About the Author

Zoe May lives in south-east London and works as a copywriter. Zoe has dreamt of being a novelist since she was a teenager. She moved to London in her early twenties and worked in journalism and copywriting before writing her debut novel, Perfect Match. Having experienced the London dating scene first hand, Zoe could not resist writing a novel about dating, since it seems to supply endless amounts of weird and wonderful material! As well as writing, Zoe enjoys going to the theatre, walking her dog, painting and, of course, reading.

Zoe loves to hear from readers, you can contact her on Twitter at: @zoe_writes

Also by Zoe May

Perfect Match

How Not to Date a Prince

When Polly Met Olly
ZOE MAY

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters

and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s

imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

This edition 2019

1

First published in Great Britain by

HQ, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Copyright © Zoe 2019

Zoe May asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,

without the prior permission of the publishers.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade

or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without

the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than

that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN: eBook: 9780008321611

Version: 2018-12-14

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Zoe May

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Acknowledgements

Extract

Keep Reading …

Dear Reader …

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Surely, I’m not qualified to be a matchmaker?!

You’d think getting a job at a dating agency might actually require you to have found love, or at least be good at dating, but apparently not. I’ve been single for three years and I haven’t had a date for six months, yet I’m pretty sure I’m nailing this interview.

‘So, what kind of message would you send Erica?’ Derek asks, handing me a print-out showing a dating profile of a pretty, tanned brunette. Derek is the boss of To the Moon & Back dating agency, although with his nicotine-stained teeth, lurid purple shirt stretching over his giant pot belly and cramped city office, he’s not exactly what I imagine when I think of Cupid.

What kind of message would I sent Erica? When Derek says ‘you’, he doesn’t mean me, as in Polly Wood. He means me pretending to be 34-year-old bachelor Andy Graham, because that’s what my job as a matchmaker would involve. While Andy, and the rest of the busy singletons on the agency’s books, are out earning the big bucks, too busy to trawl internet dating sites looking for love, I’ll be sitting here with Derek, firing off messages on their behalf in the hope of clinching dates. It’s a little morally questionable I suppose, since the women will be chatting to me beforehand, and will no doubt become enamoured with my witty repartee and effortless charm, but to be honest, I haven’t really given the moral side of it much thought. According to Derek, it’s what all dating agencies do, and anyway, ethics somehow stop being so important when you really need cash.

I try to put myself in the mindset of Andy, while thinking up a message for Erica. I only know about him from reading a form he’s supposedly filled in, which Derek gave me to study five minutes earlier. According to the form, Andy is an ex-army officer turned property surveyor. He grew up in a small town in Ohio where his family still reside. His younger brother, aged 31, has already settled down with a wife and three kids, and reading in between the lines, I get the impression that Andy feels he’s beginning to lag behind. He works long hours, reads Second World War history books in his spare time, enjoys visiting aviation museums and likes to play tennis at the weekends. Oh, and he has a penchant for Thai food.

I take a look at Erica’s profile. She’s 32, lives in the Upper East Side and works as a fashion buyer. Her interests are listed as: ‘yoga, fine dining, dinner parties (hosting and attending!), dancing, cocktails with the girls, travelling, tennis, and festivals’. Erica sounds cool. She sounds fun. She seems like a girl about town. And to be perfectly honest, she strikes me as a bit too cool for Andy. I can’t imagine her wanting to visit aviation museums or discuss Second World War history. But for all I know, Andy could have stunningly handsome looks that somehow make up for his yawn-inducing interests. But from what I do know so far, he and Erica hardly seem like a great match. I glance up at Derek, scanning his face for any sign that this might be a trick question, but he simply looks back, keen with anticipation. He doesn’t seem like he’s testing me; he clearly thinks Erica is in Andy’s league, although as far as I can see, the only thing they have in common is tennis.

‘So, what do you think?’ Derek presses me.

‘Erm, I’d keep the opener light. From Erica’s profile, you can tell she’s a breezy, happy kind of person. I’d try to mirror that tone,’ I tell him, biding time while I attempt to think of a witty opener.

‘Good tactic,’ Derek agrees with an encouraging nod.

‘Thanks,’ I reply as I desperately try to come up with an attention-grabbing message. Something that will capture Erica’s attention among the deluge of ‘hey, how r u? x’ type openers she probably receives all the time. But what can I write? What could Andy possibly say that would grab Erica’s attention when their only mutual interest is tennis?! Then suddenly, it hits me. I smile to myself.

