When Polly Met Olly Page 4

  ‘Hip to waist ratio?’ I gawp.

  ‘Yep, you asked why he’s single!’ Derek takes a bite of another Oreo.

  ‘What about personality? Does he have specific criteria for that too or is it all about the “packaging”?’ I ask.

  ‘Nope, he has specific criteria for that too,’ Derek sighs. ‘She must have been to an Ivy League university. He wants a high flyer. Someone corporate – a businesswoman, a PR boss, a consultant, that kind of thing. She has to be independent, preferably a homeowner. Sporty too. Oh, and she needs to enjoy travelling. Brandon’s a bit of a jet-setter.’

  ‘Jesus!’ I say, without thinking.

  ‘I know, right?’ Derek rolls his eyes and pops the last piece of his Oreo into his mouth.

  ‘How does she have the time to be a sporty traveller while she’s a high-flying businesswoman?’

  Derek shrugs, causing his pot belly to wobble slightly. ‘Don’t ask me.’

  I laugh. It’s clear that Derek’s not exactly an expert on juggling work commitments and fitness.

  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 s
uccessful 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.

  ‘Yes! But perhaps not an accountant. It is a business after all, you don’t want Olly Corrigan asking you to do his books!’ Derek comments.

  I giggle. ‘Oh God, no!’

  ‘How about a chartered surveyor?’ Derek suggests.

  A chartered surveyor? That does sound pretty boring.

  ‘Definitely! Polly Wood, chartered surveyor. Perfect.’

  ‘Great!’ Derek laughs, a little mischievously. ‘I suppose you can keep your real name and your other interests the same. They don’t know you. No need to lie about those,’ Derek reasons. ‘They say the best lies are a blend of reality and fiction.’

  ‘I guess. May as well keep that part of it authentic.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Derek smiles confidently. I smile back, and a momentary silence passes between us. ‘So, do you want to call them and arrange a consultation?’

  ‘Oh, right now?’ I glance at my computer screen, which shows Andy’s profile, which according to Match, is only 40 per cent complete.

  ‘No time like the present!’ Derek insists.

  ‘Right! Okay!’ I glance around my desk until my eyes land on a dusty old phone that looks like something from the Seventies. ‘So, shall I just book in for as soon as possible?’

  ‘Yep,’ Derek replies as though it’s self-evident. He swivels his chair back over to his desk. Having roped me into being his spy he’s already tuning out of the conversation. I open the brochure to see a picture of the owner Olly Corrigan and oh my God is he attractive. He’s not what I expected at all. I’d thought he was going to be like Derek or something, but he couldn’t be more different. He’s probably only five years younger, but he’s in great shape. He’s standing in front of a sign for the agency, wearing a crisp white shirt. His arms are folded across his chest and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to reveal detailed tattoo sleeves with intricate butterflies and flowers. He’s wearing a pair of trendy tortoiseshell glasses, worlds away from the hideous aviator-style specs Derek rocks. His eyes are gorgeous – deep brown and kind-looking – and somehow the crows’ feet around them only add to his handsomeness. He smiles subtly at the camera with both his eyes and his mouth.

  I opened the brochure to find the agency’s phone number, but I have a quick read of the message underneath Olly’s picture.

  Olly Corrigan

  Founder

  New York born and bred, NYU-educated entrepreneur.

  ‘If I can’t find you love, no one can.’

  I raise an eyebrow. Cocky. Underneath is the address and phone number of the agency. I can feel Derek’s eyes on me, so I pick up the receiver.

  ‘Is there a dial-out code or anything?’ I ask.

  ‘Nope. You’re good to go,’ Derek replies.

  ‘Okay!’ I dial the number, feeling a little self-conscious with Derek listening in. After three rings, a polite receptionist answers with a crisp, clear upbeat voice. I tell her my name is Polly Wood and I’d like to book in for a consultation. I’m slightly worried she might ask me about my job since I’m still not totally down with faking being a chartered surveyor yet. I need to at least read up on it a bit. Fortunately, the conversation is pretty painless and all she does is take down my name and number and book me into the diary. I’m just about to breathe a sigh of relief and hang up, when she makes an unexpected request.

  ‘I’ll need to take the one-hundred-dollar consultation holding deposit, an additional fifty dollars will be payable on the day. Have you got your card ready?’

  ‘Errr…’ I mutter. ‘One second!’

  I place the phone down on the desk. Derek looks over curiously. I dash over to him.

  ‘She wants money! A holding deposit!’ I tell him in a hushed voice.

  ‘Give it to her then,’ Derek suggests with a shrug.

  ‘But…!’ I feel my cheeks burning. I don’t want to admit to Derek that my bank account is so depleted that if I pay this woman a hundred dollars, I’ll have approximately twenty dollars left for the rest of the week, including travel, food and everything.

  ‘I’ll transfer it to you now, but you can’t give her my card details, can you?’ Derek says. ‘She knows who I am.’

