. I'm no good at thinking on my feet. You know me. I like to listen, and have time to think things through before I throw my two bob's worth in. I'll suck on the show. Probably be their worst contestant ever."

"So, you're not opposed to the idea, just how you'll come off?"

"Shannon," Tilly whined. "I don't want to do it."

"Just think about the holiday you could win. It's at the Whitsundays, on a chartered yacht. Can't you picture it? You and Mr. Gorgeous sailing. Sun. Blue skies. Waited on hand and foot. What could be more perfect?"

"First, I'd have to be the one picked, and with my social skills, that's about as likely as pigs flying."

"That's where I come in. I'll coach you. Who knows more about the show?" Shannon didn't wait for Tilly to answer. "No one. That's who. With my help, you're a shoe-in."

"But what if the guy is a vain and arrogant dumb arsehole with bad breath who can't string an intelligent sentence together and has a cocktail frank for a dick?"

"Well, I can't vouch for his equipment, but I can tell you the dude they've picked doesn't have bad breath, has been as nice as pie to everyone, and he's freakin' gorgeous, and, I might add, right up your alley. Late-twenties, educated, artsy, tall, dark and handsome...." Shannon trailed off suggestively before grinning triumphantly. "Sound like a certain someone's dream guy?"

"Sounds wonderful but he might be a tad disappointed when the curtains are pulled back and he sees nerdy me instead of some hot chicky-babe with tits to rival Pamela Anderson."

"You underestimate yourself, Till. If you just made a little effort you'd be beautiful."

Tilly groaned. "Christ, you really are serious. You really want me to do it. You're going to nag at me like a dog at a bone until I give in, aren't you?"

Shannon nodded, smiling. "So you may as well give in now and save us both a bit of time and angst. Besides any resistance is futile. Didn't I tell you I've already entered you?"

"What? You've already entered me? So this was really an ambush."

"Yep." Shannon made a popping sound on the 'p'. "An ambush done with love."

Tilly slid down the couch, pulling a pillow over her face as she went. It muffled her words, but she knew Shannon would hear them anyway—her hearing was bionic when Tilly said things she wanted to hear. "Remind me again that my best friend loves me."

*****

EVERY DAY OF THE next month was, for Tilly, the equivalent of a trip to the dentist. Shannon treated her as if she, Tilly, were the clay and Shannon the sculptor. Tilly was the human equivalent of a doll that Shannon got to play dress-ups with. Tilly wondered if she should change her name to Barbie.

Shannon took her shopping and made Tilly buy contacts to replace her glasses. She had Tilly up her number of visits to the gym from thrice weekly to daily and with a personal trainer that Shannon briefed as if Tilly were about to star in a Hollywood blockbuster. Her muscles were so stiff and sore she felt like a puppet and someone else was pulling the strings. If that weren't enough she now sported a new hairstyle that meant getting personal with her hairdryer for thirty minutes every morning. More hard work for her aching limbs.

Tilly was waxed, foiled, exfoliated, manicured, tanned, and trimmed until she was convinced even her own mother would have difficulty recognizing her.

Her arguments that what they were doing was false advertising—there was no way Tilly intended to keep up the routine after the show. For one thing it was too expensive!—fell on deaf ears.

Her pointing out that it was personality and character that mattered, not 'window dressing,' didn't fare much better. Shannon merely scoffed, saying, "What good is personality and character if you can't get them to, metaphorically speaking, enter the shop first? You're an attractive girl. You just manage to hide that fact well."

Not a day passed that Shannon didn't give Tilly an old question from the show to think about and formulate a witty answer to. She'd hand it to Tilly at breakfast, and by dinner Tilly was expected to have some clever response ready. The first day she tried using Rhett Butler's line from Gone With The Wind -- 'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.' All she got for her cleverness was a verbal clip around the ears. After that, Tilly made more effort but most evenings Shannon would still tweak whatever Tilly came up with. Tilly had to admit Shannon was right about one thing—most questions were variations on a limited number of themes.

To make Tilly sound more interesting, Shannon coached her on using the pitch and tone of her voice to add emphasis and pause to her answers.

Tilly once called Shannon the female answer to Professor Higgins from My Fair Lady. It was meant as a tease, but instead of cringing, Shannon puffed up like a peacock.

By the end of week three, Tilly mentally likened herself to being a well-trained parrot with the appearance of a prize poodle.

In other words, Tilly was nothing like her usual bookish, tomboy self.

****

"NOW, TILDA MARIE, DEAR, I want you to promise me you'll mind your Ps and Qs."

"Oh, I don't think you need to worry about that, Mum. I don't think they let you swear on prime time telly."

"Well, I certainly hope not, dear, because I have not only Granny May coming but also Nanna Robson. And then there's Uncle Phil and his wife, Delores, and you know how Old School she is. If she had her way, we'd still be living in the Victorian era. Honestly, I'm sure she has a pole lodged up... well, never you mind, you know how she can be. And Grandpa Robson would be most upset if he heard you blaspheming and making a mockery of the Queen's English on the telly."