‘I’d probably go with something along the lines of “I’m glad to see you’re a tennis player, because I’m going to court you”,’ I tell Derek.

He snorts with laughter. ‘Good one! Cheeky! I think Erica would like that.’

I grin, feeling a flush of pride. ‘Thank you.’

‘Great line! Very good!’ Derek laughs.

‘Thanks. I mean, why play singles when you can play doubles?’ I add, cringing internally. I think I might be taking the tennis puns too far now. Fortunately, Derek laughs again, clearly not adverse to a good sports-themed chat-up line.

‘Indeed!’ he says.

A couple of cars honk loudly outside and for a second, I’m taken out of this surreal alternative reality of pretending to be Andy messaging Erica and it hits me that the real me has probably got this job. In fact, I know I have. I’m 99.99 per cent sure. I can tell by the way Derek is regarding me like a proud father. I can tell in the easy, relaxed way we’ve been chatting the entire interview. We seem to have really hit it off, which is a little disconcerting seeing as I’m, you know, a respectable (okay, at least semi-respectable) person and he’s a middle-aged owner of a slightly shady dating agency. Maybe it’s because I’m British, having grown up in Cornwall before moving to the States when I was 18. Derek said he used to date a Brit, recounting how they went on holiday to Cornwall one summer. He even described it as ‘heavenly’. Or, perhaps we click because we went to the same university. Derek’s barely looked at my CV but he glanced at it for a second as I came in and when he saw that I went to Wittingon Liberal Arts College, that was it. He was gone. Even though our degrees were thirty years apart, he was treating me like an old chum, reminiscing about his times at the college bar, where he insisted with a chortle and a wink that he’d had ‘many a wild night’.

He went a bit misty-eyed talking about those days, which isn’t that surprising really. I only left three years ago and sometimes even I get misty-eyed thinking about it. Probably because everything has gone a bit awry since. I moved to the States for university convinced I’d make it big here, but now I’m beginning to think there’s a reason my dad, who grew up in New York, left to marry an English woman and live in Cornwall. Because while my student days were idyllic, it turns out real life in Manhattan is nothing like the dream world of a liberal arts university. The chaotic streets of New York bear no resemblance to the tree-lined pathways of the campus; people in the city don’t spend hours having picnics and reading poetry; and a degree in photography, although widely revered among my college peers and considered of utmost importance by my professor, seems to hold little to no currency in the real world. I’ve found that out the hard way, which is why I’m here, trying to clinch this job, which despite being a bit shady, is surprisingly well paid. Well, by my standards anyway. It pays twice as much as my last job as a barmaid and I’m pretty sure I won’t have to wash pint glasses or deal with annoying drunks. Although you never know.

Derek studied an equally impractical course – media studies and communication skills – and from a quick Google search this morning, it doesn’t seem like he’s managed to put it to much real-world use either, unless he was a very communicative boss in his former career as an adult entertainment company director. Or in his stint as a used car salesman. Yep, it’s fair to say that neither of us would quite make the list of our college’s star alumni. Despite Derek’s questionable background, his latest venture, To the Moon & Back, seems to be doing surprisingly well. The company won Dating Agency of the Year at the prestigious US Dating Awards a few years ago. And it’s received a ton of rave reviews online with former clients claiming that thanks to the agency, they finally met the love of their life after years of struggling to find a partner. It was even profiled by The New Yorker, which described it as an, ‘innovative and ambitious dating service with a friendly personal approach’.

The website of To the Moon & Back is incredibly slick too, which is why I was a little surprised when I rocked up to find that in person it consists of nothing more than a client lounge and a cramped back office. With a central address on Wall Street, I thought it was going to be as swanky as its zip code, but it’s tiny. Located at the top floor of a financial advisory firm, it’s nothing like the salubrious offices below. The client lounge, which Derek showed me through earlier, is like a kooky cocktail bar, with a huge sofa laden with sparkly cushions and throws, two comfy armchairs, an ornate coffee table, low-hanging gold lamps and sumptuous curtains. Leading on from the lounge is this pokey office, which features Derek’s worn-looking old desk, a dated Mac computer, a filing cabinet, a shrivelled pot plant in the corner and an incongruous and oddly distracting waving Chinese cat ornament which sits proudly next to Derek’s monitor. Derek told me he’s been running the whole operation himself since he launched the business two years ago, but apparently, he now needs extra help looking after his client list of ‘successful single bachelors’ and fighting off competition from rival agency, Elite Love Match, which Derek claims are ‘scum, a bunch of charlatans, the worst dating agency in New York’.

