The Times of London: A female sports journalist tries a high end matchmaker:

Last year, I signed up to a high-end dating service and spent thousands of pounds to see if I was missing something. At the time I was 39 and life felt pretty good. I work in sports broadcasting, a job that regularly takes me around the world covering major competitions, from multisport events in Europe to tennis in Asia to horse racing in the Middle East. It can be chaotic, frustrating and stressful, but always rewarding. When I wasn’t in an airport, a hotel or TV studio, I was back in London happily living alone, juggling work, friends and a social life that rarely left me short of things to do. I was more than content with my single status.

Or was I? I suppose it was the same old story. Friends, colleagues and occasional well-meaning relatives would suggest I should be putting myself out there. That I could fend off some hypothetical future regret if I simply tried harder.

I’d get the same advice at weddings, dinners and late-night kitchen conversations with coupled-up friends: if you want a partner, you simply have to try harder. Try the apps. Try introductions. Try matchmaking. Eventually, logic says effort will produce results. Cue a well-meant (annoying) look of sympathy.

I hadn’t used dating apps for years. I don’t like regurgitating the same conversations with strangers who just seem to be searching for validation or therapy. And yes, I know it goes both ways and it doesn’t seem to be much fun for men either. I also didn’t like that so many people could have access to me without somehow earning it.

But in a bid to settle the argument once and for all, I decided to try something different.

A 12-month membership — and five guaranteed matches

In late 2024, I met a matchmaker through a Soho House event — one of those slightly surreal evenings where everyone seems to work in “strategy” or “ventures”. It was advertised on the Soho House app and was intended as a “social and networking event” for “professionals” between 30 and 45, held at the Institute of Directors on Pall Mall in central London. I almost didn’t bother going. It was Friday night and the prospect of setting out on a winter’s evening to make small talk with strangers didn’t seem appealing in the cold. But in the interest of moving out of my comfort zone, I went along.

Hosting the evening in a sequined jumpsuit was the matchmaker. She had a pen in one hand to tick off names from the guest list and a glass of champagne in the other. The room itself felt more like an underground wine cave than a glossy members’ club — low ceilings, dim lighting and a crowd that never quite filled the space. A little later, the matchmaker and I got chatting over drinks and she told me about her dating agency, asked about my dating and social life and if I’d mind being added to a WhatsApp group she’d created for everyone attending the event. The next day she messaged to say she had a client she thought I should meet.

This is the dream, she told me: the men I work with are well educated, respectful, thoughtful, successful and, crucially, they reply to messages. It sounded like a world away from the disposable culture of the apps, where people vanish mid-conversation. Suddenly, matchmaking began to feel less like an eccentric relic and more like a premium upgrade.

So after thinking about it, I signed up to her agency. The fee was £4,000 for a 12-month membership and five guaranteed matches (quality over quantity was the idea).

Can £15,000 buy you love?

Before pulling the trigger, though, I had a nagging thought: did I even want a relationship? Or was I paying more attention to how my life looked from the outside than how it felt to live it?

Still, I reasoned that if I were ever going to quiet that voice telling me I’d wasted my so-called “settling down years” enjoying my own company, then this was my chance. A final roll of the dice.

I had a call with the matchmaker that lasted about an hour, a full “vetting” covering everything from my religious views (none), political preferences (centre to left leaning), whether or not I wanted kids (no), would I date someone who already had them (definitely not), and what about divorced men? (I’d rather not.) The bases were covered. Extensively.

I was relieved when he said he needed to go home

In a matchmaker, I imagined having someone with access to a pool of people who were somehow different from those I’d encountered before in the Wild West of app culture. Less endless browsing, more considered introductions. A couple of weeks later, I had my first match: lunch in Notting Hill. I could do that.

He was sitting at the table when I got there: early forties, expensively dressed, an “entrepreneur” with the confident air of someone used to being listened to.

It started off with him ordering for me. Which would have been fine, except he hadn’t asked whether he could and hadn’t asked if there was anything I didn’t like. Then I endured a lunch where I was talked at for the duration. Told about a financial book he was writing. Climate change? A hoax. When I attempted to argue, he told me that we can’t predict who will win the Premier League in 20 years, therefore we cannot predict the state of the planet.

Next, he thrust his phone towards me, proudly displaying the numerous photos and videos of him on anti-lockdown marches while the rest of us were sitting inside watching Netflix. This was a fundamental mismatch: something as important as political alignment and belief that a deadly virus existed were pretty easy things to vet at the initial stage. I was relieved when he then told me he needed to go home and work, and he took care of the bill. Outside the restaurant, he said he’d love to meet for a second date. Thankfully, I didn’t hear from him again.

The agency was very enthusiastic about the next person, proclaiming that we would have lots in common. Indeed. I had met him on a work call four or five years previously, since he worked in sports PR. While I wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about him as the matchmaker was, I agreed to be put in touch. It turned out that he was living abroad when we were introduced. While a meeting was arranged, he messaged beforehand to say his stint in Spain had become permanent. Shouldn’t a matchmaker check something as basic as the country someone is living in?

“The agency was very enthusiastic about its next match. It turned out he lived in Spain”

I was clear I didn’t want to be introduced to anyone who worked in the same industry as me. Someone who worked in my field was then duly suggested. I hadn’t met this one, so agreed to have my number passed on. I then heard from the agency that he declined meeting me because he already knew who I was through work circles and didn’t feel comfortable mixing his personal and professional life. Was the matchmaker listening to anything I was telling her? No men in my industry, please.

