by Zoe May
‘Sure.’ I laugh awkwardly.
A silence passes between us.
‘So, are you going to message the lucky lady?’ Derek asks, with a cheerful optimistic look on his face.
‘Of course!’ I insist, smiling brightly as I open up a reply window. I can feel Derek’s eyes on me as I start typing. I know I should probably try to find someone a bit more suitable, but I really need to look busy. I need Derek to believe I’m a decent matchmaker, or at least trying to be one. I start typing the first things that come to mind.
Andy:
Hi Katarina,
Wow, thanks. You profile isn’t too bad either!
In fact, you look beautiful!
I’ve only just joined Match – new to this whole thing. What about yourself?
Xxx
Andy
It’s a pretty boring message but I can feel Derek’s eyes on me, so I hit send. I glance over at Derek, who nods and smiles proudly, as though pleased with my efforts. I smile back and quickly click out of the messages. As much as I’d love to believe that someone like Katarina would be a perfect match for Andy, it’s hardly likely. He wants a proper relationship – a serious connection – and I need to find someone truly compatible, not some gorgeous model whose life is going to be worlds away from his.
I need to find a sweet girl, someone who shares Andy’s nerdy interests. I start scrolling through profiles and click through the recommended matches of the day. After clicking through a few profiles of women who look a bit too cool, feisty or outgoing for Andy, I finally land upon someone who seems like she could be just right: a cute cardigan-wearing 27-year-old librarian called Heather with curly brown hair who describes herself as a Ravenclaw and lists history and visiting museums among a long list of hobbies that also includes board games, cosplay, Eighties electronica, steam punk and politics. Jackpot!
I’m scrolling through her profile, drinking it in, unable to believe what a great fit she is for Andy when suddenly another message pings through from Katarina.
Katarina:
Hey Andy,
Beautiful? Thank you! That’s so sweet.
I’ve been on here for a few months now, thought I’d check it out. Not having much luck so far though. Hopefully that might change!
What are you up to?
Xxx
Huh? Not having much luck? I’d imagine someone like Katarina would be inundated with messages.
‘Going well, is it?’ Derek asks, looking over again.
‘Oh yeah, of course. It’s going really well!’ I insist brightly, even though I’m pinning all my hopes on things working out with Heather at this point.
‘Excellent, you’re doing a great job,’ Derek says. ‘Oh, and before I forget… there’s something else I was hoping you could help with?’
‘Not more spy work?’ I grumble.
Derek smirks. ‘No, not more spy work. We’re having a party. A big Valentine’s Day singles mixer,’ Derek enthuses. ‘We do it every year and this year I want it to be bigger and better than ever before. We’ll show everyone, including that cad Olly Corrigan, what we’re made of. I want it to be a love fest – a night to remember! Something to put us on the map as the friendliest, warmest, most approachable dating agency in New York!’
‘Right!’ I comment, noting how Derek’s really taking this personal approach stuff to heart. ‘Sounds fun.’
‘Oh, it will be,’ Derek insists. ‘This is going to be the biggest and best Valentine’s party ever. Picture love heart balloons, heart-shaped confetti, champagne, fancy cocktails, smooth music, low lighting, chandeliers.’ Derek’s eyes glaze over with a look of wonder, clearly lost in the fantasy.
‘Uh-huh.’ I nod. ‘It’s sounds amazing. But, umm, where do I come in?’
‘Oh yeah.’ Derek snaps out of his reverie. ‘I need you to scout venues. I’ve made a shortlist, but I need you to go visit them, chat to the owners, see what kind of deal you can get us.’
‘Okay! Sounds fun,’ I reply, grateful for the excuse to get away from my desk. ‘Hang on a minute,’ I add as a thought hits me. ‘I thought you said the business was struggling. Can we really afford the party to end all parties?’
‘No, we can’t,’ Derek admits, ‘but if we can get sponsors, they can help. Leave that side of it to me.’ Derek taps his nose conspiratorially.
‘Okay, so I just go and see if the venues are nice then? No funny business?’ I ask, feeling sceptical after last week’s assignment.
‘Honestly, that’s it!’ Derek throws his hands up in mock surrender. ‘I promise. Just check out the venues and report back. That’s all.’