Derek’s stomach growls and he reaches into his desk drawer, pulling out a pack of Oreos.

‘Fancy a biscuit?’ He thrusts the pack towards me.

‘Sure!’ I reach for one, smiling gratefully.

Derek sips his coffee and takes a bite.

‘So…’ he ventures through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Where would you suggest taking Erica for a first date?’

‘Oh!’ I feel my face light up. Now this is my forte. I may not be a natural when it comes to love, but I do know New York’s fine dining scene inside out.

Not because I frequent such establishments, just because I know them. I read about them. I follow every major food critic in the city on Twitter and I have an encyclopaedic knowledge of Manhattan’s high-end dining scene. I suppose it’s to me what Second World War history is to Andy Graham. These places represent the glittery side of New York. The side of the people who’ve made it. The holy grail, if you will. And yes, I’m more likely to order in from Domino’s than actually go to such places, but I like knowing that they’re there. Just in case.

‘How about Zuma?’ I suggest. Zuma is a new Japanese fusion restaurant in Midtown. It was opened a couple of months ago by a Michelin star chef and it’s been getting rave reviews.

‘Interesting, why Zuma?’ Derek asks.

‘Well, the food’s meant to be great, but it’s also classy and cool. It’s not just your run of the mill bar or café, it’s the kind of place you take someone to impress them and I think Erica would feel complimented by the choice. It sets a good standard for a first date. Oh, and it’s not far from the Upper East Side so it’s convenient for Erica too.’

‘Very convenient! Especially if she and Andy hit it off,’ Derek adds, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

‘Yes,’ I laugh awkwardly.

‘Zuma is a great choice,’ Derek says. ‘Have you been?’

‘No.’ I admit. ‘I’ve just heard about it.’

I’m about to ask Derek if there’ll be any opportunities to go to such places within the job role. The online ad mentioned ‘networking with clients’ and you never know, such networking might take place in fancy bars and restaurants, particularly if the clients are as successful as Derek makes out. But as I open my mouth to speak, a buzzer sounds, a shrill bleep chiming through the office.

‘Sorry Polly, I’d better answer that.’ Derek gets up and crosses the room.

‘Hello?’ he answers, pressing the button on the intercom. ‘Brandon! Sure, come on up!’

I glance over my shoulder to see Derek buzzing his visitor up.

‘Brandon’s one of my clients. Great guy,’ Derek tells me, with a warm smile. ‘He’s a super successful lawyer, a real high-flyer but not so successful in the love department.’

‘Oh…’ I utter regretfully.

‘Yeah, well, I’m working on it.’ Derek sighs.

‘Right.’ He claps his hands together. ‘I’m going to have to wrap things up I’m afraid,’ he says, pulling a face, as if calling time on the interview is going to come as a major blow to me. ‘But it’s been excellent meeting you, Polly.’

‘It’s been excellent meeting you too!’ I enthuse, a little too brightly.

Derek smiles at me with that broad paternal smile and I smile politely back. I put on my jacket and we head out of the office.

‘“I’m going to court you!”’ Derek chuckles as he leads me back through the client lounge. ‘I think you’d be a natural at this job, you know.’

‘Really?’ I ask with slight trepidation as we pause at the exit.

‘Yes, really.’

Derek reaches over to shake my hand. ‘Thanks for coming in. I’ll be in touch very soon,’ he says, with a conspiratorial wink. A wink that tells me, without a shadow of a doubt, that the job is mine. Any sliver of doubt I had has now been wiped out. It’s in the bag and for the first time in my life, I feel both relief and dread at the same time. My dream has always been to be a photographer, not a matchmaker, but money is money.

I pump his hand, thanking him, before heading out the door.

As I walk down the narrow office corridor with its ugly hexagon-printed carpet, I try to imagine pacing down it daily. Every morning and every evening. On my way to and from that tiny office with Derek and his waving Chinese cat. Could this be my domain? My new life? My new routine? Could I look at this ugly hexagon pattern every day? This building and this job are hardly where I imagined I’d end up.

