When Polly Met Olly

by Zoe May

  ‘You need to perform somewhere where people actually appreciate what a brilliant singer you are,’ I insist.

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ Gabe agrees, fiddling more with the flyer. He seems nervous. ‘But I think I might start writing my own music again. Quit The Eagle, take a break from all the gigging and drinking and, if I’m perfectly honest, attention-seeking. I need to stop performing other people’s music just to get an audience and have a good night out. It’s just an ego thing – a short-term thrill – but it’s at the expense of my longer-term potential. I can do better than this.’

  He looks up at me with a shy expression, as though he feels awkward even admitting to believing in himself. Gabe become so stuck in a rut at The Eagle that he’s almost forgotten what he’s capable of. That place is like a toxic friend. They might make you feel great in the moment, but they don’t encourage you or support you in your goals. You might have a good night out with them, but essentially they won’t appreciate you staying at home to work on your projects. Essentially, they’re holding you back. Gabe has an almost traitorous air about him as he says this stuff. The Eagle has been part of his life for so long that I can see why he feels a bit uncomfortable finally admitting to himself and others that it may not be the best place for him.

  I move to sit closer to him.

  ‘Gabe, you don’t know how glad I am that you’re doing this,’ I tell him, draping his legs over my lap.

  He smiles shyly. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. You’re a fantastic singer. Like, truly fantastic. I knew you loved The Eagle, but it was really beginning to bother me that you wouldn’t quit. You were just wasted on that place.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Gabe nods. ‘I got too comfortable there. When I was really trying hard to be a singer back when I first came to New York, I actually had to put myself out there. I had the creative struggles, the hard work, the rejection, but at The Eagle, I just got into this bubble where I was still singing and performing and getting to express myself to a degree, and there was no rejection. People liked me. I got free drinks and I always had a good time. It was easy, but easy can be a cop out.’

  ‘Totally. It was like a hamster wheel,’ I note.

  ‘What?!’ Gabe blows on his steaming coffee before taking a sip.

  ‘You were just going round and round and not getting anywhere.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Gabe sighs. ‘Exactly. I was just like a little drag queen hamster.’

  I giggle. ‘At least you’ve finally realised,’ I joke.

  ‘Finally.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do? Are you going to quit your job?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ Gabe scoffs. ‘I may be abandoning my hamster ways, but I’m not ready to leave the rat race.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘I have bills to pay,’ Gabe sighs. ‘Quitting The Eagle is one thing, but giving up regular work, I don’t think I could face that again.’

  ‘Nah, you’re too used to your comforts these days. Organic almond milk lattes and cashmere V-necks,’ I tease.

  ‘Exactly,’ Gabe laughs. ‘But hey, I still live in a tiny flat in Brooklyn so I can’t be that middle-class.’

  ‘No, you’re still keeping it real.’

  ‘Totally,’ Gabe jokes, taking another sip of his coffee. ‘Not too middle-class to drink instant coffee.’

  ‘True. You’re ghetto.’

  Gabe grins. ‘So ghetto.’

  ‘But really, jokes aside, I’m happy for you, Gabe. I know you loved The Eagle, but I feel like this George Michael lookalike has been a blessing in disguise, coming along to get you out of your rut and make you realise your potential again. People like him belong in The Eagle. But you have something special and I’m so glad that you’re not going to waste it.’

  ‘Thanks babe, who knows what’ll happen, but at least I won’t be consciously wasting my talent anymore. I know I gave you a hard time about always pushing forward with your photography and not just enjoying it for what it is, but your tenacity is inspiring. I guess it struck a chord, which is probably why I got so weird about it the other day. I knew deep down that I needed some of your focus,’ Gabe admits ruefully.

  ‘I needed some of your enjoyment though. You were right. I was getting too obsessed with trying to get ahead. I’d forgotten about simply enjoying photography for photography’s sake.’

  ‘Well, I guess we both got a bit side-tracked.’

  ‘We can’t be perfect all the time,’ I reason.

  ‘Most of the time though.’ Gabe winks.

  ‘Of course,’ I reply, snuggling up next to him.

  My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Olly.

  Olly: Hey Polly, it’s Olly (for once) ;)

  I smile.

