When Polly Met Olly. Zoe May
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