Читать книгу When Polly Met Olly - Zoe May - Страница 11

What does a chartered surveyor wear? Pretty much standard office clothing according to Google. And certainly nothing particularly trendy, which is why I’ve teamed an old black skirt I haven’t worn since graduation with a white shirt and a pair of frumpy court shoes.

‘What do you think?’ I emerge from the office loo, having just changed. ‘Do I look like a chartered surveyor?’

Derek scrutinises my outfit. ‘Yeah, I think so.’

Thankfully, To the Moon & Back has a laid-back dress code and over the past week, Derek hasn’t seemed to mind me wearing my regular clothes, which tend to consist of leggings, smock dresses, jeans and checked shirts. I love a good checked shirt. Gabe used to make fun of me for having what he refers to as a ‘lumberjack aesthetic’ since my standard outfit of choice consists of ripped jeans teamed with a plaid shirt, tied at the waist in a vague nod towards femininity. I think it looks cool, but Gabe teases me that I belong on a logging farm rather than the streets of Manhattan. I don’t care though, it’s been my style for years and I’m comfortable with it. Unlike how I feel now, in my stiff office get-up. Nope, right now, I most certainly do not feel comfortable. Not only does the outfit feel unnatural to me, but it’s also a bit tight. I haven’t worn the skirt for three years, when I was at least a dress size slimmer. It’s so tight that the zip only goes three quarters of the way up. I’ve managed to loop a hair tie through the clasp fastening at the top to make it stay up, which is fortunately covered by the hem of the white shirt. It’s not ideal, but it should do. With my black tights and hair pulled back into a bun, I feel dowdier than I’ve felt in a very long time.

‘You look great,’ Derek comments, not entirely convincingly. ‘You definitely look the part.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yep. You look like a chartered surveyor,’ Derek insists.

I laugh. ‘That’s what every girl wants to hear.’

Derek grins. ‘I aim to please.’

I smile and pick up my handbag from the desk. I’ve already checked my make-up (I tried to go for a toned-down professional look), so there’s nothing really keeping me here. I’ve powdered my nose, re-read the Wikipedia page on chartered surveying at least fifty-seven times and made Derek scrutinise me from head-to-toe, which isn’t something I’d ever imagine requesting. I pull my handbag bag onto my shoulder.

‘I guess I’ll be off then,’ I announce.

‘Go get ‘em!’ Derek says, punching the air.

‘Haha,’ I laugh weakly. ‘Right, see you later.’ I edge towards the office door. My hands are already clammy, and I haven’t even set off yet. I’m simply convinced Elite Love Match will sniff me out as a fraud, a spy, a mystery shopper. I’m sure it’s going to be awkward as hell, maybe worse than awkward, probably downright humiliating. There’s a reason I gave up drama classes at the earliest available opportunity at school. I am not a good actress. I’m a behind-the-camera person, not the kind of person who wants to take centre stage. Derek would probably do a better job at this if he just shoved a wig and a dress on.

‘You’ll be fine, Polly! You’ve got this,’ Derek insists.

‘Haha, sure. Okay, bye!’

‘See you later.’

I wave over my shoulder as I slip out of the office and cross the client lounge, which never ceases to tickle me with its kookiness. With the late afternoon golden sun streaming through the half-closed red curtains and glinting off the mirrored wall-hangings, it feels almost like a tarot reader’s cave. I smile to myself, momentarily forgetting my nervousness as I leave the office.

Elite Love Match is only a five-minute walk from To the Moon & Back since both agencies are based close to the busy city professionals they wish to attract. It’s a bit like the rehab centres dotted around Wall Street that offer ‘stress detoxes’ and counselling for strung out office workers, who need a quick fix of stress relief that they can fit in during lunch or before their evening gym class. A guy in a black suit charges towards me, his eyes fixed to the ground, a look of busy intensity on his face. He doesn’t appear to clock me and makes no effort to move so I dodge out of his way to let him pass.

