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

by Tash Skilton

  You’re right, she writes. I’ll give her an IOU for … let’s say … 8 months postpartum?

  Sounds fair.

  The front door jangles and I look up to see a familiar face walking through it. Gotta run. My client’s here.

  Ooh. Scope him out for me? I could definitely use a little extra work this month.

  Will do.

  I stand up as I put my phone away, calling out Jude’s name to get his attention since I have the advantage of knowing what he looks like. He’s got artfully styled reddish-brown hair and an equally well-groomed beard. His eyes are green and he’s almost definitely picked out his form-fitting T-shirt to highlight both them and his biceps, obviously a perk of his job as a personal trainer. If this was twenty years ago, and this guy was just trying to pick up girls in a bar … he definitely wouldn’t need my help.

  As it is, it won’t even be a stretch to recommend Aisha’s photography services to him. Considering what he’s got to work with, and Aisha’s magic mix of the right lighting, the right poses, and her secret-sauce filter … I’m pretty sure she could make him look like Jude Law if she wanted to.

  “Hello. Miles, is it?” he says, as he walks over toward my outstretched hand.

  Yeah, the accent was the right choice. Sure, it might be a little hard to figure out exactly what he’s saying, but it’s probably just hard to hear over the sound of all the dropping panties.

  “Yes. Hi, Jude. A pleasure to meet you. Please have a seat.” We shake hands, and he gets settled down at the table across from me. “Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee?”

  “Oh, no, thank you,” he says. “I’m actually off of caffeine these days.” Noted. He thinks for a second. “But do you think they’d be able to get me a cup of hot water with some lemon in it?”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged. I’ll be right back.” I wait in line and give my drink order to Evelynn’s replacement barista, who doesn’t comment on the fact that I’ve been sitting here for hours and have now ordered something she has to give me for free. I leave a dollar in her tip jar for good karma.

  “Ta,” Jude says when I place the mug in front of him, and then laughs. “Sorry, this is a little awkward, isn’t it? Meeting someone who’s supposed to be impersonating me.”

  I put up my hands. “Don’t think of it like that. Just think of it like a coach. Or a copy editor. I’m helping you come across as the best version of yourself on paper. Or, you know, the screen.”

  Jude nods. “Yeah, I’ve gathered I need some help in that department. The problem is, I absolutely never know what to write back, and then I forget, and before I know it I’ve accidentally ‘ghosted.’ Or something. That’s what a couple of the girls called it.”

  I nod. “Writing is a skill set. You’re basically just hiring a consultant to help you with getting your foot in the door. No different than if you hired, say, someone to help you with your résumé.”

  “Right, right.” Jude nods as he takes a sip from his mug. “So, how does this work exactly? Do I get to pick my matches?”

  “Well,” I begin, settling into my spiel. “We essentially offer packages. So with your basic package, you can pick your matches and our goal is to get you to an initial in-person date. Now, you can always add à la carte services like, for example, getting one of our matchmaking consultants …” (Georgie, also known as Leanne’s assistant/graphic designer/social media manager) “… to help you select your possible matches. Another add-on we do is a photography package. Our photo consultant—who is absolutely fantastic by the way—can help with picking and enhancing your profile pictures,” I say, planting the seeds for throwing some work Aisha’s way. “We even have conversational coaches who can help with in-person dates.” That would be Giles, Leanne’s lawyer who—for reasons unbeknownst to us—owes Leanne some sort of epic favor.

  “I see,” Jude says.

  “Now, we do offer other packages. Our silver package will get you up to a third date and includes three photo enhancements built in, along with a phone consultation with our conversational coach. Or our gold package, which is the whole shebang: We will work with you up to and including a tenth date. We’ll set up a photo shoot and provide you with up to ten retouched and varying photo options for your profile. Our conversational consultant will be available to you on demand and can even surreptitiously attend a date to help you with your speaking skills via a headset.” Which we can only offer because no one ever picks the gold package. We certainly don’t own the equipment and I’m pretty sure Giles has no idea that’s even an option.

  “Wow,” Jude says, nervously squeezing out the lemon in his drink. “Sounds very James Bond.”