‘Excuse me.’ A male voice interrupts my thoughts and I look up to see a man, an incredibly handsome man, who must be in his early thirties. He’s tall, with dark hair and striking blueish green eyes.

‘Sorry!’ I move out of the way to let him pass. He’s wearing a smart grey suit and carrying a briefcase; he looks every inch the corporate city worker. He must be here to visit the financial advisory firm downstairs. ‘Umm, that’s To the Moon & Back,’ I inform him, gesturing down the hallway. ‘You know, the dating agency.’

‘Yes.’ The man smiles. ‘I know…’ He eyes me with a bemused look. Then suddenly, it dawns on me.

‘Oh! Are you Brandon?’ I ask, fully expecting him to say no. He is definitely not how I imagined Brandon. Or any other of To the Moon & Back’s clients, for that matter. In fact, when I pictured them, I envisioned different incarnations of Derek: balding, overweight and middle aged.

‘Yes… and you are?’

Yes? I try not to gawp. Brandon?! How is this guy Brandon? How is he single?

‘I’m Polly. Polly Wood. I just had a job interview with Derek,’ I tell him, with an awkward laugh.

‘Right. Nice to meet you, Polly,’ he says, with that bemused, sparkly-eyed look.

‘Nice to meet you too!’ I reply.

He smiles, causing the skin around his eyes to crinkle and dimples to appear in his cheeks. He has the most perfect smile. In fact, everything about him is perfect. He’s around six-foot tall but not too towering. He’s slim and lean-looking, and even though he’s wearing a suit, I can tell he’s muscular without having the ripped build of a gym addict. He looks clean-cut with his corporate suit and short brown hair, but he doesn’t look boring. His eyes tell you that there’s more going on and a light dusting of stubble along his jawline makes him look sexy rather than slick.

‘Well, good luck! I hope you get it,’ he says, and for a second, our eyes lock and a charge of intensity passes between us.

He hopes I get the job? So he can see me again? I can’t quite figure out whether he’s just being polite and glib or if he actually wants me to get the job so that our paths might cross. Because I, for one, would definitely like that.

‘Brandon!’ Derek bursts through the door, arms outstretched as though greeting an old friend.

‘Derek!’ Brandon turns towards him with equal enthusiasm.

‘See you around, Polly,’ he says, smiling over his shoulder before heading down the corridor.

‘See you,’ I echo as I walk away.

Chapter 2

The first thing I see when I arrive home is my flatmate with what appears to be a giant spider stuck to his cheek. He plucks at one of the legs before letting out a shrill scream.

‘Ouch!’

‘Gabe! What are you doing?’ I close the front door and cross the flat to where he’s standing peering at his reflection in the mantlepiece mirror. A garland of fairly lights is strung around it, illuminating his face, and as I get closer, I realise that what I thought was a spider is in fact a humungous false eyelash that Gabriel appears to have glued to his cheek.

‘Oh my God,’ he groans. ‘I got these cheap lashes, ninety-nine cents a pair. Total bargain! But now I see why. These things come with industrial glue. My finger slipped at I tried to apply the damn thing. It fell on my cheek and now it won’t come off!’ Gabe yanks at the lash, causing his skin to pull. ‘Ouch!’ He winces in pain.

‘Stop pulling it!’

‘But it won’t come off!’ he whines. ‘I can’t go to work like this. I’m freaking out!’

‘Honestly!’ I tut, hanging my jacket by the door, before walking over.

Gabe looks me up and down. ‘Why are you dressed like a secretary?’

I glance down at my outfit. I donned a black shift dress and a suit jacket that have been gathering dust at the back of my wardrobe for my interview at To the Moon & Back. It’s not exactly my usual attire.

‘I had a job interview,’ I tell him. Derek only invited me for an interview a few days ago and mine and Gabriel’s paths haven’t crossed since. He works for a HR firm in the city and often stays over at his boyfriend’s place, which is closer to his office.

‘A job interview?’ Gabe raises an eyebrow and scans my outfit once more. ‘For a proper job?’

‘Umm… kind of.’

‘Kind of?’ Gabe tugs at the eyelash stuck to his cheek and winces.

‘Yeah.’ I reach across and gently pull the eyelash, but it won’t budge. It’s well and truly stuck. ‘Wait, I’ve got an idea.’