‘Rude!’ I mutter under my breath as he charges ahead, although as I walk on, I’m not sure if he was being rude or if he was just so harangued that he didn’t even register another human being. I feel sad at the thought. There’s a reason I’ve always dreamed about being a photographer. I want to be free. My own boss. I don’t want to be the kind of person who’s chained to a desk with corporate pressures left right and centre. I could never spend my entire working life in a stressful office job, cashing in pay checks month by month. No, I want to be independent, to work in a cool studio and roam around the city, taking pictures of people at unique interesting locations. Capturing beautiful images and being creative rather than just grinding away making money. Maybe I won’t earn as much as these corporate types, but at you can’t put a price on living a more relaxed, stress-free life.

Suddenly, I stop in the street and look around. I was so lost in thought that I stopped registering the block numbers. I glance at the nearest road sign and realise I’m three blocks away from Elite Love Match. Right. I keep walking. I must push thoughts of Polly the wannabe photographer out of my mind and get into the mindset of Polly, chartered surveyor and corporate drone. I straighten my back and walk purposefully towards Elite Love Match. When I arrive at the right block, it’s hard to miss with the huge slick lettering emblazoned across the front of the building by the entrance. I pause outside and look upwards, taking in the five- or six-storey expanse of the building’s gleaming exterior. I step closer to the revolving doors and try to subtly peer through the glass in an attempt to figure out if there are other companies based here. Surely this entire office block isn’t just for Elite Love Match?! How could that be possible when the company’s only been around for a year? Sure, their brochure was impressive, but I hadn’t imagined their premises would be this different to Derek’s set-up with his tiny office and client lounge. If I was nervous before, I feel even more jittery now. This company is legit. It’s properly legit. They’ll probably sniff out an imposter like me in a second.

A man talking into a mobile phone comes through the revolving doors and casts a curious glance in my direction, probably wondering what I’m doing lingering outside. I take a deep breath and try to steel myself. What’s the worst that can happen? The worst-case scenario is that they sense I’m lying about my job, they think I’m weird and I end up being awkwardly shunted out of the building. But, never mind. What’s a casual dose of humiliation? All in a day’s work, I guess. I hitch my handbag a little higher on my shoulder and head through the revolving doors, plastering a smile onto my face as I cross the wide marble-floored reception. I can feel the immaculately presented receptionist looking me up and down and I walk up to the desk.

‘Hi, I’m Polly Wood,’ I tell her. ‘I have a consultation.’

‘Hi Polly.’ The receptionist, who looks like she belongs in a commercial, gives me a pearly smile. She glances back at the screen of her computer, no doubt verifying my name in the diary.

‘I’ll just call to let them know you’re here. Please take a seat,’ she says, gesturing towards a sofa by the reception desk.

‘Great!’ I reply as she picks up her phone receiver.

I head over to the sofa and sit delicately down, making sure the dodgy zip on my skirt doesn’t come undone as I do so. It’s not the most comfortable sofa. It’s modern and boxy, a fancy Scandi design – certainly not the kind of sofa you’d veg out on. As the receptionist makes a quick call, I ponder the sofa, wondering whether they make such seating deliberately uncomfortable so that office workers don’t get too relaxed and laid-back.

‘They’re sending someone down for you now,’ she says.

‘Excellent!’ I enthuse, with a bright smile that I hope conceals my nerves.

A silence passes between us. I look over at a tall plant by the desk with long wide leaves and try to think of something to say, but my mind has gone blank. I glance back at the receptionist. She’s smiling at me. I smile back. She keeps smiling. The air conditioning fan whirrs overhead.

‘Do you work nearby?’ she asks, breaking the painful silence.

‘Oh, sort of. My office is on Staten Island,’ I tell her. Derek and I already decided that it would be sensible if we base my chartered surveying office in a boring and unfashionable part of town where no one is likely to have spent much time.

‘Right.’ The receptionist nods.

Fortunately, we’re interrupted by a man striding towards me with his tattooed arm outstretched. As well as researching chartered surveyor stuff this morning, I also did my homework on Olly Corrigan. According to his Wikipedia page, he’s forty-three years old and half-Italian, with his mother moving to New York from Genoa in the Sixties. Both his father and brother are well-respected financiers, but Olly seems to have broken the family mould, having studied music at NYU and had a series of odd jobs, before turning to the world of business in his late twenties. And according to his Instagram account, he’s obsessed with fashion. In every single photo he’s dressed in cool, carefully put together, trendy outfits. He even tags all the designer labels he’s wearing in each post.

