When Polly Met Olly

by Zoe May

  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. ‘What if someone sees me?’

  ‘It’ll be fun!’ I insist. ‘Anyway, just tell them I dragged you there.’

  ‘Urghh… fine,’ Gabe sighs, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Come on!’ I give his arm a gentle tug. He groans as we head down the side road.

  Milano’s is the opposite of Wall Street’s sleek pretentious bars. Every surface behind the bars is covered with flags, beer mats and stickers for everything from workers’ unions to biker associations. The place seems to have a total aversion to leaving any inch of wall uncovered. In the seating area, the walls are plastered with blurry pictures taken of punters over the years, photographed by other drinkers who weren’t able to keep a steady hand. Everyone’s smiling in the pictures and looks relaxed, if a little wasted. The Rolling Stones are playing on a jukebox and a TV flickers on the wall in the background. A few solitary drinkers perch at the bar nursing pints, chatting to one another. They look like they’re probably regulars. Gabe raises an eyebrow and I can tell it’s not quite his kind of establishment.

  ‘Oh, come on. Drinks on me!’ I suggest.

  ‘Fine,’ Gabe sighs as I order two pints. The barmaid sings along to the song on the jukebox as she pours each one. She’s totally un-self-conscious and I’m already liking the laid-back vibe of the bar. I pay her, tipping generously even though I can’t really afford to. I hand Gabe a pint and we head to one of the tables in the corner. We take off our coats and sit down.

  ‘So, how’s office life?’ Gabe asks as he sips his pint.

  ‘Weird,’ I admit, filling him in on my meeting with Olly. I whinged to him last night about having to be a mystery shopper while I selected my terrible outfit. Naturally, Gabe didn’t approve. He already thinks my job is a bit dodgy and the fact that I was being asked to go and spy on a rival business was just another level of shadiness that he wasn’t on board with.

  I tell him about Olly, from his impressive offices and effortless charm to his weirdly clinical approach to dating.

  ‘It felt so prescriptive and formulaic, he had a checklist for everything – height, income, diet – and then he ticked a load of boxes for the criteria that apply to my ideal man,’ I tell Gabe, taking a sip of my pint. ‘It was just so heartless and unromantic.’

  Gabe shrugs. ‘Relationships aren’t all fireworks. Sometimes those kinds of things do matter.’

  I wrinkle my nose. ‘When you met Adam, you weren’t like, “And how much do you earn? Would you describe yourself as a social drinker or regular drinker? And are you a night owl or an early bird?” No! You just felt a connection. You had a spark!’

  ‘Well, yeah…’ Gabe’s eyes go momentarily wistful and I expect he’s thinking back to how he and Adam met – they bumped into each other in Starbucks. Literally bumped into each other. Gabe was looking down at his phone and accidentally walked straight into Adam, who was also distracted, causing Adam’s green matcha latte to spill all over Gabe’s shirt. After Adam flirtatiously helped him clean himself up in the bathroom, they ended up having lunch together and swapping numbers. Gabe was so excited when he got back that evening. He didn’t just have a spark with Adam, he had fireworks. I’d seen him have crushes on guys before, but I’d never seen him quite as into anyone as he was with Adam.

  ‘You just followed your heart. You didn’t reduce Adam to a set of criteria,’ I say.

  ‘No,’ Gabe admits, taking a sip of his drink, ‘but criteria are important, and the reason Adam and I work is because he does tick a lot of boxes too. If he’d just been gorgeous, but didn’t happen to have a good job, a similar lifestyle and whatever else, then perhaps we wouldn’t have lasted as long as we have. These check boxes are important when it comes to long-term relationships and not just flings. That’s your problem, Polly, you just want the cute exhilarating moment when your eyes lock with someone across a crowded room. You want electricity and excitement. But attraction fades. You need someone who’s actually compatible or otherwise things will keep fizzling out after a few weeks.’ Gabe finishes his drink. ‘Want another?’ he suggests.

  I look down at my glass, which is two thirds empty. ‘Sure.’

  Gabe gets up and heads over to the bar, leaving me to mull over his words. Although he’s being a bit unfair when he says my relationships only last weeks (one lasted three months!), he is kind of right. I do tend to focus on romantic sparks, probably at the expense of compatibility. I like the magic of fancying someone, when you first meet someone new and they just seem like the best person in the world. I love flirting, going on dates and building up to the first kiss. I adore the thrill of getting intimate with someone I’m really drawn to – the chemistry of not being able to keep your hands off each other. I love it when everything’s sparkly and new. In fact, Gabe’s right, I’m a honeymoon-phase addict. I’m pretty good at finding people I fancy, but things always do go downhill when I realise that the person I found utterly gorgeous and charming actually has intolerable flaws.
Like my last sort-of boyfriend, Aaron. We were together for two months, the sex was amazing and we’d have these awesome cosy nights cooking for each other and going for walks holding hands through the city. It was so romantic until one day, we were walking hand-in-hand through Central Park when a cute little dog ran up to us. I was about to kneel down to pet him when Aaron kicked him away, like he was a pest. I couldn’t believe it! All this time, I’d been dating a guy who thought it was acceptable to kick dogs. I never saw him again after that.

