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

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: [email protected]

       To: [email protected]

       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: [email protected]

       To: [email protected]

       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

       Chapter 4

      So, it turns out Andy Graham – the 34-year-old bachelor who enjoys Second World War history books and visiting aviation museums – isn’t just a fictional character invented for interview purposes. He’s a real bonafide client of To the Moon & Back, and my first assignment at the agency is to create a dating profile for him and bag a date.

      Sitting in front of my computer, I try my best not to be distracted by the waving cat ornament a few feet from my desk, as I peruse Andy’s Facebook page looking for his most winning pictures, so I can upload them to his dating profile. I click through shots of him playing tennis and dining in restaurants with friends, as well as a couple of highly questionable selfies that he appears to have taken with a webcam that feature terrible lighting, awful angles and a double (okay, more like triple) chin. It’s not that Andy’s really ugly, but he’s not attractive either. He’s somehow totally non-descript. He’s just there. With his sandy blond hair, slightly bulbous nose, smallish blue eyes behind glasses and pudgy cheeks, he’s hardly a head-turner. But on the other hand, he’s tall (six foot) and he appears to have quite a lean, toned physique. I guess he just lacks the wow-factor.

      ‘So, found any good pics?’ Derek asks, pulling me out of my reverie.

      He takes a sip from his third black coffee of the day. What I’ve learnt so far about Derek’s morning routine is that it involves drinking three cups of incredibly strong instant coffee in quick succession and munching on at least half a dozen Oreos. I’m still sipping the cooling dregs of my first cup of coffee while he’s practically downing his third. The coffee he’s been making using the kettle in the client lounge is so black that it pretty much has the consistency and taste of tar, but I’m still grateful for it. Having become far too nocturnal during my freelance days, a strong black coffee is exactly what the doctor ordered. As well as getting wired on caffeine, Derek likes to lovingly spritz his collection of plants with water. The cluster of spider plants and cacti in the corner of the office next to some filing cabinets add a pop of colour to the otherwise dull and uninspiring room. The walls are a drab grey shade. I think they might once have been white, but over the years, the paint has taken on a dirty, muted hue. All the office furniture is old and battered-looking, including my desk, which wasn’t here when I came for my interview last week. Derek must have picked it up second-hand somewhere. Having spritzed his Venus flytrap a few more times for good measure, Derek comes over to take a look at my computer screen.

      ‘There’s this one.’ I quickly click away from the photo open on my screen – a shot of Andy wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt with what looks like a food stain, gazing blankly into his webcam. Definitely not the best dating profile shot. I click back to one of him and a friend dining at an Asian restaurant, in which he looks highly excited by the prospect of eating noodles. For some reason, the picture is slightly overexposed in black and white, which makes Andy’s features look a bit sharper than they do in the other shots.

      ‘This one’s alright,’ I say.

      ‘Not bad.’ Derek nods, taking another sip of his coffee. He heads back to his desk and sits down. ‘Try to use at least five. One full body shot. A few others clearly showing his face. No friends in any of them; we don’t want to confuse women over which one’s him. Oh, and teeth. Make sure you include a photo of him smiling so people can see he has decent teeth. Some women are very particular about that,’ Derek muses. ‘Wait, he does have good teeth, doesn’t he?’

      ‘I think so!’ I zoom in on the picture open on my screen. Andy’s smiling while holding a pair of chopsticks, a slither of salmon clamped between them. His teeth look normal and I feel