He smiles widely as he approaches. He looks just like his Instagram pictures, clearly handsome enough not to need Photoshop. His smile is broad and charming, and he has the most perfect dazzling white teeth. His eyes are crinkly and twinkle behind his tortoiseshell glasses. He has one of those smiles that’s contagious, like someone with a really infectious laugh that you just can’t help but join in with, and I find myself beaming broadly back at him despite my nerves.

I stand up to shake his outstretched hand as he gets nearer.

‘Polly,’ he says, giving me a firm handshake and fixing me with his beguiling eyes. ‘Great to meet you, I’m Olly.’

‘Hi Olly’ I reply, trying to ignore the fluttering feeling in my stomach as our eyes lock on each other. ‘Great to meet you too.’

‘Let’s head up to my office,’ he suggests, gesturing back across the hallway.

‘Sure,’ I reply.

His office? I didn’t actually expect to have a one-to-one with Olly Corrington himself. I thought my consultation would be with one of his staff. Derek’s going to love this! A first-hand consultation with the boss. Except now the pressure’s even more intense to convince him I’m a regular singleton looking for a date and not just a total imposter.

The receptionist looks over at us, a quizzical expression on her face.

‘Are you okay, Gina?’ Olly asks.

‘Oh…’ She frowns, looking flummoxed. ‘Yes, I just assumed you’d be sending down Celia or John,’ she says.

‘They’re busy,’ Olly tells her.

‘Oh right’ she replies, still looking a little perplexed as we head towards the lift. I glance at Olly as we walk. He’s a few paces ahead of me, which gives me the perfect chance to check him out. He’s just as polished as his Instagram photos led me to believe he would be. He’s wearing a burgundy shirt with an abstract print at the rear, the sleeves turned up to show off his tattoos. He’s teamed it with dark jeans that look incredibly expensive – slim fit and artfully distressed with the hems tucked into a pair of chunky black boots. The overall impression is of one of wealth, style and unabashed ostentatiousness. Olly is clearly the kind of man who wants to be noticed. He turns to me as we arrive at the lift and I smile innocently, as if I haven’t just been giving him an appreciative once-over.

‘The office is on the sixth floor, I’m afraid,’ he says, reaching for the button.

‘No problem!’

The lift doors open and we step inside. I know we’ll have small talk in the lift and I brace myself for him to ask me a similar question to Gina, about how far I’ve had to come to get here. As he presses the button for the sixth floor, I gear myself up to lie about being a chartered surveyor on Staten Island.

‘So…’ Olly says. ‘Have you used a dating agency before?’

‘Oh!’ I comment, a little shocked but mostly just hugely relieved to not have to lie just yet. ‘Actually no, never.’

‘Ah, I see.’ He nods. ‘So how did you hear about us?’

Oh, you know, I just Google-stalked you because you’re my boss’ number one competitor, I think.

‘I read about you in Time magazine,’ I tell him, which is technically true. I did read a gushing article in Time magazine last night hailing Olly as a ‘New York matchmaking God’. The interviewer sounded smitten, describing him as ‘the best thing to happen to Manhattan’s dating scene for years’.

‘Ah yes, they gave us some good coverage,’ Olly recalls, flashing me with another dazzling smile.

With his sparkly crinkly eyes and natural charisma, I can see why the interviewer at Time would have fallen for his charm. He’s incredibly handsome. Even though he’s much older than the kind of guy I’d usually find attractive, he has the type of face that ages well. His bone structure is strong and his features are incredibly symmetrical. The thing is, he knows it. I can just tell by the way he’s smiling at me, holding eye contact, expecting me to turn to mush. And maybe under normal circumstances, I would, but I feel mentally detached. I’m not my usual relaxed self, I’m in undercover spy mode and instead of getting too swept up in the charm of a good-looking guy, I’m trying to stay focused on making observations and mental notes instead.

