When Polly Met Olly
Unlike me, Gabe’s been doing well for himself. In fact, with his HR job, he could probably afford a slightly better flat than the grotty two bed we share in Brooklyn, but he sticks around. We get on well and I think he prefers to spend his extra money on nice clothes and good nights out rather than rent. I find my nail varnish remover on top of my chest of drawers, grab a bag of cotton wool pads and head back to Gabe, who is still peering into the mirror while tugging at the eyelash.
‘You’re making it worse!’ I tell him, observing the red patch that’s appeared on his skin. He pulls a glum face as I wet the cotton wool and begin dabbing at his cheek.
‘Be gentle!’ he insists, eyeing the bottle of nail varnish remover with caution. ‘Christ, do you think that’s going to work? I don’t think that stuff’s meant to go near your eyes.’ He squirms.
‘Then stay still!’
‘Fine!’ He sighs, squeezing his eyes closed as I dab the cotton wool against the giant eyelash in an attempt to dissolve the glue.
‘So, tell me about this job then,’ Gabe says.
I fill him in on the job interview, describing Derek and the strange set-up at To the Moon & Back while I remove the eyelash. As I recount the interview, I realise I’ve hardly been thinking about it at all. The interview itself has been totally eclipsed in my mind by meeting Brandon in the hallway. I can still feel the excitement of how he made me feel – the frisson of attraction I felt when looking into his gorgeous aquamarine eyes. I still can’t get my head around how someone like him would need a dating agency. He intrigues me more than the job, but I don’t bother mentioning him to Gabe. At least not for now. I fill him in on my conversation with Derek instead.
‘Ha, got it!’ I declare eventually, pulling the eyelash free.
‘You did it!’ Gabe grins, reaching up to touch his cheek. ‘Thanks babe!’
‘No worries!
Gabe grabs a wet wipe from the pack on the coffee table and dabs at the red patch on his cheek as I settle down on the sofa. ‘So, you… A matchmaker?’
‘Yep!’ I reply brightly. Gabe, of all people, knows how woefully unqualified I am for this job.
‘But don’t you have to have, like, good dating skills?’ Gabe asks, raising an eyebrow.
‘I have good dating skills!’ I huff. I may not have been on a date for a while, but that’s not because I’m bad at dating. I can date. I may not be in a relationship, but I can date just fine! I simply took a break from dating to concentrate on my photography work – clearly that hasn’t worked out so well.
‘You haven’t been on a date for ages,’ Gabe reminds me.
‘I’m aware of that, thanks! I’ve had other stuff to do. Anyway, my job isn’t to get myself dates, it’s to arrange dates for other people. They might be infinitely cooler than me, it could be easy!’
‘Oh yeah.’ Gabe nods. ‘Good point.’
I poke him, laughing. I think back to Andy Graham. Okay, maybe he isn’t infinitely cooler than me, but I can’t imagine it would be much of a challenge to get someone like Brandon a date. I think back to his gorgeous smile; no, it definitely wouldn’t be difficult.
Gabe peers into a handheld mirror and dabs a concealer stick over the red patch on his skin. I reach for a glass of Coke with ice that he’s left on the coffee table and take a sip. It’s laced with vodka.
‘So, you’ll just be messaging poor unsuspecting single people all day, trying to charm them on behalf of the agency’s clients?’ Gabe asks.
‘Exactly.’ I nod.
‘So basically, you just have to be really good at making conversation?’
‘Yeah, I guess!’
‘Hmm…’ Gabe muses. ‘Remember that guy you fancied – you know, that hot Greek guy, Darius or something, that we met in Soho. The one with all the necklaces…’
‘Demetrius,’ I correct him, thinking back to the man in question – an extremely sexy, tall, dark guy I met while sipping a mojito at a street party last summer. He was wearing a ton of hippy necklaces and had that cool, boho, traveller look.
‘Yeah, him. Didn’t you send him a peach and aubergine emoji with a question mark and a winky face when you were drunk?’
‘Shut up!’ I hiss, feeling a fresh flush of shame even though it was months ago. Demetrius and I struck up a great conversation in person, but then I ruined it a few days later with my appalling texts. Naturally, I never heard from him again.
‘Trust you to remember that,’ I grumble, taking another sip of the drink before placing the glass back down.
‘As if I’d forget. That was classic.’ Gabe laughs as he powders over the concealer on his cheek.
