by Zoe May
‘Sorry about that,’ he says to Brandon. Brandon stands up and clasp palms in a friendly handshake. ‘Urgent business, really couldn’t wait.’
‘No problem,’ Brandon insists, smiling warmly.
‘So how is everything, Brandon? Let’s sit down and discuss your dating strategy,’ Derek suggests, gesturing for Brandon to take a seat, but he stays standing.
‘Actually, I think it’s sorted now.’ Brandon glances towards me. ‘Polly’s suggested she has a shot at matching me up with someone and she seems pretty confident she can get results.’
‘Absolutely!’ I enthuse, even though I’m wincing a little at the corporate turn of phrase ‘get results’ when talking about romance. What is it with these men? Women are not results. Love is not a deliverable. Perhaps there are cracks in Brandon’s shiny veneer, I wonder, as I smile happily back.
‘Right! Well, sure! Why not? I’m sure Polly will do a great job.’ Derek gives me one of his paternal smiles and I can tell I’m clearly in his good books after helping him with Olly Corrington and now this.
‘Great, well, I’d better head back to the office,’ Brandon comments, picking up his coat which is draped over the armrest of the sofa. He pulls it on.
‘Got to watch out for that breeze,’ he says, giving me a wink as he says goodbye.
Chapter 10
I didn’t think it would be impossible to find an Ivy-League-educated, slim, sporty high-flyer but I’m beginning to wonder if this ideal woman Brandon seems to want is just a cliché or if every woman who fits that bill has already been snapped up. Every time I think I’ve found someone, something goes wrong. For example, I enthusiastically swiped right on a blonde woman with a profile picture of her playing with a beach ball on holiday. We got chatting and she seemed great – funny, keen and friendly – but then it turned out she hadn’t been to university and owned her own handmade accessories business, selling her designs online and at markets. I was pretty sure that wouldn’t fit Brandon’s criteria so I let the conversation fade out and unmatched. Then there was another woman who was the perfect dress size, had studied at Harvard and worked as a PR executive. So far, so good. But she had brown hair and I remembered what Brandon had said. He wasn’t into brunettes. Only natural blondes, he couldn’t even handle dyed blondes. I keep swiping, swiping left on so many pretty, lovely-looking girls simply because they’re the wrong dress size or went to the wrong university. The more I swipe, the more I’m beginning to get frustrated with Brandon. He may be the quintessential catch, but I can see why he’s single if he has such strict exacting standards. I’m reminded of the way Olly made me feel when asking for my criteria, reducing my ideal match to a check list of qualities.
Just as I’m having that thought, Gabe twists his key in the front door.
‘Hey.’ I glance over my shoulder.
‘Sup?’ he replies as he closes the front door as he comes in, wearing his suit and tie.
‘Just swiping,’ I reply, as I swipe left on a red head.
‘For yourself or for those creepy blokes you’re trying to get dates?’ Gabe asks as he takes off his blazer and hangs it over one the back of the kitchen chairs.
‘The creepy blokes,’ I tell him.
He flops down onto the sofa next to me. His tie is a little askew and his pupils look dilated.
‘Drunk?’ I ask.
‘No, just had a few after work,’ Gabe says.
‘I thought you hated your colleagues?’ I ask.
Gabe’s always going on about what bores his colleagues are. He calls them ‘the corporate machines’ because when he first started working at his company, he couldn’t get his head around how their lives literally only comprised of sleeping, working and winding down from work. He couldn’t believe how dull and limited their aspirations were, when he wanted more from life than just climbing the corporate ladder. While his colleagues would hang out after work discussing office politics, Gabe would usually do a runner. For Gabe, the job was just a way of making a bit of money so he could have some financial security before eventually going back to singing. Except he’s been there for three years.
‘Needed a drink.’ Gabe shrugs.
‘Bad day?’ I ask, swiping left on a pretty 30-year-old who unfortunately happens to be a DJ.
‘Not really,’ Gabe sighs. ‘Just the usual crap and felt like letting off some steam.’
‘Oh okay,’ I murmur as I swipe left on another brunette.
Gabe peers over my shoulder. ‘Do you really need to do that in your personal time? Shouldn’t you leave work at work.’
‘Yeah, I guess,’ I admit. ‘It just gets a bit addictive, though. You just keep swiping, trying to find the right person. It starts feeling like a computer game or something after a while. Like Angry Birds.’