  ‘Is it him?’ Gabe asks, looking over my shoulder at my phone screen.

  ‘Yep!’ I enthuse.

  Polly: Hey Olly x

  Chapter 24

  Olly: I’ll take you on a date to remember. Meet me at The Fifth at 7.x

  That was the last message Olly sent me and now I’m sitting opposite him in The Fifth – one of the most exclusive restaurants in New York nestled among the designer boutiques and high-end hotels on Fifth Avenue. I may keep an eye on the city’s fine dining scene, but I never thought I’d get a chance to go to The Fifth. It’s on the top of a high-rise hotel, opposite the Empire State building, with a spectacular view across the whole of the city. Not only is it incredibly expensive but it’s notoriously hard to get into, frequented by celebrities and the super-rich. It’s the last place I thought I’d be having dinner on a Saturday night and yet here I am, sitting opposite Olly, his face golden in the warm light of the low-hanging lamps, our fingers interlaced across the table as we wait for our food to arrive. Conversation has been so non-stop between us that the waiter had to come back three times to take our order as we kept on chatting instead of looking at the menu. It almost feels like we’re two long-lost friends, catching up on everything.

  Olly wants to know all about my life before I moved to New York.

  ‘It was quiet,’ I recall, wrinkling my nose. ‘We lived in this little ramshackle, higgledy-piggledy cottage in a little village. I went to—’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Olly interrupts. ‘You lived where?’

  ‘In a cottage,’ I tell him, feeling a bit bemused. I get that he grew up in a fancy New York town house, but we don’t really have those in the tiny village where I’m from.

  ‘Yeah, a cottage, but what did you call it?’

  ‘A ramshackle, higgledy-piggledy cottage,’ I repeat hesitantly.

  Olly sniggers. ‘Ramshackle? Higgledy-piggledy? Are you speaking English? What the hell is that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We don’t have those words!’ Olly insists.

  ‘Fine!’ I laugh. ‘Ramshackle means something that’s kind of run-down. And higgledy-piggledy is sort of cluttered and messy, jumbled,’ I tell him, as though it’s obvious.

  ‘Oh my God, you Brits. Ramshackle? Higgledy-piggledy? I’m going to have to hire a translator,’ Olly teases.

  ‘Hey! Stop taking the mickey!’ I protest, taking a sip of my wine. It’s a wine that a critic I followed recommended getting at The Fifth. It’s just like she said – ‘rich and full-bodied with a flavour of juicy red fruits and a hint of pepperiness’.

  ‘Who the hell is Mickey?’ Olly laughs.

  ‘It’s just a phrase! Come on, everyone says that!’ I sigh.

  ‘No, we don’t.’

  ‘Hmpphh…’ I huff. ‘I’m pretty sure you do.’ I get out my phone and Google the phrase and it turns out that ‘taking the mickey’ was originally cockney rhyming slang for ‘take the Mickey Bliss’, aka ‘piss’.

  ‘Okay, fine, I feel extremely English right now.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Olly laughs. ‘I love it. I want to hear all about your ramshackle, higgledy-piggledy cottage.’ He smiles.

  ‘Okay, as long as you don’t take the mickey anymore,’ I warn Olly.


  ‘I won’t, I promise,’ he insists, his lips twitching.

  Our food arrives – crispy duck with chanterelle mushrooms and spiced plums for Olly and mushroom Wellington for me. As we tuck in, I tell him about my childhood in Cornwall, from my parents’ love of gardening to our annual village folk festival. I explain how cream teas should be served, emphasising how important it is that jam is spread on the scone first with the cream added on top, and that anything else (such as the Devonshire way) is sacrilege. I describe the quirky shops along the coast that sell crystals and magic potions and wands carved from tree branches. I even describe the local druids and the fortune tellers.

  ‘It sounds like another world,’ Olly comments dreamily, as he takes a bite of his meal. I feel like I’ve been talking about Cornwall for ages, but Olly hasn’t seemed to mind. In fact, he seems fascinated, as though he genuinely wants to know everything about me and understand my life.

  ‘It really is,’ I agree, taking a bite of my mushroom Wellington, which is one of the restaurant’s star dishes that reviewers consistently rave about. With truffled mushrooms and a rich bordelaise sauce, it truly is as good as the reviews claimed.

