When Polly Met Olly

by Zoe May

  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 m
an 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.

  Chapter 6

  I don’t know whether I’m coming or going as I leave Elite Love Match. Literally. I walk down the street for a good five minutes, before realising I’m going in totally the wrong direction. I turn around, but I must have drifted down a side street or two because I’m on a block I don’t recognise at all and certainly didn’t walk down on my way. Urghh. I stand still and force myself to get a grip. The truth is, I feel a bit lost. I retrieve my phone from my handbag to consult Google Maps. I don’t know where I am or, for that matter, how I feel. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a rollercoaster of emotions towards one person in such a short encounter, from attraction to flirting to mild disdain and then back to attraction and dare I say it, tenderness. There was something in Olly’s eyes when he shook my hand as he said goodbye and swore he’d find me the man of my dreams, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. Was he being suggestive, hinting that perhaps he could be the man of my dreams, or was he just messing with me? Was he trying to get my attention so I’d sign up
to the agency? I don’t know if he was being sincere or whether he’s just a staggeringly good salesman, using his seductive charm to reel me in.

  I’m still thinking of his crinkly-eyed charming smile when my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Derek.

  How did it go? I’ve had to run. My wife’s knee’s playing up. Take the rest of the afternoon off if you like and we’ll catch up tomorrow. Derek.

  I glance at my watch. It’s 4 p.m. and I’m due to finish work at 5.30 p.m. An hour and a half off – not bad. It’s probably a good thing that I don’t have to go back to the office in my dazed state. I draft a quick reply.

  Hi Derek, it went pretty well. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Hope your wife’s okay. See you, Polly.

  I hit send and drop my phone back into my bag, feeling relieved that I don’t need to be anywhere. At least now, I can just let my mind wander.

  I head into a nearby café, order a coffee and perch at the window, people-watching for a while as I replay the meeting with Olly in my mind, trying to figure out how I feel about him. Part of me is wildly attracted to him and yet another part finds him and everything his agency stands for incredibly depressing. I want to see him again and yet I feel repelled by the idea that I might not fit into the height bracket or income criteria that someone like him would demand me to have. I sip my coffee and try to focus on how the meeting went from a mystery shopper point of view instead. There was definitely a moment when Olly seemed to doubt me, but I think I managed to recover from it. I think he felt I was legit in the end, or at least, he stopped caring either way.

  I watch as office workers begin to pass the café, heading home, and it occurs to me that Gabe might be able to leave work early and hang out. With me working on freelance jobs all over the place or being broke and cooped up in the flat, it’s been a while since we went to a bar or grabbed dinner. I send him a text in the hope that he doesn’t have plans with Adam. He replies as I’m finishing off my coffee, saying he’ll be done with work in twenty minutes and do I want to come and meet him. I’ve never met Gabe at his office before, even though I’ve walked past it a few times. I tell him I’ll be there and then leave the café, navigating my way a few blocks to the skyscraper where he works.