Zoe May - When Polly Met Olly

I can’t help feeling a little disheartened. I got a distinctly flirty vibe when Brandon and I first met in the hallway last week, and I’d secretly hoped that that maybe – just maybe – I stood a chance. I don’t usually date guys like Brandon, but I thought I might somehow get my very own Hollywood-style romance. I can’t pretend I haven’t entertained girlish daydreams over the past few days in which he whisks me off my feet like a knight in shining armour and we end up having a sickeningly cheesy happy ever after. Ha. As if. It turns out I’m not slim enough for Brandon, or Ivy-League-educated enough, or fancy and corporate enough. Hmmphh. I dread to think what he’d make of my flat-share in Brooklyn with Gabe or my employment history of being a barmaid at The Eagle. Brandon would never want a girl like me.

‘The thing about Brandon is he can get pretty much anyone,’ Derek comments, interrupting my self-pitying thoughts. ‘And I think it’s gone to his head. He thinks that because he can have everyone, he can impose all these criteria and still get what he wants but we’re only matchmakers, we’re not miracle workers. Yes, Brandon’s a catch, but there’s only so much we can do.’ Derek shakes his head exasperatedly.

‘Hmm…’ I narrow my eyes. Yes, Brandon’s criteria are specific and annoying and extremely demanding, but there are surely a ton of women in New York who fit the bill. Even walking to the office this morning, I saw at least half a dozen petite blonde women marching through Wall Street in corporate suits who looked like Brandon’s type and would probably be thrilled to date him. So, where’s Derek going wrong?

‘How about I try to find him someone?’ I suggest.

Derek shoots me a sceptical look, as though I’m going to put myself forward or something.

‘For the record, I don’t mean me!’ I point out, and it’s true. Now that I know Brandon’s nit-picking criteria, I’m not remotely interested in pursuing him. I know he’d never date me; I’m more interested in him as a professional challenge. Brandon is an absolute catch and I’m sure Derek must be underselling him in some way if he can’t find him a good match.

‘But you’ve got Andy to look after and I’ve assigned you a few others,’ Derek reminds me. He’s already emailed me a list of clients.

‘I know, but I’d love to at least have a look at his dating profiles, just out of professional curiosity! Maybe I could give some feedback from a woman’s perspective.’

‘Okay,’ Derek relents. ‘I suppose that can’t hurt. I’ll email his details over in a bit.’

‘Great!’ I enthuse as Derek reaches into his desk drawer for another Oreo. He presents the pack to me, but I decline, thinking of my apparently undateable figure.

I turn my attention back to Andy’s photos. I crop a picture of him busting some moves on the dancefloor at a family wedding. It’s a bit blurred and I suspect the person who took it might have had a bit to drink, but at least it makes him look fun. Then I add another picture of him posing next to a model aircraft at an aviation museum which I’d previously dismissed as looking too nerdy. Once I’ve uploaded a couple of pictures, I begin crafting as witty and cool a bio as I can possibly muster, chanelling the personality of Andy. I’m midway through writing a self-deprecating joke about being a history buff when I realise that Derek’s swivelling his chair towards my desk. He plonks a brochure down next to my keyboard. It’s slick, in black, pink and gold shades, and emblazoned with the words, ‘Elite Love Match: Meet Your Match.’

‘What’s this?’ I ask, even though I know Elite Love Match is the agency Derek referred to in my interview as ‘the worst dating agency in New York’.

‘I need to give you an assignment,’ Derek says in a serious tone.

‘An assignment?’ I ask with trepidation. I flick my eyes towards Andy’s profile and think of all the other clients whose love lives I’m meant to be sorting out. Haven’t I got enough assignments?

‘Yes. I need you to be a mystery shopper. You need to pose as a potential client at Elite Love Match.’

‘What?’ I balk.

‘I need the inside scoop on what this operation is really like and obviously I can’t go there myself – the owner, Olly Corrigan, knows me. But you’re new. You’re totally fresh to the New York dating agency scene, he won’t have a clue who you are.’

‘You want me to be a spy?’ I raise an eyebrow.

‘A mystery shopper. A researcher, you know!’ Derek shrugs, causing a few of the Oreo crumbs that have landed on his belly to fall to the floor.

A mystery shopper? I thought I was here to be a matchmaker and now Derek wants me to go on an undercover operation. Could this job get any weirder?

‘Look, you just need to go along and act as though you want to sign up and then tell me what you thought of it. It’s nothing shady!’ Derek insists with an uneasy laugh.

‘I guess…’

‘Who knows, you might actually sign up!’ Derek suggests, clearly in a desperate attempt to make me feel like what I’m doing isn’t totally weird and underhand.

‘Sure!’ I give him a pointed look. New York dating agencies don’t come cheap. As if I’m going to sign up to one on the salary he’s paying me.

‘Okay, maybe not,’ Derek relents. ‘But could you at least just check it out? Since they came on the scene last year, they’ve been cleaning up. Tons of people who’ve had consultations with us have ended up signing with them. I can’t have that. I need to know what the founder Olly Corrigan has that we don’t. And the only way I can truly know is to get a first-hand insight into what they offer. It could really affect business if people keep choosing them over us.’

‘I don’t know, Derek…’ I’m still not particularly comfortable with the idea.

‘The thing is, Polly, my wife, screwed up her knee recently. She fell off a ladder while doing gardening and really messed it up. The medical bills are huge. I won’t be able to pay if Olly keeps taking all my business,’ Derek tells me glumly.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really,’ Derek sighs. ‘I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place here. I know you don’t particularly want to go snooping around at our competitors, but I need to know what they’ve got that we haven’t. I need to help my wife.’ Derek fixes me with such a pleading, desperate look that I can’t help but feel sorry for him.

‘Okay, okay, I’ll help. Is your wife okay?’ I ask. ‘It sounds bad.’

‘She’s okay. She can walk, most days, but she can’t over-exert herself. Some days it plays up and she ends up in a lot of pain,’ Derek says sadly, brushing some Oreo crumbs off his belly.

‘Oh God, okay, I’ll do it, but I should warn you, I’m not a very good liar,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll have to create a whole backstory for me if this is going to be convincing. I’m an amateur photographer living in Brooklyn. He’s not going to believe that someone like me could afford a membership.’

‘True.’ Derek nods. ‘You do photography though, don’t you? Can’t you just tell him you’re a successful photographer?’ Derek’s eyes are wide and hopeful, and I can tell he’s quite proud of this suggestion, even though it stings a little. If only I was a successful photographer. If only that wasn’t a lie.

‘I guess,’ I murmur. ‘But it’s a bit risky. He might want to see my website or he might start asking after my clients. I reckon I could get found out. Maybe it’s better to say I have one of those jobs that are so boring that no one ever asks any follow-up questions.’

‘Like what?’ Derek muses.

‘I don’t know… Like an administrator? Or an accountant or something,’ I suggest.