  ‘So why did you leave?’ Olly asks, looking up at me.

  ‘Cornwall’s amazing. It’s beautiful, but it just felt a bit…’ I hesitate, looking for the right word. ‘… Small. I was only going to have one kind of life there. My mum wanted me to get a job as a receptionist at the local GP surgery. I’d probably have bought my own little cottage one day—’

  ‘A cute little ramshackle, higgledy-piggledy cottage,’ Olly cuts in.

  ‘Exactly,’ I smirk. ‘And I’d have married a nice Cornish boy and we’d have gone to the beach at the weekends. It would have been a nice relaxed kind of life, but it’s just a bit predictable. I suppose I wanted a more exciting, surprising lifestyle, I wanted more adventure,’ I muse, reaching for my wine.

  ‘Do you feel like you’re having adventure now?’ Olly asks, his eyes flickering in the soft light.

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ I reply, tracing the toe of my heel along his ankle under the table. We hold each other’s gaze for a moment, before the waiter interrupts, stopping by our table to ask if everything’s okay with our meals.

  Olly looks a little irritated to have been interrupted, but it was probably a good thing the waiter came to our table at that moment. The tension between us was getting a bit high for a first date.

  I turn the conversation on Olly, asking him the opposite question: if he ever felt the urge to leave his hometown. His hometown being New York.

  ‘No,’ Olly replies without a second’s hesitation. ‘I was lucky enough to be born in the greatest city in the world, why would I leave?’

  I smile; I’d probably feel exactly the same if I were him.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Olly says, brandishing his fork, ‘I’ve travelled. I’ve travelled the world. I’ve been all over Europe. Paris, Milan, Amsterdam, Hamburg, London… although I haven’t been to Cornwall.’ He winks. ‘I’ve been to Asia, Australia, even New Zealand, but New York is home. I always end up back here, it’s my base. I think it always will be.’

  Olly takes another bite of his meal. I watch him, observing how assured and relaxed he looks, despite eating in one of the fanciest restaurants in the city. If I were with anyone other than Olly right now, I’d probably be totally giddy and over-excited to be here. I’d probably be a bit awkward in such an incredibly exclusive environment and I’d probably end up taking a million pictures on my phone of everything, from the food to the views. But Olly isn’t like that. He looks at home. It’s so obvious that this city is his stomping ground, his base.

  We finish our meals, chatting about our mutual love of New York.

  After having desert and an aperitif, we leave the restaurant, descending the one-hundred-story building in the lift.

  ‘What do you want to do know?’ Olly asks. ‘We could go to a bar for another drink? Or we could go back to my place and have a drink there?’

  I smile, noting how he didn’t even consider the possibility that I might go straight home like a good girl. It’s obvious I’m not going to. The conversation is just flowing too well, we’re both having too much of a good time. The last thing I’d want to do is hurry back to my flat, even if it might leave him wanting more or whatever else dating guides advise. They probably also advise against going back to a guy’s place on the first date too, even if it is apparently just for a drink, and yet that’s exactly what I want to do. As much as I’ve enjoyed the atmosphere of The Fifth, I feel like being somewhere a bit more relaxed – a little less high-end and self-conscious.

  ‘Let’s go to yours, just for a drink,’ I say, as the lift reaches the ground floor.

  We take a cab across town to Tribeca, where Olly lives.

  ‘Only two blocks away from Harry Styles’ apartment,’ Olly tells me, as the cab weaves through the traffic on Fifth Avenue.

  ‘Seriously?’ I balk. It was splashed all over the papers when Harry Styles bought a twelve-million-dollar apartment in Tribeca, in the same exclusive building where Jennifer Lawrence, Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds also live. I saw pictures at the time and it looked incredible – tall expansive rooms, private pools, impeccable décor. If Olly lives around the corner from a star-studded building like that, he must be truly loaded.

  ‘Yeah, seriously! I’ve been there for twenty years. The area’s become really fashionable lately,’ Olly says.

  ‘Do you see Harry around?’ I ask.