The lift arrives at the sixth floor, the doors parting to reveal an open-plan office with a dozen or so trendy-looking staff sitting behind the giant screens of state-of-the-art Mac computers. Their eyes flick up at me and Olly as we pass and I can feel them watching us as we make our way towards Olly’s private office, which is enclosed in polished glass walls emblazoned with the Elite Love Match logo.

‘After you,’ he says, holding open the door for me.

‘Thanks,’ I reply, smiling shyly as I slip past him.

His office is slick and impressive, with a wide desk, flanked by two wide leather desk chairs. It’s immaculately tidy and clutter-free, a giant Mac computer taking centre stage next to a stainless-steel desk lamp.

‘Please, take a seat.’ Olly gestures towards the seat opposite his desk. ‘Can I get you anything? Water, tea, coffee?’

‘Oh, water would be great,’ I reply as I sit delicately down, willing the zip on my skirt to stay in place.

‘Still or sparkling?’ he asks as he sits down opposite.

‘Sparkling, please.’

‘No problem.’

Olly picks up his phone, presses a speed-dial button and makes a call to someone I assume is his assistant, asking her to bring two sparkling waters.

‘So…’ he says as he hangs up, fixing his deep brown eyes on me. ‘What’s brought you to Elite Love Match today?’

He leans back in his chair and regards me with a gentle patient expression. I can’t quite tell if he’s putting on an attentive ‘listening face’ as part of his sales routine or if he really is genuinely interested.

‘Well, I’ve been single for a while now and I just don’t seem to have any luck with men,’ I tell him and so far, I’m being 100 per cent honest. Why lie? This bit is all true, I do have terrible luck with guys.

‘What do you mean you don’t have any luck,’ Olly asks, tilting his head to the side.

‘Umm…’ I cross and re-cross my legs and glance at the stack of business cards in a neat metal holder on his desk, next to a matching desk tidy. It feels weird to be having such an intimate conversation in such a corporate environment. I think back to the last few guys I’ve dated. I met one guy through my barmaid job at The Eagle – a trainee architect called James. He was probably the only straight man in the bar one Friday night and we immediately caught each other’s eye. He was gorgeous and at first, everything seemed to be going brilliantly. We had a couple of amazing dates, sharing everything from our favourite books and films to childhood memories and our hopes and dreams. Then after our third date, which culminated with us sleeping together, he stopped texting and that was that. I never heard from him again. He ghosted me. It took me months to stop worrying that I was terrible in bed and just accept that he was an asshole. And then before him, there was Mike (the guy I called Matt the entire time we were dating). He was sweet but unlike James, we just didn’t connect. Conversation was always awkward and clunky, no matter how much time we spent together. I kept hoping we might relax into each other’s company, but it never quite happened.

Sometimes, late at night, Olly’s question about why I don’t have any luck with men has stalked my mind, replaying over and over as I try to get to the bottom of it. Why don’t I have any luck with them? Is it possible for a person to be consistently unlucky in love, never quite meeting the right person just because fate hasn’t been on their side, or is there something about me that’s causing these dating disasters? The only theory I’ve come up with is that on some level, I just haven’t felt ready for a serious relationship even though everyone else seems to want to be in one.

My relationship role models are my parents and they met when my mum was 30 and my dad was 33. My mum used to tell me when I was a kid that she was so glad she ‘got to know herself before getting to know someone else’. She was perpetually single until she met my dad, but she’d done a ton of stuff, like charity work, studying and travelling around the world. My dad had travelled a lot too and even though he’d had girlfriends, he’d never been able to stick at a relationship, until he found my mum and decided she was the one, leading him to settle down in Cornwall. I think part of the reason I’ve pretty much always been single is because I took my mum’s advice on board – I wanted to make sure I got to know myself before finding someone else. I’ve always thrown myself into non-love-related activities. I was a bit of a swot at school because back then I was focused on getting good grades so I could get into a US university. Then at university, I threw myself into my photography studies. I focused on having a good social life and I made the most of all the extra-curricular activities on offer. I knew I was paying way more in tuition than I’d be paying for university in the UK so I wanted to make sure I got the most out of it. With all that going on, I didn’t have much time for love. And then when I graduated and moved to New York, I became focused on trying to become a professional photographer and getting ahead. All my life, love has taken the back seat. It’s felt less important than achieving my goals and getting to know myself. Except, I feel like I know myself prettywell these days and annoyingly, I still can’t seem to find love. But I guess you can’t force these things.

