When Polly Met Olly. Zoe May

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      Elite Love Match is only a five-minute walk from To the Moon & Back since both agencies are based close to the busy city professionals they wish to attract. It’s a bit like the rehab centres dotted around Wall Street that offer ‘stress detoxes’ and counselling for strung out office workers, who need a quick fix of stress relief that they can fit in during lunch or before their evening gym class. A guy in a black suit charges towards me, his eyes fixed to the ground, a look of busy intensity on his face. He doesn’t appear to clock me and makes no effort to move so I dodge out of his way to let him pass.

      ‘Rude!’ I mutter under my breath as he charges ahead, although as I walk on, I’m not sure if he was being rude or if he was just so harangued that he didn’t even register another human being. I feel sad at the thought. There’s a reason I’ve always dreamed about being a photographer. I want to be free. My own boss. I don’t want to be the kind of person who’s chained to a desk with corporate pressures left right and centre. I could never spend my entire working life in a stressful office job, cashing in pay checks month by month. No, I want to be independent, to work in a cool studio and roam around the city, taking pictures of people at unique interesting locations. Capturing beautiful images and being creative rather than just grinding away making money. Maybe I won’t earn as much as these corporate types, but at you can’t put a price on living a more relaxed, stress-free life.

      Suddenly, I stop in the street and look around. I was so lost in thought that I stopped registering the block numbers. I glance at the nearest road sign and realise I’m three blocks away from Elite Love Match. Right. I keep walking. I must push thoughts of Polly the wannabe photographer out of my mind and get into the mindset of Polly, chartered surveyor and corporate drone. I straighten my back and walk purposefully towards Elite Love Match. When I arrive at the right block, it’s hard to miss with the huge slick lettering emblazoned across the front of the building by the entrance. I pause outside and look upwards, taking in the five- or six-storey expanse of the building’s gleaming exterior. I step closer to the revolving doors and try to subtly peer through the glass in an attempt to figure out if there are other companies based here. Surely this entire office block isn’t just for Elite Love Match?! How could that be possible when the company’s only been around for a year? Sure, their brochure was impressive, but I hadn’t imagined their premises would be this different to Derek’s set-up with his tiny office and client lounge. If I was nervous before, I feel even more jittery now. This company is legit. It’s properly legit. They’ll probably sniff out an imposter like me in a second.

      A man talking into a mobile phone comes through the revolving doors and casts a curious glance in my direction, probably wondering what I’m doing lingering outside. I take a deep breath and try to steel myself. What’s the worst that can happen? The worst-case scenario is that they sense I’m lying about my job, they think I’m weird and I end up being awkwardly shunted out of the building. But, never mind. What’s a casual dose of humiliation? All in a day’s work, I guess. I hitch my handbag a little higher on my shoulder and head through the revolving doors, plastering a smile onto my face as I cross the wide marble-floored reception. I can feel the immaculately presented receptionist looking me up and down and I walk up to the desk.

      ‘Hi, I’m Polly Wood,’ I tell her. ‘I have a consultation.’

      ‘Hi Polly.’ The receptionist, who looks like she belongs in a commercial, gives me a pearly smile. She glances back at the screen of her computer, no doubt verifying my name in the diary.

      ‘I’ll just call to let them know you’re here. Please take a seat,’ she says, gesturing towards a sofa by the reception desk.

      ‘Great!’ I reply as she picks up her phone receiver.

      I head over to the sofa and sit delicately down, making sure the dodgy zip on my skirt doesn’t come undone as I do so. It’s not the most comfortable sofa. It’s modern and boxy, a fancy Scandi design – certainly not the kind of sofa you’d veg out on. As the receptionist makes a quick call, I ponder the sofa, wondering whether they make such seating deliberately uncomfortable so that office workers don’t get too relaxed and laid-back.

      ‘They’re sending someone down for you now,’ she says.

      ‘Excellent!’ I enthuse, with a bright smile that I hope conceals my nerves.

      A silence passes between us. I look over at a tall plant by the desk with long wide leaves and try to think of something to say, but my mind has gone blank. I glance back at the receptionist. She’s smiling at me. I smile back. She keeps smiling. The air conditioning fan whirrs overhead.

      ‘Do you work nearby?’ she asks, breaking the painful silence.

      ‘Oh, sort of. My office is on Staten Island,’ I tell her. Derek and I already decided that it would be sensible if we base my chartered surveying office in a boring and unfashionable part of town where no one is likely to have spent much time.

      ‘Right.’ The receptionist nods.

      Fortunately, we’re interrupted by a man striding towards me with his tattooed arm outstretched. As well as researching chartered surveyor stuff this morning, I also did my homework on Olly Corrigan. According to his Wikipedia page, he’s forty-three years old and half-Italian, with his mother moving to New York from Genoa in the Sixties. Both his father and brother are well-respected financiers, but Olly seems to have broken the family mould, having studied music at NYU and had a series of odd jobs, before turning to the world of business in his late twenties. And according to his Instagram account, he’s obsessed with fashion. In every single photo he’s dressed in cool, carefully put together, trendy outfits. He even tags all the designer labels he’s wearing in each post.

      He smiles widely as he approaches. He looks just like his Instagram pictures, clearly handsome enough not to need Photoshop. His smile is broad and charming, and he has the most perfect dazzling white teeth. His eyes are crinkly and twinkle behind his tortoiseshell glasses. He has one of those smiles that’s contagious, like someone with a really infectious laugh that you just can’t help but join in with, and I find myself beaming broadly back at him despite my nerves.

      I stand up to shake his outstretched hand as he gets nearer.

      ‘Polly,’ he says, giving me a firm handshake and fixing me with his beguiling eyes. ‘Great to meet СКАЧАТЬ