  ‘Sometimes,’ Olly replies. ‘I once saw him at my local café. He bought tomato soup and then left. He wore sunglasses inside.’

  ‘Wow…’ I utter.

  I’ve seen quite a few celebrities in Manhattan, but to live around the corner from Harry Styles is something else. I knew Olly was successful, but I didn’t realise quite how successful he must be if he can afford to live in a multimillion-dollar area good enough for world-famous celebrities.

  We compare celebrity sightings as we cross the city. Mine are mostly glimpses on the street or sightings in Central Park, whereas Olly’s are conversations at parties or anecdotes from VIP sections in clubs. It’s strange how different our lives are and I almost begin to feel a little unnerved, wondering why someone as wealthy and connected as Olly would go for a regular girl like me.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Olly asks as I gaze out of the window as we drive along a wide residential street in Tribeca.

  ‘Yeah, everything’s fine,’ I reply, forcing a smile as I try to put the distracting thoughts out of my mind.

  We pull up outside Olly’s building, which is, to my relief, nothing like the images I’ve seen of Harry’s pad. It’s impressive – a well-maintained apartment block – but it’s not too intimidating either. It’s a fairly normal-looking three-story apartment block with a zig-zagging white fire escape above an old-fashioned tailor’s shop.

  Olly pays the driver and we cross the pavement to the entrance.

  ‘I’m on the top floor,’ Olly says as he twists his key in the lock and holds the door open for me.

  The lobby is warm and inviting inside. We head up the winding staircase to Olly’s apartment. He twists his key in the lock and opens the door for me. I expected his décor to be as swanky and minimalistic as his office, but his personal aesthetic is completely different. The flat is filled with a jumble of stuff: piles of books on everything from art history to philosophy stacked in towering piles against the walls, old records displayed on shelves, ratty-looking patterned rugs and an electronic keyboard leaning against the wall. He has a few antiques too: a tall sculpted lamp, a grandfather clock and a gramophone. Vintage posters of old Hollywood movies sit alongside abstract oil paintings on the walls. It’s characterful, chaotic and yet so cosy.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Olly says, gesturing at the huge comfy looking sofa.

  I sit down while Olly heads to the open plan kitchen.

  ‘What are you drinking? I have wine, whisky, vodka, coffee, tea�
��?’

  ‘I’ll have wine,’ I reply.

  Olly pours two glasses of red wine and brings them over, handing one to me.

  ‘I love your apartment,’ I say, glancing around at all the kooky items. ‘It feels so homely.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve collected bits and pieces over the years. My ex-wife was really into antiques so we used to go to markets and auctions. That’s where I got this lamp. It’s original Art Deco, from the Thirties,’ Olly says, flicking the switch of a decadent lamp featuring a nude woman standing on tip-toes holding a shining orb.

  ‘Oh right,’ I reply, admiring the lamp even though a feel a tiny twinge of concern at the mention of his ex-wife. The wife that he founded his PR company with, according to articles online. Is he still into her? Is that why he keeps the antiques they shopped for together in his home? As reminders of the good times they shared, or does he just genuinely like his finds?

  ‘How long were you married?’ I ask, taking a sip of my wine. It tastes delicious – a rich and smooth.

  ‘Ten years. We got married when we were twenty-five,’ Olly replies matter-of-factly. He doesn’t look nostalgic or heartbroken.

  ‘Take off your shoes if you like,’ he says, glancing down at my feet, which are still encased in the pointy boots I wore to the restaurant. His sofa is so big and comfy that I would quite like to tuck my legs up under me. It’s like Olly’s reading my mind.

  I unzip my boots and get comfortable. Olly kicks off his brogues and does the same.

  ‘Twenty-five is pretty young to get married,’ I comment, taking another sip of wine. ‘At least, it is these days.’

  ‘I guess,’ Olly replies. ‘We started off as just being really good friends. We met on an entrepreneurship course and we immediately clicked. We were both really ambitious and the more we got to know each other, the more we realised we had totally complementary skillsets. I was good at sales and numbers, whereas Olivia was more of a creative, ideas person. We decided to go into business together and we set up our PR company, Impact PR. I had a ton of contacts in the music industry from all the years before the course that I’d been trying to make it as a rock star—’