About the Author

Zoe May lives in south-east London and works as a copywriter. Zoe has dreamt of being a novelist since she was a teenager. She moved to London in her early twenties and worked in journalism and copywriting before writing her debut novel, Perfect Match. Having experienced the London dating scene first hand, Zoe could not resist writing a novel about dating, since it seems to supply endless amounts of weird and wonderful material! As well as writing, Zoe enjoys going to the theatre, walking her dog, painting and, of course, reading.

Zoe loves to hear from readers, you can contact her on Twitter at: @zoe_writes

Also by Zoe May

Perfect Match

How Not to Date a Prince

When Polly Met Olly
ZOE MAY

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters

and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s

imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

This edition 2019

1

First published in Great Britain by

HQ, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Copyright © Zoe 2019

Zoe May asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,

without the prior permission of the publishers.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade

or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without

the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than

that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN: eBook: 9780008321611

Version: 2018-12-14

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Zoe May

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Acknowledgements

Extract

Keep Reading …

Dear Reader …

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Surely, I’m not qualified to be a matchmaker?!

You’d think getting a job at a dating agency might actually require you to have found love, or at least be good at dating, but apparently not. I’ve been single for three years and I haven’t had a date for six months, yet I’m pretty sure I’m nailing this interview.

‘So, what kind of message would you send Erica?’ Derek asks, handing me a print-out showing a dating profile of a pretty, tanned brunette. Derek is the boss of To the Moon & Back dating agency, although with his nicotine-stained teeth, lurid purple shirt stretching over his giant pot belly and cramped city office, he’s not exactly what I imagine when I think of Cupid.

What kind of message would I sent Erica? When Derek says ‘you’, he doesn’t mean me, as in Polly Wood. He means me pretending to be 34-year-old bachelor Andy Graham, because that’s what my job as a matchmaker would involve. While Andy, and the rest of the busy singletons on the agency’s books, are out earning the big bucks, too busy to trawl internet dating sites looking for love, I’ll be sitting here with Derek, firing off messages on their behalf in the hope of clinching dates. It’s a little morally questionable I suppose, since the women will be chatting to me beforehand, and will no doubt become enamoured with my witty repartee and effortless charm, but to be honest, I haven’t really given the moral side of it much thought. According to Derek, it’s what all dating agencies do, and anyway, ethics somehow stop being so important when you really need cash.

I try to put myself in the mindset of Andy, while thinking up a message for Erica. I only know about him from reading a form he’s supposedly filled in, which Derek gave me to study five minutes earlier. According to the form, Andy is an ex-army officer turned property surveyor. He grew up in a small town in Ohio where his family still reside. His younger brother, aged 31, has already settled down with a wife and three kids, and reading in between the lines, I get the impression that Andy feels he’s beginning to lag behind. He works long hours, reads Second World War history books in his spare time, enjoys visiting aviation museums and likes to play tennis at the weekends. Oh, and he has a penchant for Thai food.

I take a look at Erica’s profile. She’s 32, lives in the Upper East Side and works as a fashion buyer. Her interests are listed as: ‘yoga, fine dining, dinner parties (hosting and attending!), dancing, cocktails with the girls, travelling, tennis, and festivals’. Erica sounds cool. She sounds fun. She seems like a girl about town. And to be perfectly honest, she strikes me as a bit too cool for Andy. I can’t imagine her wanting to visit aviation museums or discuss Second World War history. But for all I know, Andy could have stunningly handsome looks that somehow make up for his yawn-inducing interests. But from what I do know so far, he and Erica hardly seem like a great match. I glance up at Derek, scanning his face for any sign that this might be a trick question, but he simply looks back, keen with anticipation. He doesn’t seem like he’s testing me; he clearly thinks Erica is in Andy’s league, although as far as I can see, the only thing they have in common is tennis.

‘So, what do you think?’ Derek presses me.

‘Erm, I’d keep the opener light. From Erica’s profile, you can tell she’s a breezy, happy kind of person. I’d try to mirror that tone,’ I tell him, biding time while I attempt to think of a witty opener.

‘Good tactic,’ Derek agrees with an encouraging nod.

‘Thanks,’ I reply as I desperately try to come up with an attention-grabbing message. Something that will capture Erica’s attention among the deluge of ‘hey, how r u? x’ type openers she probably receives all the time. But what can I write? What could Andy possibly say that would grab Erica’s attention when their only mutual interest is tennis?! Then suddenly, it hits me. I smile to myself.

‘I’d probably go with something along the lines of “I’m glad to see you’re a tennis player, because I’m going to court you”,’ I tell Derek.

He snorts with laughter. ‘Good one! Cheeky! I think Erica would like that.’

I grin, feeling a flush of pride. ‘Thank you.’

‘Great line! Very good!’ Derek laughs.

‘Thanks. I mean, why play singles when you can play doubles?’ I add, cringing internally. I think I might be taking the tennis puns too far now. Fortunately, Derek laughs again, clearly not adverse to a good sports-themed chat-up line.

‘Indeed!’ he says.

A couple of cars honk loudly outside and for a second, I’m taken out of this surreal alternative reality of pretending to be Andy messaging Erica and it hits me that the real me has probably got this job. In fact, I know I have. I’m 99.99 per cent sure. I can tell by the way Derek is regarding me like a proud father. I can tell in the easy, relaxed way we’ve been chatting the entire interview. We seem to have really hit it off, which is a little disconcerting seeing as I’m, you know, a respectable (okay, at least semi-respectable) person and he’s a middle-aged owner of a slightly shady dating agency. Maybe it’s because I’m British, having grown up in Cornwall before moving to the States when I was 18. Derek said he used to date a Brit, recounting how they went on holiday to Cornwall one summer. He even described it as ‘heavenly’. Or, perhaps we click because we went to the same university. Derek’s barely looked at my CV but he glanced at it for a second as I came in and when he saw that I went to Wittingon Liberal Arts College, that was it. He was gone. Even though our degrees were thirty years apart, he was treating me like an old chum, reminiscing about his times at the college bar, where he insisted with a chortle and a wink that he’d had ‘many a wild night’.

He went a bit misty-eyed talking about those days, which isn’t that surprising really. I only left three years ago and sometimes even I get misty-eyed thinking about it. Probably because everything has gone a bit awry since. I moved to the States for university convinced I’d make it big here, but now I’m beginning to think there’s a reason my dad, who grew up in New York, left to marry an English woman and live in Cornwall. Because while my student days were idyllic, it turns out real life in Manhattan is nothing like the dream world of a liberal arts university. The chaotic streets of New York bear no resemblance to the tree-lined pathways of the campus; people in the city don’t spend hours having picnics and reading poetry; and a degree in photography, although widely revered among my college peers and considered of utmost importance by my professor, seems to hold little to no currency in the real world. I’ve found that out the hard way, which is why I’m here, trying to clinch this job, which despite being a bit shady, is surprisingly well paid. Well, by my standards anyway. It pays twice as much as my last job as a barmaid and I’m pretty sure I won’t have to wash pint glasses or deal with annoying drunks. Although you never know.

Derek studied an equally impractical course – media studies and communication skills – and from a quick Google search this morning, it doesn’t seem like he’s managed to put it to much real-world use either, unless he was a very communicative boss in his former career as an adult entertainment company director. Or in his stint as a used car salesman. Yep, it’s fair to say that neither of us would quite make the list of our college’s star alumni. Despite Derek’s questionable background, his latest venture, To the Moon & Back, seems to be doing surprisingly well. The company won Dating Agency of the Year at the prestigious US Dating Awards a few years ago. And it’s received a ton of rave reviews online with former clients claiming that thanks to the agency, they finally met the love of their life after years of struggling to find a partner. It was even profiled by The New Yorker, which described it as an, ‘innovative and ambitious dating service with a friendly personal approach’.

