‘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.
I don’t know whether I’m coming or going as I leave Elite Love Match. Literally. I walk down the street for a good five minutes, before realising I’m going in totally the wrong direction. I turn around, but I must have drifted down a side street or two because I’m on a block I don’t recognise at all and certainly didn’t walk down on my way. Urghh. I stand still and force myself to get a grip. The truth is, I feel a bit lost. I retrieve my phone from my handbag to consult Google Maps. I don’t know where I am or, for that matter, how I feel. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a rollercoaster of emotions towards one person in such a short encounter, from attraction to flirting to mild disdain and then back to attraction and dare I say it, tenderness. There was something in Olly’s eyes when he shook my hand as he said goodbye and swore he’d find me the man of my dreams, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. Was he being suggestive, hinting that perhaps he could be the man of my dreams, or was he just messing with me? Was he trying to get my attention so I’d sign up to the agency? I don’t know if he was being sincere or whether he’s just a staggeringly good salesman, using his seductive charm to reel me in.
I’m still thinking of his crinkly-eyed charming smile when my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Derek.
How did it go? I’ve had to run. My wife’s knee’s playing up. Take the rest of the afternoon off if you like and we’ll catch up tomorrow. Derek.
I glance at my watch. It’s 4 p.m. and I’m due to finish work at 5.30 p.m. An hour and a half off – not bad. It’s probably a good thing that I don’t have to go back to the office in my dazed state. I draft a quick reply.
Hi Derek, it went pretty well. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Hope your wife’s okay. See you, Polly.
I hit send and drop my phone back into my bag, feeling relieved that I don’t need to be anywhere. At least now, I can just let my mind wander.
I head into a nearby café, order a coffee and perch at the window, people-watching for a while as I replay the meeting with Olly in my mind, trying to figure out how I feel about him. Part of me is wildly attracted to him and yet another part finds him and everything his agency stands for incredibly depressing. I want to see him again and yet I feel repelled by the idea that I might not fit into the height bracket or income criteria that someone like him would demand me to have. I sip my coffee and try to focus on how the meeting went from a mystery shopper point of view instead. There was definitely a moment when Olly seemed to doubt me, but I think I managed to recover from it. I think he felt I was legit in the end, or at least, he stopped caring either way.
I watch as office workers begin to pass the café, heading home, and it occurs to me that Gabe might be able to leave work early and hang out. With me working on freelance jobs all over the place or being broke and cooped up in the flat, it’s been a while since we went to a bar or grabbed dinner. I send him a text in the hope that he doesn’t have plans with Adam. He replies as I’m finishing off my coffee, saying he’ll be done with work in twenty minutes and do I want to come and meet him. I’ve never met Gabe at his office before, even though I’ve walked past it a few times. I tell him I’ll be there and then leave the café, navigating my way a few blocks to the skyscraper where he works.
Gabe’s waiting for me outside as I arrive. He stands outside his office next to a corporate water feature – a fountain made from bricks – which is both tranquil and urban. He hasn’t notice me yet and looks tired and bored.
‘Hey!’ I greet him as I approach.
He turns to look at me, his distracted bored expression replaced by an animated smile. We hug.
‘Wow, so this is your fancy bank, eh?’ I comment as I look upwards, taking in the vast gleaming structure.
‘Yep. This is it!’ Gabe follows my gaze, looking markedly less bothered. ‘That’s where I sell my soul for a pay check.’
I laugh.
‘Come on.’ Gabe tugs gently on my arm. ‘Let’s get away from here.’
‘Long day?’ I ask as we walk away from his building.
‘Something like that,’ Gabe sighs. ‘Every day is a long day.’
I glance over my shoulder as we walk away, taking another look at Gabe’s workplace. It’s so tall and imposing with its huge globally recognised logo emblazoned across the front. Other office workers are beginning to trickle out, looking neat and professional, like Gabe, in their suits. It’s strange to think that this is the world Gabe’s inhabited for the past year and a half. It couldn’t be any more different to our kooky flat in Brooklyn or The Eagle on a Friday night. His life definitely has two sides to it.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ Gabe says as we head towards a cluster of restaurants and bars nearby.
‘Good plan!’ I agree.
‘How about here?’ Gabe says, pausing outside a glass-fronted high-end chain bar. Its tall, rustic, wooden benches contrast with stainless-steel, low-hanging lamps. Everyone is perching on stools, the women drinking cocktails and prosecco and the men sipping pints from slender glasses. It looks totally stiff and uptight.
I wrinkly my nose. ‘Urghh. That’s so not us, Gabe.’
Gabe laughs. ‘There isn’t anywhere like The Eagle around here, Polly. I know you don’t frequent these parts often but this—’ he gestures towards the pretentious bar ‘—is all we have.’
‘Nooo.’ I groan. ‘I refuse to believe it. Surely not everyone in the city wants to drink in such wanky establishments.’
‘It’s not that wanky,’ Gabe insists. ‘I go there with Adam quite a lot.’
I link arms with him and steer him away. ‘Come on, there must be somewhere nicer.’
‘By nicer you mean a dive bar, don’t you?’ Gabe teases.
‘Exactly.’ I smile smugly.
We keep walking, passing other pretentious bars, which appear to be exact replicas of the first and I’m beginning to wonder whether Gabe was right, maybe city workers really do all drink in poncey establishments where they’re forced to perch and drink from tall slender glasses and have weird uptight fun, when suddenly, I spot what appears to be a dive bar from the chain Milano’s tucked away down a side road.
‘Is that Milano’s?’ I squint at the sign in wonder, as though it might just be a mirage.
‘Oh, not Milano’s,’ Gabe grumbles.