I'm not interested in the boring banker types that make up the bulk of her clients.She tells me I seem to have narrowed my options to Paul Mc Cartney but, rather valiantly, accepts the challenge to help me find Mr Right. Once a client has been interviewed and then vetted - Mairead visits them at home, checking out passports and, if necessary, decree absolutes - she will then introduce them to prospective partners all over the world (rich people, it seems, have no truck with annoying things like distance and time zones).Irish by birth, and having made a fortune in hotels, she now divides her time between Cannes and London.
Don't you fancy the over-groomed, immaculate Manhattan type? He keeps touching my arm and once, instead of saying, 'If I were to have a relationship with you', he says, 'If I were to have sex with you'. He is put off, though, when I tell him about my animals; particularly my anecdote about the fact I've trained my three lambs to kiss me on the mouth. He gives me his card, and asks me to ring him if I'm ever in New York again.When I get to the bar I'm so nervous I down a glass of champagne in one go, then text to tell him I've had a 'slight change of shoe: silver platforms, not purple Burberry'.When he arrives I am disappointed: he looks ordinary, in a normal, brownish suit, clutching a briefcase.It doesn't bode well that it's my date, and I don't even recognise him!I think I cover up my amnesia, and he gallantly phones his driver to take me back to my hotel.