The website of To the Moon & Back is incredibly slick too, which is why I was a little surprised when I rocked up to find that in person it consists of nothing more than a client lounge and a cramped back office. With a central address on Wall Street, I thought it was going to be as swanky as its zip code, but it’s tiny. Located at the top floor of a financial advisory firm, it’s nothing like the salubrious offices below. The client lounge, which Derek showed me through earlier, is like a kooky cocktail bar, with a huge sofa laden with sparkly cushions and throws, two comfy armchairs, an ornate coffee table, low-hanging gold lamps and sumptuous curtains. Leading on from the lounge is this pokey office, which features Derek’s worn-looking old desk, a dated Mac computer, a filing cabinet, a shrivelled pot plant in the corner and an incongruous and oddly distracting waving Chinese cat ornament which sits proudly next to Derek’s monitor. Derek told me he’s been running the whole operation himself since he launched the business two years ago, but apparently, he now needs extra help looking after his client list of ‘successful single bachelors’ and fighting off competition from rival agency, Elite Love Match, which Derek claims are ‘scum, a bunch of charlatans, the worst dating agency in New York’.

Derek’s stomach growls and he reaches into his desk drawer, pulling out a pack of Oreos.

‘Fancy a biscuit?’ He thrusts the pack towards me.

‘Sure!’ I reach for one, smiling gratefully.

Derek sips his coffee and takes a bite.

‘So…’ he ventures through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Where would you suggest taking Erica for a first date?’

‘Oh!’ I feel my face light up. Now this is my forte. I may not be a natural when it comes to love, but I do know New York’s fine dining scene inside out.

Not because I frequent such establishments, just because I know them. I read about them. I follow every major food critic in the city on Twitter and I have an encyclopaedic knowledge of Manhattan’s high-end dining scene. I suppose it’s to me what Second World War history is to Andy Graham. These places represent the glittery side of New York. The side of the people who’ve made it. The holy grail, if you will. And yes, I’m more likely to order in from Domino’s than actually go to such places, but I like knowing that they’re there. Just in case.

‘How about Zuma?’ I suggest. Zuma is a new Japanese fusion restaurant in Midtown. It was opened a couple of months ago by a Michelin star chef and it’s been getting rave reviews.

‘Interesting, why Zuma?’ Derek asks.

‘Well, the food’s meant to be great, but it’s also classy and cool. It’s not just your run of the mill bar or café, it’s the kind of place you take someone to impress them and I think Erica would feel complimented by the choice. It sets a good standard for a first date. Oh, and it’s not far from the Upper East Side so it’s convenient for Erica too.’

‘Very convenient! Especially if she and Andy hit it off,’ Derek adds, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

‘Yes,’ I laugh awkwardly.

‘Zuma is a great choice,’ Derek says. ‘Have you been?’

‘No.’ I admit. ‘I’ve just heard about it.’

I’m about to ask Derek if there’ll be any opportunities to go to such places within the job role. The online ad mentioned ‘networking with clients’ and you never know, such networking might take place in fancy bars and restaurants, particularly if the clients are as successful as Derek makes out. But as I open my mouth to speak, a buzzer sounds, a shrill bleep chiming through the office.

‘Sorry Polly, I’d better answer that.’ Derek gets up and crosses the room.

‘Hello?’ he answers, pressing the button on the intercom. ‘Brandon! Sure, come on up!’

I glance over my shoulder to see Derek buzzing his visitor up.

‘Brandon’s one of my clients. Great guy,’ Derek tells me, with a warm smile. ‘He’s a super successful lawyer, a real high-flyer but not so successful in the love department.’

‘Oh…’ I utter regretfully.

‘Yeah, well, I’m working on it.’ Derek sighs.

‘Right.’ He claps his hands together. ‘I’m going to have to wrap things up I’m afraid,’ he says, pulling a face, as if calling time on the interview is going to come as a major blow to me. ‘But it’s been excellent meeting you, Polly.’

‘It’s been excellent meeting you too!’ I enthuse, a little too brightly.

Derek smiles at me with that broad paternal smile and I smile politely back. I put on my jacket and we head out of the office.

‘“I’m going to court you!”’ Derek chuckles as he leads me back through the client lounge. ‘I think you’d be a natural at this job, you know.’

‘Really?’ I ask with slight trepidation as we pause at the exit.

‘Yes, really.’

Derek reaches over to shake my hand. ‘Thanks for coming in. I’ll be in touch very soon,’ he says, with a conspiratorial wink. A wink that tells me, without a shadow of a doubt, that the job is mine. Any sliver of doubt I had has now been wiped out. It’s in the bag and for the first time in my life, I feel both relief and dread at the same time. My dream has always been to be a photographer, not a matchmaker, but money is money.

I pump his hand, thanking him, before heading out the door.

As I walk down the narrow office corridor with its ugly hexagon-printed carpet, I try to imagine pacing down it daily. Every morning and every evening. On my way to and from that tiny office with Derek and his waving Chinese cat. Could this be my domain? My new life? My new routine? Could I look at this ugly hexagon pattern every day? This building and this job are hardly where I imagined I’d end up.

‘Excuse me.’ A male voice interrupts my thoughts and I look up to see a man, an incredibly handsome man, who must be in his early thirties. He’s tall, with dark hair and striking blueish green eyes.

‘Sorry!’ I move out of the way to let him pass. He’s wearing a smart grey suit and carrying a briefcase; he looks every inch the corporate city worker. He must be here to visit the financial advisory firm downstairs. ‘Umm, that’s To the Moon & Back,’ I inform him, gesturing down the hallway. ‘You know, the dating agency.’

‘Yes.’ The man smiles. ‘I know…’ He eyes me with a bemused look. Then suddenly, it dawns on me.

‘Oh! Are you Brandon?’ I ask, fully expecting him to say no. He is definitely not how I imagined Brandon. Or any other of To the Moon & Back’s clients, for that matter. In fact, when I pictured them, I envisioned different incarnations of Derek: balding, overweight and middle aged.

‘Yes… and you are?’

Yes? I try not to gawp. Brandon?! How is this guy Brandon? How is he single?

‘I’m Polly. Polly Wood. I just had a job interview with Derek,’ I tell him, with an awkward laugh.

‘Right. Nice to meet you, Polly,’ he says, with that bemused, sparkly-eyed look.

‘Nice to meet you too!’ I reply.

He smiles, causing the skin around his eyes to crinkle and dimples to appear in his cheeks. He has the most perfect smile. In fact, everything about him is perfect. He’s around six-foot tall but not too towering. He’s slim and lean-looking, and even though he’s wearing a suit, I can tell he’s muscular without having the ripped build of a gym addict. He looks clean-cut with his corporate suit and short brown hair, but he doesn’t look boring. His eyes tell you that there’s more going on and a light dusting of stubble along his jawline makes him look sexy rather than slick.

‘Well, good luck! I hope you get it,’ he says, and for a second, our eyes lock and a charge of intensity passes between us.

He hopes I get the job? So he can see me again? I can’t quite figure out whether he’s just being polite and glib or if he actually wants me to get the job so that our paths might cross. Because I, for one, would definitely like that.