‘I suppose I haven’t met anyone for a while who I have a genuine spark with, you know, where it just feels effortless. The kind of spark that you just can’t ignore, when you’re just drawn to someone and neither of you can stop thinking about each other,’ I tell him, looking into his eyes and feeling that fluttery feeling in my stomach again. ‘I suppose I just want that.’

Olly nods understandingly. Without realising it, I’ve somehow opened up to him more than I’ve opened up to anyone for weeks. I’ve been so focused on trying to be a photographer that I’ve barely admitted to myself that I want to fall in love, let alone to friends or family or anyone else close to me. Whenever I talk about my love life to Gabe, he just takes the piss. And I don’t really blame him, because my love life has always been a bit of a joke. It’s been awful dates and cringe-worthy encounters one after the other. Even I’ve been trying to see the funny side, but I suppose deep down, it’s sort of stopped being that funny. It would be nice to fall in love and be happy, rather than making snarky and sarcastic jokes about my rubbish dating history the whole time.

‘Real romance…’ Olly muses. His eyes have gone all misty and soft. ‘It can be rare these days.’

‘Yes.’ I glance down at my lap.

‘So, you’re looking for something serious then?’ He clears his throat, leans forward and reaches into a desk tidy for a form.

‘Yes,’ I reply.

‘Great.’ He plucks a pen from his stationery holder and ticks a box on the form. His soft, sensitive manner seems to have evaporated.

‘And what kind of man are you looking for? Let’s start with physical preferences.’ He glances up from the form.

‘Oh, right. Yes. Well, umm, tall, but not too tall. Maybe 180cm?’

Olly nods and makes a note.

‘Attractive,’ I add.

‘Of course,’ Olly says. ‘You’re an attractive girl so we’d naturally match you with someone equally attractive.’ He flashes me his dashing smile.

‘Sounds great!’ I comment, holding his gaze for what feels like a little too long. Is he always flirty with clients? I find myself wondering. Derek certainly can’t add flirting to his approach, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t go down nearly as well.

‘So what kind of looks do you tend to go for?’ Olly asks.

‘Dark hair, brown eyes, strong features, a nice smile,’ I tell him, gazing into his eyes, until I realise that I’m pretty much describing what’s in front of me.

Shit! I look away, feeling my cheeks burn up. How utterly embarrassing! Olly smiles knowingly.

‘Younger, though,’ I blurt out, before mentally cursing myself. Nice one, Polly.

Olly raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh, you like younger men?’

Shit. I meant younger than him, except I only meant to think it, I didn’t mean to actually say it out loud.

‘Young,’ I mean. ‘Around my age.’

‘Gotcha.’ Olly makes a note on the form while my cheeks flare.

‘Anything else? What kind of body type?’

‘Erm… Slim, in good shape, but not too muscular. I don’t want someone who spends their life taking selfies at the gym,’ I tell him.

Olly laughs as he makes another note. I glance at his upper body. Good shape, but not too muscular. Damn it, I’ve done it again. I’ve simply described Olly.

Fortunately, his assistant comes in carrying a tray with two tall glasses of sparkling water, breaking the tension. She’s wearing skinny leather trousers with impossibly glamourous high heels – the kind of thing I wouldn’t even wear on a night out, let alone to work. She places the glasses elegantly on two slate black coasters on the desk.

‘Thanks.’ I look up and she smiles politely before leaving the room.

Olly thanks her before picking up his glass and taking a sip.

‘Right, so what about weight? Would you say he’s around 80-85kg?’ Olly asks.

I laugh, fully believing that he’s joking but he simply looks back at me with a perplexed expression. He’s actually serious! He wants me to specify my ideal partner’s precise weight.

