Zoe May - When Polly Met Olly

‘It’s been excellent meeting you too!’ I enthuse, a little too brightly.

Derek smiles at me with that broad paternal smile and I smile politely back. I put on my jacket and we head out of the office.

‘“I’m going to court you!”’ Derek chuckles as he leads me back through the client lounge. ‘I think you’d be a natural at this job, you know.’

‘Really?’ I ask with slight trepidation as we pause at the exit.

‘Yes, really.’

Derek reaches over to shake my hand. ‘Thanks for coming in. I’ll be in touch very soon,’ he says, with a conspiratorial wink. A wink that tells me, without a shadow of a doubt, that the job is mine. Any sliver of doubt I had has now been wiped out. It’s in the bag and for the first time in my life, I feel both relief and dread at the same time. My dream has always been to be a photographer, not a matchmaker, but money is money.

I pump his hand, thanking him, before heading out the door.

As I walk down the narrow office corridor with its ugly hexagon-printed carpet, I try to imagine pacing down it daily. Every morning and every evening. On my way to and from that tiny office with Derek and his waving Chinese cat. Could this be my domain? My new life? My new routine? Could I look at this ugly hexagon pattern every day? This building and this job are hardly where I imagined I’d end up.

‘Excuse me.’ A male voice interrupts my thoughts and I look up to see a man, an incredibly handsome man, who must be in his early thirties. He’s tall, with dark hair and striking blueish green eyes.

‘Sorry!’ I move out of the way to let him pass. He’s wearing a smart grey suit and carrying a briefcase; he looks every inch the corporate city worker. He must be here to visit the financial advisory firm downstairs. ‘Umm, that’s To the Moon & Back,’ I inform him, gesturing down the hallway. ‘You know, the dating agency.’

‘Yes.’ The man smiles. ‘I know…’ He eyes me with a bemused look. Then suddenly, it dawns on me.

‘Oh! Are you Brandon?’ I ask, fully expecting him to say no. He is definitely not how I imagined Brandon. Or any other of To the Moon & Back’s clients, for that matter. In fact, when I pictured them, I envisioned different incarnations of Derek: balding, overweight and middle aged.

‘Yes… and you are?’

Yes? I try not to gawp. Brandon?! How is this guy Brandon? How is he single?

‘I’m Polly. Polly Wood. I just had a job interview with Derek,’ I tell him, with an awkward laugh.

‘Right. Nice to meet you, Polly,’ he says, with that bemused, sparkly-eyed look.

‘Nice to meet you too!’ I reply.

He smiles, causing the skin around his eyes to crinkle and dimples to appear in his cheeks. He has the most perfect smile. In fact, everything about him is perfect. He’s around six-foot tall but not too towering. He’s slim and lean-looking, and even though he’s wearing a suit, I can tell he’s muscular without having the ripped build of a gym addict. He looks clean-cut with his corporate suit and short brown hair, but he doesn’t look boring. His eyes tell you that there’s more going on and a light dusting of stubble along his jawline makes him look sexy rather than slick.

‘Well, good luck! I hope you get it,’ he says, and for a second, our eyes lock and a charge of intensity passes between us.

He hopes I get the job? So he can see me again? I can’t quite figure out whether he’s just being polite and glib or if he actually wants me to get the job so that our paths might cross. Because I, for one, would definitely like that.

‘Brandon!’ Derek bursts through the door, arms outstretched as though greeting an old friend.

‘Derek!’ Brandon turns towards him with equal enthusiasm.

‘See you around, Polly,’ he says, smiling over his shoulder before heading down the corridor.

‘See you,’ I echo as I walk away.

The first thing I see when I arrive home is my flatmate with what appears to be a giant spider stuck to his cheek. He plucks at one of the legs before letting out a shrill scream.

‘Ouch!’

