When Polly Met Olly: A fantastically uplifting romantic comedy for 2019!. Zoe May

all misty and soft. ‘It can be rare these days.’

      ‘Yes.’ I glance down at my lap.

      ‘So, you’re looking for something serious then?’ He clears his throat, leans forward and reaches into a desk tidy for a form.

      ‘Yes,’ I reply.

      ‘Great.’ He plucks a pen from his stationery holder and ticks a box on the form. His soft, sensitive manner seems to have evaporated.

      ‘And what kind of man are you looking for? Let’s start with physical preferences.’ He glances up from the form.

      ‘Oh, right. Yes. Well, umm, tall, but not too tall. Maybe 180cm?’

      Olly nods and makes a note.

      ‘Attractive,’ I add.

      ‘Of course,’ Olly says. ‘You’re an attractive girl so we’d naturally match you with someone equally attractive.’ He flashes me his dashing smile.

      ‘Sounds great!’ I comment, holding his gaze for what feels like a little too long. Is he always flirty with clients? I find myself wondering. Derek certainly can’t add flirting to his approach, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t go down nearly as well.

      ‘So what kind of looks do you tend to go for?’ Olly asks.

      ‘Dark hair, brown eyes, strong features, a nice smile,’ I tell him, gazing into his eyes, until I realise that I’m pretty much describing what’s in front of me.

      Shit! I look away, feeling my cheeks burn up. How utterly embarrassing! Olly smiles knowingly.

      ‘Younger, though,’ I blurt out, before mentally cursing myself. Nice one, Polly.

      Olly raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh, you like younger men?’

      Shit. I meant younger than him, except I only meant to think it, I didn’t mean to actually say it out loud.

      ‘Young,’ I mean. ‘Around my age.’

      ‘Gotcha.’ Olly makes a note on the form while my cheeks flare.

      ‘Anything else? What kind of body type?’

      ‘Erm… Slim, in good shape, but not too muscular. I don’t want someone who spends their life taking selfies at the gym,’ I tell him.

      Olly laughs as he makes another note. I glance at his upper body. Good shape, but not too muscular. Damn it, I’ve done it again. I’ve simply described Olly.

      Fortunately, his assistant comes in carrying a tray with two tall glasses of sparkling water, breaking the tension. She’s wearing skinny leather trousers with impossibly glamourous high heels – the kind of thing I wouldn’t even wear on a night out, let alone to work. She places the glasses elegantly on two slate black coasters on the desk.

      ‘Thanks.’ I look up and she smiles politely before leaving the room.

      Olly thanks her before picking up his glass and taking a sip.

      ‘Right, so what about weight? Would you say he’s around 80-85kg?’ Olly asks.

      I laugh, fully believing that he’s joking but he simply looks back at me with a perplexed expression. He’s actually serious! He wants me to specify my ideal partner’s precise weight.

      ‘Umm, yes, I guess so. 80-85kg would do fine,’ I reply, trying not to smirk.

      ‘Right. 180cm. 80 to 85kg.’ Olly makes a note.

      I take a sip of my water, as I try to suppress how weird and clinical this feels.

      ‘So, what about his lifestyle? Would you be happy to date a smoker or a drinker?’ Olly continues, with a business-like, almost bored expression on his face.

      ‘A social drinker would be fine. I think a tee-totaller might be a little bit boring and obviously, I’d rather not date an alcoholic.’ I laugh, but Olly doesn’t join in, he just makes another jotting. It’s like the charged flirty vibe between us has been completely sucked from the room.

      ‘Smoker?’ Olly asks.

      ‘Umm, no thanks. Non-smoker.’

      ‘What about dietary preferences? Healthy? Meat-eater? Vegetarian? Vegan?’

      ‘Erm… healthy?’ I suggest. ‘I don’t really care what he eats, as long as he doesn’t expect me to cook for him!’

      Olly allows himself a tiny smile. ‘Okay, shall I check the “no preferences” box?’ he asks.

      ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

      ‘Right.’ Olly makes another dutiful note.

      ‘Income. What level of income would you prefer your partner to have?’ Olly asks.

      ‘Income?’ I echo.

      ‘Yes…?’ Olly regards me with a slightly impatient look. ‘What kind of income bracket would you prefer?’

      ‘Erm…’ I fidget with a loose thread on the hem of my skirt. All these questions are so formulaic and impersonal. It’s the same vibe as when my parents dragged me to a home and garden store one bank holiday weekend when I lived back home because they wanted to get a new kitchen. The sales assistant went though all kinds of boring questions about their kitchen design criteria, from the width and height of the kitchen units to the positioning of electrical sockets. I feel like I’m going through a similar process now. Next, Olly will be offering me a deal on appliances.

      ‘I don’t know. Anything really, I’m not that bothered about money.’

      ‘Right…’ Olly frowns and gives me a strange quizzical look that I can’t quite figure out.

      ‘You see, usually, clients have a very specific idea about the kind of partner they’re looking for,’ Olly explains, gesticulating with his pen. ‘They’ve spent a long time dating and they’ve figured out which qualities and lifestyle choices don’t work for them in a partner, and then they come to us hoping that we can help them find that special someone that fits the bill.’ He frowns, eyeing me intensely. ‘It’s not often that we have inquiries from people who seem as flexible about their requirements as you.’

      ‘Oh…’ I can feel myself sweating. I look away from him, avoiding his penetrating gaze. Is he beginning to sense something’s up? Does he realise that I’m not quite for real?

      ‘You’re a professional, working as a chartered surveyor. I would have imagined you were looking for someone from a similarly professional background, or is that not the case?’ Olly asks, propping his tattooed elbows on the desk and leaning forward, regarding me with that cutting stare. He’s totally sussed me out, realised I’m a phoney or a time-waster, and now he’s making me squirm.

      ‘Absolutely. You’re right. It would be better to date a fellow professional,’ I insist in a firm tone that I hope conveys a sense of conviction. ‘A professional like myself.’

      ‘Mm-hmm…’ Olly seems completely unconvinced. ‘Would you be looking for someone with a similar income to yourself, or higher?’

      Oh God. I Googled pretty much every aspect of being a chartered surveyor, from which university course I completed to recent building developments I could have worked on. But it didn’t occur to me to look up how much I might earn. I have absolutely no idea how much chartered surveyors make. It’s the kind of personal question I never expected would come up. I mean, I’d presume they earn a decent wage, but it could be one of those professions like being a lawyer where you can make a ton from commission. I simply don’t know.

      ‘So, what are your thoughts?’ Olly presses me. His look is a bit deadpan now and I feel like he’s running out of patience.

      ‘Umm…’ I decide to take a stab in the dark. ‘Yes, similar income. $100–120,000 a year,’ I tell him, with confidence. If I just muster enough confidence, then maybe I can style this