‘Hmmph.’
‘What about that guy you called Mike for four dates then it turned out his name was Matt,’ Gabe sniggers.
‘That was his fault! He should have corrected me!’ I insist, recalling the man in question: an overly polite British guy who sheepishly admitted on our fourth or fifth date that his name was, in fact, Matt. I’d even cried out ‘Mike’ in bed by that point. I shudder at the memory.
‘That was brilliant.’ Gabe sighs. ‘Oh, and remember that guy you saw in the hall who asked if you needed someone to “service your pipes” and you thought it was an innuendo.’ Gabe chuckles.
I roll my eyes, recalling the cringe-worthy incident in question. It may have been years ago, but I’m still mortified by the memory. A few days after Gabe and I first moved into our flat, this really attractive guy started talking to me in the hallway. When he asked if I needed anyone to ‘service my pipes’, I thought he was just being really flirty and forward. I didn’t realise that he was literally a plumber. It was only when we were in the flat and I was offering him a glass of wine, and he pulled out a toolbox from his bag that I realised that he really did want to service my pipes. I tried to style it out and ended up with a $150 bill for pipe servicing. Literal pipe servicing, that is. The incident was so embarrassing that two years later, I still scan the hallway every day before I leave the flat just to check he’s not there.
Gabe giggles at the memory as he begins applying winged eyeliner.
‘Okay, I think we’ve established that dating chat isn’t quite my forte,’ I admit. ‘But for your information, I’m pretty sure I got the job, so there!’
‘Seriously?’ Gabe scoffs.
‘Yeah!’ I tell him about the way Derek responded to me in the interview while Gabe perfects his eyeliner flicks. ‘Honestly, I think the job’s in the bag!’
I expect Gabe to be happy for me, but he seems a bit off. He screws his eyeliner closed and places it back in his make-up bag. ‘Don’t you think the job’s a bit…’ He pauses, searching for the right word. ‘Wrong?’
‘Wrong?’ I echo.
‘Yeah.’ Gabe shrugs as he rummages in his make-up bag again, before pulling out a lipstick. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit messed up? To message women pretending to be someone else? What if they start to like your banter? What if they like cheeky emojis or being called Delia instead of Diana?!’ Gabe jokes.
‘Ha! I don’t think it’s a big deal. It’s just messaging, right? Everyone seems different over messages to how they are in real life. They probably won’t even notice.’
‘I don’t know,’ Gabe muses as he pulls off the lid of his chosen lipstick – a bright pink shade he used to wear all the time called Back to the Fuchsia. ‘I think I might feel a bit cheated if I’d been talking to someone for a while and it turned out they’d just hired someone to write their messages.’
‘Well, it’s not like I’m going to message them about their deepest darkest secrets, I’m just setting up a date,’ I insist.
‘I suppose,’ Gabe reasons as he applies the lipstick, but I can tell he’s not on board.
‘Look, I need the money,’ I remind him. Gabe knows better than anyone how much I’ve been struggling lately. I’ve been living off horrible ready meals and barely going out thanks to the crummy pay of my intermittent freelance photography jobs. I even had to borrow a hundred dollars from him to cover last month’s rent.
‘I guess,’ Gabe says. ‘But can’t you get a different job? Like a normal office job. Admin or something?’
‘Admin?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You need qualifications for those jobs. Or experience,’ I point out. I’ve seen ads for admin jobs online and even the dullest-sounding positions still require a degree, a secretarial qualification or relevant experience.
‘Hmm… you have qualifications though,’ Gabe says, a little hesitantly.
‘I have a photography degree, Gabe. They don’t want arts degrees. Trust me, I applied to a few and heard nothing,’ I tell him. After all, it’s not like getting a job as a matchmaker for To the Moon & Back was my first choice of role.
‘Well, it just seems a bit morally dubious, that’s all.’ Gabe perfects his pout, before popping the lipstick back into his make-up bag.
‘Well, no job is perfect, is it?’
‘I suppose.’ Gabe sighs. ‘So are you going to take the job then?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘I haven’t officially been offered it yet. But I probably would take it. It’s not like I have any other options right now.’
‘Hmm…’ Gabe murmurs. ‘Well, why don’t you come out tonight? Have a night out, let your hair down, and then sleep on it. You might feel totally differently in the morning.’