  Then there was Luke – an Australian chef – who seemed like a great catch. He was tall, attractive and smart, and we got along great until he made a few passing comments that just didn’t sit right. He got sick and ended up needing his appendix removed. He forked out for a senior surgeon. I assumed it was for the extra expertise, but he admitted that he ‘felt more comfortable in the hands of a man’. I told him to go find the hands of a man because this woman was done.

  Actually, maybe Gabe’s right. Maybe successful relationships do only work if you’ve got a mental checklist of criteria and instead of being blinded by butterflies in your stomach and raw physical attraction, you start off by assessing your partner’s compatibility, rather than focusing on how pretty the city looks at night as you stroll hand-in-hand trying to pretend life is like a Hollywood movie.

  ‘What’s up?’ Gabe arrives back at the table holding a tray with a few more drinks and a couple of shots.

  ‘I was just thinking about what you said.’ I sigh as I pick up a drink, muttering thanks. ‘I suck at relationships.’

  ‘Well, your track record isn’t the best,’ Gabe agrees, as he places the tray down on the table. ‘But who am I to judge. After all, you’re the matchmaker, not me!’ He winks as he sits down.

  ‘Me, a matchmaker,’ I tut. It’s like you trying to be a…’ I look at Gabe’s skinny effete frame. ‘A bodybuilder.’

  Gabe smiles. ‘Bit harsh, but true Or you, trying to be a chartered surveyor!’ Gabe jokes. ‘By the way, did Olly buy it?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I admit as I reach for a shot.

  We clink our shot glasses together and then down them in one, before wincing.

  ‘Yuck!’ I comment.

  ‘Bleughh!’ Gabe pulls a face.

  His phone buzzes and he picks it up off the table.

  ‘Sanjay,’ he explains, opening a message. Sanjay was our boss, although he feels more like a pal, from The Eagle. Gabe sends a few messages while I sip my drink, trying to get rid of the taste of the shot.

  ‘Sanjay’s with Jim, shall I invite them?’ Gabe suggests. Jim’s another one of our old workmates.

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ I shrug as I take another sip of my drink.

  I haven’t seen Sanjay and Jim for a couple of months and it would be good to catch up. Jim works behind the bar. He’s been working at The Eagle for years, while freelancing as a web designer. He likes to go on about coding and programming languages but he’s a sweet mild-mannered guy with old-school gentlemanly values. Whenever we used to work together, he’d always serve the rowdy customers, sparing me the aggro when he could. Sanjay’s less mild-mannered. In fact, he’s incredibly boisterous, but he’s fun. He opened The Eagle. He owns a string of bars across New York and even though they’re not the classiest of establishments, he’s still super flash. He wears a Rolex and has an apartment overlooking Central Park, and though he’s incredibly ostentatious, he’s not stuck up at all. He’s one of the funniest warmest people I know.

  Gabe and I catch up on a bit of gossip, sipping our drinks, while we wait for Jim and Sanjay to arrive. The bar starts filling up with an after-work crowd and someone turns the music up. The atmosphere is actually pretty good for 7 p.m. on a Wednesday night and I can tell by the way Gabe is looking curiously around the bar – taking in the flash punters that have also chosen this place over the pretentious bars down the road – that he’s beginning to reassess his view of Milano’s. It beats those poncey city bars hands down, and I can practically see him making a mental note to come here again.

  ‘What’s up party people!?’ Sanjay bellows as he approaches our table. A few other drinkers turn to look as he barrels over, embracing us in big hugs. Jim trails behind a little sheepishly.

  It turns out Sanjay is in such high spirits because he’s just snapped up a disused bar in a property auction and has big plans to renovate it and make a fortune.

  ‘Let’s celebrate! Drinks are on me!’ he announces, before heading to the bar to get a round.

  Jim fills us in on some news from The Eagle.

  ‘A new guy came in for a singing audition today,’ he says, causing Gabe’s ears to prick up.

  ‘A new guy?’ Gabe asks.

  ‘Yeah. He’s a George Michael lookalike. Spitting image. And he sounds the same too.’

  ‘What?! But we do drag queens at The Eagle, not lookalikes,’ Gabe huffs, clearly not impressed with the idea of having the spotlight on someone else.

  ‘I don’t think that’s set in stone!’ Jim says. ‘It’s just kind of happened that way that it tends to be drag queens that perform. Sanjay doesn’t seem opposed to having lookalikes, or cover artists as they prefer to be known.’

  ‘Cover artists?!’ Gabe sneers, knocking back the last of his drink. ‘What is The Eagle? A cruise ship?’

  Jim shrugs, looking a little awkward. Unlike me, he doesn’t quite understand how protective Gabe gets about The Eagle. Gabe loves singing there. It’s his only creative outlet these days and I think he sees it as his place with his fans. He’s already sidelined his singing ambitions enough, the last thing he needs is to get sidelined at The Eagle too.