‘Trying to get to the next level,’ Gabe adds as he loosens his tie.
‘Exactly, except I can’t seem to progress from level one.’
‘Your job!’ he tuts, as he pulls the tie free from his neck. He tosses it onto the coffee table.
‘How’s it going then anyway? Have you found a date for that Andy guy?’ Gabe asks, remembering one of our conversations last week when I was whinging about how tough it was to get anyone to engage with Andy.
‘No, still looking. I’ll get there eventually,’ I insist.
Gabe raises an eyebrow. ‘For someone who can’t seem to get off level one, you’re pretty confident.’
‘I’ll get there in the end. Anyway, I’m not trying to get him a date at the moment. I’m trying to find someone for this guy called Brandon.’
‘Brandon?’
‘Yeah, he’s amazing, properly gorgeous,’ I tell Gabe, before filling him in on Brandon’s incredible professional and philanthropic achievements. ‘Such a catch. Look.’
I click onto Brandon’s profile and brandish my phone at Gabe.
‘Fuck me!’ he says, flicking through the pictures wide-eyed. ‘He’s gorgeous.’
‘I know, right?’
‘I thought all the guys at the agency would be total geeks, to be honest.’
‘Nope. I thought so too but it’s not like that at all. There are loads who are totally hot and really successful. You kind of have to be successful to use the service in the first place. Dating agencies don’t come cheap.’
‘I guess,’ Gabe muses. ‘But I thought they’d be, like, rich and ugly. Nerdy financiers or something. I wasn’t expecting absolute hotties like this.’ Gabe drinks Brandon’s pictures in, swiping between them.
‘Neither did I,’ I admit, thinking back to how cringe-worthily flirty and flustered I got around Brandon earlier.
‘Can’t you date him?’ Gabe suggests. ‘I’d be all over that in a second.’ He hands my phone back to me, which is open on a particularly dashing shot of Brandon wearing a suit in front of a swanky city office. It’s a professional-looking editorial shot, taken from one of his magazine articles, and he looks model-handsome.
‘He’s incredibly fussy though. Incredibly.’ I explain about all of Brandon’s criteria.
‘Take it that doesn’t include men then?’ Gabe sighs.
‘’Fraid not.’
‘Damn,’ Gabe mutters.
‘I’m glad I’m not the only one who fancies him,’ I comment.
‘What do you mean?’ Gabe wrinkles his nose.
‘Every time I see him, I get all hot under the collar and start flirting. It’s not even remotely professional, I just can’t help it. It’s like he has this intense masculine energy that just brings out some primal instinct in me and I start practically throwing myself at him.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, I just want to rip his clothes off,’ I admit sheepishly. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing.’
Gabe sniggers. ‘Well, it has been a while, hasn’t it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s been a while, since you got laid.’
I glance down. ‘Yeah, I guess so,’ I admit, placing my phone face do
wn on the coffee table. Even the photo of Brandon is having an effect.
‘How long’s it been?’ Gabe asks.
‘I don’t know. A while.’
‘Like how long?’
‘Umm…’ I rack my brains, but I can’t even readily recall the last guy I slept with it’s been so long. ‘I’m fine,’ I insist, picking up my phone again and reflexively swiping left. ‘You know, just a little twitchy.’
Gabe eyes me cynically. ‘You’re horny, babe.’
‘I’m not! I’m fine!’
‘Girl, you’re so horny you probably get aroused when you touch up a photo.’
I giggle in spite of myself. ‘Shut up!’
‘You’re so horny you probably go to Starbucks just to hear someone cry out your name,’ Gabe teases.
‘You’re such a dick, Gabe!’
‘You probably wink at the ticket machine in the subway when you press the button for a single,’ Gabe sniggers.
I roll my eyes. ‘Come on, I’m not that bad.’ But it has been a while.
‘Seriously, babe.’ Gabe gives me a pointed look.
‘Okay, fine,’ I sigh. ‘So it’s been a while.’
‘Yeah, maybe it has, but now you’re surrounded by single men. You’re in the perfect job. What are you waiting for?’ Gabe asks, looking genuinely baffled.
‘I’m a matchmaker! And FYI, I’m trying to be a professional one! The last thing I should be doing is shagging the clients.’
