snorts with laughter. ‘Good one! Cheeky! I think Erica would like that.’
I grin, feeling a flush of pride. ‘Thank you.’
‘Great line! Very good!’ Derek laughs.
‘Thanks. I mean, why play singles when you can play doubles?’ I add, cringing internally. I think I might be taking the tennis puns too far now. Fortunately, Derek laughs again, clearly not adverse to a good sports-themed chat-up line.
‘Indeed!’ he says.
A couple of cars honk loudly outside and for a second, I’m taken out of this surreal alternative reality of pretending to be Andy messaging Erica and it hits me that the real me has probably got this job. In fact, I know I have. I’m 99.99 per cent sure. I can tell by the way Derek is regarding me like a proud father. I can tell in the easy, relaxed way we’ve been chatting the entire interview. We seem to have really hit it off, which is a little disconcerting seeing as I’m, you know, a respectable (okay, at least semi-respectable) person and he’s a middle-aged owner of a slightly shady dating agency. Maybe it’s because I’m British, having grown up in Cornwall before moving to the States when I was 18. Derek said he used to date a Brit, recounting how they went on holiday to Cornwall one summer. He even described it as ‘heavenly’. Or, perhaps we click because we went to the same university. Derek’s barely looked at my CV but he glanced at it for a second as I came in and when he saw that I went to Wittingon Liberal Arts College, that was it. He was gone. Even though our degrees were thirty years apart, he was treating me like an old chum, reminiscing about his times at the college bar, where he insisted with a chortle and a wink that he’d had ‘many a wild night’.
He went a bit misty-eyed talking about those days, which isn’t that surprising really. I only left three years ago and sometimes even I get misty-eyed thinking about it. Probably because everything has gone a bit awry since. I moved to the States for university convinced I’d make it big here, but now I’m beginning to think there’s a reason my dad, who grew up in New York, left to marry an English woman and live in Cornwall. Because while my student days were idyllic, it turns out real life in Manhattan is nothing like the dream world of a liberal arts university. The chaotic streets of New York bear no resemblance to the tree-lined pathways of the campus; people in the city don’t spend hours having picnics and reading poetry; and a degree in photography, although widely revered among my college peers and considered of utmost importance by my professor, seems to hold little to no currency in the real world. I’ve found that out the hard way, which is why I’m here, trying to clinch this job, which despite being a bit shady, is surprisingly well paid. Well, by my standards anyway. It pays twice as much as my last job as a barmaid and I’m pretty sure I won’t have to wash pint glasses or deal with annoying drunks. Although you never know.
Derek studied an equally impractical course – media studies and communication skills – and from a quick Google search this morning, it doesn’t seem like he’s managed to put it to much real-world use either, unless he was a very communicative boss in his former career as an adult entertainment company director. Or in his stint as a used car salesman. Yep, it’s fair to say that neither of us would quite make the list of our college’s star alumni. Despite Derek’s questionable background, his latest venture, To the Moon & Back, seems to be doing surprisingly well. The company won Dating Agency of the Year at the prestigious US Dating Awards a few years ago. And it’s received a ton of rave reviews online with former clients claiming that thanks to the agency, they finally met the love of their life after years of struggling to find a partner. It was even profiled by The New Yorker, which described it as an, ‘innovative and ambitious dating service with a friendly personal approach’.
The website of To the Moon & Back is incredibly slick too, which is why I was a little surprised when I rocked up to find that in person it consists of nothing more than a client lounge and a cramped back office. With a central address on Wall Street, I thought it was going to be as swanky as its zip code, but it’s tiny. Located at the top floor of a financial advisory firm, it’s nothing like the salubrious offices below. The client lounge, which Derek showed me through earlier, is like a kooky cocktail bar, with a huge sofa laden with sparkly cushions and throws, two comfy armchairs, an ornate coffee table, low-hanging gold lamps and sumptuous curtains. Leading on from the lounge is this pokey office, which features Derek’s worn-looking old desk, a dated Mac computer, a filing cabinet, a shrivelled pot plant in the corner and an incongruous and oddly distracting waving Chinese cat ornament which sits proudly next to Derek’s monitor. Derek told me he’s been running the whole operation himself since he launched the business two years ago, but apparently, he now needs extra help looking after his client list of ‘successful single bachelors’ and fighting off competition from rival agency, Elite Love Match, which Derek claims are ‘scum, a bunch of charlatans, the worst dating agency in New York’.
Derek’s stomach growls and he reaches into his desk drawer, pulling out a pack of Oreos.
‘Fancy a biscuit?’ He thrusts the pack towards me.
‘Sure!’ I reach for one, smiling gratefully.
Derek sips his coffee and takes a bite.
‘So…’ he ventures through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Where would you suggest taking Erica for a first date?’
‘Oh!’ I feel my face light up. Now this is my forte. I may not be a natural when it comes to love, but I do know New York’s fine dining scene inside out.
Not because I frequent such establishments, just because I know them. I read about them. I follow every major food critic in the city on Twitter and I have an encyclopaedic knowledge of Manhattan’s high-end dining scene. I suppose it’s to me what Second World War history is to Andy Graham. These places represent the glittery side of New York. The side of the people who’ve made it. The holy grail, if you will. And yes, I’m more likely to order in from Domino’s than actually go to such places, but I like knowing that they’re there. Just in case.
‘How about Zuma?’ I suggest. Zuma is a new Japanese fusion restaurant in Midtown. It was opened a couple of months ago by a Michelin star chef and it’s been getting rave reviews.
‘Interesting, why Zuma?’ Derek asks.
‘Well, the food’s meant to be great, but it’s also classy and cool. It’s not just your run of the mill bar or café, it’s the kind of place you take someone to impress them and I think Erica would feel complimented by the choice. It sets a good standard for a first date. Oh, and it’s not far from the Upper East Side so it’s convenient for Erica too.’
‘Very convenient! Especially if she and Andy hit it off,’ Derek adds, raising an eyebrow suggestively.
‘Yes,’ I laugh awkwardly.
‘Zuma is a great choice,’ Derek says. ‘Have you been?’
‘No.’ I admit. ‘I’ve just heard about it.’
I’m about to ask Derek if there’ll be any opportunities to go to such places within the job role. The online ad mentioned ‘networking with clients’ and you never know, such networking might take place in fancy bars and restaurants, particularly if the clients are as successful as Derek makes out. But as I open my mouth to speak, a buzzer sounds, a shrill bleep chiming through the office.
‘Sorry Polly, I’d better answer that.’ Derek gets up and crosses the room.
‘Hello?’ he answers, pressing the button on the intercom. ‘Brandon! Sure, come on up!’
I glance