  Fortunately, Sanjay arrives back at the table with our drinks. He’s carrying a tray loaded, and I mean loaded, with drinks.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I gawp at the shots – a rainbow array of tinted spirits that make me feel nauseous just looking at them.

  Gabe reaches for a yellow coloured shot before Sanjay’s even managed to place the tray down on the table.

  ‘Congratulations, mate!’ he says, toasting Sanjay with the shot glass, before knocking it back.

  Sanjay tells us all about his plans for his new bar, awhile we all down shots. It feels like we’re back at The Eagle, at one of the lock-ins we’d have after work, where we’d sit up until the early hours of the morning chatting rubbish and setting the world to rights. I’m feeling happy and fuzzy inside, not just from the company but from the booze too.

  Jim goes off on a tangent about coding and I momentarily tune out and glance around the bar. For a second, I think I spot Olly standing with a couple of friends further along the bar, but it can’t be him. It must just be someone with a similar outfit of skinny jeans and a burgundy shirt. Someone who also has tattoo sleeves. Surely, it’s not him? I crane my neck, trying to get a better look, when suddenly the man turns and I can barely believe it. It is Olly. Handsome, dapper, flash Olly is in this crummy dive bar, which is probably the last place I imagined someone like him would frequent. He’s the kind of guy I’d assume would be swanning off to some exclusive private members’ club or would have reservations at one of the new Michelin-star fusion restaurants that keep opening in Soho. But instead, he’s here. In Milano’s, ordering – I watch the barman handing him a drink – a pint of ale!

  ‘What are you looking at, Polly?’ Gabe nudges me and follows my gaze towards the bar. ‘Who’s that?’ he asks as his eyes land upon Olly.

  ‘That’s Olly. The owner of that dating agency I visited,’ I tell him, in a hushed voice, even though there’s no chance Olly’s going to overhear me in this crowded noisy bar.

  I cower in my seat, self-conscious about being spotted.

  ‘That’s Olly?’ Gabe asks, peering over.

  ‘Shhh!’ I hiss. ‘Stop staring!’

  ‘He’s seriously hot!’ Gabe comments, leering at him.

  ‘Stop staring, Gabe!’

  ‘Who’s hot?’ Sanjay pipes up, glancing around.

  ‘No one!’ I hiss. />
  ‘Who?’ Sanjay presses.

  ‘Yeah, who?’ Jim asks, glancing around.

  ‘Guys stop!’ I insist, but it’s no use. Gabe points drunkenly across the bar.

  ‘That guy!’ he says.

  Sanjay and Jim immediately look over, clocking Olly in a second. He’s by far the hottest guy in the bar and he naturally stands out compared to all the other boring-looking drinkers in their dull office clothes.

  ‘That’s Olly Corrigan!’ Sanjay pipes up. ‘He was featured in Time magazine last month. I remember because I spent a solid half hour drooling over the article and wondering if he might be gay.’

  Gay?! It hadn’t even occurred to me that Olly could be gay but it might explain a few things – his bachelorhood and his incredible fashion sense.

  ‘What did you conclude?’ I ask with a slight sense of trepidation.

  ‘Straight,’ Sanjay sighs. ‘Googled him in the end and found some old article about his ex-wife. Apparently, they used to run a PR company together.

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say, thinking back to Olly’s grand offices. Did he and his ex-wife build an empire together? Is she still in the picture?

  Sanjay knocks back the last of his drink. ‘’Nother round?’ he suggests.

  ‘Guys, can we go somewhere else?’ I ask, eager to get away from Olly. The last thing I need is for him to spot me knocking back shots with my friends from the gay bar. It hardly fits my boring chartered surveyor image.

  ‘What? I thought you loved it in here?’ Gabe pipes up.

  ‘I do!’ I hiss. ‘But I can’t relax with him in here.’ I signal towards Olly, who now appears locked in conversation with two equally trendy and out-of-place companions.

  Gabe rolls his eyes. ‘Alright,’ he sighs, turning to Sanjay and Jim. ‘She’s been undercover. He’s not meant to know who she is. Long story.’

  Sanjay raises an eyebrow; he looks perplexed. Jim just regards us blankly, I think he assumes we’ve had too much to drink. Sanjay suggests that we get a cab and go to one of his bars, which we all know will mean free drinks all night. Gabe jumps at the chance and we gather our stuff to go. We’re all a little pissed as we drunkenly weave through the crowded bar. One of mine and Gabe’s favourite songs – ‘Atomic’ by Blondie – is playing and Gabe gets side-tracked, bursting into song, clasping my hand and pirouetting with me in the middle of the bar. For a second, I forget about Olly and, drunk on the music (and the booze), I let him spin me around, ducking under his outstretched arm like a clumsy ballroom dancer. We used to dance like that at The Eagle all the time. The floors would be sticky with spilt drink and my trainers would peel off the ground as Gabe would twirl me around, his sparkly drag frocks sparkling under the flittering light of the mirror balls. The song ends and we collapse into each other’s arms, laughing.