When Polly Met Olly Read online

  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 sympat
hetic 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: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  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: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  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.

  ‘This one’s alright,’ I say.

  ‘Not bad.’ Derek nods, taking another sip of his coffee. He heads back to his desk and sits down. ‘Try to use at least five. One full body shot. A few others clearly showing his face. No friends in any of them; we don’t want to confuse women over which one’s him. Oh, and teeth. Make sure you include a photo of him smiling so people can see he has decent teeth. Some women are very particular about that,’ Derek muses. ‘Wait, he does have good teeth, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I think so!’ I zoom in on the picture open on my screen. Andy’s smiling while holding a pair of chopsticks, a slither of salmon clamped between them. His teeth look normal and I feel a wave of relief. At least dodgy teeth aren’t something I’m going to have to worry about when scoring him a date.

  ‘Great!’ Derek replies. ‘His consultation was a few weeks ago and I couldn’t remember. I was going to say, if his teeth aren’t great, then maybe don’t use a toothy smiling shot. You don’t want to put people off. We had one client, he had teeth like Austin Powers, and his shots were all big smiley pics… We couldn’t get him a date for months.’ Derek rolls his eyes at the memory.

  ‘So, what did you do?’ I ask.

  ‘We brought him in, took some pics of him in the lounge smiling with his mouth shut. Within a week, we scored him a date!’ Derek tells me with glee.

  ‘Oh, great!’ I enthuse.

  ‘Well, kind of…’ Derek grimaces. ‘When his date saw him in person, she ran a mile. In the end, he got his teeth fixed. Found someone eventually.’

  ‘He got his teeth fixed?’ I balk.

  ‘Yeah, a full set of veneers,’ Derek explains, sitting back down at his desk.

  ‘Eek. That must have been expensive.’

  ‘Sometimes you’ve just got to do what you’ve got to do.’ Derek shrugs. ‘You can’t expect someone to fall for you warts and all. Life isn’t a fairy tale. People are more superficial than that, especially in New York. Sometimes you have to up the effort. Lose some weight, beautify yourself. Packaging is important. You’ve got to make yourself as appealing as possible in this competitive dating world. I thank God I met my wife before online dating took off. I have no doubt she would have swiped left on me!’ Derek jokes.

  I laugh. Derek is funny – in fact so far, he’s surprisingly easy company – but I can’t help feeling just a little bit deflated at his words. Does finding someone really have so much to do with great ‘packaging’? Are New Yorkers really that superficial? My heart sinks a bit at the prospect as I save Andy’s picture onto my desktop and click onto Match.com where I’m already halfway through setting up his profile. I feel a bit guilty now as I look at Andy’s picture. Here I am, judging him for his pudgy cheeks and non-descript looks. I’m probably not much better than the woman who ran a mile at the site of her date’s Austin Powers teeth. Maybe Derek’s right and dating success does come down to looks, in which case, I could probably stand to lose a few pounds and tone up a bit. I upload Andy’s photo and set about choosing another. I opt for a shot of him playing tennis. It shows off his tall and fairly athletic physique. As I scroll for a third, my thoughts wander to Brandon.

  ‘So, if dating is all about packaging, then how come people like Brandon are single?’ I ask.

  Derek looks over, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘Like the look of Brandon, do you?’

  I laugh nervously. ‘He’s objectively good-looking. I mean, he looks like a model,’ I point out in what I hope is a matter-of-fact business-like tone.

  ‘I’m just teasing!’ Derek jokes. ‘Yes, he is good-looking. And he’s a great catch all-round. He’s a partner at Statten & Jones – one of the most highly respected law firms in the city, he’s donated a lot of money to charity. He played semi-professional soccer in his early twenti
es and studied at Harvard on a sports scholarship. He even designed an app, which he sold to Google when he was twenty-eight. He’s an absolute genius. And he’s set up for life.’

  ‘Wow…’ I murmur, in awe. ‘He designed an app in his spare time?’

  ‘Yep! While making partner at his firm. He’s an exceptional guy,’ Derek tells me proudly, as though Brandon is his firstborn child.

  I suddenly feel incredibly mediocre, realising there are people like Brandon in the world who can design lucrative apps in their spare time, while I’m sat at home guzzling pizza and watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians. Maybe I need to step up my game. I make a mental note to brainstorm app ideas when I get home.

  ‘He’s quite something,’ Derek adds with a twinkle in his eye. Derek seems so fond of Brandon that I’m almost beginning to wonder whether we both have a crush on him.

  ‘Mm-hmm, he sounds it,’ I agree. ‘So seriously, how is someone like him single? He’s the full package!’ I blurt out, before blushing a little.

  Derek smiles knowingly.

  ‘I mean objectively-speaking, from a matchmaker’s point of view, I need to understand this stuff.’ I clear my throat.

  ‘Of course.’ Derek winks. He leans back in his chair and gazes ponderously into the middle distance, steepling his hands over his pot belly. ‘You see, the thing about Brandon is he’s very picky. Very, very picky. I’ve told him he should be more flexible in his criteria, but he wants what he wants and he simply won’t settle for anything less.’

  ‘Oh right,’ I reply, a little taken aback. ‘And, erm, what does he want?’ I ask in as light and breezy a tone as I can muster.

  Derek raises an eyebrow sardonically, knowing full well that I’m into Brandon. ‘He has very specific criteria, I’m afraid,’ Derek tells me. ‘He likes blonde girls with blue eyes. Petite – preferably under 155cm. Slim. Toned.’

  ‘Really?’ I grumble, realising that with my brown hair, untoned body and 164cm height, I’m not even remotely his type.

  Derek nods. ‘Yep, he’s very specific. Has a thing about waist to hip ratio too and torso to leg ratio. It’s all got to be in proportion for Brandon,’ Derek tells me, his voice tense. I get the feeling Brandon’s been giving him grief over prospective dates for a while.