‘Okay cool,’ I reply as another message from Katarina pings into Andy Graham’s inbox.
‘Sounds like things are going well for Andy?’ Derek observes.
‘Oh yeah! Great!’
‘Brilliant. Well I’ll email over a few venue ideas in a minute and you can decide which one you want to go to first.’
‘When shall I go?’ I ask.
‘See if they can book you in for tomorrow?’ Derek suggests. ‘I’m just emailing over some venue details now.’
‘Okay, cool. Will do,’ I reply brightly, as I click out of Katarina’s message and click through Heather’s pictures. She has a kind face. She looks like the sort of girl who, if she was your friend, would never forget your birthday and would always be there for you if you were having a crisis. But it’s not just her looks, her interest couldn’t be more ideal for Andy. If his name was put into the sorting hat, I’m sure he’d end up in Ravenclaw too. I can practically picture them nestled together on the sofa on cold evenings with their books, or enjoying a museum together on a Sunday afternoon, chatting about the exhibits in hushed tones. They’d be such an adorable couple! I draft her a message, writing and rewriting it multiple times to make sure it piques her interest without feeling too keen. I drop in a few references to history and Hogwarts that I’m pretty sure she’ll appreciate and hit send.
I fire off another half a dozen messages to other potential matches just to be on the safe side in case Heather doesn’t reply. It is 11 a.m. on a Monday morning and it’s not exactly the peak time for people to check their internet dating profiles. Or at least, that’s the reason I’m telling myself no one’s replying. I log out of Andy’s account and decide to focus on another of the agency’s clients instead – a 43-year-old divorcee called Steve, who should be an easier sell. He’s a hedge fund manager with a love of fine art and marathons. He’s in great shape and has a yuppy look about him – a light tan, chinos, designer sweaters and a neat salt and pepper beard. He’s not exactly my type. I don’t dig his preppy look, his smile seems a bit smug and I don’t buy the interest in art. He strikes me as the kind of bloke who sees art on a similar level to buying sports cars – status symbols to impress his friends. But nevertheless, a lot of women are into rich guys and I suspect it won’t be too hard to find him a date. Sure enough, after messaging three or four women that meet his criteria (blonde, slim, under 30 *eye roll*, and university-educated), one replies, and we message back and forth happily. Apparently, she’s on an early lunch break. My stomach starts to rumble after a bit, so, channelling Steve, I tell her I have to call a client overseas and I’ll message back later. Always best to leave them wanting more, I reckon.
I tell Derek I’m off for lunch and head down to the café on the street below. Derek tends to spend lunch at his desk, but I like to have a walk around the block and watch the world go by for a bit. On my second or third day working here, I found a small unpretentious café that does cheap sandwiches and has seats by the window that offer the perfect people-watching vantage point. I buy a falafel wrap and claim my spot. Someone’s left a newspaper behind and I flick through it, munching on my wrap and pausing now and then to gaze idly out of the window, taking in the sharply-dressed office workers, charging down the street to grab a lunchtime snack, and the tourists, whose meandering strides and wide-eyed expressions are a dead giveaway that they’re clea
rly not from New York. Everyone’s going about their business and even though I’m only separated from them by a pane of glass and a few feet, no one glances in my direction and for a few moments, I get entranced, just watching. All of a sudden, a familiar figure catches my eye. It’s Brandon, looking even more handsome than I remember. My heart beats a little faster. He’s just so ridiculously good-looking, with his piercing blueish green eyes, chiselled features and dark hair. Not to mention his tall, lean physique. He glows. And it’s not just me that notices. A few other women on the street do a double take as they walk past him, clearly impressed by what they see, but Brandon seems oblivious. He just charges ahead, the edges of his long coat buffeted by the breeze. I crane my neck to try to see where he’s heading, desperately hoping he might be stopping in at To the Moon & Back, and to my delight, he does. He slips through the revolving doors of our building, disappearing inside. Oh my God. Just when I thought today was going to be a mind-numbingly boring day, Brandon is stopping by! I hop off my chair, grab my sandwich wrapper and empty coffee cup, shove them in a nearby bin and hurry out the door of the café, eager to catch up with him.