‘Brandon!’ Derek bursts through the door, arms outstretched as though greeting an old friend.

‘Derek!’ Brandon turns towards him with equal enthusiasm.

‘See you around, Polly,’ he says, smiling over his shoulder before heading down the corridor.

‘See you,’ I echo as I walk away.

Chapter 2

The first thing I see when I arrive home is my flatmate with what appears to be a giant spider stuck to his cheek. He plucks at one of the legs before letting out a shrill scream.

‘Ouch!’

‘Gabe! What are you doing?’ I close the front door and cross the flat to where he’s standing peering at his reflection in the mantlepiece mirror. A garland of fairly lights is strung around it, illuminating his face, and as I get closer, I realise that what I thought was a spider is in fact a humungous false eyelash that Gabriel appears to have glued to his cheek.

‘Oh my God,’ he groans. ‘I got these cheap lashes, ninety-nine cents a pair. Total bargain! But now I see why. These things come with industrial glue. My finger slipped at I tried to apply the damn thing. It fell on my cheek and now it won’t come off!’ Gabe yanks at the lash, causing his skin to pull. ‘Ouch!’ He winces in pain.

‘Stop pulling it!’

‘But it won’t come off!’ he whines. ‘I can’t go to work like this. I’m freaking out!’

‘Honestly!’ I tut, hanging my jacket by the door, before walking over.

Gabe looks me up and down. ‘Why are you dressed like a secretary?’

I glance down at my outfit. I donned a black shift dress and a suit jacket that have been gathering dust at the back of my wardrobe for my interview at To the Moon & Back. It’s not exactly my usual attire.

‘I had a job interview,’ I tell him. Derek only invited me for an interview a few days ago and mine and Gabriel’s paths haven’t crossed since. He works for a HR firm in the city and often stays over at his boyfriend’s place, which is closer to his office.

‘A job interview?’ Gabe raises an eyebrow and scans my outfit once more. ‘For a proper job?’

‘Umm… kind of.’

‘Kind of?’ Gabe tugs at the eyelash stuck to his cheek and winces.

‘Yeah.’ I reach across and gently pull the eyelash, but it won’t budge. It’s well and truly stuck. ‘Wait, I’ve got an idea.’

I head to my bedroom to retrieve some nail varnish remover that’s hopefully strong enough to cut through the glue. Gabe doesn’t normally wear false lashes, but on Friday night’s it’s part of his work uniform. While he spends most of the week in his office job, he unleashes on Friday nights, going from Gabriel, HR consultant, to Gabriella, drag queen. Gabe performs at The Eagle, a gay bar downtown. I think it’s how he lets off steam – he shakes off his corporate shackles by swapping fusty suits for over-the-top dresses, trading boring meetings for belting out pop songs. Gabe always says he’s going to quit, but I can’t see him doing so any time soon. He loves The Eagle, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. No one really wants to admit they love The Eagle. It’s most definitely not the place to be seen with its sticky floors, fluorescent lights, and over-the-top camp entertainment. And yet even though people don’t exactly brag about going there, it’s always packed and everyone seems to have a good time.

It’s actually where Gabe and I first met. I used to work behind the bar. As far as bar jobs go, it was a good one to have since most of the guys were fun as opposed to sleazy. Gabe used to perform there nearly every night, back when he was trying to make it as a singer. We instantly clicked over our mutual love of Blondie, Madonna, Amaretto sours and purple eyeshadow, as well as having both moved from small towns to the city in pursuit of our dreams. Gabe wanted to be the new Prince, while I wanted to be the next Mario Testino, even though we were just working in a crummy gay bar. We decided to abandon the crappy house shares we’d been living in and get a flat together. That was a couple of years ago now. After a while, Gabe quit singing there every night and got a job in HR, while I stuck to bar work, trying to get photography jobs on the side. I had a stroke of luck a few months ago when I managed to clinch a freelance job with a marketing agency which involved taking staff photos for the company website. It paid so well that I decided to chuck in my bar job and try to make it as a full-time photographer. Except I think I had beginner’s luck, because ever since, work’s dried up. I’ve emailed my portfolio to hundreds of companies, but no one’s been interested, and I’ve been struggling to find work that pays a living wage. My money’s running out, which is why I ended up trawling through job adverts online, looking for a regular job. My mum keeps telling me I should come back home to Cornwall. She works as a receptionist at the local GP and apparently, there’s a job opening at a nearby surgery, but I can’t face moving back home, with my tail between my legs, to take a job my mum’s sorted out for me, even if it is sweet of her to suggest it. It’s too much like failing.

Unlike me, Gabe’s been doing well for himself. In fact, with his HR job, he could probably afford a slightly better flat than the grotty two bed we share in Brooklyn, but he sticks around. We get on well and I think he prefers to spend his extra money on nice clothes and good nights out rather than rent. I find my nail varnish remover on top of my chest of drawers, grab a bag of cotton wool pads and head back to Gabe, who is still peering into the mirror while tugging at the eyelash.

‘You’re making it worse!’ I tell him, observing the red patch that’s appeared on his skin. He pulls a glum face as I wet the cotton wool and begin dabbing at his cheek.

‘Be gentle!’ he insists, eyeing the bottle of nail varnish remover with caution. ‘Christ, do you think that’s going to work? I don’t think that stuff’s meant to go near your eyes.’ He squirms.

‘Then stay still!’

‘Fine!’ He sighs, squeezing his eyes closed as I dab the cotton wool against the giant eyelash in an attempt to dissolve the glue.

‘So, tell me about this job then,’ Gabe says.

I fill him in on the job interview, describing Derek and the strange set-up at To the Moon & Back while I remove the eyelash. As I recount the interview, I realise I’ve hardly been thinking about it at all. The interview itself has been totally eclipsed in my mind by meeting Brandon in the hallway. I can still feel the excitement of how he made me feel – the frisson of attraction I felt when looking into his gorgeous aquamarine eyes. I still can’t get my head around how someone like him would need a dating agency. He intrigues me more than the job, but I don’t bother mentioning him to Gabe. At least not for now. I fill him in on my conversation with Derek instead.

‘Ha, got it!’ I declare eventually, pulling the eyelash free.

‘You did it!’ Gabe grins, reaching up to touch his cheek. ‘Thanks babe!’

‘No worries!

Gabe grabs a wet wipe from the pack on the coffee table and dabs at the red patch on his cheek as I settle down on the sofa. ‘So, you… A matchmaker?’

‘Yep!’ I reply brightly. Gabe, of all people, knows how woefully unqualified I am for this job.

‘But don’t you have to have, like, good dating skills?’ Gabe asks, raising an eyebrow.

‘I have good dating skills!’ I huff. I may not have been on a date for a while, but that’s not because I’m bad at dating. I can date. I may not be in a relationship, but I can date just fine! I simply took a break from dating to concentrate on my photography work – clearly that hasn’t worked out so well.

‘You haven’t been on a date for ages,’ Gabe reminds me.

‘I’m aware of that, thanks! I’ve had other stuff to do. Anyway, my job isn’t to get myself dates, it’s to arrange dates for other people. They might be infinitely cooler than me, it could be easy!’

‘Oh yeah.’ Gabe nods. ‘Good point.’

I poke him, laughing. I think back to Andy Graham. Okay, maybe he isn’t infinitely cooler than me, but I can’t imagine it would be much of a challenge to get someone like Brandon a date. I think back to his gorgeous smile; no, it definitely wouldn’t be difficult.

