by Zoe May
‘Do you have a reservation?’ The maître d’ asks, regarding her blankly.
‘Oh, no, sorry…’ Alicia replies with a tactical flutter of her lashes.
‘I’m sorry, but if you don’t have a reservation, we can’t let you in,’ the maître d’ says firmly, already looking over Alicia’s shoulder at the next people in line.
‘But, the people in front didn’t have a reservation,’ Alicia comments, her cheeks flushing.
‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do,’ the maître d’ replies in a clipped, disinterested tone. Alicia’s cheeks grow redder. Her discomfort is palpable. She’s clearly dying to get into this restaurant, but here she is, dressed to the nines and being turned away.
The maître d’ looks down the line and clocks Olly.
‘Olly!’ he says, his eyes lighting up. Olly looks up from his phone and a big smile spreads across his face – that winning smile that everyone loves and that just makes him naturally charismatic. Even watching him smile makes me smile. He steps forward and greets the maître d’, clapping his arms around him. Then he turns and introduces me. The maître d’ leans in for a hug, kissing me on both cheeks, his eyes sparkling charmingly. I hug him, smiling politely, but I can feel Alicia watching me and I can’t help thinking of the cool hard way he spoke to her, only to turn on the charm five seconds later with me. He clearly only wants to let in friends, or friends of friends.
Olly and the maître d’ catch up, chatting a bit about business, before the maître d’ remembers about the queue behind us.
‘Table for two, guys?’ he says. ‘Did you make a reservation?’
‘Oh no, we didn’t…’ Olly says, a little awkwardly.
‘No problem,’ the maître d’ declares with a charming smile. ‘I’ll show you to your table.’
‘Great, thanks,’ Olly says, as the maître d’ ushers us into the restaurant.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Alicia pipes up. The maître d’ turns to her, looking faintly irritated.
‘Yes?’ he answers with a faint eye roll, and I have to admit, even though he’s being nice to us, he’s clearly a bit of a dick.
‘I thought you said you had no tables for people without reservations?’ Alicia says.
Oh God. I glance down at the ground, wishing it would swallow me up. This is so cringe-worthy.
‘Uhhh…’ The maître d’ stammers, glancing uncomfortably at me and Olly.
We all stand in silence for a few seconds, although it feels like ages.
‘Look, why don’t you just give our table to Alicia?’ I suggest.
Olly shoots me a stunned look. The maître d’ looks completely taken aback and Alicia’s eyes widen with hope. She doesn’t even attempt to object, she clearly just wants to get inside the restaurant and start posting photos on Instagram. As long as she gets in, she doesn’t care how cringe-worthy and awkward it is to get inside. She’s so desperate that I almost feel sorry for her. I may have wanted to come to Per Se, but she needs it more than me. She lives for this fancy vapid Insta-worthy life, whereas I have Olly by my side and we could eat in McDonald’s and still have a perfect evening.
‘Come on Olly,’ I say in a low voice, ‘we can come back another day.’
I squeeze his hand and he looks into my eyes, and an understanding passes between us. Even though technically, it’s only our second date, it’s like we’ve already mastered non-verbal communication.
The maître d’ looks at Olly, expecting an answer.
‘Yeah, let her have our table. We’ll come back next weekend,’ Olly says.
‘Right, okay,’ the maître d’ grumbles, clearly not particularly pleased. ‘If you’re sure?’
‘Yeah, we’re sure,’ Olly insists.
‘Okay, well in that case, you can come through,’ the maître d’ replies in a terse tone to Alicia.
She grins and links her arm under her friend’s before following the maître d’ into the restaurant. He and Olly say goodbye.
‘Oh, thanks Polly,’ she throws over her shoulder as she heads inside. You’d think after everything that’s happened between us, that she might be a little uncomfortable or awkward, but all she cares about is having got into the restaurant. Brandon was right: the money was nothing to her and neither was the legal notice. I smile to myself, knowing that that chapter is closed and our paths will probably never cross again.
‘It’s okay,’ I reply, but she’s already turned her back to me as she disappears into the restaurant. I roll my eyes indulgently.