  I can sense he’s overwhelmed; time for me to rein it in with the perfect combination of self-confidence and ego boost. “We’ve had a lot of success with all of our packages. But in your case, I’d recommend the basic package. I don’t think you’re going to be needing too much help from us.”

  “Really?” he says, looking up at me hopefully.

  “Absolutely,” I say, not even really lying. From the corner of my eye, I can see the barista looking at him wistfully. I’m either gonna have this guy married off by the end of the year or surrounded by a harem—all depending on where he currently stands on the spectrum of relationship-seeking adult male. Though, usually, if they’re coming to us, they tend to be after something a little more serious. “And, if you happen to need any add-ons, we can take it from there.” I’ll bring up Aisha’s wunderskills at our next meeting.

  Jude nods. “Okay.”

  “For today, I’m going to show you a couple of places in your profiles that you can spruce up. Just so you can see how we operate and know that we’re not changing anything about who you are.”

  “Sounds good,” Jude says.

  “Great.” I navigate over to his Chemistrie profile. “Okay, like here. Under ‘Likes,’ it says: ‘A pint.’ Which is good, honest. But what do you like about drinking?”

  Jude stares at me as if I might have three heads. “Er, mostly getting drunk, mate.”

  I smile. “Of course. But aside from that … is there a particular drink that you like? A particular bar?”

  “Oh,” he says. “Well, actually, I’m on this weird little quest. It’s stupid, really.” He takes another sip of his water, holding on to his mug like a security blanket, as if revealing his nerdy, though I’m sure absolutely charming, quest is just oh-so-slightly embarrassing. This guy. He is 100 percent the lead in a rom-com.

  “No, no. Please tell me. Quests are good. Quests show character,” I egg him on.

  “Well … I’m trying to find a gluten-free, low-calorie craft beer that tastes like the regular kind. I’ve been going all over the city, trying everything they have on tap.” Yup, what did I say? “Not a ton of luck so far. But Brooklyn seems promising.” It would.

  “This is good,” I say. “We can work with this.”

  “Really?” he asks.

  “Definitely. And, I mean, wouldn’t you want a companion to go on this self-designated pub crawl with?”

  “That’d be bloody fantastic,” he says with a chuckle.

  “Well, that’s why I’m here. So, let’s do this. Do you mind logging in to your account?” I turn the laptop to face Jude and let him put in his password. Then I bring it over so he can see as I type.

  Likes: On the hunt for the perfect craft beer and the perfect girl to find it with. Do you like quests? Exploring this amazing city with both a purpose and no real reason at all except to enjoy the company you’re in? If so, drop me a line.

  I finish with a flourish.

  “Oh, that’s good,” Jude says. “That’s really good.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “So, if you’re ready to sign up, I can e-mail you the contract and it’ll have instructions for changing the log-in passwords to your dating profiles so that you can give us access. FYI, nothing will be changed without your approval.”

  “Right,” Jude says, nodding and taking a f
inal swig from his cup. “What the hell? Let’s do it, right?” He smiles at me and offers his hand again.

  “Great,” I say, shaking it. “And, listen, before you go, there’s a little game I like to play.” I take out my phone and click into the 24/7 app again. “Since I’m going to be helping you craft your voice, I like to try and see how well I get to know my clients just through the questionnaire. So, tell me, which five of these women would you pick as your matches?”

  “Hmmm … okay,” Jude says, as he takes my phone and looks closer.

  “Just jot down your answers,” I say, handing him my notepad and pen.

  He has my phone for a long time. I actually start a game of KenKen on my laptop before I hear him clear his throat.

  “All right. I think I’m ready.”

  I look over his notepad. And then I grin, flipping it over to reveal the ones I had picked for him earlier. Of course, I maybe wouldn’t have shown him my answers if my results hadn’t been so good.

  But they usually are.

  Four out of five. Miles Ibrahim: Love Wordsmith is back.

  CHAPTER 4

  To: All the Baes

  From: Clifford Jenkins

  Re: GIFT CARDS ARE WORKING

  Turns out the Beatles were wrong. Say whaaaat? You CAN buy love! Super psyched to report the gift card glitch sitch is under control. I also set it up so the default baseline starts at $299. Treat our gift carders like the royalty they are, ’cause they’ll be expecting a premium love match FAST. We’re talking crunch time, Cinnamon Toast–style.

