Mismatched in Manhattan: the perfect feel-good romantic comedy for 2020

by Tash Skilton

  While I was hate-waiting for the Table Thief to leave, all the new clients must have been snatched up. This happens a lot; Clifford has so many independent contractors working for him that the ratio of ghostwriters to clients is lopsided. He says we’re expanding every day, and I believe him (I think), but it’s tough to earn regular paychecks this way. There are bonuses—so he claims—for getting clients across the finish line, but that hasn’t happened for me yet. I sigh and click over to the Drop-Down Database. One of Clifford’s ideas is a DIY package, wherein clients pay the company to access a list of timely, provocative subject lines and messages—categories include Flirty, Sassy, Sexy, Casual—and create their own buffet of communications to use on unsuspecting would-be matches. Every time I add to it, I get five dollars per line and the sinking suspicion I’m hastening my own demise by making my job obsolete.

  I’ve sent out at least thirty résumés since I arrived in the worm-infested Big Apple, but for now, Sweet Nothings provides my sole income. I’ve got to make this work, even if it means logging in to the portal fifty thousand times a day.

  Ping.

  A new message pops up on my phone.

  Why’d you ghost me?!!!

  Oh no—did I mess up? Leave a job hanging when it was my turn to chime in? That’s a serious taboo in this business. We respond right away unless we’re under orders for strategic delays. My client Tess never signed up for that, so I gotta fix this immediately.

  Oh gosh, I type, I’m so sorry, things have been crazy busy but I really—

  Then I see who sent the message. Nick, not a client. Nick, the guy I was sort of seeing in LA. (Emphasis on “sort of.” He was Mary’s weed delivery guy, so our hours were … irregular.)

  I didn’t ghost you, I correct him. I told you I was moving.

  You didn’t respond to any of my messages! THAT’S GHOSTING.

  No, that’s saying goodbye. Ghosting is a mystery that’s never solved.

  Have a nice life, I GUESS. Your boss owes me 2k in back weed.

  I’m sure that’s true, but what am I supposed to do about it?

  You’ll have to take that up with Mary.

  Block, move on.

  For the next two hours I alternate between working on my spec script and logging in to the Sweet Nothings portal. On my sixteenth try, three clients have become available, so I frantically move my cursor to click on one of the boxes but I’m not fast enough because the screen refreshes into the usual wahwah: There are currently no ghostwriting jobs. The graphic has changed, at least, from the sexy foot to a person whispering something into another person’s ear. (Sweet nothings, one must presume.) At least the tech guys are keeping busy. It’s a much nicer look for the site. Now if only I could get a piece of the action.

  I shoot another glare in Table Thief’s direction. I would’ve been quicker on the uptake if he hadn’t stolen my breakfast and workstation.

  Two p.m. rolls around and he’s still there.

  I mosey over to the counter—mercifully, Evelynn’s shift has ended, so I have an opportunity to seem normal to the current barista—and get a refill on my coffee. I stare longingly at a black bean and quinoa bowl. It’s the cheapest thing on the menu, but it’s still too rich for my one-client blood.

  Back at my child-size table, an e-mail has arrived from Clifford. Probably another NDA to sign, or an updated protocol handbook (rumor has it he stole it from his prior company). I click the Dropbox link in the body of the text and music suddenly bursts out of my laptop speakers: The Weeknd, crooning loudly that, due to the way I work it, I’ve er-er-er-er-er-earned it.

  What is happening! I stab my finger on the lower-volume key until the song is muted. The people in line raise their eyebrows. One of them shakes her head at me. And I just know Table Thief heard it, too.

  Blushing, I put my headphones on, attach them to the laptop, and tentatively bring the volume back up, double-checking to make sure no one else can hear. It’s a video. Heart pounding, but convinced it will be a private viewing this time, I reload the file. Over a black screen, The Weeknd assures me again that I earned it. Then Clifford appears. He actually walks toward the camera like he’s approaching me across a room in real life.

  “Greetings, Rockstar! Don’t worry, that song cost us nothing because it’s for parody purposes. But girl, you earned it.”