‘I don’t get why you’d want to be nice to her,’ Olly comments. ‘After what she did to you.’
I shrug. ‘She’s Alicia. All she has is Instagrammable restaurants. I have you,’ I tell him as I link my arm through his and snuggle close.
Olly smiles indulgently back. ‘Come on you,’ he says, linking his fingers through mine as we turn and walk away from the queue.
After wandering around for a bit, we find ourselves inside a pizza place, sitting in a booth, enjoying two big greasy slices of pizza from striped paper trays.
‘This is hardly the romantic dinner I’d envisaged,’ Olly teases, before taking a bite.
‘It’s perfect,’ I insist, and it is. We’re sitting opposite each other, so close in the small booth that our legs are overlapping under the table. Grainy Italian pop songs are spilling out from speakers behind the counter and a waiter places a flickering tea light in a glass cup in between our plates. It’s cosy and actually, it couldn’t be any better.
‘It is perfect,’ Olly agrees.
We exchange another meaningful glance before tucking into our pizza, while chatting away about everything and anything, from whether anchovies are delicious (Olly’s opinion) or so disgusting that they shouldn’t even be considered edible (my view), to our work goals and my new business venture.
‘Do you know what you should do? The dating profile pictures thing is a good USP but it’s a bit limiting. You should offer general portrait photography. Think about it, every single person you take photos for will have friends they could recommend you to, but if you only do dating photos, then they’ll only mention you to their single friends. You’re limiting your market. Change your tag line to ‘Photographer specialising in dating profile pictures that capture your personality and make you look great, as well as portrait photography for professional or personal use.’ Boom. Double the market.’
‘You memorised my Instagram bio?’ I joke, noting that he recalled the first part word for word.
‘Of course!’ Olly smiles before taking a bite of his pizza, having effortlessly made an incredibly insightful analysis of my business, as though it were no more of a big deal than asking the chef for extra anchovies. I watch him eating and I’m struck with yet another wave of admiration. Not only is he incredibly sexy, smart, sensitive and cool, but he’s also savvy and entrepreneurial. He’d be the kind of boyfriend who would support me in everything, from being myself, to giving up a table in an exclusive restaurant for an annoying Instagrammer to helping me grow my business. This is the kind of relationship that will nourish my heart, soul, body and mind. All of the reservations I’ve had before over settling down with a guy don’t feel relevant to Olly. I don’t feel like he’s going to be a distraction. Unlike all the other guys, who I feared would hold me back from achieving my goals, from moving to New York to doing well at university, I feel like having Olly in my life will help, rather than hinder me. I feel comfortable about the prospect of being with him. He’s right, there is a weird alchemy that just makes us work.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Olly says, giving me a wry look.
‘Sorry!’ I glance away, a little embarrassed. ‘I was just thinking that you’re so right about my business description. That’s exactly what I’ll do!’
I take a bite of my pizza.
We finish lunch and head back out onto the street.
‘So, what do you want to do now?’ Olly asks, clapping his hands together. ‘New York is o
ur oyster.’
‘Do you know what I’ve always wanted to do…?’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a bit touristy…’ I hesitate, feeling a bit embarrassed.
Olly smiles. ‘Hit me.’
‘I’ve always wanted to go to the Statue of Liberty. Like actually visit it, go inside it.’
‘Hmm… that’s a first.’
‘Not on the date script, eh?’
‘No, definitely not!’ Olly replies. ‘I don’t know anyone who’s done that. Aren’t you meant to just look at it from afar, not actually visit it?’
I laugh. ‘I want to visit it. I’ve always looked at it from afar, but I want to see it up close,’ I admit, thinking back to the fantasy I’ve had since childhood, of standing right inside the statue’s crown. I think of the little stick figure I drew in biro in the statue’s crown. I want to be that stick figure; I want to do my 12-year-old self proud and fulfil her dream.
‘But why?’ Olly asks, bemused.