‘Gabe! What are you doing?’ I close the front door and cross the flat to where he’s standing peering at his reflection in the mantlepiece mirror. A garland of fairly lights is strung around it, illuminating his face, and as I get closer, I realise that what I thought was a spider is in fact a humungous false eyelash that Gabriel appears to have glued to his cheek.

‘Oh my God,’ he groans. ‘I got these cheap lashes, ninety-nine cents a pair. Total bargain! But now I see why. These things come with industrial glue. My finger slipped at I tried to apply the damn thing. It fell on my cheek and now it won’t come off!’ Gabe yanks at the lash, causing his skin to pull. ‘Ouch!’ He winces in pain.

‘Stop pulling it!’

‘But it won’t come off!’ he whines. ‘I can’t go to work like this. I’m freaking out!’

‘Honestly!’ I tut, hanging my jacket by the door, before walking over.

Gabe looks me up and down. ‘Why are you dressed like a secretary?’

I glance down at my outfit. I donned a black shift dress and a suit jacket that have been gathering dust at the back of my wardrobe for my interview at To the Moon & Back. It’s not exactly my usual attire.

‘I had a job interview,’ I tell him. Derek only invited me for an interview a few days ago and mine and Gabriel’s paths haven’t crossed since. He works for a HR firm in the city and often stays over at his boyfriend’s place, which is closer to his office.

‘A job interview?’ Gabe raises an eyebrow and scans my outfit once more. ‘For a proper job?’

‘Umm… kind of.’

‘Kind of?’ Gabe tugs at the eyelash stuck to his cheek and winces.

‘Yeah.’ I reach across and gently pull the eyelash, but it won’t budge. It’s well and truly stuck. ‘Wait, I’ve got an idea.’

I head to my bedroom to retrieve some nail varnish remover that’s hopefully strong enough to cut through the glue. Gabe doesn’t normally wear false lashes, but on Friday night’s it’s part of his work uniform. While he spends most of the week in his office job, he unleashes on Friday nights, going from Gabriel, HR consultant, to Gabriella, drag queen. Gabe performs at The Eagle, a gay bar downtown. I think it’s how he lets off steam – he shakes off his corporate shackles by swapping fusty suits for over-the-top dresses, trading boring meetings for belting out pop songs. Gabe always says he’s going to quit, but I can’t see him doing so any time soon. He loves The Eagle, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. No one really wants to admit they love The Eagle. It’s most definitely not the place to be seen with its sticky floors, fluorescent lights, and over-the-top camp entertainment. And yet even though people don’t exactly brag about going there, it’s always packed and everyone seems to have a good time.

It’s actually where Gabe and I first met. I used to work behind the bar. As far as bar jobs go, it was a good one to have since most of the guys were fun as opposed to sleazy. Gabe used to perform there nearly every night, back when he was trying to make it as a singer. We instantly clicked over our mutual love of Blondie, Madonna, Amaretto sours and purple eyeshadow, as well as having both moved from small towns to the city in pursuit of our dreams. Gabe wanted to be the new Prince, while I wanted to be the next Mario Testino, even though we were just working in a crummy gay bar. We decided to abandon the crappy house shares we’d been living in and get a flat together. That was a couple of years ago now. After a while, Gabe quit singing there every night and got a job in HR, while I stuck to bar work, trying to get photography jobs on the side. I had a stroke of luck a few months ago when I managed to clinch a freelance job with a marketing agency which involved taking staff photos for the company website. It paid so well that I decided to chuck in my bar job and try to make it as a full-time photographer. Except I think I had beginner’s luck, because ever since, work’s dried up. I’ve emailed my portfolio to hundreds of companies, but no one’s been interested, and I’ve been struggling to find work that pays a living wage. My money’s running out, which is why I ended up trawling through job adverts online, looking for a regular job. My mum keeps telling me I should come back home to Cornwall. She works as a receptionist at the local GP and apparently, there’s a job opening at a nearby surgery, but I can’t face moving back home, with my tail between my legs, to take a job my mum’s sorted out for me, even if it is sweet of her to suggest it. It’s too much like failing.