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

by Tash Skilton

  I’m downing my last dregs of coffee when who should walk in but Mr. Personality. He scans the room and his gaze rests on me.

  “Not today, Satan,” I mutter triumphantly.

  His brown eyes whip toward mine. “What’d you say?”

  “Uh, I said, ‘Seat’s taken.’”

  “I can see that. Given that you’re sitting in it.”

  “Just wanted to make sure we’re clear. I’ll be here all day, by the way, so don’t get any ideas that you can, like, wait me out.”

  “Well, Fifty Shades can’t watch itself,” he says disdainfully.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Six straight hours of mommy porn is admirably rigorous.”

  “I have no idea what you’re—oh. The Weeknd.” Dammit, Clifford! “Uh, it was a parody video,” I stammer.

  “Parody porn is underrated,” he says condescendingly.

  “I didn’t come here to watch porn,” I hiss.

  “Just do me a favor and keep the volume down, okay? Some of us are here to work.”

  Asshole!

  “Miles, your order’s up,” Evelynn chimes in.

  Miles, eh? So, he’s got a name. But he doesn’t have a place to sit. Every table’s occupied, and more customers are piling in. He busies himself adding cream and sugar to his coffee while scanning the café for the next available place to sit. Unfortunately, the cream and sugar station is right next to me. I sense his gaze roving around and glance over in time to see him pour roughly half the café’s sugar supply into his mug. (And I thought he was tense before? He is going to Hulk Out when his blood sugar spikes.)

  Out of nowhere, “Last Dance with Mary Jane” by Tom Petty pours out of my speakers. Not again!

  A video chat box hijacks my screen.

  I try to press Do Not Accept as fast as humanly possible, but in my haste I click Accept by accident.

  “Should Frank get his own Instagram page, and if so, what should the sub-theme be?” Mary shouts.

  I manage to hang up while dozens of eyes swing toward me in irritation.

  “There’s a class for people who are new to computers coming up at the Y,” Miles says, lifting his mug (aka “sugar with a splash of coffee”) to his lips.

  I don’t have time to counter this bit of snideness before he adds, “Wait. Was that—was that the real Mary Clarkson trying to FaceTime you?”

  The image attached to her screen name is a faux-retro photograph from an old issue of Interview magazine. She’s got curlers in her hair, a bright red mouth, and a joint dangling from her lips. The song starts up again, with an added notification: Contrary, Quite would like to FaceTime. This time I mute the call and hang up simultaneously.

  “Hmm?” I feign ignorance.

  “Mary Clarkson. Undersea. Mary Clarkson!”

  “Maybe.” Don’t you wish you’d been nicer to me before, so you could ask me about her?

  “And you just … you just … you hung up on Mary Clarkson.”

  “I’m texting her instead. Volume control, remember?”

  I always forget that for dudes of a “certain age” (such as Clifford), Mary as the brave, feminist Duchess Quinnley of Undersea and her brief, forced mermaiding is everything golden and good from their childhoods. She was those guys’ first crush, and for some of them, their first, well … “self-love.” I wonder if that’s true of Miles. He looks younger than Clifford, though. He’s in way better shape, that’s for sure. Cutting remarks burn a lot of calories.

  Confession time: I’ve never seen Undersea. It’s actually the reason I got the job as Mary’s assistant.

  The temp agency I signed with after graduating from Santa Monica City College sent me on a mystery assignment to an anonymous female writer who lived above Studio City on Mulholland. I had no idea who she’d be or what she was looking for. I recognized her when she (and Frank) opened the door, but not the way a fan would. Just a vague thought of, “Oh. It’s her. Huh.”

  A standard résumé scan and work history interview commenced. At the end, she said, “Now for the most important question. What is the name of the home planet of the Sworkas?”

  “Uh …” This wasn’t something I could fudge my way out of. I was pretty certain the Sworkas were a loathed component of the fandom, cutesy and high-pitched. I seemed to remember they resembled dolphins, but as to the name of their planet, I hadn’t a clue. If I’d known Mary Clarkson was the person I’d be meeting, I’d have downloaded Undersea and prepared myself. Ah well, guess it wasn’t meant to be.

  I looked up with a shrug. “Planet Merchandising?”

  She grinned at me and it happened that quick: My life changed.

  “There are only two rules,” she said, eyes twinkling. “The first is, if I ever become someone who cares whether or not you know the answer to that question, shoot me. The second is, never see the movie. You made it this far; stick to your guns. You in?”

  I found out later she only hired non-fans. She didn’t care if you’d seen her as a mermaid once or twice when you were a kid, but if you regularly quoted the film as an adult, or owned, say, a Sworkas-to-English dictionary, that was an immediate disqualification.