‘Because it’s cool! It’s iconic. Anyway, don’t forget, you’re a New Yorker, you take this stuff for granted,’ I remind Olly. ‘I grew up in Cornwall, I’m still a New York fan girl at heart.’
‘The ultimate country bumpkin tourist,’ Olly teases, pinching my side.
‘Ouch!’ I grin, pulling away. ‘So, are you game?’
‘Yeah, I’m game,’ Olly laughs. ‘Even though I can’t believe we’re actually going to do this.’
We jump in a cab and head across Manhattan down to Battery Park, where the ferry that takes groups of tourists to the Statue of Liberty departs. We buy our tickets from the kiosk and board the ferry, which sways heavily on the water. It’s a bright day and we climb up to the top deck, where we manage to find a space to sit on a bench at the back. The ferry is full of tourists, including a middle-aged couple wearing matching ‘I love New York’ T-shirts and cheesy green visors shaped like Statue of Liberty crowns. They enthusiastically take photos of everything, from the inside the ferry to the view of the dock. For a moment, they stop taking photos to buy a bottle of water from a drinks machine.
‘How much do you bet they’ll take a picture of the water?’ Olly jokes in a low whisper.
I giggle. ‘Shhh…’ I hiss, but then sure enough the woman comes back with the water, unscrews the cap and then nudges her husband to take a picture of her drinking it.
‘Told you,’ Olly sniggers and I can’t help laughing.
An ocean breeze blows through our hair.
‘Well, you know what they say,’ I comment, giving Olly a side-long look.
‘What’s that?’ He raises an eyebrow.
‘If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.’ I hold out my phone to take a selfie of us.
Olly rolls his eyes indulgently. We snuggle up and grin into the camera as I take a picture, the wind making our hair blow over our shoulders. I turn my camera around and take a look at the picture. It’s adorable. We look stupidly happy.
‘That’s cute,’ Olly says, glancing at the picture before planting a kiss on my forehead.
We cuddle up, fending off the cool sea breeze as the ferry crosses the water towards the statue. Manhattan retreats into the distance, the sharp winter sunlight glints off its skyscrapers. It feels a little strange to be seeing it from a distance after spending years in the thick of it. The only time I’ve ever seen Manhattan from the water was during a holiday visit when I was 15. I fell in love with New York back then and seeing the city from afar now still fills me with the same sense of awe, yet the longing I had as a teenager desperate to move to the Big Apple as soon as I could is replaced by a feeling of gratitude that living here is now my reality. Just before I sink too deep into reflection, the ferry arrives and the Statue of Liberty stands tall and proud, her blueish green surface bright and almost glowing up close.
‘Wow,’ Olly says, taking her in.
‘Impressive, isn’t she?’ I add.
‘Incredible,’ Olly utters.
We stop at an information stand and read about how the statue came to be, from being conceptualised by French sculptor Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi to having its structure designed by the engineer Gustave Eiffel, who later went on to create the eponymous Eiffel tower. We read about all the obstacles the statue faced in its creation, from encountering financing challenges which led to a funding campaign launched in newspapers across the city urging residents to donate, to the structure itself being transported from France in 350 pieces that had to be assembled upon arrival in the States, like the world’s biggest jigsaw puzzle. The more I read, the more the statue starts to feel like more than just a symbol of the American dream, but evidence of it in itself: the statue’s creation shows that with hard work and determination, you can achieve the seemingly impossible.
We head over to the entrance and present our tickets, before making our way up the narrow winding staircases leading up to the crown, getting breathless as we climb the 354 steps to the top. But once we’re inside the crown, it pays off. The ceiling is domed, reinforced with Eiffel’s heavy steel frame and it feels strange to be looking out of windows that are the gaps in the statue’s iconic crown.
‘We’re here!’ Olly wraps his arms around my waist from behind, holding me close as we take in the views.
‘We’re here,’ I echo, feeling a little emotional as I think of the 12-year-old me who stuck the poster of the Statue of Liberty on her bedroom wall and vowed to go there, to get to New York. I’ve become the stick figure; it feels like my dreams are now truly a reality.
