Zoe May - When Polly Met Olly

‘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 man 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.