I head to my bedroom to retrieve some nail varnish remover that’s hopefully strong enough to cut through the glue. Gabe doesn’t normally wear false lashes, but on Friday night’s it’s part of his work uniform. While he spends most of the week in his office job, he unleashes on Friday nights, going from Gabriel, HR consultant, to Gabriella, drag queen. Gabe performs at The Eagle, a gay bar downtown. I think it’s how he lets off steam – he shakes off his corporate shackles by swapping fusty suits for over-the-top dresses, trading boring meetings for belting out pop songs. Gabe always says he’s going to quit, but I can’t see him doing so any time soon. He loves The Eagle, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. No one really wants to admit they love The Eagle. It’s most definitely not the place to be seen with its sticky floors, fluorescent lights, and over-the-top camp entertainment. And yet even though people don’t exactly brag about going there, it’s always packed and everyone seems to have a good time.

It’s actually where Gabe and I first met. I used to work behind the bar. As far as bar jobs go, it was a good one to have since most of the guys were fun as opposed to sleazy. Gabe used to perform there nearly every night, back when he was trying to make it as a singer. We instantly clicked over our mutual love of Blondie, Madonna, Amaretto sours and purple eyeshadow, as well as having both moved from small towns to the city in pursuit of our dreams. Gabe wanted to be the new Prince, while I wanted to be the next Mario Testino, even though we were just working in a crummy gay bar. We decided to abandon the crappy house shares we’d been living in and get a flat together. That was a couple of years ago now. After a while, Gabe quit singing there every night and got a job in HR, while I stuck to bar work, trying to get photography jobs on the side. I had a stroke of luck a few months ago when I managed to clinch a freelance job with a marketing agency which involved taking staff photos for the company website. It paid so well that I decided to chuck in my bar job and try to make it as a full-time photographer. Except I think I had beginner’s luck, because ever since, work’s dried up. I’ve emailed my portfolio to hundreds of companies, but no one’s been interested, and I’ve been struggling to find work that pays a living wage. My money’s running out, which is why I ended up trawling through job adverts online, looking for a regular job. My mum keeps telling me I should come back home to Cornwall. She works as a receptionist at the local GP and apparently, there’s a job opening at a nearby surgery, but I can’t face moving back home, with my tail between my legs, to take a job my mum’s sorted out for me, even if it is sweet of her to suggest it. It’s too much like failing.

Unlike me, Gabe’s been doing well for himself. In fact, with his HR job, he could probably afford a slightly better flat than the grotty two bed we share in Brooklyn, but he sticks around. We get on well and I think he prefers to spend his extra money on nice clothes and good nights out rather than rent. I find my nail varnish remover on top of my chest of drawers, grab a bag of cotton wool pads and head back to Gabe, who is still peering into the mirror while tugging at the eyelash.

‘You’re making it worse!’ I tell him, observing the red patch that’s appeared on his skin. He pulls a glum face as I wet the cotton wool and begin dabbing at his cheek.

‘Be gentle!’ he insists, eyeing the bottle of nail varnish remover with caution. ‘Christ, do you think that’s going to work? I don’t think that stuff’s meant to go near your eyes.’ He squirms.

‘Then stay still!’

‘Fine!’ He sighs, squeezing his eyes closed as I dab the cotton wool against the giant eyelash in an attempt to dissolve the glue.

‘So, tell me about this job then,’ Gabe says.

I fill him in on the job interview, describing Derek and the strange set-up at To the Moon & Back while I remove the eyelash. As I recount the interview, I realise I’ve hardly been thinking about it at all. The interview itself has been totally eclipsed in my mind by meeting Brandon in the hallway. I can still feel the excitement of how he made me feel – the frisson of attraction I felt when looking into his gorgeous aquamarine eyes. I still can’t get my head around how someone like him would need a dating agency. He intrigues me more than the job, but I don’t bother mentioning him to Gabe. At least not for now. I fill him in on my conversation with Derek instead.

‘Ha, got it!’ I declare eventually, pulling the eyelash free.

‘You did it!’ Gabe grins, reaching up to touch his cheek. ‘Thanks babe!’

‘No worries!

Gabe grabs a wet wipe from the pack on the coffee table and dabs at the red patch on his cheek as I settle down on the sofa. ‘So, you… A matchmaker?’

‘Yep!’ I reply brightly. Gabe, of all people, knows how woefully unqualified I am for this job.

‘But don’t you have to have, like, good dating skills?’ Gabe asks, raising an eyebrow.