Gabe peers into a handheld mirror and dabs a concealer stick over the red patch on his skin. I reach for a glass of Coke with ice that he’s left on the coffee table and take a sip. It’s laced with vodka.

‘So, you’ll just be messaging poor unsuspecting single people all day, trying to charm them on behalf of the agency’s clients?’ Gabe asks.

‘Exactly.’ I nod.

‘So basically, you just have to be really good at making conversation?’

‘Yeah, I guess!’

‘Hmm…’ Gabe muses. ‘Remember that guy you fancied – you know, that hot Greek guy, Darius or something, that we met in Soho. The one with all the necklaces…’

‘Demetrius,’ I correct him, thinking back to the man in question – an extremely sexy, tall, dark guy I met while sipping a mojito at a street party last summer. He was wearing a ton of hippy necklaces and had that cool, boho, traveller look.

‘Yeah, him. Didn’t you send him a peach and aubergine emoji with a question mark and a winky face when you were drunk?’

‘Shut up!’ I hiss, feeling a fresh flush of shame even though it was months ago. Demetrius and I struck up a great conversation in person, but then I ruined it a few days later with my appalling texts. Naturally, I never heard from him again.

‘Trust you to remember that,’ I grumble, taking another sip of the drink before placing the glass back down.

‘As if I’d forget. That was classic.’ Gabe laughs as he powders over the concealer on his cheek.

‘Hmmph.’

‘What about that guy you called Mike for four dates then it turned out his name was Matt,’ Gabe sniggers.

‘That was his fault! He should have corrected me!’ I insist, recalling the man in question: an overly polite British guy who sheepishly admitted on our fourth or fifth date that his name was, in fact, Matt. I’d even cried out ‘Mike’ in bed by that point. I shudder at the memory.

‘That was brilliant.’ Gabe sighs. ‘Oh, and remember that guy you saw in the hall who asked if you needed someone to “service your pipes” and you thought it was an innuendo.’ Gabe chuckles.

I roll my eyes, recalling the cringe-worthy incident in question. It may have been years ago, but I’m still mortified by the memory. A few days after Gabe and I first moved into our flat, this really attractive guy started talking to me in the hallway. When he asked if I needed anyone to ‘service my pipes’, I thought he was just being really flirty and forward. I didn’t realise that he was literally a plumber. It was only when we were in the flat and I was offering him a glass of wine, and he pulled out a toolbox from his bag that I realised that he really did want to service my pipes. I tried to style it out and ended up with a $150 bill for pipe servicing. Literal pipe servicing, that is. The incident was so embarrassing that two years later, I still scan the hallway every day before I leave the flat just to check he’s not there.

Gabe giggles at the memory as he begins applying winged eyeliner.

‘Okay, I think we’ve established that dating chat isn’t quite my forte,’ I admit. ‘But for your information, I’m pretty sure I got the job, so there!’

‘Seriously?’ Gabe scoffs.

‘Yeah!’ I tell him about the way Derek responded to me in the interview while Gabe perfects his eyeliner flicks. ‘Honestly, I think the job’s in the bag!’

I expect Gabe to be happy for me, but he seems a bit off. He screws his eyeliner closed and places it back in his make-up bag. ‘Don’t you think the job’s a bit…’ He pauses, searching for the right word. ‘Wrong?’

‘Wrong?’ I echo.

‘Yeah.’ Gabe shrugs as he rummages in his make-up bag again, before pulling out a lipstick. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit messed up? To message women pretending to be someone else? What if they start to like your banter? What if they like cheeky emojis or being called Delia instead of Diana?!’ Gabe jokes.

‘Ha! I don’t think it’s a big deal. It’s just messaging, right? Everyone seems different over messages to how they are in real life. They probably won’t even notice.’

‘I don’t know,’ Gabe muses as he pulls off the lid of his chosen lipstick – a bright pink shade he used to wear all the time called Back to the Fuchsia. ‘I think I might feel a bit cheated if I’d been talking to someone for a while and it turned out they’d just hired someone to write their messages.’

‘Well, it’s not like I’m going to message them about their deepest darkest secrets, I’m just setting up a date,’ I insist.

‘I suppose,’ Gabe reasons as he applies the lipstick, but I can tell he’s not on board.

‘Look, I need the money,’ I remind him. Gabe knows better than anyone how much I’ve been struggling lately. I’ve been living off horrible ready meals and barely going out thanks to the crummy pay of my intermittent freelance photography jobs. I even had to borrow a hundred dollars from him to cover last month’s rent.

‘I guess,’ Gabe says. ‘But can’t you get a different job? Like a normal office job. Admin or something?’

‘Admin?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You need qualifications for those jobs. Or experience,’ I point out. I’ve seen ads for admin jobs online and even the dullest-sounding positions still require a degree, a secretarial qualification or relevant experience.

‘Hmm… you have qualifications though,’ Gabe says, a little hesitantly.

‘I have a photography degree, Gabe. They don’t want arts degrees. Trust me, I applied to a few and heard nothing,’ I tell him. After all, it’s not like getting a job as a matchmaker for To the Moon & Back was my first choice of role.

‘Well, it just seems a bit morally dubious, that’s all.’ Gabe perfects his pout, before popping the lipstick back into his make-up bag.

‘Well, no job is perfect, is it?’

‘I suppose.’ Gabe sighs. ‘So are you going to take the job then?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘I haven’t officially been offered it yet. But I probably would take it. It’s not like I have any other options right now.’

‘Hmm…’ Gabe murmurs. ‘Well, why don’t you come out tonight? Have a night out, let your hair down, and then sleep on it. You might feel totally differently in the morning.’

It’s clear that Gabe really doesn’t want me to take the job. He isn’t a fan of online dating. He met his boyfriend Adam in the coffee shop near his office. He’s all about real life over online. Perhaps it’s because one of his friends got catfished once; he sent the guy nudes and then found them on some creepy website.

‘I shouldn’t… I don’t have any money,’ I say.

‘Come on.’ Gabe shoots me a look. ‘You know you’re going to get free drinks at The Eagle.’

‘I guess,’ I murmur. That’s another great thing about The Eagle. Since I used to work there, I always get free drinks from my old work mates whenever I go. I should probably just have a quiet night, stay home and consider my options. I even agreed to take on an unpaid freelance job tomorrow for an Instagrammer who’s releasing a cookbook and I’m meant to be at her flat bright and early in the morning to photograph the recipes. But a night out at The Eagle is kind of tempting. It would be fun to just dance and let my hair down, especially after all the job-hunting I’ve been doing over the past few weeks.

‘Come on! We’ll have fun!’ Gabe insists brightly.

‘Okay, fine!’ I relent, reaching for the vodka and Coke.

Chapter 3

When I set out to be a photographer, I didn’t think I’d end up photographing turnips, yet here I am, in a swanky kitchen in Chelsea taking what feels like the one-hundred-and-seventy-fifth shot of a turnip resting on a bed of wilted spinach, pomero and chopped dates.

‘Darling!’ Alicia Carter, famous health food Instagrammer, bursts through the doorway carrying another bowl of salad. She places it down on the table. ‘This is one of my favourites. Absolutely delicious!’

‘Great!’ I insist weakly, eyeing the latest salad bowl. I could really do with some toast and a cup of coffee. After a late night at The Eagle, that’s precisely what the doctor ordered – not another bowl of salad to photograph.

‘Can you make sure it’s in sharp focus? Try to capture the colours,’ Alicia advises me.