‘I guess,’ Gabe reasons. ‘Shame though, with a hottie like that.’ He glances towards my phone.
‘Yeah, it is a shame,’ I sigh, as if my professionalism is the only thing stopping me from getting with Brandon, and the fact that I don’t meet any of his ridiculous criteria has nothing to do with it.
Chapter 11
Derek’s top choice of venue for the party couldn’t be more perfect. I didn’t expect him to suggest such an incredible place, but the venue he’s sent me to visit is ideal. In fact, it’s somewhere I’ve always wanted to go. It’s a restaurant called The Grill at Bryant Park – one of my favourite spots in New York. The park is tucked behind New York Public Library and it’s always a hive of activity. Every night, something interesting’s happening at Bryant Park, from band performances to outdoor cinema events to yoga classes. There’s also a carousel for kids and stone tables patterned with chessboards where people catch up over a game. When I first moved to the city, I used to come to Bryant Pak just to sit and think and soak up the vibrant energy of the place. The Grill sits on the edge of the park – a huge conservatory-style restaurant covered in winding ivy – it seems just as exciting. If it’s not bustling with diners, there’ll be a glamourous private party taking place.
I walk over, feeling excited as I cross the path towards the restaurant and head inside. I’ve wanted to go to The Grill for ages and now here I am, visiting to check it out as a party venue! The owner greets me warmly and shows me around. Its tall glass conservatory walls and roof give it a feeling of expansiveness. It feels almost like an extension of Bryant Park, with the trees in the park visible on one side and the New York Public Library on the other. Dotted with warm lighting, it’s like a cosy cocoon within the park, and the inside outside look is heightened by a few tree trunks growing indoors that pierce the conservatory ceiling as well as plants and foliage decorations dotted throughout the venue.
‘We usually decorate the venue with fairy lights and chandeliers for events like yours, to give a feeling of cosiness,’ the owner says.
‘The sounds wonderful,’ I enthuse. I know exactly what he means because I’ve seen those parties going on in The Grill. They’re hard to miss from Bryant Park and they always look incredible, but standing inside the conservatory, I can truly picture how good the venue will look. With Derek’s plans to adorn the place with heart-shaped balloons and sprinkle love heart confetti everywhere, it’s going to be gorgeous. It’ll be a beautiful cocoon within the bustling city, sending out the perfect message to clients – that we’re a friendly intimate agency, a cosy place of where they can feel relaxed and at ease, while also making new connections across New York.
‘We book up fast so let us know if you’re interested as soon as you can,’ the owner advises.
I want to tell him there and then that I’m interested. I know Derek and I won’t be able to beat The Grill – t’ll be impossible to find a venue as perfect – but I tell him that I need to discuss it with my boss and promise to let him know soon.
I try to call Derek the moment I leave but his phone’s engaged; he’s probably talking to sponsors or new prospective clients. I barely concentrate while visiting the other two venues on his list, which are just your typical nice modern bars. They’re lovely, but they have nothing on The Grill. I head back to the office, walking the mile-long route. As I’m walking, I pass an independent bookstore that has a kooky café inside doubling up as a hipster meeting spot. It’s the sort of café that serves chai seed smoothies and soy lattes to bearded freelancers who can afford to hang out there all day buying this and that while they tinker about on their laptops. It’s the kind of place I’d actually quite like to frequent, but unfortunately my budget hasn’t allowed it recently. I peer into the window, checking out the artsy books on display, when my eyes suddenly land on a black chalkboard sign.
Exclusive book launch of RAW! by Alicia Carter, Instagram sensation & raw food chef, 7 p.m. on Friday.
Alicia? A book launch? For a moment, I think the store must have made a mistake and Alicia is probably just holding one of her meet and greets or something, but the sign definitely says ‘book launch’. It stipulates the name of the book and everything. When Alicia said the book was going to print, I had no idea things would be moving this quickly.
I head into the shop and walk up to the nearest member of staff – a skinny guy with glasses.
‘Hi, I just saw the sign for the book launch with Alicia Carter,’ I say.
‘Yeah.’ He smiles politely. ‘It’s next week,’ he tells me.
‘Right, yep. And erm, do you have a guest list?’ I ask.
He thinks for a moment. ‘I don’t know. Actually yeah, I think there is one. It’s pretty exclusive.’