‘I have good dating skills!’ I huff. I may not have been on a date for a while, but that’s not because I’m bad at dating. I can date. I may not be in a relationship, but I can date just fine! I simply took a break from dating to concentrate on my photography work – clearly that hasn’t worked out so well.

‘You haven’t been on a date for ages,’ Gabe reminds me.

‘I’m aware of that, thanks! I’ve had other stuff to do. Anyway, my job isn’t to get myself dates, it’s to arrange dates for other people. They might be infinitely cooler than me, it could be easy!’

‘Oh yeah.’ Gabe nods. ‘Good point.’

I poke him, laughing. I think back to Andy Graham. Okay, maybe he isn’t infinitely cooler than me, but I can’t imagine it would be much of a challenge to get someone like Brandon a date. I think back to his gorgeous smile; no, it definitely wouldn’t be difficult.

Gabe peers into a handheld mirror and dabs a concealer stick over the red patch on his skin. I reach for a glass of Coke with ice that he’s left on the coffee table and take a sip. It’s laced with vodka.

‘So, you’ll just be messaging poor unsuspecting single people all day, trying to charm them on behalf of the agency’s clients?’ Gabe asks.

‘Exactly.’ I nod.

‘So basically, you just have to be really good at making conversation?’

‘Yeah, I guess!’

‘Hmm…’ Gabe muses. ‘Remember that guy you fancied – you know, that hot Greek guy, Darius or something, that we met in Soho. The one with all the necklaces…’

‘Demetrius,’ I correct him, thinking back to the man in question – an extremely sexy, tall, dark guy I met while sipping a mojito at a street party last summer. He was wearing a ton of hippy necklaces and had that cool, boho, traveller look.

‘Yeah, him. Didn’t you send him a peach and aubergine emoji with a question mark and a winky face when you were drunk?’

‘Shut up!’ I hiss, feeling a fresh flush of shame even though it was months ago. Demetrius and I struck up a great conversation in person, but then I ruined it a few days later with my appalling texts. Naturally, I never heard from him again.

‘Trust you to remember that,’ I grumble, taking another sip of the drink before placing the glass back down.

‘As if I’d forget. That was classic.’ Gabe laughs as he powders over the concealer on his cheek.

‘Hmmph.’

‘What about that guy you called Mike for four dates then it turned out his name was Matt,’ Gabe sniggers.

‘That was his fault! He should have corrected me!’ I insist, recalling the man in question: an overly polite British guy who sheepishly admitted on our fourth or fifth date that his name was, in fact, Matt. I’d even cried out ‘Mike’ in bed by that point. I shudder at the memory.

‘That was brilliant.’ Gabe sighs. ‘Oh, and remember that guy you saw in the hall who asked if you needed someone to “service your pipes” and you thought it was an innuendo.’ Gabe chuckles.

I roll my eyes, recalling the cringe-worthy incident in question. It may have been years ago, but I’m still mortified by the memory. A few days after Gabe and I first moved into our flat, this really attractive guy started talking to me in the hallway. When he asked if I needed anyone to ‘service my pipes’, I thought he was just being really flirty and forward. I didn’t realise that he was literally a plumber. It was only when we were in the flat and I was offering him a glass of wine, and he pulled out a toolbox from his bag that I realised that he really did want to service my pipes. I tried to style it out and ended up with a $150 bill for pipe servicing. Literal pipe servicing, that is. The incident was so embarrassing that two years later, I still scan the hallway every day before I leave the flat just to check he’s not there.

Gabe giggles at the memory as he begins applying winged eyeliner.

‘Okay, I think we’ve established that dating chat isn’t quite my forte,’ I admit. ‘But for your information, I’m pretty sure I got the job, so there!’

‘Seriously?’ Gabe scoffs.

‘Yeah!’ I tell him about the way Derek responded to me in the interview while Gabe perfects his eyeliner flicks. ‘Honestly, I think the job’s in the bag!’

I expect Gabe to be happy for me, but he seems a bit off. He screws his eyeliner closed and places it back in his make-up bag. ‘Don’t you think the job’s a bit…’ He pauses, searching for the right word. ‘Wrong?’

‘Wrong?’ I echo.

‘Yeah.’ Gabe shrugs as he rummages in his make-up bag again, before pulling out a lipstick. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit messed up? To message women pretending to be someone else? What if they start to like your banter? What if they like cheeky emojis or being called Delia instead of Diana?!’ Gabe jokes.