‘Yep, definitely!’ I insist. ‘Just need five more minutes on this one.’ I glance towards the turnip.

‘No problem! Take your time!’ Alicia says, clapping her hands together before turning on her heel.

She’s preparing the salads in the kitchen next door with all her cool, health-conscious friends. All morning, I’ve been overhearing them discussing the importance of balancing macro and micro nutrients and debating the merits of hot yoga versus hatha. They’re all tanned, athletic and glowing and not one of them has even acknowledged me. I’m clearly not worthy of attention, like the cleaner who’s minding her own business as she dusts and tidies the house. I know it probably shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Manners go a long way, particularly when you’re not even being paid. I agreed to take on this job photographing recipes for Alicia’s new cookbook, because I thought it might open doors. After all, Alicia does have nearly a million followers on Instagram and her cookbook, based solely on raw vegan recipes that aim to help readers ‘rediscover the fruits of the earth and enjoy an invigorating plant-based diet’, is probably going to be huge. But then, as Gabe reminded me this morning, while I lugged my camera, tripod, lights and screens out of the flat, that’s what I said about my last job when I got paid peanuts for taking wedding photos for an actress who promised me she’d put me in touch with all her friends. She didn’t. It was a similar story with the job before that. I keep hoping that one of these jobs is going to kickstart my career, but it doesn’t seem to be working out like that. I’ve just been lumbering from one rubbish job to the next. I peer down my lens at the salad, adjusting the focus until it’s in perfect definition.

Having taken a dozen or so pictures, I scroll through the images on the back of my camera. They’re okay, but there’s still too much shadow on the left-hand side of this goddamn turnip. I adjust the bowl and take five or six more pictures until I get one I like. I examine the picture. The turnip glistens, its purple to beige skin capturing the light, almost glowing. If a turnip could be described as beautiful, then this is one beautiful turnip. I smile, feeling a twinge of professional pride. And then a second later, I kick myself. A swell of pride over taking a good picture of a frigging turnip?! Oh, come on. The day I start revelling in taking pictures of vegetables for pretentious cookbooks is the day I declare my true photography dreams officially over. I always imagined I’d be some cool portrait photographer, taking pictures of singers, artists, filmmakers and intellectuals, the movers and shakers of my generation, not vegetables! I like to get an intimate rapport with my subjects, getting to know them, so that they don’t just look beautiful and striking in shots, but unmasked too. Like when Mario Testino shot Kate Moss or when Sam Shaw shot Marylin Monroe. They don’t just look stunning in the photographs, they look vulnerable, off-guard and real. But here I am, taking intimate off-guard shots of a turnip instead.

‘Polly!’ Alicia bursts back into the room, looking flustered. ‘I’m so sorry, but I completely forgot about the pumpkin seeds.’ She reaches into a bag of seeds she’s holding and scatters some over the salad.

‘Can you take a few more pics? With seeds.’

‘Okay.’

‘Yeah, it’s just this one, the last and about half a dozen more. I’ll bring them back out from the kitchen,’ she says.

‘Half a dozen more?’ I gawp. I don’t think she has any idea how long it took to capture each salad at just the right angle with just the right focus and light. I have almost two hundred pictures on my camera for those half a dozen salads, and now I need to take them all again, with bloody pumpkin seeds?!

‘Is that okay?’ Alicia asks brightly as she scatters a few more seeds over the turnip.

‘Yes, of course!’ I insist, trying hard to conceal my frustration.

‘Fab! I’ll go and get them

I let out a sigh once she’s left the room. All of my efforts for the past hour have been reduced to nothing because of the stupid pumpkin seeds. I want to go home, but now I’m going to be stuck here, taking more photos of salads. Think of the credit, I tell myself. Having my name in Alicia’s book is going to be great. Surely, I’ll get more jobs. Better jobs. Paid jobs. I pick up my camera and start snapping away.

Alicia starts bringing in the salads, placing them on a table nearby. I take a few more shots of the turnip salad, before swapping it for the bowl of chopped fennel, cucumber, radishes and lettuce that Alicia’s placed on the table.

‘Try to get a shot of that one quickly, the lettuce is going to go limp any second. I can tell.’ Alicia eyes it warily.

‘Will do.’ I position it in front of the lights. Alicia scatters some pumpkin seeds over it and I snap away.

Alicia brings in a few more salads as I try to get the perfect shot.

‘Polly, hun…’ Alicia says.

‘Yep?’

‘We’re just heading to Diabolos,’ she says. Diabolo’s?! Diabolo’s is the coolest restaurant in New York and I can’t believe Alicia’s going there. She’s cool and everything but this is Diabolo’s! It’s the place to be seen. It’s A-list central.

‘Oh, nice!’ I look up from behind my camera, to see her placing two more bowls of salad on the nearby table.

Alicia flaps her hand anxiously towards the salad. ‘Get a good shot. That lettuce is going to turn. Bad batch! Trust me.’

‘Of course, will do.’ I look back down the lens and snap away.

‘So… are you coming?’ Alicia asks.

The salad is in perfect focus and I take a few more pictures, not wanting to ruin the shot. But my ears have pricked up. Am I coming?! Just when I thought I was having a terrible day, it’s about to get a hundred times better! Even though this job has been frustrating and unpaid, Alicia’s making it up to me by taking me out for dinner at Diabolo’s! No wonder her friends haven’t acknowledged me all day. They’ve just been busy preparing the salads, and they probably knew they’d have a chance to get to know me over dinner. Am I coming? Of course I’m coming!

‘I’d love to!’ I pull away from my camera, confident I’ve got the shot I need, a massive grin on my face, only to see Alicia and one of her friends looking back at me, confused.

‘Oh…’ Alicia grimaces. ‘Sorry Polly, I was just talking to Seb.’

Seb, a skinny guy with a mound of dreadlocks piled on top of his head, smiles awkwardly.

‘Of course! Haha, sorry!’ I feel my cheeks burn crimson. How embarrassing. How completely embarrassing.

‘We would invite you, but we booked a table months ago. It’s so hard to get bookings there!’ Alicia rolls her eyes. ‘And you’re coming, aren’t you, Seb?’

‘Well, I was going to, but it’s cool, Polly can go in my place,’ Seb suggests.

Alicia frowns and casts him a sideways look but he just smiles encouragingly. I think he means well, but as if I’m going to be a tag-along like that!

‘No, it’s okay! Sorry, I just overheard you and err, you know…’

‘Don’t worry about it!’ Alicia insists. ‘Look, we have to run, but you’ll be okay here, won’t you?’

I glance over the salads. There are still five left to photograph. ‘You’re leaving now?’

‘Yes! Our table’s booked for lunch and we have to get across town. Don’t want to be late.’

Seb winces, smiling apologetically.

‘Of course not!’

‘So, shall I just let myself out when I’m done?’ I ask.

‘Yes! Martina will clear everything up.’ Alicia glances towards the cleaner, who is busy rearranging some books on the coffee table. She smiles over politely. ‘She’ll let you out. Oh, and feel free to tuck into the salads after you’re done, if you want?’ Alicia suggests.

I look down at the lettuce, which is beginning to wilt, going brown at the edges, as predicted.

‘Great, thanks!’ I enthuse.

‘Thanks so much, Polly.’ Alicia comes over and envelops me in a hug. ‘Can’t wait to see the pics!’ she adds, before bouncing out of the room. Seb follows, giving me a limp wave.

