When Polly Met Olly

‘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.

He’s just like the kitchen salesman back home, from the confident way he promises to fulfil a vision to his charming sycophantic smile. But unlike the kitchen salesman, who’s slightly smarmy, overly confident sales pitch was just a bit annoying, Olly’s approach is kind of depressing. It’s one thing selling kitchens, it’s a whole other ballpark to sell love. Olly reduces relationships to criteria. To him, falling in love takes place over billable timescales. He probably considers dates to be deliverables. My heart feels like it’s shrivelling up inside my chest.

‘So, how does that sound?’ Olly asks again, in a confident upbeat tone.

‘It sounds great!’ I lie. ‘With the criteria and timescales, it couldn’t be more efficient!’ I plaster a smile across my face.

‘Exactly!’ Olly beams back.

‘Fabulous! Well, I’ll sleep on it – I’m not one to make decisions on the cuff,’ I tell Olly and as I expected, he nods understandingly.

‘Absolutely,’ he says.

Of course, he respects my need to weigh up the investment decision that is finding a partner. He probably thinks I’m going to go home and do a cost-benefit analysis or use a pivot table to analyse my options.

‘Well, thanks a lot for today. I’ll be in touch!’ I insist, getting up to go.

Olly copies, rising to his fee.

‘So…’ he ventures. ‘How about I give you a call in a few days and you can let me know your thoughts?’

‘Absolutely!’ I enthuse as I slip my arms into my jacket. ‘Sounds great!’

‘Great!’ Olly echoes with a smile.

He opens his office door and ushers me out, offering to walk me to the lift. As we pass through the office, I glance around at the staff. There must be at least twenty of them and they all look incredibly cool and well-dressed. They couldn’t be more different to the way Derek and I look at work, with me in my lumberjack gear and Derek in his aviator-style glasses with his shirt covered in a near-constant dusting of Oreo crumbs.

‘I never realised dating agencies had so many staff,’ I comment.

‘Oh.’ Olly glances over his shoulder at his fashionable team as he presses the button for the lift. ‘They don’t all work for Elite Love Match,’ he tells me.

‘Who do they work for?’

‘I own a PR agency. I handle quite a lot of the Elite Love Match work, with the help of my assistant and a couple of others. That lot—’ he gestures over at his team ‘—they handle PR.’

‘I see.’ I nod. ‘That must be great having both of your businesses under one roof,’ I say, making glib chit chat while we wait for the lift to arrive.

Meanwhile, I make a mental note to pass on this useful nugget of information to Derek. I wonder whether he realises that Elite Love Match is a relatively small operation – no bigger than To the Moon & Back.

‘Well, it was great meeting you.’ Olly pumps my hand and gives me his dashing smile, which I’m getting the feeling is a pretty well-used tool in his arsenal of charming moves.

‘You too.’

‘I’d love to work with you and I’m confident I can find you the man of your dreams,’ Olly says, eyeing me with a look of sparkling intensity.

The man of my dreams. The words linger in the air between us. His hand is still clasping mine. We’re holding each other’s gaze and I feel suddenly, acutely aware of his palm against mine. Neither of us can quite look away, and I can’t help wondering what he’s thinking. Is the soft tender look in his eyes part of his sales pitch or is it something else? I gaze into his eyes, trying to figure it out, when all of a sudden, the lift doors start beeping as they close.

‘Oh, damn it.’ Olly steps forward and blocks the doors from closing, letting me inside.

‘Sorry about that, Polly,’ he says, with an apologetic and almost sheepish smile. ‘I hope to hear from you soon.’

‘Of course. Speak soon,’ I utter, still reeling. What happened just then? I smile politely and Olly smiles back – not his dashing salesman smile this time, but a softer, almost wistful one – as the lift doors close.

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