‘What’s up?’ Olly asks, looking at me with concern as my eyes well up. I decide not to tell him. That stick figure was a private fantasy – a girl making a secret wish – and it still feels private. It’s precious, like a talisman I kept close to my chest that helped materialise my dreams over time.
‘Nothing, I’m just so happy to be here with you,’ I tell him.
‘Aww, me too Polly,’ Olly says, giving me a squeeze.
As I look out over the city, taking it in, my nostalgia changes into something else: a calm but resolute sense of determination and hope. For the first time, I truly feel like I might actually make it here. My photography dreams might come true. Success doesn’t feel like some vague, desperate dream – a fraught sense of longing like the feeling I’ve had I’ve had in recent months wrought with frustration and self-pity. Instead, it feels achievable, a graspable reality. My business may only be in its infancy and I may still be working as a matchmaker at a dating agency, but it’s a start. I feel happy. I may not be quite where I want to be yet, but I’ve found a good place to launch myself from. I’m on my way. And I feel it – that distinct New York spirit of freedom, optimism and ambition that’s drawn people here for years.
Olly pulls me closer and I sink back into him, feeling his warmth through his thick jumper. I look up at him and see that he’s smiling.
‘This wasn’t such a terrible idea, was it?’ I comment, nudging him.
‘No, it wasn’t. Hopefully it will be the first of many not-so-terrible ideas and not-so-terrible things we get to do together,’ he says, his eyes soft and tender.
‘Definitely.’ I smile.
Neither Olly or myself may be particularly great at relationships – especially not for people who call themselves matchmakers – but it’s clear that we both want to get better. We’re both committed to doing our best to make this work, and despite our questionable track records, that’s good enough for me. There may be a small part of me that still feels daunted by the idea of opening up and giving my heart to him, but a larger part just feels incredibly grateful to have found my match and excited about what’s to come.
‘Come here,’ Olly says softly.
I turn around to face him, smiling up at him as I slip my hands under his jacket and wrap them around his body, taking in his warmth. He smiles back at me.
I close my eyes and we kiss.
Acknowledgements
A massive thanks to my brilliant editor, Charlo
tte Mursell, for her incredibly insightful suggestions and feedback. It’s a real privilege to work with such a talented and supportive editor.
Thanks to the team at HQ Digital for turning my dreams into reality by publishing my books. It means so much to me.
Thanks to my mum and trusted friends for all the encouagement. And last but definitely not least, thank you to all the readers, bloggers and reviewers for buying my books and cheering me on.
The next book from Zoe May, As Luck Would Have It, is coming later this year!
Please read on for an extract from Zoe May’s How (Not) To Date A Prince
Chapter One
‘What on earth is this?’ I thrust the news agenda onto my boss’s desk.
Phil reluctantly tears his gaze away from an article he’s reading and casts a withering glance at the agenda, which assigns reporters to the key news items of the day. Normally, I look forward to getting my hands on it, to see what I’m working on, but today, it’s a different story.
‘What about it?’ He shrugs, turning his attention back to his screen. He pushes his glasses up the ridge of his nose to continue reading the article, as if I’m not actually there.
I push the news agenda closer to him, dragging his attention back to it.
‘The royal wedding?’ I tap my fingernail against the part of the agenda which shows my name next to coverage of the latest royal engagement.
‘Is this a typo?’ I ask, even though I know it’s not. If there’s one thing Phil refuses to tolerate, it’s typos.
‘Yes, the royal wedding,’ Phil states simply. ‘Is there an issue?’
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to figure out what he’s playing at, but he looks back at me with bored disinterest. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’s been my boss for the past ten years, sometimes I’d genuinely think Phil hates me, but his off-hand manner is part of the package that comes with being a news editor at a national tabloid newspaper. The tougher you appear, the more revered you become. I used to live in fear of Phil as a junior reporter, until a few years passed and I began to realise that underneath his gruff no-nonsense exterior lurks a secret softy who’s more likely to be worrying about how much revision his fifteen-year-old daughter Abby’s been putting in for her GCSEs than about what’s happening in the news.