I wave back and let out a sigh the second they’re out of earshot. ‘Idiot, absolute idiot,’ I curse myself.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Martina says, giving me a sympathetic smile. ‘One of my clients went to that restaurant last week. Apparently, it’s completely overrated.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. You’re not missing out on much.’ She gives me a mischievous wink and I smile back.

My phone buzzes. It’s an email from Derek.

From: derek@tothemoonandback.com

To: Polly.wood@gmail.com

Dear Polly,

Thank you for coming in yesterday. It was great to meet you.

I was very impressed by your interview and would like to offer you the position as matchmaker at To the Moon & Back.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Kind regards,

Derek

I write a reply. Part of me has been resisting taking the job at To the Moon & Back, but who am I trying to kid? I keep hoping that doors will open in the photography world, but the only door that’s opening is Derek’s.

From: Polly.wood@gmail.com

To: derek@tothemoonandback.com

Dear Derek,

Thanks for your email. It was great meeting you too and I’m delighted to be offered the job as matchmaker.

When would you like me to start?

Best wishes,

Polly

Chapter 4

So, it turns out Andy Graham – the 34-year-old bachelor who enjoys Second World War history books and visiting aviation museums – isn’t just a fictional character invented for interview purposes. He’s a real bonafide client of To the Moon & Back, and my first assignment at the agency is to create a dating profile for him and bag a date.

Sitting in front of my computer, I try my best not to be distracted by the waving cat ornament a few feet from my desk, as I peruse Andy’s Facebook page looking for his most winning pictures, so I can upload them to his dating profile. I click through shots of him playing tennis and dining in restaurants with friends, as well as a couple of highly questionable selfies that he appears to have taken with a webcam that feature terrible lighting, awful angles and a double (okay, more like triple) chin. It’s not that Andy’s really ugly, but he’s not attractive either. He’s somehow totally non-descript. He’s just there. With his sandy blond hair, slightly bulbous nose, smallish blue eyes behind glasses and pudgy cheeks, he’s hardly a head-turner. But on the other hand, he’s tall (six foot) and he appears to have quite a lean, toned physique. I guess he just lacks the wow-factor.

‘So, found any good pics?’ Derek asks, pulling me out of my reverie.

He takes a sip from his third black coffee of the day. What I’ve learnt so far about Derek’s morning routine is that it involves drinking three cups of incredibly strong instant coffee in quick succession and munching on at least half a dozen Oreos. I’m still sipping the cooling dregs of my first cup of coffee while he’s practically downing his third. The coffee he’s been making using the kettle in the client lounge is so black that it pretty much has the consistency and taste of tar, but I’m still grateful for it. Having become far too nocturnal during my freelance days, a strong black coffee is exactly what the doctor ordered. As well as getting wired on caffeine, Derek likes to lovingly spritz his collection of plants with water. The cluster of spider plants and cacti in the corner of the office next to some filing cabinets add a pop of colour to the otherwise dull and uninspiring room. The walls are a drab grey shade. I think they might once have been white, but over the years, the paint has taken on a dirty, muted hue. All the office furniture is old and battered-looking, including my desk, which wasn’t here when I came for my interview last week. Derek must have picked it up second-hand somewhere. Having spritzed his Venus flytrap a few more times for good measure, Derek comes over to take a look at my computer screen.

‘There’s this one.’ I quickly click away from the photo open on my screen – a shot of Andy wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt with what looks like a food stain, gazing blankly into his webcam. Definitely not the best dating profile shot. I click back to one of him and a friend dining at an Asian restaurant, in which he looks highly excited by the prospect of eating noodles. For some reason, the picture is slightly overexposed in black and white, which makes Andy’s features look a bit sharper than they do in the other shots.

‘This one’s alright,’ I say.

‘Not bad.’ Derek nods, taking another sip of his coffee. He heads back to his desk and sits down. ‘Try to use at least five. One full body shot. A few others clearly showing his face. No friends in any of them; we don’t want to confuse women over which one’s him. Oh, and teeth. Make sure you include a photo of him smiling so people can see he has decent teeth. Some women are very particular about that,’ Derek muses. ‘Wait, he does have good teeth, doesn’t he?’

‘I think so!’ I zoom in on the picture open on my screen. Andy’s smiling while holding a pair of chopsticks, a slither of salmon clamped between them. His teeth look normal and I feel a wave of relief. At least dodgy teeth aren’t something I’m going to have to worry about when scoring him a date.

‘Great!’ Derek replies. ‘His consultation was a few weeks ago and I couldn’t remember. I was going to say, if his teeth aren’t great, then maybe don’t use a toothy smiling shot. You don’t want to put people off. We had one client, he had teeth like Austin Powers, and his shots were all big smiley pics… We couldn’t get him a date for months.’ Derek rolls his eyes at the memory.

‘So, what did you do?’ I ask.

‘We brought him in, took some pics of him in the lounge smiling with his mouth shut. Within a week, we scored him a date!’ Derek tells me with glee.

‘Oh, great!’ I enthuse.

‘Well, kind of…’ Derek grimaces. ‘When his date saw him in person, she ran a mile. In the end, he got his teeth fixed. Found someone eventually.’

‘He got his teeth fixed?’ I balk.

‘Yeah, a full set of veneers,’ Derek explains, sitting back down at his desk.

‘Eek. That must have been expensive.’

‘Sometimes you’ve just got to do what you’ve got to do.’ Derek shrugs. ‘You can’t expect someone to fall for you warts and all. Life isn’t a fairy tale. People are more superficial than that, especially in New York. Sometimes you have to up the effort. Lose some weight, beautify yourself. Packaging is important. You’ve got to make yourself as appealing as possible in this competitive dating world. I thank God I met my wife before online dating took off. I have no doubt she would have swiped left on me!’ Derek jokes.

I laugh. Derek is funny – in fact so far, he’s surprisingly easy company – but I can’t help feeling just a little bit deflated at his words. Does finding someone really have so much to do with great ‘packaging’? Are New Yorkers really that superficial? My heart sinks a bit at the prospect as I save Andy’s picture onto my desktop and click onto Match.com where I’m already halfway through setting up his profile. I feel a bit guilty now as I look at Andy’s picture. Here I am, judging him for his pudgy cheeks and non-descript looks. I’m probably not much better than the woman who ran a mile at the site of her date’s Austin Powers teeth. Maybe Derek’s right and dating success does come down to looks, in which case, I could probably stand to lose a few pounds and tone up a bit. I upload Andy’s photo and set about choosing another. I opt for a shot of him playing tennis. It shows off his tall and fairly athletic physique. As I scroll for a third, my thoughts wander to Brandon.

‘So, if dating is all about packaging, then how come people like Brandon are single?’ I ask.

Derek looks over, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘Like the look of Brandon, do you?’

I laugh nervously. ‘He’s objectively good-looking. I mean, he looks like a model,’ I point out in what I hope is a matter-of-fact business-like tone.

‘I’m just teasing!’ Derek jokes. ‘Yes, he is good-looking. And he’s a great catch all-round. He’s a partner at Statten & Jones – one of the most highly respected law firms in the city, he’s donated a lot of money to charity. He played semi-professional soccer in his early twenties and studied at Harvard on a sports scholarship. He even designed an app, which he sold to Google when he was twenty-eight. He’s an absolute genius. And he’s set up for life.’

‘Wow…’ I murmur, in awe. ‘He designed an app in his spare time?’

‘Yep! While making partner at his firm. He’s an exceptional guy,’ Derek tells me proudly, as though Brandon is his firstborn child.

