When Polly Met Olly

by Zoe May

  ‘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 someo
ne 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.