‘Umm, yes, I guess so. 80-85kg would do fine,’ I reply, trying not to smirk.

‘Right. 180cm. 80 to 85kg.’ Olly makes a note.

I take a sip of my water, as I try to suppress how weird and clinical this feels.

‘So, what about his lifestyle? Would you be happy to date a smoker or a drinker?’ Olly continues, with a business-like, almost bored expression on his face.

‘A social drinker would be fine. I think a tee-totaller might be a little bit boring and obviously, I’d rather not date an alcoholic.’ I laugh, but Olly doesn’t join in, he just makes another jotting. It’s like the charged flirty vibe between us has been completely sucked from the room.

‘Smoker?’ Olly asks.

‘Umm, no thanks. Non-smoker.’

‘What about dietary preferences? Healthy? Meat-eater? Vegetarian? Vegan?’

‘Erm… healthy?’ I suggest. ‘I don’t really care what he eats, as long as he doesn’t expect me to cook for him!’

Olly allows himself a tiny smile. ‘Okay, shall I check the “no preferences” box?’ he asks.

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Right.’ Olly makes another dutiful note.

‘Income. What level of income would you prefer your partner to have?’ Olly asks.

‘Income?’ I echo.

‘Yes…?’ Olly regards me with a slightly impatient look. ‘What kind of income bracket would you prefer?’

‘Erm…’ I fidget with a loose thread on the hem of my skirt. All these questions are so formulaic and impersonal. It’s the same vibe as when my parents dragged me to a home and garden store one bank holiday weekend when I lived back home because they wanted to get a new kitchen. The sales assistant went though all kinds of boring questions about their kitchen design criteria, from the width and height of the kitchen units to the positioning of electrical sockets. I feel like I’m going through a similar process now. Next, Olly will be offering me a deal on appliances.

‘I don’t know. Anything really, I’m not that bothered about money.’

‘Right…’ Olly frowns and gives me a strange quizzical look that I can’t quite figure out.

‘You see, usually, clients have a very specific idea about the kind of partner they’re looking for,’ Olly explains, gesticulating with his pen. ‘They’ve spent a long time dating and they’ve figured out which qualities and lifestyle choices don’t work for them in a partner, and then they come to us hoping that we can help them find that special someone that fits the bill.’ He frowns, eyeing me intensely. ‘It’s not often that we have inquiries from people who seem as flexible about their requirements as you.’

‘Oh…’ I can feel myself sweating. I look away from him, avoiding his penetrating gaze. Is he beginning to sense something’s up? Does he realise that I’m not quite for real?

‘You’re a professional, working as a chartered surveyor. I would have imagined you were looking for someone from a similarly professional background, or is that not the case?’ Olly asks, propping his tattooed elbows on the desk and leaning forward, regarding me with that cutting stare. He’s totally sussed me out, realised I’m a phoney or a time-waster, and now he’s making me squirm.

‘Absolutely. You’re right. It would be better to date a fellow professional,’ I insist in a firm tone that I hope conveys a sense of conviction. ‘A professional like myself.’

‘Mm-hmm…’ Olly seems completely unconvinced. ‘Would you be looking for someone with a similar income to yourself, or higher?’

Oh God. I Googled pretty much every aspect of being a chartered surveyor, from which university course I completed to recent building developments I could have worked on. But it didn’t occur to me to look up how much I might earn. I have absolutely no idea how much chartered surveyors make. It’s the kind of personal question I never expected would come up. I mean, I’d presume they earn a decent wage, but it could be one of those professions like being a lawyer where you can make a ton from commission. I simply don’t know.

‘So, what are your thoughts?’ Olly presses me. His look is a bit deadpan now and I feel like he’s running out of patience.

‘Umm…’ I decide to take a stab in the dark. ‘Yes, similar income. $100–120,000 a year,’ I tell him, with confidence. If I just muster enough confidence, then maybe I can style this out?