It’s clear that Gabe really doesn’t want me to take the job. He isn’t a fan of online dating. He met his boyfriend Adam in the coffee shop near his office. He’s all about real life over online. Perhaps it’s because one of his friends got catfished once; he sent the guy nudes and then found them on some creepy website.
‘I shouldn’t… I don’t have any money,’ I say.
‘Come on.’ Gabe shoots me a look. ‘You know you’re going to get free drinks at The Eagle.’
‘I guess,’ I murmur. That’s another great thing about The Eagle. Since I used to work there, I always get free drinks from my old work mates whenever I go. I should probably just have a quiet night, stay home and consider my options. I even agreed to take on an unpaid freelance job tomorrow for an Instagrammer who’s releasing a cookbook and I’m meant to be at her flat bright and early in the morning to photograph the recipes. But a night out at The Eagle is kind of tempting. It would be fun to just dance and let my hair down, especially after all the job-hunting I’ve been doing over the past few weeks.
‘Come on! We’ll have fun!’ Gabe insists brightly.
‘Okay, fine!’ I relent, reaching for the vodka and Coke.
Chapter 3
When I set out to be a photographer, I didn’t think I’d end up photographing turnips, yet here I am, in a swanky kitchen in Chelsea taking what feels like the one-hundred-and-seventy-fifth shot of a turnip resting on a bed of wilted spinach, pomero and chopped dates.
‘Darling!’ Alicia Carter, famous health food Instagrammer, bursts through the doorway carrying another bowl of salad. She places it down on the table. ‘This is one of my favourites. Absolutely delicious!’
‘Great!’ I insist weakly, eyeing the latest salad bowl. I could really do with some toast and a cup of coffee. After a late night at The Eagle, that’s precisely what the doctor ordered – not another bowl of salad to photograph.
‘Can you make sure it’s in sharp focus? Try to capture the colours,’ Alicia advises me.
‘Yep, definitely!’ I insist. ‘Just need five more minutes on this one.’ I glance towards the turnip.
‘No problem! Take your time!’ Alicia says, clapping her hands together before turning on her heel.
She’s preparing the salads in the kitchen next door with all her cool, health-conscious friends. All morning, I’ve been overhearing them discussing the importance of balancing macro and micro nutrients and debating the merits of hot yoga versus hatha. They’re all tanned, athletic and glowing and not one of them has even acknowledged me. I’m clearly not worthy of attention, like the cleaner who’s minding her own business as she dusts and tidies the house. I know it probably shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Manners go a long way, particularly when you’re not even being paid. I agreed to take on this job photographing recipes for Alicia’s new cookbook, because I thought it might open doors. After all, Alicia does have nearly a million followers on Instagram and her cookbook, based solely on raw vegan recipes that aim to help readers ‘rediscover the fruits of the earth and enjoy an invigorating plant-based diet’, is probably going to be huge. But then, as Gabe reminded me this morning, while I lugged my camera, tripod, lights and screens out of the flat, that’s what I said about my last job when I got paid peanuts for taking wedding photos for an actress who promised me she’d put me in touch with all her friends. She didn’t. It was a similar story with the job before that. I keep hoping that one of these jobs is going to kickstart my career, but it doesn’t seem to be working out like that. I’ve just been lumbering from one rubbish job to the next. I peer down my lens at the salad, adjusting the focus until it’s in perfect definition.
Having taken a dozen or so pictures, I scroll through the images on the back of my camera. They’re okay, but there’s still too much shadow on the left-hand side of this goddamn turnip. I adjust the bowl and take five or six more pictures until I get one I like. I examine the picture. The turnip glistens, its purple to beige skin capturing the light, almost glowing. If a turnip could be described as beautiful, then this is one beautiful turnip. I smile, feeling a twinge of professional pride. And then a second later, I kick myself. A swell of pride over taking a good picture of a frigging turnip?! Oh, come on. The day I start revelling in taking pictures of vegetables for pretentious cookbooks is the day I declare my true photography dreams officially over. I always imagined I’d be some cool portrait photographer, taking pictures of singers, artists, filmmakers and intellectuals, the movers and shakers of my generation, not vegetables! I like to get an intimate rapport with my subjects, getting to know them, so that they don’t just look beautiful and striking in shots, but unmasked too. Like when Mario Testino shot Kate Moss or when Sam Shaw shot Marylin Monroe. They don’t just look stunning in the photographs, they look vulnerable, off-guard and real. But here I am, taking intimate off-guard shots of a turnip instead.