I dash across the road and head back into the building. Brandon must already have reached the office as there’s no sign of him in reception, so I head over to the lifts and jam my finger on the button. Not only do I want to flirt and chat to Brandon, but I want to see if I can grill him on his criteria and somehow persuade him to alter his demands so that maybe they don’t stay restricted to corporate, Ivy-League-educated, sporty high-flyers and start to encompass arty photography wannabes who prefer pizza to Pilates instead. It’s a long shot, but you never know!
The lift arrives, and I head inside, pressing the button for the top floor. The lift shoots up the shaft and I quickly apply a slick of tinted lip balm before the doors open. I hurry down the corridor and push open the office door, to find Brandon sitting in the client lounge, one leg folded over the other, and an arm spread across the back of the sofa. He looks over as I burst into the room, a suave relaxed expression on his face as though he was expecting me. He’s so cool and composed that it’s almost jarring.
‘Hey, hi! How are you?’ I smile, tucking my hair behind my ear as I cross the room towards him.
‘Hi Polly! Good to see you,’ Brandon stands up and extends his hand towards me. We shake hands formally as though we’re business associates, which in a way, I suppose we are. Shaking his hand and being so close to him, I’m immediately struck by another wave of attraction. Not only does he have the most insanely striking eyes and model-esque bone structure, but he’s so tall and manly. He has the kind of build that makes you feel feminine and dainty. His imposing muscular frame is so different from my own, so mesmerising and appealing that I immediately feel my body react, a surge of attraction that feels like it’s causing every cell to suddenly awaken, as though springing to attention after an extended slumber.
I smile innocently as we let go of each other’s hands. Brandon beams back, his look friendly and professional and I feel embarrassed – almost guilty – for the ridiculously charged feelings I’m experiencing. He’s just a professional single man and I’m a pervy matchmaker. How totally cringeworthy.
‘I’m glad to see you got the job!’ Brandon enthuses, and I can’t help feeling touched that a busy man like himself remembers our encounter in the corridor after my interview. Could it be that I made as much of an impression on him as he did on me?
‘Yep, bonafide matchmaker! Haha! At your service!’ I tell him, doing a little salute, before wondering why the hell I’m doing a salute.
Brandon grins. I clear my throat.
‘So, erm, are you here to see Derek?’ I ask, trying to sound business-like.
‘Yep.’ Brandon rolls his eyes. ‘That was the idea anyway, but he’s on the phone to someone and so he asked me to wait.’
‘Oh, really?’ I frown. Derek told Brandon to wait? Brandon is his star client. He adores Brandon. ‘That’s odd.’
Brandon shrugs. ‘He said he was on the phone to someone asking if they could sponsor a party or something. It’s okay. I’m on lunch, I can wait.’
‘Ah, right. Makes sense. Well, maybe I can help you,’ I suggest, sitting down in the armchair opposite the couch and gesturing for Brandon to sit back down.
‘Maybe you can,’ he comments, a flicker in his eye. I can’t tell if he’s amused or if he’s being flirtatious, but either way I’m getting that flushed cells-springing-to-life feeling and I catch myself tucking my hair pointlessly behind my ear again as I hold his gaze. His piercing eyes bore into me as I think to myself, maybe I can, Brandon, maybe I can help you. In many ways.
‘So, erm…’ He gives me an expectant look.
‘So, uhhh, yes!’ I smile, forcing the images that have flooded into my head to disperse. ‘Dating! So, how’s it been going then? Are you having any issues? Anything I can help with?’ I babble.
‘Well, yes.’ Brandon glances away, his brow furrowed. ‘It hasn’t been going particularly well, if I’m being perfectly honest.’
‘Really?’ I cock my head to the side. ‘But why?’
‘Well, we weren’t having much luck on the traditional dating sites and the last few dates were a bit of a bust, so Derek said that maybe we should try a different strategy. He suggested that apps might work better. He said he’s set me up with a Tinder profile, but he hasn’t given me an update. So, I was just coming over to have a chat and see how it’s all going.’
‘Surely you’d know if he set you up with a profile?’ I ask. ‘Surely you’d feel the breeze.’