‘Ha! I don’t think it’s a big deal. It’s just messaging, right? Everyone seems different over messages to how they are in real life. They probably won’t even notice.’

‘I don’t know,’ Gabe muses as he pulls off the lid of his chosen lipstick – a bright pink shade he used to wear all the time called Back to the Fuchsia. ‘I think I might feel a bit cheated if I’d been talking to someone for a while and it turned out they’d just hired someone to write their messages.’

‘Well, it’s not like I’m going to message them about their deepest darkest secrets, I’m just setting up a date,’ I insist.

‘I suppose,’ Gabe reasons as he applies the lipstick, but I can tell he’s not on board.

‘Look, I need the money,’ I remind him. Gabe knows better than anyone how much I’ve been struggling lately. I’ve been living off horrible ready meals and barely going out thanks to the crummy pay of my intermittent freelance photography jobs. I even had to borrow a hundred dollars from him to cover last month’s rent.

‘I guess,’ Gabe says. ‘But can’t you get a different job? Like a normal office job. Admin or something?’

‘Admin?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You need qualifications for those jobs. Or experience,’ I point out. I’ve seen ads for admin jobs online and even the dullest-sounding positions still require a degree, a secretarial qualification or relevant experience.

‘Hmm… you have qualifications though,’ Gabe says, a little hesitantly.

‘I have a photography degree, Gabe. They don’t want arts degrees. Trust me, I applied to a few and heard nothing,’ I tell him. After all, it’s not like getting a job as a matchmaker for To the Moon & Back was my first choice of role.

‘Well, it just seems a bit morally dubious, that’s all.’ Gabe perfects his pout, before popping the lipstick back into his make-up bag.

‘Well, no job is perfect, is it?’

‘I suppose.’ Gabe sighs. ‘So are you going to take the job then?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘I haven’t officially been offered it yet. But I probably would take it. It’s not like I have any other options right now.’

‘Hmm…’ Gabe murmurs. ‘Well, why don’t you come out tonight? Have a night out, let your hair down, and then sleep on it. You might feel totally differently in the morning.’

It’s clear that Gabe really doesn’t want me to take the job. He isn’t a fan of online dating. He met his boyfriend Adam in the coffee shop near his office. He’s all about real life over online. Perhaps it’s because one of his friends got catfished once; he sent the guy nudes and then found them on some creepy website.

‘I shouldn’t… I don’t have any money,’ I say.

‘Come on.’ Gabe shoots me a look. ‘You know you’re going to get free drinks at The Eagle.’

‘I guess,’ I murmur. That’s another great thing about The Eagle. Since I used to work there, I always get free drinks from my old work mates whenever I go. I should probably just have a quiet night, stay home and consider my options. I even agreed to take on an unpaid freelance job tomorrow for an Instagrammer who’s releasing a cookbook and I’m meant to be at her flat bright and early in the morning to photograph the recipes. But a night out at The Eagle is kind of tempting. It would be fun to just dance and let my hair down, especially after all the job-hunting I’ve been doing over the past few weeks.

‘Come on! We’ll have fun!’ Gabe insists brightly.

‘Okay, fine!’ I relent, reaching for the vodka and Coke.

Chapter 3

When I set out to be a photographer, I didn’t think I’d end up photographing turnips, yet here I am, in a swanky kitchen in Chelsea taking what feels like the one-hundred-and-seventy-fifth shot of a turnip resting on a bed of wilted spinach, pomero and chopped dates.

‘Darling!’ Alicia Carter, famous health food Instagrammer, bursts through the doorway carrying another bowl of salad. She places it down on the table. ‘This is one of my favourites. Absolutely delicious!’

‘Great!’ I insist weakly, eyeing the latest salad bowl. I could really do with some toast and a cup of coffee. After a late night at The Eagle, that’s precisely what the doctor ordered – not another bowl of salad to photograph.

‘Can you make sure it’s in sharp focus? Try to capture the colours,’ Alicia advises me.

‘Yep, definitely!’ I insist. ‘Just need five more minutes on this one.’ I glance towards the turnip.

‘No problem! Take your time!’ Alicia says, clapping her hands together before turning on her heel.

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 sympathetic 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: derek@tothemoonandback.com

To: Polly.wood@gmail.com

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: Polly.wood@gmail.com

To: derek@tothemoonandback.com

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

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