‘Polly!’ Alicia bursts back into the room, looking flustered. ‘I’m so sorry, but I completely forgot about the pumpkin seeds.’ She reaches into a bag of seeds she’s holding and scatters some over the salad.
‘Can you take a few more pics? With seeds.’
‘Okay.’
‘Yeah, it’s just this one, the last and about half a dozen more. I’ll bring them back out from the kitchen,’ she says.
‘Half a dozen more?’ I gawp. I don’t think she has any idea how long it took to capture each salad at just the right angle with just the right focus and light. I have almost two hundred pictures on my camera for those half a dozen salads, and now I need to take them all again, with bloody pumpkin seeds?!
‘Is that okay?’ Alicia asks brightly as she scatters a few more seeds over the turnip.
‘Yes, of course!’ I insist, trying hard to conceal my frustration.
‘Fab! I’ll go and get them
I let out a sigh once she’s left the room. All of my efforts for the past hour have been reduced to nothing because of the stupid pumpkin seeds. I want to go home, but now I’m going to be stuck here, taking more photos of salads. Think of the credit, I tell myself. Having my name in Alicia’s book is going to be great. Surely, I’ll get more jobs. Better jobs. Paid jobs. I pick up my camera and start snapping away.
Alicia starts bringing in the salads, placing them on a table nearby. I take a few more shots of the turnip salad, before swapping it for the bowl of chopped fennel, cucumber, radishes and lettuce that Alicia’s placed on the table.
‘Try to get a shot of that one quickly, the lettuce is going to go limp any second. I can tell.’ Alicia eyes it warily.
‘Will do.’ I position it in front of the lights. Alicia scatters some pumpkin seeds over it and I snap away.
Alicia brings in a few more salads as I try to get the perfect shot.
‘Polly, hun…’ Alicia says.
‘Yep?’
‘We’re just heading to Diabolos,’ she says. Diabolo’s?! Diabolo’s is the coolest restaurant in New York and I can’t believe Alicia’s going there. She’s cool and everything but this is Diabolo’s! It’s the place to be seen. It’s A-list central.
‘Oh, nice!’ I look up from behind my camera, to see her placing two more bowls of salad on the nearby table.
Alicia flaps her hand anxiously towards the salad. ‘Get a good shot. That lettuce is going to turn. Bad batch! Trust me.’
‘Of course, will do.’ I look back down the lens and snap away.
‘So… are you coming?’ Alicia asks.
The salad is in perfect focus and I take a few more pictures, not wanting to ruin the shot. But my ears have pricked up. Am I coming?! Just when I thought I was having a terrible day, it’s about to get a hundred times better! Even though this job has been frustrating and unpaid, Alicia’s making it up to me by taking me out for dinner at Diabolo’s! No wonder her friends haven’t acknowledged me all day. They’ve just been busy preparing the salads, and they probably knew they’d have a chance to get to know me over dinner. Am I coming? Of course I’m coming!
‘I’d love to!’ I pull away from my camera, confident I’ve got the shot I need, a massive grin on my face, only to see Alicia and one of her friends looking back at me, confused.
‘Oh…’ Alicia grimaces. ‘Sorry Polly, I was just talking to Seb.’
Seb, a skinny guy with a mound of dreadlocks piled on top of his head, smiles awkwardly.
‘Of course! Haha, sorry!’ I feel my cheeks burn crimson. How embarrassing. How completely embarrassing.
‘We would invite you, but we booked a table months ago. It’s so hard to get bookings there!’ Alicia rolls her eyes. ‘And you’re coming, aren’t you, Seb?’
‘Well, I was going to, but it’s cool, Polly can go in my place,’ Seb suggests.
Alicia frowns and casts him a sideways look but he just smiles encouragingly. I think he means well, but as if I’m going to be a tag-along like that!
‘No, it’s okay! Sorry, I just overheard you and err, you know…’
‘Don’t worry about it!’ Alicia insists. ‘Look, we have to run, but you’ll be okay here, won’t you?’
I glance over the salads. There are still five left to photograph. ‘You’re leaving now?’
‘Yes! Our table’s booked for lunch and we have to get across town. Don’t want to be late.’
Seb winces, smiling apologetically.
‘Of course not!’
‘So, shall I just let myself out when I’m done?’ I ask.