  ‘I guess not. Okay…’ I grumble, skulking off back to my desk. I grab my handbag and reluctantly retrieve my wallet. Derek had better pay me back because if he doesn’t, I’m screwed.

  I pick up the phone. ‘Sorry about that,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t find my wallet for a second there.’ The lie rolls effortlessly off my tongue and I find myself wondering whether this whole phoney mystery shopper thing will really be that hard.

  ‘No problem,’ the receptionist replies, flawlessly polite, before asking for my card details.

  She takes them down.

  ‘Excellent, thank you,’ she says eventually. ‘We’ll see you on Wednesday!’

  ‘Fab!’ I enthuse, but I can barely believe that people are willing to spend $150 just for a consultation when I can barely afford to upgrade to Tinder Plus.

  I say goodbye and hang up.

  I look over at Derek, still a little flustered. ‘Well, there’s your first bit of insider info. It’s $150 just for a consultation,’ I tell him.

  ‘That’s okay. It’s worth it for the research.’

  ‘Hmm…’ I muse. ‘Derek, I’m not a $150 consultation kind of girl. They’ll surely sense something’s up?’

  ‘Nah!’ Derek rejects the idea, still looking at his screen.

  I feel a twinge of anxiety bubbling in the pit of my stomach. I have a feeling something is going to go wrong and I’m going to make a complete fool of myself in front of the utterly gorgeous Olly Corrigan.

  ‘I just transferred the money to you,’ Derek says, and for a second, I have no idea how he did it without my card until I remember that he has my bank details to pay my wages.

  ‘Great, thanks.’ I feel a small wave of relief. At least that’s something. Although I’m still not looking forward to my consultation on Wednesday.

  Chapter 5

  What does a chartered surveyor wear? Pretty much standard office clothing according to Google. And certainly nothing particularly trendy, which is why I’ve teamed an old black skirt I haven’t worn since graduation with a white shirt and a pair of frumpy court shoes.

  ‘What do you think?’ I emerge from the office loo, having just changed. ‘Do I look like a chartered surveyor?’

  Derek scrutinises my outfit. ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  Thankfully, To the Moon & Back has a laid-back dress code and over the past week, Derek hasn’t seemed to mind me wearing my regular clothes, which tend to consist of leggings, smock dresses, jeans and checked shirts. I love a good checked shirt. Gabe used to make fun of me for having what he refers to as a ‘lumberjack aesthetic’ since my standard outfit of choice consists of ripped jeans teamed with a plaid shirt, tied at the waist in a vague nod towards femininity. I think it looks cool, but Gabe teases me that I belong on a logging farm rather than the streets of Manhattan. I don’t care though, it’s been my style for years and I’m comfortable with it. Unlike how I feel now, in my stiff office get-up. Nope, right now, I most certainly do not feel comfortable. Not only does the outfit feel unnatural to me, but it’s also a bit tight. I haven’t worn the skirt for three years, when I was at least a dress size slimmer. It’s so tight that the zip only goes three quarters of the way up. I’ve managed to loop a hair tie through th
e clasp fastening at the top to make it stay up, which is fortunately covered by the hem of the white shirt. It’s not ideal, but it should do. With my black tights and hair pulled back into a bun, I feel dowdier than I’ve felt in a very long time.

  ‘You look great,’ Derek comments, not entirely convincingly. ‘You definitely look the part.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yep. You look like a chartered surveyor,’ Derek insists.

  I laugh. ‘That’s what every girl wants to hear.’

  Derek grins. ‘I aim to please.’

  I smile and pick up my handbag from the desk. I’ve already checked my make-up (I tried to go for a toned-down professional look), so there’s nothing really keeping me here. I’ve powdered my nose, re-read the Wikipedia page on chartered surveying at least fifty-seven times and made Derek scrutinise me from head-to-toe, which isn’t something I’d ever imagine requesting. I pull my handbag bag onto my shoulder.

  ‘I guess I’ll be off then,’ I announce.

  ‘Go get ‘em!’ Derek says, punching the air.

  ‘Haha,’ I laugh weakly. ‘Right, see you later.’ I edge towards the office door. My hands are already clammy, and I haven’t even set off yet. I’m simply convinced Elite Love Match will sniff me out as a fraud, a spy, a mystery shopper. I’m sure it’s going to be awkward as hell, maybe worse than awkward, probably downright humiliating. There’s a reason I gave up drama classes at the earliest available opportunity at school. I am not a good actress. I’m a behind-the-camera person, not the kind of person who wants to take centre stage. Derek would probably do a better job at this if he just shoved a wig and a dress on.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Polly! You’ve got this,’ Derek insists.

  ‘Haha, sure. Okay, bye!’

  ‘See you later.’

  I wave over my shoulder as I slip out of the office and cross the client lounge, which never ceases to tickle me with its kookiness. With the late afternoon golden sun streaming through the half-closed red curtains and glinting off the mirrored wall-hangings, it feels almost like a tarot reader’s cave. I smile to myself, momentarily forgetting my nervousness as I leave the office.