  (That said, if their first choices sizzle out, remind them the gift card has unlimited refills. With wedding season upon us, we’re going to be marketing DIRECTLY to brides and grooms. It’s the perfect thank-you gift from the hitched to the ditched when tension and emotions are through da roof.)

  Wish I’d bought myself a gift card on the eve of a certain Save the Date event, but of course, they didn’t exist back then. Guess my loss is the world’s gain. #perspective

  Reminder: Our next meeting will be Tuesday, May 12, and I’m renting out the back room at Porchlight, so prepare to get your drank on! Till then, enjoy these April showers.

  Clifford

  CEO, Sweet Nothings (NOW GIFT CARD CAPABLE)

  P.S. If you understand blockchains, DM me.

  ZOEY

  My alarm splits the air at four a.m. and my hand flails around to shut off my clock and knock it to the floor, like I’m in the opening of a movie. I’ve lived here a month, but I still calculate what time it is on the West Coast (i.e., The Real Time). One a.m. sounds a lot better to me than four. One a.m. is fun and frivolous. It’s midnight showings of The Room at the Sunset Five. Ravenous trips to Pink’s Hot Dogs, or skinny-dipping in an infinity pool overlooking the Hollywood Hills. (I only did that once, but still. It could have conceivably happened every night.) One a.m. means trying to keep up with Mary’s extraordinary brain, Frank and me nipping at her heels while she paced in her kitchen. Frank is her emotional support ferret. I’m pretty sure he worked his magic on me, too. He’d ride on my shoulder while I transcribed her quips into dialogue for screenplays that needed a tune-up. Watching the sun rise outside her floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Studio City was the last time I remember feeling content with my place in the world.

  Working for Mary wasn’t exactly calm, of course. It was the elevator drop at the Haunted Mansion; twists, turns, and sudden mood shifts, followed by gale forces of screaming laughter. Mary swept into rooms as though they were towns. She held no illusions about her “quirks,” and greeted me each morning with some variation of “Let’s spin the wheel on my personality!” Twice my age but with the soul of a college student, she dillydallied for weeks and then pulled all-nighters twelve hours before her doctored pages were due. I practically lived at her house, often staying overnight in the guest room with its own balcony and mini-fridge. Some days all she asked was for me to read her the latest celebrity blind items while she lay on the couch with cucumbers on her eyes and Frank sleeping on her feet. The next week we’d spend ten-hour days at the Museum of Television and Radio aka the Paley Center on Beverly Drive, bingeing old award shows from decades past for inspiration (she was occasionally hired to write introductions for one actor to say about another actor during the Golden Globes, Emmys, or Academy Awards).

  The name of her script doctoring company was Mary, Fuck, Kill. I blushed every time I answered the phone, smooshing the words together so they’d be indistinguishable. “Mary Fuckle, how may I assist you?”

  She’d chastise me, “They’re going to think I married some schmo named Fuckle. Enunciate.”

  “Let them think that, then.”

  “If you don’t say it properly, I’m going to change the company name to George Carlin’s Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television,” she warned me. “Look, I’m filling out the paperwork now. ‘Shit, Piss—’”

  I threw an Undersea PEZ dispenser at her. “Okay, okay.”

  The Undersea PEZ dispenser represented her former life as an actress. In the mid-eighties, before I was born, she had portrayed Duchess Quinnley in a sci-fi/fantasy film about intergalactic mermaids. An on-set injury the final week of filming stripped her of all enthusiasm for performing and she’d successfully sued her way out, bankrupting future productions before they could start. She’d been trying to live it down ever since; fans still blamed her for the abrupt end of what was intended to be a trilogy, while in other circles, her departure added to the cult appeal of the one film that had been made. At least this way, they argued, it couldn’t be “ruined” like other long-running franchises because it would never have an ending. Fan conventions and cosplay tournaments kept the cult alive, and invites to appear on panels still filled Mary’s inbox on a daily basis. One of my jobs was to delete them, unread, each morning.

  Of the seemingly infinite collector’s items on eBay (toys, games, and action figures instilled with her likeness), the only one she owned was the PEZ dispenser, because it symbolized her current work as a script fixer: “People pay me to lift up my neck hinge and shoot out something tart and sweet on command, with ten more of equal quality lined up behind it.”