I suddenly feel incredibly mediocre, realising there are people like Brandon in the world who can design lucrative apps in their spare time, while I’m sat at home guzzling pizza and watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Maybe I need to step up my game. I make a mental note to brainstorm app ideas when I get home.

‘He’s quite something,’ Derek adds with a twinkle in his eye. Derek seems so fond of Brandon that I’m almost beginning to wonder whether we both have a crush on him.

‘Mm-hmm, he sounds it,’ I agree. ‘So seriously, how is someone like him single? He’s the full package!’ I blurt out, before blushing a little.

Derek smiles knowingly.

‘I mean objectively-speaking, from a matchmaker’s point of view, I need to understand this stuff.’ I clear my throat.

‘Of course.’ Derek winks. He leans back in his chair and gazes ponderously into the middle distance, steepling his hands over his pot belly. ‘You see, the thing about Brandon is he’s very picky. Very, very picky. I’ve told him he should be more flexible in his criteria, but he wants what he wants and he simply won’t settle for anything less.’

‘Oh right,’ I reply, a little taken aback. ‘And, erm, what does he want?’ I ask in as light and breezy a tone as I can muster.

Derek raises an eyebrow sardonically, knowing full well that I’m into Brandon. ‘He has very specific criteria, I’m afraid,’ Derek tells me. ‘He likes blonde girls with blue eyes. Petite – preferably under 155cm. Slim. Toned.’

‘Really?’ I grumble, realising that with my brown hair, untoned body and 164cm height, I’m not even remotely his type.

Derek nods. ‘Yep, he’s very specific. Has a thing about waist to hip ratio too and torso to leg ratio. It’s all got to be in proportion for Brandon,’ Derek tells me, his voice tense. I get the feeling Brandon’s been giving him grief over prospective dates for a while.

‘Hip to waist ratio?’ I gawp.

‘Yep, you asked why he’s single!’ Derek takes a bite of another Oreo.

‘What about personality? Does he have specific criteria for that too or is it all about the “packaging”?’ I ask.

‘Nope, he has specific criteria for that too,’ Derek sighs. ‘She must have been to an Ivy League university. He wants a high flyer. Someone corporate – a businesswoman, a PR boss, a consultant, that kind of thing. She has to be independent, preferably a homeowner. Sporty too. Oh, and she needs to enjoy travelling. Brandon’s a bit of a jet-setter.’

‘Jesus!’ I say, without thinking.

‘I know, right?’ Derek rolls his eyes and pops the last piece of his Oreo into his mouth.

‘How does she have the time to be a sporty traveller while she’s a high-flying businesswoman?’

Derek shrugs, causing his pot belly to wobble slightly. ‘Don’t ask me.’

I laugh. It’s clear that Derek’s not exactly an expert on juggling work commitments and fitness.

I can’t help feeling a little disheartened. I got a distinctly flirty vibe when Brandon and I first met in the hallway last week, and I’d secretly hoped that that maybe – just maybe – I stood a chance. I don’t usually date guys like Brandon, but I thought I might somehow get my very own Hollywood-style romance. I can’t pretend I haven’t entertained girlish daydreams over the past few days in which he whisks me off my feet like a knight in shining armour and we end up having a sickeningly cheesy happy ever after. Ha. As if. It turns out I’m not slim enough for Brandon, or Ivy-League-educated enough, or fancy and corporate enough. Hmmphh. I dread to think what he’d make of my flat-share in Brooklyn with Gabe or my employment history of being a barmaid at The Eagle. Brandon would never want a girl like me.

‘The thing about Brandon is he can get pretty much anyone,’ Derek comments, interrupting my self-pitying thoughts. ‘And I think it’s gone to his head. He thinks that because he can have everyone, he can impose all these criteria and still get what he wants but we’re only matchmakers, we’re not miracle workers. Yes, Brandon’s a catch, but there’s only so much we can do.’ Derek shakes his head exasperatedly.

‘Hmm…’ I narrow my eyes. Yes, Brandon’s criteria are specific and annoying and extremely demanding, but there are surely a ton of women in New York who fit the bill. Even walking to the office this morning, I saw at least half a dozen petite blonde women marching through Wall Street in corporate suits who looked like Brandon’s type and would probably be thrilled to date him. So, where’s Derek going wrong?

‘How about I try to find him someone?’ I suggest.

Derek shoots me a sceptical look, as though I’m going to put myself forward or something.

‘For the record, I don’t mean me!’ I point out, and it’s true. Now that I know Brandon’s nit-picking criteria, I’m not remotely interested in pursuing him. I know he’d never date me; I’m more interested in him as a professional challenge. Brandon is an absolute catch and I’m sure Derek must be underselling him in some way if he can’t find him a good match.

‘But you’ve got Andy to look after and I’ve assigned you a few others,’ Derek reminds me. He’s already emailed me a list of clients.

‘I know, but I’d love to at least have a look at his dating profiles, just out of professional curiosity! Maybe I could give some feedback from a woman’s perspective.’

‘Okay,’ Derek relents. ‘I suppose that can’t hurt. I’ll email his details over in a bit.’

‘Great!’ I enthuse as Derek reaches into his desk drawer for another Oreo. He presents the pack to me, but I decline, thinking of my apparently undateable figure.

I turn my attention back to Andy’s photos. I crop a picture of him busting some moves on the dancefloor at a family wedding. It’s a bit blurred and I suspect the person who took it might have had a bit to drink, but at least it makes him look fun. Then I add another picture of him posing next to a model aircraft at an aviation museum which I’d previously dismissed as looking too nerdy. Once I’ve uploaded a couple of pictures, I begin crafting as witty and cool a bio as I can possibly muster, chanelling the personality of Andy. I’m midway through writing a self-deprecating joke about being a history buff when I realise that Derek’s swivelling his chair towards my desk. He plonks a brochure down next to my keyboard. It’s slick, in black, pink and gold shades, and emblazoned with the words, ‘Elite Love Match: Meet Your Match.’

‘What’s this?’ I ask, even though I know Elite Love Match is the agency Derek referred to in my interview as ‘the worst dating agency in New York’.

‘I need to give you an assignment,’ Derek says in a serious tone.

‘An assignment?’ I ask with trepidation. I flick my eyes towards Andy’s profile and think of all the other clients whose love lives I’m meant to be sorting out. Haven’t I got enough assignments?

‘Yes. I need you to be a mystery shopper. You need to pose as a potential client at Elite Love Match.’

‘What?’ I balk.

‘I need the inside scoop on what this operation is really like and obviously I can’t go there myself – the owner, Olly Corrigan, knows me. But you’re new. You’re totally fresh to the New York dating agency scene, he won’t have a clue who you are.’

‘You want me to be a spy?’ I raise an eyebrow.

‘A mystery shopper. A researcher, you know!’ Derek shrugs, causing a few of the Oreo crumbs that have landed on his belly to fall to the floor.

A mystery shopper? I thought I was here to be a matchmaker and now Derek wants me to go on an undercover operation. Could this job get any weirder?

‘Look, you just need to go along and act as though you want to sign up and then tell me what you thought of it. It’s nothing shady!’ Derek insists with an uneasy laugh.

‘I guess…’

‘Who knows, you might actually sign up!’ Derek suggests, clearly in a desperate attempt to make me feel like what I’m doing isn’t totally weird and underhand.

‘Sure!’ I give him a pointed look. New York dating agencies don’t come cheap. As if I’m going to sign up to one on the salary he’s paying me.