‘Right.’ Olly makes another note on the form. ‘That’s an impressive salary for someone so young,’ he says, eyeing me with that quizzical look again, but now it’s just really beginning to annoy me. Who’s he to say that a 25-year-old like myself couldn’t be on $120,000? Maybe I’m just really ambitious and hard-working. Hmmph.

‘Thank you,’ I comment, with a blasé smile.

‘Okay!’ Olly responds with a quirk of his eyebrow. I look at his arms as he picks up the form and continues asking me questions about my perfect man, covering everything from my preferences over his living arrangements (house share, renter, home owner, etc.) to his religious beliefs. I answer the questions with false assertiveness, trying to emulate someone who knows what they’re looking for, while taking in the detailed butterflies emblazoned on his arms. The artwork is really impressive, and I find myself wondering when he got his tattoos done – was it back when he was young? Or perhaps he had them done more recently to compliment his striking fashion choices and trendy image.

By the time Olly finally reaches the end of the form, I feel completely depleted. Talking about love has never felt more unromantic.

Olly makes another note. God knows what he’s jotting down now, and who even cares? I just want to go. This whole situation is making me feel uncomfortable. Olly may be ridiculously hot, but everything just feels a bit superficial and contrived, from the slick glass-panelled office, minimalist décor and watchful staff outside with their high heels and trendy haircuts, to this soulless checklist-based consultation.

‘Right.’ Olly looks up from the form and even he isn’t doing anything for me anymore. The playful flirty look that was in his eyes when we first met has gone, replaced by a dead, emotionless stare. ‘Given your criteria, I feel very confident we can find the right man for you… Polly.’

He adds my name after a second’s pause, as though he nearly forgot to, but then decided to make his standard sales spiel sound a bit more personal. I nod and force myself to get back into character.

‘Great, and how long do you think it will take?’

Even as I ask the question, I hate myself a little bit. It’s like asking how long my new custom designed made-to-measure kitchen would take to be installed. Can you really set a timescale on how long it will take to find the man of your dreams? Surely love doesn’t quite work like that?

‘Good question.’ Olly nods, as if that’s something he’s been expecting me to ask. ‘Our average turnaround time for clients is three to four months, but with you I expect it might be shorter.’

Turnaround time? Did he really just say that? Is my love life a corporate assignment?

‘Why do you think it’ll be shorter?’ I ask.

Olly’s eyes suddenly become animated again and I can detect a flicker of emotion, although I can’t quite figure out what it means.

‘Yes, attractive women like yourself are usually less of a challenge when it comes to finding a partner,’ Olly says in a flat, matter-of-fact tone that doesn’t quite disguise the flicker of flirtation in his eyes.

Is he attracted to me? Does he find me attractive or is he just assessing my attractiveness in the cool, clinical way he would do if he was ticking a box to denote it on a form? I’m pretty sure it’s the former. I think, and in a way hope, that he personally finds me pretty, and instinctively, I reach up and touch my hair, tucking it behind my ear. Olly isn’t my usual type – he’s too corporate, too self-consciously cool, and he’s significantly older than me – but he does have a remarkable face and it’s impossible not to be just a little bit drawn to him. But even though I’m attracted to him, I can’t ignore his offputtingly clinical approach to love. I can’t tell if it’s just the way he goes about running a dating agency or whether he really does have such a heartless attitude to dating and relationships.

‘And, erm… how much does the service cost?’ I ask.

‘Right, well, we have various packages…’ Olly starts running through different price plans, all of which are ludicrously expensive. Each plan has a monthly retainer that costs more than my rent alone, but instead of balking, I nod pensively as though I’m weighing up the options, as though splashing thousands on a dating service is no biggie. No biggie whatsoever.

‘How does that sound?’ Olly asks, watching my face for a reaction.

‘Ummm… it sounds reasonable,’ I lie. In actual fact, it sounds extortionate. Even compared to Derek’s operation. Derek’s charges are still pretty high, but they’re not quite so jaw-droppingly expensive as Elite Love Match’s.

‘So, if I decide to speak to other agencies in the city, what would you say is the reason I should pick you over them?’ I ask, feigning an equally business-like persona. This question should be useful for Derek and I concentrate closely as Olly answers.