  Does he have one auto-message for female ghostwriters and one for men? I wonder idly. And if so, is that offensive to either group?

  “If you’re seeing this message, it means you totally powered up! Your latest client …”—a weird pause, followed by an over-dub in postproduction of—“… Tess Riley …”—before returning to his regular voice, “has deleted his or her dating profile. Which means you have a success story! Yes!” (Pause for over-dub again …) “Tess Riley … has found true love! What does this mean? It means YOU get a $500 bonus” (KA-CHING sound effect, with animated coins falling around Clifford) “and a DIY party in your honor. Check your mail, alligator, for a bubbly surprise. Most important for YOU, it means you automatically get the next client that comes down the pike. No need to scramble, it’s all yours. Congratulations, and have a great day or night.”

  I’m still reeling from the unexpected communiqué from Clifford and The Weeknd, but there’s no denying it’s wonderful news. Five hundred bucks will pay for countless taxi rides. If I ever went anywhere, I’d be psyched.

  It finally hits me, the reason it’s so difficult to nab clients in the portal: Most of them are filtered into the accounts of freelancers who’ve proven themselves. Clifford’s either a dick or a mastermind when it comes to motivation. Those with no aptitude for the job won’t even need to be fired; they’ll simply never get clients, without knowing why. Like being ghosted. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but regardless, I did earn it, dammit. Tess Riley wanted an architect, twenty-eight to thirty-seven, with a soccer-player body. She crossed her fingers for a man of South American or Dutch descent. Did I deliver? You bet your sweet ass I did!

  Mateo Van de Berg was both.

  I close my laptop and pack up, floating on a wave of satisfaction. Time to call it a day, leave on a high note (if only; some weed would be a great way to calm down for the trek home). A siren rages in the distance, drawing ever closer, and I cringe, reminded of what I’m about to walk out into. The city, alive and unrelenting, ready to toss me around like an old hacky sack.

  I pass Table Thief on my way out. He glances at me and I look away just as quickly, but not before we make eye contact. I take a deep breath and push the exit door. And then, despite the noise and crowds threatening me, I smile, briefly, to myself. Because he doesn’t know it, but today is the last day he will ever sit there.

  CHAPTER 3

  To: All Tell It to My Heart Employees

  From: Leanne Tseng

  Re: Word of the Day

  Team,

  At the risk of sounding like a certain someone we all know and hate, the word of the day is “upsell.” This week, I want you to keep in mind that we are a full-service boutique with a variety of services to offer. Let’s help our clients take advantage of our talented pool of consultants. Take a deep dive into your clients’ files and see how we can help them to put their best foot forward.

  Speaking of which, although we have not taken legal action yet, please be aware that we are looking into whether any intellectual property or other proprietary information has been breached by any companies offering similar—though obviously subpar—services. For our freelance contractors who may be doing business with said companies, we’re hoping to have this matter resolved as soon as possible without letting it affect your duties or loyalties to either.

  Having said that, the ultimate goal is to get the company to a place where I can hire all of you as full-time staff who won’t have to spend half your week scrubbing off the newest inappropriate comment from your other boss.

  Word of the day, folks. Word of the day.

  Yours,

  Leanner />
  MILES

  Evelynn wasn’t kidding about the bottomless cup of coffee. I Am Legend is over there in her corner table, hunched over her laptop for almost the whole day, every now and again shooting a dirty look my way. But like I said, I’ve lived in New York City for fifteen years. If I can’t handle death ray eyes from some doe-eyed brunette, I deserve to have my MetroCard revoked.

  By the way, even if she hadn’t told me, I’d have figured out she wasn’t from New York by virtue of her outfit. It’s the end of April and she’s in a tank top and shorts. We had a blizzard less than two weeks ago, which might—though really doesn’t—explain the combat boots. Although maybe it’s just her way of letting the world know she has a smoking hot bod but will also kick your ass if you stare too long. Which I can respect. Less obvious to decipher is the bizarre fingerless knit glove things that come up to her elbows and were clearly homemade by someone who was either drunk or gleefully looking to use the #nailedit hashtag. Wherever she’s from, it’s probably devoid of seasons and, let’s face it, culture. Maybe someplace utterly predictable, like Florida.