‘Okay…’ I murmur.
‘Obviously, I can’t reveal the names on the guest list,’ he comments. ‘It’s an invite-only launch.’
‘Of course not,’ I agree, wondering where the hell my invite has got to. I was the photographer for the cookbook after all.
‘So, if the book launch is invite-only and so exclusive, why are you advertising it?’ I ask.
‘Just building up hype ahead of when the book comes out. Plus, a lot of the people who come here have been invited,’ he tells me, with a slightly patronising look.
‘Right, okay. Thanks,’ I grumble, before skulking out of the shop.
I walk a few paces down the busy street trying to take in what has just happened. Alicia is having an exclusive book launch and she hasn’t even invited me. Me! The photographer! How could this be happening? I pull my phone from my handbag and scroll through my messages and emails. I can’t see any from her. I search her name in my inbox, my junk, my spam, even my bin in case I accidentally deleted it, but there’s nothing. I open my messenger app and fire off a message asking about the party. I keep an eye on my phone for a few minutes, watching out to see if the ticks at the side of the message turn blue to show that the message has been read, but they remain grey. Urghh. I can’t believe it! Surely it can’t be that I spent a whole day taking pictures of turnips, not to mention the hours I spent meticulously editing those pictures, and I’m still not deemed exclusive enough to attend the book launch. The ticks at the side of the message still aren’t blue. I sigh loudly as I chuck my phone into my handbag. I walk down the street, trying to hold my head high, even though my heart is sinking. Glum-looking suited city workers and steely women in court shoes and neat shift dresses pass me by. With setbacks like this, I can’t help feeling I’m never going to make it
as a photographer, but I know I’m never going to be like these office workers either. I don’t have a clue what kind of future awaits me, but I don’t want to follow Gabe’s path – forcing myself to do a job I hate, being a square peg in a round hole. I feel so lost.
I check my phone once more a few blocks further. The ticks have gone blue now, meaning Alicia’s read the message, but she hasn’t replied. I try to tell myself that she’s busy, but she was never too busy to respond to my messages when we were working on the photo edits. And I know from spending time in her company that she never looks up from her phone for more than a few minutes at a time. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being snubbed. Derek’s sent me a few messages asking how the viewings are going. My stomach’s starting to rumble so I nip into a café to grab some lunch and give Derek a quick call.
I order a coffee and a bowl of soup and sit at a table in the corner. I give Derek a quick call to report back on how fantastic The Grill is. He seems thrilled that I like it. I tell him I’m grabbing lunch and will be back at the office soon. Derek’s excitement over the venue lifts my spirits somewhat. After all, I may not be going to Alicia’s event, but at least I have an incredible Valentine’s party in one of the coolest venues in New York to look forward to. Alicia still hasn’t replied, but it doesn’t matter. I click onto Brandon’s Tinder profile on my phone in an attempt to distract myself with some swiping. I might not have been invited to the launch of a book I took the photos for and my photography career may not be panning out remotely as I wanted it to, but at least I have a job. I’m a matchmaker, and I’m going to matchmake.
I start swiping: brunette (left swipe), personal trainer (left swipe), girl who describes herself as a ‘homebody’ (left swipe), curvy girl (left swipe) etc. I’m beginning to get cramp in my thumb from all the swiping when I finally land upon a profile that might have potential. The profile shot is of a slim pretty blonde in a bikini lying on the deck of a yacht. She has a broad open smile and blue sparkly eyes and looks like a catalogue model. So much so that I’m tempted to write the profile off as a fake or some kind of bot and I nearly swipe left, but something stops me. Hope, I guess. She’s called Eve and from this photo alone, she’s ticking so many of Brandon’s boxes. She looks slim and toned. Check. Her sandy luminous blonde hair is swept into a wispy ponytail that blows over her shoulder in the breeze – so long that it tickles her elbow. Check. And the yacht she’s posing on looks like it’s near a Mediterranean coastline. Clearly a fan of travelling. Check. I scroll onto the next photo. It’s a completely different vibe to the first. She’s snuggled on the sofa in a plush looking lounge reading a book. She’s wearing an oversized jumper with long sleeves, reading glasses and her hair is tied in a side plait. She looks sweet and I can’t help wondering if the fancy-looking apartment in the background is her flat. Could it be that she’s a homeowner? Because that would be yet another tick.