‘You’re single and there’s a reason for that,’ Olly notes, taking me by surprise. ‘You obviously have standards. We respect those standards. Other agencies might try to talk you into lowering your standards but we’re not like that. We’re confident that we can find you the partner of your dreams, someone who fits all your criteria.’ Olly smiles confidently, and I find myself smiling back, even though on the inside, I’m withering.

He’s just like the kitchen salesman back home, from the confident way he promises to fulfil a vision to his charming sycophantic smile. But unlike the kitchen salesman, who’s slightly smarmy, overly confident sales pitch was just a bit annoying, Olly’s approach is kind of depressing. It’s one thing selling kitchens, it’s a whole other ballpark to sell love. Olly reduces relationships to criteria. To him, falling in love takes place over billable timescales. He probably considers dates to be deliverables. My heart feels like it’s shrivelling up inside my chest.

‘So, how does that sound?’ Olly asks again, in a confident upbeat tone.

‘It sounds great!’ I lie. ‘With the criteria and timescales, it couldn’t be more efficient!’ I plaster a smile across my face.

‘Exactly!’ Olly beams back.

‘Fabulous! Well, I’ll sleep on it – I’m not one to make decisions on the cuff,’ I tell Olly and as I expected, he nods understandingly.

‘Absolutely,’ he says.

Of course, he respects my need to weigh up the investment decision that is finding a partner. He probably thinks I’m going to go home and do a cost-benefit analysis or use a pivot table to analyse my options.

‘Well, thanks a lot for today. I’ll be in touch!’ I insist, getting up to go.

Olly copies, rising to his fee.

‘So…’ he ventures. ‘How about I give you a call in a few days and you can let me know your thoughts?’

‘Absolutely!’ I enthuse as I slip my arms into my jacket. ‘Sounds great!’

‘Great!’ Olly echoes with a smile.

He opens his office door and ushers me out, offering to walk me to the lift. As we pass through the office, I glance around at the staff. There must be at least twenty of them and they all look incredibly cool and well-dressed. They couldn’t be more different to the way Derek and I look at work, with me in my lumberjack gear and Derek in his aviator-style glasses with his shirt covered in a near-constant dusting of Oreo crumbs.

‘I never realised dating agencies had so many staff,’ I comment.

‘Oh.’ Olly glances over his shoulder at his fashionable team as he presses the button for the lift. ‘They don’t all work for Elite Love Match,’ he tells me.

‘Who do they work for?’

‘I own a PR agency. I handle quite a lot of the Elite Love Match work, with the help of my assistant and a couple of others. That lot—’ he gestures over at his team ‘—they handle PR.’

‘I see.’ I nod. ‘That must be great having both of your businesses under one roof,’ I say, making glib chit chat while we wait for the lift to arrive.

Meanwhile, I make a mental note to pass on this useful nugget of information to Derek. I wonder whether he realises that Elite Love Match is a relatively small operation – no bigger than To the Moon & Back.

‘Well, it was great meeting you.’ Olly pumps my hand and gives me his dashing smile, which I’m getting the feeling is a pretty well-used tool in his arsenal of charming moves.

‘You too.’

‘I’d love to work with you and I’m confident I can find you the man of your dreams,’ Olly says, eyeing me with a look of sparkling intensity.

The man of my dreams. The words linger in the air between us. His hand is still clasping mine. We’re holding each other’s gaze and I feel suddenly, acutely aware of his palm against mine. Neither of us can quite look away, and I can’t help wondering what he’s thinking. Is the soft tender look in his eyes part of his sales pitch or is it something else? I gaze into his eyes, trying to figure it out, when all of a sudden, the lift doors start beeping as they close.

‘Oh, damn it.’ Olly steps forward and blocks the doors from closing, letting me inside.

‘Sorry about that, Polly,’ he says, with an apologetic and almost sheepish smile. ‘I hope to hear from you soon.’

‘Of course. Speak soon,’ I utter, still reeling. What happened just then? I smile politely and Olly smiles back – not his dashing salesman smile this time, but a softer, almost wistful one – as the lift doors close.