  Whatever her story, I need to ignore her. Just like I need to ignore why I haven’t been to Café Crudité in six weeks. It’s not that this was exactly “our place,” mine and Jordan’s. But we used to go here sometimes, together, back when she lived around the corner with three roommates, back before we made the leap to cross a bridge and moved to a borough that didn’t start with “Man” and end with “holy hell, that’s how much you’re charging for this closet, but Jesus that is a nice terrace, I can fit a chair out there and have, like, outdoor space, where do I sign?”

  I mean, we also made the leap to move in together, of course, but at the time, the Brooklyn thing seemed like the bigger deal. Sidenote: Last year Miles was such a douchebag.

  And a moron. A goddamn romantic in this day and age—and at his age? Like it took him thirty-one years to realize that happily ever after literally belongs in a fairy tale. For children. As Gemma, the British girl I briefly dated before Jordan, used to say: what a nob.

  But, anyway, this nob has stayed away from this café lately because there were too many memories of grabbing a cup of coffee on mornings after spending the night, or sometimes loitering here after dinner because they were lax about that and we didn’t particularly have a hell of a lot of money. Which was why when the TITMH offices vanished in a poof of whatever Clifford was smoking, it was my go-to place to park my ass and get some work done. Even if it was a bit of a trek from Brooklyn, coming here kept up my daily routine of heading out to “the office.”

  Which is why I’m here, now. This is the last place I remember actually giving a shit about my job. And if I’m now forced, by threat of professional disgrace and unemployment, to try and show up as some semblance of former Employee of the Century Miles Ibrahim … this seems like the logical place to go.

  I open up Jude Campbell’s questionnaire and read it. Then I reread it, again and again, until I memorize it. No more string quartet surprises for me. I click over to the three dating website profiles he’s linked out to and peruse them. I start to make notes on what we can change. He doesn’t have a lot of info out there, which is a rookie mistake. You don’t want to write a dissertation, but you do want to have enough content to show that you took time to fill the profile out. That demonstrates follow-through and dedication to the cause. Of course, there is a fine line between being thorough and TL;DR, which is a lot of where I come in. The words should be carefully chosen to reflect our clients’ (enhanced and copyedited) personalities; they should sparkle … but leave you wanting more.

  I e-mail Jude, introducing myself as his Tell It to My Heart writer and asking him when he might be free to meet, letting him know I could do it as early as today. I’ve just hit send when music comes blasting from a corner table, warranting a glance in that direction.

  It’s I Am Legend, whose face has turned bright pink, Bambi lashes fluttering as she frantically hits keys on her laptop. I’m pretty sure that’s a song from Fifty Shades of Grey. Is that what she’s doing here? Does hoarding free food while she watches soft-core porn in public get her off or something? I watch her for a second, curious whether I can discern if she’s turned on. Then I catch myself. Under no circumstances am I to be checking out women again, even if it’s purely anthropological.

  A whoosh alerts me that I have an incoming message. An e-mail from Jude, who says he can meet at four p.m. today. Excellent. Eager and communicative is a good sign in a client. I e-mail him back with directions to Café Crudité.

  Then I take out my phone to test myself on how well I’ve absorbed my client’s profile.

  I open up 24/7, one of the scores of dating apps I have downloaded (as a work thing, of course, because I, myself, am obviously never dating again. The profiles aren’t even set up as me, but as a hodgepodge of background info I made up and pictures stolen from a Google Images search that I’m pretty sure are from a random Czech college brochure). I look over the twenty-four thumbnail images and short profile snippets that have popped up as the daily matches for “me.” And then I pick the five that I think Jude might be most likely to select. I hesitate, choosing between a financial analyst who plays softball on the weekends and a marketing coordinator who is a Pilates instructor. I end up going with Miss Pilates: probably has more free time along with being more limber. I’ll check my answers with Jude at the end of our meeting.