‘Yes! Martina will clear everything up.’ Alicia glances towards the cleaner, who is busy rearranging some books on the coffee table. She smiles over politely. ‘She’ll let you out. Oh, and feel free to tuck into the salads after you’re done, if you want?’ Alicia suggests.
I look down at the lettuce, which is beginning to wilt, going brown at the edges, as predicted.
‘Great, thanks!’ I enthuse.
‘Thanks so much, Polly.’ Alicia comes over and envelops me in a hug. ‘Can’t wait to see the pics!’ she adds, before bouncing out of the room. Seb follows, giving me a limp wave.
I wave back and let out a sigh the second they’re out of earshot. ‘Idiot, absolute idiot,’ I curse myself.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Martina says, giving me a sympathetic smile. ‘One of my clients went to that restaurant last week. Apparently, it’s completely overrated.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. You’re not missing out on much.’ She gives me a mischievous wink and I smile back.
My phone buzzes. It’s an email from Derek.
From: derek@tothemoonandback.com
To: Polly.wood@gmail.com
Dear Polly,
Thank you for coming in yesterday. It was great to meet you.
I was very impressed by your interview and would like to offer you the position as matchmaker at To the Moon & Back.
I hope to hear from you soon.
Kind regards,
Derek
I write a reply. Part of me has been resisting taking the job at To the Moon & Back, but who am I trying to kid? I keep hoping that doors will open in the photography world, but the only door that’s opening is Derek’s.
From: Polly.wood@gmail.com
To: derek@tothemoonandback.com
Dear Derek,
Thanks for your email. It was great meeting you too and I’m delighted to be offered the job as matchmaker.
When would you like me to start?
Best wishes,
Polly
Chapter 4
So, it turns out Andy Graham – the 34-year-old bachelor who enjoys Second World War history books and visiting aviation museums – isn’t just a fictional character invented for interview purposes. He’s a real bonafide client of To the Moon & Back, and my first assignment at the agency is to create a dating profile for him and bag a date.
Sitting in front of my computer, I try my best not to be distracted by the waving cat ornament a few feet from my desk, as I peruse Andy’s Facebook page looking for his most winning pictures, so I can upload them to his dating profile. I click through shots of him playing tennis and dining in restaurants with friends, as well as a couple of highly questionable selfies that he appears to have taken with a webcam that feature terrible lighting, awful angles and a double (okay, more like triple) chin. It’s not that Andy’s really ugly, but he’s not attractive either. He’s somehow totally non-descript. He’s just there. With his sandy blond hair, slightly bulbous nose, smallish blue eyes behind glasses and pudgy cheeks, he’s hardly a head-turner. But on the other hand, he’s tall (six foot) and he appears to have quite a lean, toned physique. I guess he just lacks the wow-factor.
‘So, found any good pics?’ Derek asks, pulling me out of my reverie.
He takes a sip from his third black coffee of the day. What I’ve learnt so far about Derek’s morning routine is that it involves drinking three cups of incredibly strong instant coffee in quick succession and munching on at least half a dozen Oreos. I’m still sipping the cooling dregs of my first cup of coffee while he’s practically downing his third. The coffee he’s been making using the kettle in the client lounge is so black that it pretty much has the consistency and taste of tar, but I’m still grateful for it. Having become far too nocturnal during my freelance days, a strong black coffee is exactly what the doctor ordered. As well as getting wired on caffeine, Derek likes to lovingly spritz his collection of plants with water. The cluster of spider plants and cacti in the corner of the office next to some filing cabinets add a pop of colour to the otherwise dull and uninspiring room. The walls are a drab grey shade. I think they might once have been white, but over the years, the paint has taken on a dirty, muted hue. All the office furniture is old and battered-looking, including my desk, which wasn’t here when I came for my interview last week. Derek must have picked it up second-hand somewhere. Having spritzed his Venus flytrap a few more times for good measure, Derek comes over to take a look at my computer screen.
‘There’s this one.’ I quickly click away from the photo open on my screen – a shot of Andy wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt with what looks like a food stain, gazing blankly into his webcam. Definitely not the best dating profile shot. I click back to one of him and a friend dining at an Asian restaurant, in which he looks highly excited by the prospect of eating noodles. For some reason, the picture is slightly overexposed in black and white, which makes Andy’s features look a bit sharper than they do in the other shots.