  Seven weeks ago, she told me I was the best assistant she’d ever had, and that’s why she had to fire me. Instead of living my own life, I was living hers. I needed to throw myself into new situations if I was ever going to grow as a writer, as my own writer. I begged for another six months of time while I figured out where I wanted to go and what I wanted to do, and she said she’d sleep on it. The next morning, when I knocked on her door, she handed me a one-way ticket to New York, paperclipped to the address of an apartment she’d leased in my name. (I found out later she’d purchased the building in the mid-1980s with her Duchess Quinnley money. It was worth a fortune now, but she preferred to rent to starving artists and offer them merit-based discounts.)

  She blew me a kiss, closed the door, and locked it. I saw Frank in the window for a split second before the blinds snapped shut, too.

  Now here I am at four a.m. in the Big, Rotten Apple, forcing myself to wake up on a weekday so I can be the first customer at the only place I’ll go all day, which happens to be across the freaking street.

  Somehow, I don’t think this was what Mary meant by “living.” But until and unless New York stops being frightening and grotesque, I don’t see anything changing.

  When I arrived home yesterday, there was a basket outside my apartment door. Inside was a barely legible, handwritten card: “Champers for my Champ! You’re money, baby!—Clifford.” The rest of the basket was empty. Someone stole my champagne.

  That about sums up my view of Manhattan. Everything’s there for the taking, and it’s been taken by someone else.

  I roll across my lumpy couch bed and land in “the kitchen,” aka the area where the hot plate and mini-fridge are. Another piece of advice from the neighbor I’ve only seen once: “Use your oven to store your winter coats.” (Without a closet or cooking
skills, that made pretty good sense to me. Unfortunately, I’m sans oven. Instead, I hang my sweaters in the empty pantry.)

  Out the window, the city is dark and unfriendly. The noise of a truck backing up—beep, beep, beep—fills the air. Is there a single quiet hour here? Ever? I make a deeply ironic cup of coffee so I can wake up enough to sit outside Café Crudité and insure I’m the first customer to arrive and purchase more coffee. Then I plop down cross-legged in front of the lopsided mirror hanging on the door and scrutinize my face. I looked like a human Xanax withdrawal yesterday, blinking into the light, but today that won’t do. It’s not enough to beat the Table Thief; I want to look good doing it (but not as though I’m trying to look good). I dab on tinted moisturizer, a swipe of eyeliner, and a muted lip. I’ll still wear my stomping boots and the arm warmers Mary knitted because I refuse to be miserable in an overly air-conditioned building, but other than that, I’m less Manic Pixie Nightmare and more “Oh, did I put on makeup?” I smile at my reflection, pleased with the results.

  Outside on the darkened sidewalk, I’m flooded with adrena-line. There aren’t many people out, which is nice, but on the other hand, there aren’t many people out, so if something happens to me, or I need help in any way, there will be no one to hear my cries.

  Boots, start walking. Fast.

  I make it across the crosswalk on my second try. Progress. Then, at precisely 5:01, Evelynn strides toward the café entrance to unlock the door and jumps when she sees me.

  “Hi! Sorry. Hi. I guess I’m the first one here today, ha ha ha. Am I the first one here?” I sputter.

  “Yes,” she says. “Can you stand back while I …”

  “I’m curious, is the biscotti already sitting there waiting for me? Or do you have to bring it out and display it?”

  “We discontinued that policy after the events of yesterday.”

  My mouth falls open. “Are you serious?”

  “No.” She motions with her hand. “Can you give me a little space?”

  Five minutes later, I’ve set up my mobile office at the glorious, big table, devoured all the free biscotti, thank you very much, and swallowed half my second cup of coffee. Ten minutes after that, the place is jumping with commuters, yet there’s no sign of the Table Thief. In between hostilities, he’d mentioned he “spreads out his visits,” so maybe he’s off to the next coffee shop on his rotation. I’ll be pissed if I got up early and went to all this trouble for nothing; is it so wrong that I want him to show up, witness his own defeat, and feel the loss of the good table before exiting my café and my life?