The Matchmaker's Match
"She's a professional matchmaker for the Somali community in London—finds perfect partners for everyone except herself. He's the 'impossible' client everyone else rejected. She takes his case to prove a point. What she proves is something else entirely."
My job is to find people love.
Not the romantic movie kind—the practical kind. Compatible backgrounds, shared values, reasonable expectations. I've made thirty-seven successful matches this year.
I've never made one for myself.
"He's impossible," my colleague Fatima tells me. "We've tried everything."
"Define impossible."
"Thirty-five. Successful businessman. Good family." She slides the file across. "Also: rejected every woman we've sent him."
"How many?"
"Twelve."
I open the file. Dalmar Osman. Handsome in a serious way. Eyes that suggest he's seen too much.
"What's his problem?"
"He says they're not 'real.'" Fatima rolls her eyes. "Whatever that means."
I meet him at his office in Canary Wharf.
Corner view, expensive suit, the air of someone who expects to be disappointed. He looks at me like I'm a waste of time.
"Ms. Farah. I've been through twelve of your colleagues' candidates."
"I know."
"And yet you think you can do better?"
"I know I can." I sit across from him. "But first, I need you to tell me the truth."
"About what?"
"About what you actually want." I hold his gaze. "Not what you're supposed to want. What you actually want."
The interview takes three hours.
I learn things that weren't in his file. About his father's death. About the business he built from grief. About the loneliness that success brings when there's no one to share it with.
"I want someone real," he says finally. "Someone who sees me, not my money. Someone who argues with me instead of agreeing. Someone who makes me feel like a person, not a prize."
"That's not impossible. That's just rare."
"Can you find it?"
"I can try." I close my notebook. "But you have to promise to actually meet who I send."
"I always meet them."
"No. You dismiss them within ten minutes." I stand. "Give the next one a real chance."
I spend a week on his profile.
Search my database. Interview candidates. None of them feel right.
The problem, I realize, is that I know what he needs.
Someone who challenges him. Someone who isn't impressed by wealth. Someone who sees past the armor to the man underneath.
Someone like me.
I push the thought away.
Professional boundaries exist for a reason.
He calls after three weeks.
"I haven't received any candidates."
"I'm still working on it."
"For three weeks?"
"You rejected twelve. Forgive me for being thorough."
He laughs. Actually laughs.
"You're different from the others."
"How so?"
"You argue with me."
"Someone should."
"Have dinner with me."
I almost drop the phone. "Excuse me?"
"Dinner. Tonight. To discuss my case."
"That's not how this works."
"Then make it work." His voice softens. "I want to see you, Amira. Not as a matchmaker. As a person."
I say yes.
Because I'm curious. Because he's compelling. Because three weeks of studying his life has made me care more than I should.
We eat at a Somali restaurant in Wembley—his choice, which surprises me. He could afford anywhere in London.
"Why here?" I ask.
"Because my mother used to bring me here." He looks around. "Before she passed."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He meets my eyes. "The memories are good. I wanted to share them with someone who might understand."
I do understand.
More than I expected to.
Dinner becomes a walk.
The walk becomes talking until midnight. He shows me places he loves—the park where he played as a child, the mosque where his father prayed, the streets where his dreams took shape.
"You're not just a businessman," I say.
"What am I?"
"Someone looking for connection." I stop walking. "Someone who built walls because he was hurt and doesn't know how to take them down."
"And you see through those walls?"
"It's my job."
"Is that all this is? A job?"
"No."
The word escapes before I can stop it.
"Then what is it?"
"Something I shouldn't be feeling." I turn to face him. "You're my client. There are rules."
"Rules made by people who never found what they were looking for." He steps closer. "I've been looking for someone real for years. Now I'm standing in front of her."
"Dalmar—"
"Tell me you don't feel it too."
I can't tell him that.
Because I do feel it. Have felt it since that first interview, when he looked at me like I was the first person to actually see him.
"This is complicated."
"Everything worthwhile is."
He kisses me.
And I let him.
We end up at his flat.
Not the corporate tower I expected—a converted warehouse in Bermondsey, full of art and books and the signs of a life lived thoughtfully.
"This is where you really live," I realize.
"This is who I really am." He pulls me toward the bedroom. "Let me show you the rest."
He makes love like he does business.
Thorough. Attentive. Focused on results.
"Dalmar—"
"I've been imagining this since you walked into my office."
"That was three weeks ago—"
"The best three weeks." He kisses down my body. "The first time I've looked forward to anything in years."
He worships me on expensive sheets.
Takes his time. Learns my responses. Gives me more pleasure in one night than I've found in years of practical matches.
"Please—"
"Not yet." He looks up from between my thighs. "I want to memorize you first."
He does.
Every inch.
When he finally pushes inside me, I understand what my clients feel when they find the right match.
This certainty. This belonging.
This feeling of finally being seen.
"Amira—"
"I know."
"I think I'm falling for you."
"I think I've already fallen."
We come together.
Lie tangled in his sheets while the night deepens.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"Now I withdraw as your client." He pulls me close. "And you date me properly."
"Is that what you want?"
"I want everything with you." He kisses my forehead. "Every annoying argument. Every challenging conversation. Every moment of being seen for who I really am."
"That's a lot to want."
"You taught me to know what I really want." He smiles. "Consider it a professional success."
I close his file the next day.
Mark it as "matched"—with myself. My colleagues are scandalized.
My heart is full.
"You fell for your own client," Fatima says.
"I found his perfect match." I look at Dalmar across the room. "Sometimes the answer is closer than you think."
He catches my eye.
Smiles.
The matchmaker finally matched.
And it's the best match I've ever made.