‘Huh?’ Brandon looks confused.
‘The breeze as every woman in New York swiped right,’ I explain.
Brandon laughs, a little more loudly than I’d expected. So loudly in fact that Derek pops his head around the door to see what’s going on. He still has a phone cupped to his ear but seems satisfied that I’m keeping Brandon occupied.
‘You’re funny, Polly,’ Brandon says, still smiling.
‘Thanks!’ I reply. I want to add, ‘There’s more where that came from, Brandon, if you’d only change your bloody dating criteria’ but I manage to stay schtum.
‘But seriously, it would be good to have a date. I do pay a fair amount of money for my retainer and it’s been a while since Derek’s arranged anything.’
‘Absolutely. Maybe I can arrange something for you? Perhaps your love life needs a fresh pair of eyes.’
‘Perhaps.’ Brandon nods. ‘What would you suggest doing differently?’
‘Well, I mean… I’m sure I can get you a date. Derek seems to like my dating message openers.’
‘I can imagine they’re pretty good,’ Brandon says.
I smile proudly. ‘Brandon, with your looks and my witty repartee, a date is in the bag, I promise.’
Brandon grins. ‘You promise? I like your confidence,’ he says, looking me straight in the eyes in a way that makes my legs turn to jelly. I’m thankful I’m sitting down. I smile back at him, but I can’t help feeling a little frustrated. If he thinks I’m so funny and likes my confidence, why can’t he date someone like, I don’t know, me?
‘So…’ I lean forward a little. ‘Is your criteria totally fixed?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The whole Ivy League, sporty, slim blonde thing? Maybe you could be a bit more flexible. I mean, what if there was someone just a little different who could end up being a great match for you? You wouldn’t want to overlook them, would you?’ I ask, in as light and breezy a tone as I can muster. I sit straight, adopting my most professional posture.
‘Sorry, Polly,’ Brandon comments in a cuttingly impersonal way that makes my stomach do a little anxious flip. ‘But I’ve dated before and through a process of what I suppose you could call trial and error, I’ve realised that it’s 99 per cent not going to work if my partner doesn’t have those qualities.’
‘Right.’ My heart sinks. Great. So much for talking Brandon round. Clearly,
he would never – in a million years – date someone like me. My hair is too brown. I went to the wrong university, I don’t like sports and I’m two dress sizes larger than what he goes for. Let’s face it; I’m not Brandon’s type and apparently, there’s no changing that. But then suddenly, a thought occurs to me.
‘What about a peroxide blonde?’ I suggest. After all, I could always dye my hair.
‘Nope. Natural. I love fair hair.’
I nod. ‘Fair hair. Great. Well, errr…’ I glance across the room, suddenly aware of a shredder in the corner that I’d never noticed before and the fan whirring overhead. It’s like all the romance and sparkle I had injected into my interactions with Brandon has suddenly been sucked out of the room. He’s not remotely interested in me and he never will be. The reason he remembered my name the other day wasn’t because he fancied me, it was just because he’s a polite, considerate man, nothing more. And he’s not been charming and cute with me because he wants to get into my knickers, it’s simply because he’s trying to be nice to the new recruit at his dating agency. He’s probably one of those people that just effortlessly charms everyone they meet. No wonder he’s risen to the top so quickly; I bet all his colleagues love him. He probably remembers the names of everyone’s kids and never forgets a birthday. I gulp, pushing away my melancholy as I sit a little straighter. Brandon is a professional man who wants a professional and efficient dating service, and I need to stop messing around and give him that.
‘I’ll find you someone, Brandon. I’ll see what Derek’s been up to with your profiles and have a think about why it’s not been working. Leave it with me. I’ll get you a date,’ I assure him.
Brandon smiles. ‘Thanks Polly.’ His eyes glimmer and I realise that’s just how his eyes are, it’s not a flirty look, it’s just him. He’s just a glimmering shimmering man. He’s beguiling. I dread to think of all the women, including myself, who must have dreamed of having a chance with him only to have their hopes shattered.
The office door swings open and Derek comes in, looking pleased with himself. I can already see that the phone call’s gone well and some party sponsorship must be in the bag. He glances between me and Brandon.