"Mum—"

"Aunt Sue and Uncle Tom are coming up from Birmingham and bringing the twins with them. Ned is coming, too. He's bringing that floozie he's been dilly dallying with since the divorce. I thought that would stop Cheryl coming, but, God love her, she says she doesn't care and that she's bringing a male friend. Is that what they're calling a boyfriend these days? A male friend? God only knows who it is. She says we don't know him. I do so hope he's a nice lad, though. She deserves someone nice after the run-around Ned gave her. Between you and me, if he wasn't my cousin, I'd give him a clip around the ears. I just hope your brothers don't say something to him. I don't want them spoiling your night. And Carol—you remember Carol, don't you? From bingo?—well, she's coming with her new bloke, and—"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Mum! Who didn't you invite?"

"Father Henderson, which is probably just as well if you're going to take the Lord's name in vain and swear like a crusty old sailor, Tilda."

Tilly flushed—not even the ten or fifteen thousand miles and God only knew how many seas and oceans that separated Sydney from the UK managed to dim her mother's ability to reduce her to feeling like a ten-year-old again.

"Sorry, Mum, but, jeez, it sounds like the entire extended family and half of Yorkshire are going to be watching."

"Well, Aunt Peg said she can't because she has to work, though I promised her we'd record it, but other than that...."

Tilly groaned. She decided she was going to shoot Shannon. How could she run off and tell Tilly's mom about her going on Match Made In Heaven? How could she offer to livestream it to her? Shannon knew what her mother was like.

Come the fourteenth of February, my humiliation will be complete. I'll never be able to return to the UK.

*****

"YES, IT'S MATCH MADE in Heaven! And now welcome the star of our show, Gene Winters!"

Tilly cringed at hearing the upbeat introduction from the voice-over guy, Maxwell. Instead of feeling cheered by the words, she felt as if she was being led to the gas chamber. She could picture the perfectly coiffed and tanned host bounding out as if he had springs in his shoes. Each bounce was like a step on her chest. In that moment, if she could have backed out without losing face, she would have.

Tilly glanced at her fellow inmates. Were they feeling the same way? Maybe they were saddled with a 'Shannon' in their lives, too. She didn't know—none of them seemed to be up for much in the way of conversation. Best friend or not, though, Tilly swore to herself this was the last time she'd go along with one of Shannon's hairbrained schemes.

Tilly could hear the audience cheering. She wondered if they'd still be clapping once she'd finished making a fool of herself in front of them and a few other million people. She'd probably never get a date again. She could picture her life. She'd be like Miss Havisham from Great Expectations, except instead of a wedding dress she'd still be in the too-tight-for-comfort red minidress Shannon had insisted she wear. Best not put on any weight, then, Tilly, old girl.

Just thinking about the dress made Tilly squirm uncomfortably. It was so damn short. She gave it a tug, trying to magically stretch the dress to cover more of her bare legs. Even her legs didn't look like her own. Gone were her pale pins, replaced by two tawny stems. They were toned and shapely, though, she had to admit. She might keep the personal trainer, after all.

"Thank you! Thank you!" Gene, the host sounded so different to when he was off air. Off air there was no mistaking his homosexuality. "Now put your hands together for the lovely Cassie Davenport!"

More cheers reverberated around the waiting room, along with a few wolf whistles and hoots. They just made Tilly feel more sick.

If my face matches the feeling in my belly, I'm probably a glorious shade of green, maybe even neon.

"Hello! And hi to everyone at home."

To Tilly's ears, Cassie sounded like a bleeding bird twittering away, each tweet a needle jab to Tilly's throat. It was excruciating. Never again would she be able to listen to their intros on the show without dying a small death of sympathy for those waiting behind the curtains.

Gene and Cassie went through their usual exchange of banter, but Tilly was too busy taking deep breaths to stop from hyperventilating to take much notice. She was certain she could have gotten a job as phone-sex worker with her anxiety-driven panting.

And then came the death knell phrase.

"Please, Cassie, tell us about our next three contestants."

That was their cue. Tilly watched as the girl closest to the door stood. She sucked in a big lungful of air and patted her hair, though why Tilly wasn't sure. They all had so much hairspray on their locks it would have taken a chisel to move even one strand. With a squaring of her shoulders and a last toss of her head the girl strode out the door and down the corridor that led to the stage they'd been shown earlier.

With her departure, Tilly's anxiety cranked up a notch. Oh god, at this rate I'm going to need resuscitation before they even get to my name.

"All of our contestants tonight are from the beautiful city of Sydney! First we have a lawyer with a passion for everything and anything to do with Sherlock Holmes! Please give a big welcome to Amelia Johnson."

No sooner had Amelia left when the girl across from Tilly rose to her feet. Tilly watched, as the dark-haired girl adjusted her boobs in the lowcut dress that didn't leave a lot to the imagination. Lift them any higher, love, and they'll pop right out.

The brunette ignored Tilly as she flexed her neck and shook her arms while managing to bounce on the balls of her feet. Tilly looked on in alarm as the boobs nearly bounced out of their miniscule restraints. She couldn't help but be impressed by the bouncing, though. It was quite an achievement, considering she was wearing shoes with a high enough heel that Tilly felt they qualified as stilts. The girl looked like she was preparing for a boxing match. Maybe that wasn't so far off the truth.

"Next is Charlie Kincaid, a pre-school teacher by day and MMA fight instructor by night. That's right, folks, not only is this pretty lady dressed to kill, she's pretty... well, deadly!"

I knew it! If by some long shot I win, Charlie will probably kill me!

It was Tilly's turn.

"And last, but by no means, least, please make welcome contestant number three, Tilda, or as she prefers to be called, Tilly Robson, an expat Brit book editor who can say the alphabet backward!"