He was pleasant enough — as best as I could hope for

I pressed pause on my membership for a two-month period while I was working abroad last summer, going from a table-tennis event in Las Vegas to the World Games in China and another event in Sweden. When I returned, the agency messaged to say they had three people I could have met who were all subsequently unavailable because I was working out of the country. The implication seemed to be it was my fault I had missed out on eligible matches.

After this, I was asked to revisit the red lines we had discussed during my “onboarding”. Was I sure I wouldn’t date someone with kids? A lot of men your age will have them, you know. Why did I travel so much for work? That was off-putting for a partner. Did I have to work so much? Men don’t really like that, apparently.

Still, I kept up my side of the bargain with the agency: thanking them for the hard work I was sure they were doing, remaining open, polite. Remaining in the country. I didn’t hear much from the matchmaker for a while and was pretty OK with that. But the thought of having handed over thousands of pounds to someone with just one bad date to show for it nagged at me.

We had a breakthrough. This next guy would tick every box, I was assured. And the agency was right — this one seemed great. Interesting, intelligent and eager to meet. Another “entrepreneur”, he looked quite polished and mysterious in his black and white WhatsApp profile photo.

We chatted on the phone and agreed to a drink. Before we did I googled him, as we all do before meeting a stranger. Turns out he was ten years older than he claimed to be. Obviously, I wasn’t prepared to meet a liar, much less one who wasn’t age appropriate. I told the agency about what I’d found and they said that from then on they would look at their clients’ LinkedIn profiles to verify age. A system that, I was assured, would prevent the problem in future. It seemed comical in its inadequacy.

On one call, the matchmaker mentioned they had far more women than men on their books, which explained why the process seemed so slow. Until that point I had assumed that everyone involved was as invested as I was. In reality, I had paid thousands to be part of the system while some of the men, it seemed, had simply agreed to show up. I said I would prefer to be introduced to someone who had also signed up and paid for the service, rather than men who had been approached and asked if they fancied meeting someone.

The next person suggested going for a walk as a first meeting. It wasn’t quite what I had imagined when I signed up for a premium matchmaking service. I pushed back and suggested that indoors would be preferable since it was winter and we were in the middle of a named storm. So, we met for lunch (inside) at a pub near Holland Park. He was pleasant enough — as best as I could hope for given the agency’s track record.

Thankfully, this one wasn’t a self-proclaimed entrepreneur but a physio the agency had told me made six figures a year running his own clinic. Conversation flowed easily enough — work, travel, the usual first-date topics — though he wasn’t my type. But in the interests of being open, I agreed to see him again. We met for dinner and I made an effort to look my best, wearing a dress and boots. When I arrived, I was somewhat dismayed to see he was wearing the same outfit, including the scruffy Converse trainers he had worn a few days earlier. The overall effect felt more student than professional. The bill arrived and he asked if we could split it.

A debrief followed with the agency when I didn’t hear from him for days after the second meeting. I should have been the first one to text after the date, I was told. That was the modern way. I must adopt the role of pursuer because apparently the reason this man took days to follow up was because he was “intimidated” and needed me to lead. I don’t buy into the rules as to who needs to text first, but this was not the confident, secure man I told the matchmaker I was interested in meeting.

Money can’t manufacture desire

A month or so passed before the next match was presented to me. Eager not to waste time and effort and sensing a pattern might be emerging with unsuitable prospects, I asked the matchmaker what it was about this man that she thought made him a good fit. A valid question given the glaring previous mismatches. I was told not to “intellectualise” and just to enjoy the process. Was I intellectualising, or had £4,000 earned me the right to ask? The question turned out to be immaterial: after the agency passed on my number, the guy vanished. This had also happened with a previous match. My number seemed to be circulating more freely than I was comfortable with, so I asked the agency not to give out my details until there was an arrangement to meet.

Much like my rationale for leaving dating apps, I reasoned that if something clearly does not work, why pursue it? Outsourcing my love life was supposed to be easy: if I paid enough money, all I had to do was continue living my dating app-free life and wait until the agency presented me with eligible, desirable dates.

But money can’t manufacture desire. Curated introductions can’t fix fundamental dynamics. Was there suddenly going to be some drastic change in the readiness of the men out there — or the agency’s ability to vet and do the job they claimed to be so experienced in doing?

I concluded no on both counts, and decided to free myself of the frustration, of the mental burden of the exercise, because somehow it was still me making a disproportionate effort: having to lower my standards to placate the agency by agreeing to meet people I probably wouldn’t have chosen myself.

Nine months, five matches and two bad dates later, I asked for a partial refund. Of course, I didn’t get one. What was interesting was the matchmaker’s sudden change in tone: a quick WhatsApp saying she would discuss it with her business partner made me feel like my request wasn’t unreasonable. The formal email that followed explained why their terms and conditions had been met. I felt a little cheated. But I was also relieved no longer to be part of that system.

Weirdly, it wasn’t all bad: the agency didn’t change my life, but it made me realise I was happier on my own. And choosing peace over persistence is its own form of sophistication. The final call I had with the matchmaker ended with her recommending a new dating app for me to try.

Charlotte Smith is a pseudonym