‘Okay, maybe not,’ Derek relents. ‘But could you at least just check it out? Since they came on the scene last year, they’ve been cleaning up. Tons of people who’ve had consultations with us have ended up signing with them. I can’t have that. I need to know what the founder Olly Corrigan has that we don’t. And the only way I can truly know is to get a first-hand insight into what they offer. It could really affect business if people keep choosing them over us.’

‘I don’t know, Derek…’ I’m still not particularly comfortable with the idea.

‘The thing is, Polly, my wife, screwed up her knee recently. She fell off a ladder while doing gardening and really messed it up. The medical bills are huge. I won’t be able to pay if Olly keeps taking all my business,’ Derek tells me glumly.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really,’ Derek sighs. ‘I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place here. I know you don’t particularly want to go snooping around at our competitors, but I need to know what they’ve got that we haven’t. I need to help my wife.’ Derek fixes me with such a pleading, desperate look that I can’t help but feel sorry for him.

‘Okay, okay, I’ll help. Is your wife okay?’ I ask. ‘It sounds bad.’

‘She’s okay. She can walk, most days, but she can’t over-exert herself. Some days it plays up and she ends up in a lot of pain,’ Derek says sadly, brushing some Oreo crumbs off his belly.

‘Oh God, okay, I’ll do it, but I should warn you, I’m not a very good liar,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll have to create a whole backstory for me if this is going to be convincing. I’m an amateur photographer living in Brooklyn. He’s not going to believe that someone like me could afford a membership.’

‘True.’ Derek nods. ‘You do photography though, don’t you? Can’t you just tell him you’re a successful photographer?’ Derek’s eyes are wide and hopeful, and I can tell he’s quite proud of this suggestion, even though it stings a little. If only I was a successful photographer. If only that wasn’t a lie.

‘I guess,’ I murmur. ‘But it’s a bit risky. He might want to see my website or he might start asking after my clients. I reckon I could get found out. Maybe it’s better to say I have one of those jobs that are so boring that no one ever asks any follow-up questions.’

‘Like what?’ Derek muses.

‘I don’t know… Like an administrator? Or an accountant or something,’ I suggest.

‘Yes! But perhaps not an accountant. It is a business after all, you don’t want Olly Corrigan asking you to do his books!’ Derek comments.

I giggle. ‘Oh God, no!’

‘How about a chartered surveyor?’ Derek suggests.

A chartered surveyor? That does sound pretty boring.

‘Definitely! Polly Wood, chartered surveyor. Perfect.’

‘Great!’ Derek laughs, a little mischievously. ‘I suppose you can keep your real name and your other interests the same. They don’t know you. No need to lie about those,’ Derek reasons. ‘They say the best lies are a blend of reality and fiction.’

‘I guess. May as well keep that part of it authentic.’

‘Exactly.’ Derek smiles confidently. I smile back, and a momentary silence passes between us. ‘So, do you want to call them and arrange a consultation?’

‘Oh, right now?’ I glance at my computer screen, which shows Andy’s profile, which according to Match, is only 40 per cent complete.

‘No time like the present!’ Derek insists.

‘Right! Okay!’ I glance around my desk until my eyes land on a dusty old phone that looks like something from the Seventies. ‘So, shall I just book in for as soon as possible?’

‘Yep,’ Derek replies as though it’s self-evident. He swivels his chair back over to his desk. Having roped me into being his spy he’s already tuning out of the conversation. I open the brochure to see a picture of the owner Olly Corrigan and oh my God is he attractive. He’s not what I expected at all. I’d thought he was going to be like Derek or something, but he couldn’t be more different. He’s probably only five years younger, but he’s in great shape. He’s standing in front of a sign for the agency, wearing a crisp white shirt. His arms are folded across his chest and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to reveal detailed tattoo sleeves with intricate butterflies and flowers. He’s wearing a pair of trendy tortoiseshell glasses, worlds away from the hideous aviator-style specs Derek rocks. His eyes are gorgeous – deep brown and kind-looking – and somehow the crows’ feet around them only add to his handsomeness. He smiles subtly at the camera with both his eyes and his mouth.

I opened the brochure to find the agency’s phone number, but I have a quick read of the message underneath Olly’s picture.

Olly Corrigan

Founder

New York born and bred, NYU-educated entrepreneur.

‘If I can’t find you love, no one can.’

I raise an eyebrow. Cocky. Underneath is the address and phone number of the agency. I can feel Derek’s eyes on me, so I pick up the receiver.

‘Is there a dial-out code or anything?’ I ask.

‘Nope. You’re good to go,’ Derek replies.

‘Okay!’ I dial the number, feeling a little self-conscious with Derek listening in. After three rings, a polite receptionist answers with a crisp, clear upbeat voice. I tell her my name is Polly Wood and I’d like to book in for a consultation. I’m slightly worried she might ask me about my job since I’m still not totally down with faking being a chartered surveyor yet. I need to at least read up on it a bit. Fortunately, the conversation is pretty painless and all she does is take down my name and number and book me into the diary. I’m just about to breathe a sigh of relief and hang up, when she makes an unexpected request.

‘I’ll need to take the one-hundred-dollar consultation holding deposit, an additional fifty dollars will be payable on the day. Have you got your card ready?’

‘Errr…’ I mutter. ‘One second!’

I place the phone down on the desk. Derek looks over curiously. I dash over to him.

‘She wants money! A holding deposit!’ I tell him in a hushed voice.

‘Give it to her then,’ Derek suggests with a shrug.

‘But…!’ I feel my cheeks burning. I don’t want to admit to Derek that my bank account is so depleted that if I pay this woman a hundred dollars, I’ll have approximately twenty dollars left for the rest of the week, including travel, food and everything.

‘I’ll transfer it to you now, but you can’t give her my card details, can you?’ Derek says. ‘She knows who I am.’

‘I guess not. Okay…’ I grumble, skulking off back to my desk. I grab my handbag and reluctantly retrieve my wallet. Derek had better pay me back because if he doesn’t, I’m screwed.

I pick up the phone. ‘Sorry about that,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t find my wallet for a second there.’ The lie rolls effortlessly off my tongue and I find myself wondering whether this whole phoney mystery shopper thing will really be that hard.

‘No problem,’ the receptionist replies, flawlessly polite, before asking for my card details.

She takes them down.

‘Excellent, thank you,’ she says eventually. ‘We’ll see you on Wednesday!’

‘Fab!’ I enthuse, but I can barely believe that people are willing to spend $150 just for a consultation when I can barely afford to upgrade to Tinder Plus.

I say goodbye and hang up.

I look over at Derek, still a little flustered. ‘Well, there’s your first bit of insider info. It’s $150 just for a consultation,’ I tell him.

‘That’s okay. It’s worth it for the research.’

‘Hmm…’ I muse. ‘Derek, I’m not a $150 consultation kind of girl. They’ll surely sense something’s up?’

‘Nah!’ Derek rejects the idea, still looking at his screen.

I feel a twinge of anxiety bubbling in the pit of my stomach. I have a feeling something is going to go wrong and I’m going to make a complete fool of myself in front of the utterly gorgeous Olly Corrigan.

‘I just transferred the money to you,’ Derek says, and for a second, I have no idea how he did it without my card until I remember that he has my bank details to pay my wages.

‘Great, thanks.’ I feel a small wave of relief. At least that’s something. Although I’m still not looking forward to my consultation on Wednesday.

Chapter 5

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.

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