  Now I just have forty-five minutes to kill before he gets here. I’m feeling a little hungry, but the biscotti are gone (obviously) and some desperate person even took the kale muffins. I glance over to the corner table and see that I Am Legend is on her way out too, throwing one last glare my way before she reaches the door. Fare thee well, Tampa Bay. You better toughen up fast or New York will break you within a week, sending you back to the sun-soaked swamps whence you came.

  Despite my rumbling stomach, I decide against buying anything to eat. Even with my due diligence today, who knows if I’m still going to be employed next week, and I’ll be kicking myself if I have to skip out on dinner because I got tempted by a four-dollar cake pop. And now that Legend is gone, there’s no one interesting here to even look at/stare down as an unofficial tour guide on the Real New York Experience.

  I take out my phone again. And before I know exactly what I’m doing, I’ve opened up Instagram and have navigated over to Jordan’s pregnancy post. This time, I only spend a minute or so looking at the picture itself before I get whirlpooled into the rabbit hole of comments.

  In between the congrats and the OMGs are some real gems.

  “Way to go, Miles and Jordan!” from Greta, the German foreign exchange student my parents hosted one summer. Aha! At least I’m not the only one who thought the baby might be mine. Though I should probably write her … not that I’m exactly sure how that e-mail is going to go:

  Hey Greta,

  Long time no talk. Hope you’re well. By the way, could you please defriend my cheating ex-fiancée from your social media?

  Danke,

  Miles

  Then a simple “Congratulations” from … is this for real?! My aunt Fatma?

  And then, as if she can sense both my impending breakdown and the incredulous thoughts I’m having about her own mother, I get a text.

  How’s it going?

  It’s Aisha, my cousin.

  Is your Spidey sense on high alert? I write. Aisha has a knack—or I like to think we both do—for sensing the exact moment when the other person is in need of a check-in. It probably has something to do with both of us being only children. She’s the closest thing I have to a sibling, and vice versa.

  I hope you are not looking at Jordan’s post. Or writing her. Or thinking about her, she writes.

  Of course not, I type back. Why would I ever write her? I mean, aside from this morning, but obviously it was pure adrenaline steering that boat. But speaking of writing things, you might want to have a talk with your mother.

 
Oh God. What did she do now?

  Oh, nothing, I type. Just congratulated my ex-fiancée on the baby she’s having with another man. On Instagram. NBD.

  There’s a considerable pause before Aisha writes again. You know how they have parental lock features on phones? They should really have one that goes the other way too. FOR parents. I’ll talk to her. Again. I’m sorry.

  I laugh despite myself. Honestly? It’s probably the first time I’ve laughed since Jordan’s “We need to talk.” So maybe you should thank her.

  Do you need me to tell you Jordan doesn’t deserve you and you’re better off and you’ll be over her before you know it?

  I type out No and then, thinking better of it, delete it and replace it with, It couldn’t hurt …

  Well, then, she doesn’t deserve you. You are absolutely better off without her. And you’ll be over her much, much sooner than you think. It wasn’t meant to be.

  I laugh, bitterly this time. I don’t believe in meant-to-be.

  Yeah, right, she types back. This is Dumped Miles talking. Write me again in two months when you’re back to Secret Rom-Com-Loving Miles.

  Hey, I write. It was never a secret.

  True, she types back. Heart on Your Sleeve Miles. I’ll be waiting for you.

  Yeah, yeah.

  In the meantime … just delete Instagram from your phone.

  I look down at my phone and hesitate. Can I really do that? I mean, can anyone really do that?

  Yes, you can do it. Aisha responds to my brain signals again. And, trust me, I’ll be making sure my mom does too.

  I sigh, and then click the buttons to remove the app. Fine. Anything else?

  Yes. you.

  you too.

  And if I ever see Jordan again, I will 100% kick her ass.

  I laugh. Aisha is about four foot eleven but does an intense kickboxing boot camp class three times a week. I wouldn’t take any bets against her. Thank you, I write back. Though maybe not in her condition.