  “How would you be able to take me seriously if you’d seen it?” she pointed out a few days later, while wearing a bedazzled eye patch and mismatched fuzzy slippers.

  Back at the café, Miles continues to hover.

  “Do you mind? I can’t concentrate in the vicinity of oglers,” I say.

  “I have nowhere to sit,” he points out. “Have you really come here every single day since you moved to New York?”

  My eye twitches. I’d meant for that factoid to boost my credibility as a valuable customer, not add fuel to his mockery. “Yes,” I grit out.

  “Why? There’s this thing called the City all around you, and it happens to be one of the most incredible places on earth—”

  For the tiniest moment of lunacy, I think about saying, “Maybe you could tell me where to start? You’ve survived here fifteen years—you probably know every nook and cranny and I could really, really use a friend here. Anyone who knows what they’re doing, because I sure as hell don’t,” but then reality intrudes, and I remember he’s a jerk who’s currently insulting me. Again.

  I turn my back, put on my headphones, and open a chat box to Mary.

  Zoey: Greetings from hell.

  Contrary, Quite: Are you expanding your horizons?

  Zoey: Someone stepped on my foot the first week and broke my little toe.

  Contrary, Quite: What are you whining for? It’s vestigial.

  Zoey: It’s probably going to fall off.

  Contrary, Quite: I’m sending you a care package.

  Zoey: Why? It’ll just get stolen. BTW you owe Nick, and I quote, “2k in back weed.”

  Contrary, Quite: Lies and slander. I only buy front weed. But that explains why he’s been so mopey and lovelorn lately.

  Zoey: What do you mean?

  Contrary, Quite: He had it bad for you.

  Zoey: Incorrect.

  Contrary, Quite: The other day he asked why I never gave you any time off. Apparently he got tickets for the Bowl and you told him you had to work late all month. ALL MONTH??

  Zoey: I didn’t like him that much.

  Contrary, Quite: All you had to do was tell me you had plans. We could’ve knocked off early AT ANY TIME.

  Zoey: *He* had plans. *I* wanted to work.

  Contrary, Quite: Did you taste the fried chicken at Momofuku, yet?

  Zoey: Not yet.

  Contrary, Quite: Don’t contact me again until you do. I mean it. You’re partially dead to me, starting … now.

  Tess Riley was my first client, and her Best Foot Forward had ended in success. It wasn’t easy to steer her in the right direction, though; it took several phone sessions to help her realize it was okay to be specific about what she wanted in a partner. New York City isn’t exactly running low on single men, but she felt bad eliminating anyone before she’d met them. I told h
er #FOMO would paralyze her, and then I worked my tail off helping her pursue her eventual match.

  All I know about my second client is her name (Bree Garrett), her age (twenty-five), and that she received a Sweet Nothings gift card from her friends on Galentine’s Day. Something must have happened between then and now that prompted her into using it, though based on Clifford’s memo, it’s also possible the gift cards simply weren’t working before. I’ve decided not to read her profile before meeting her. I don’t want to be influenced by any labored-over answers; I want spontaneous, combustible stuff so I can help project an authentic, flawed-but-lovable self into the world in the hopes of hooking her an authentic, flawed-but-lovable man.

  From the Freelancer’s Handbook: Do not present a “perfect” image. No one will trust it. (Nor should they.) Think of that old interview question: “What is your greatest flaw?” And the interviewee says, “I’m just too darn organized.” Don’t be the organized guy. Add a tiny blemish here and there.

  My phone buzzes as I’m headed out of the café bathroom.

  A text from Sweet Nothings: Incoming. Cupid is as Cupid does!

  A split-second later, the call arrives. I let it ring twice, take a deep breath, plaster a smile on my face, and launch my Calm Professional voice.

  “Hi, this is Zoey with Sweet Nothings. How may I help you?”

  “Basically, my dick picker is broken,” Bree Garrett says.

  Despite years of Mary’s non sequiturs, I’m unprepared for Bree’s opening statement.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I manage to reply, while suppressing a coughing fit. “But the good news is, today we start healing what’s broken.”

  “How does this whole thing work?” Bree asks. “Are you my Yentl?”

  I’m pretty sure she means “yenta,” but even that word is wrong, and I blame Fiddler on the Roof for it.

  “That’s right,” I say cheerfully. “Though I’m quite a bit younger than a traditional matchmaker. In fact, that’s one of the things we’re most proud of at Sweet Nothings—it’s more like a peer-to-peer safety net, like a trusted friend is setting you up on a date after helping you vet candidates. We help you express yourself in the most succinct, and, we hope, charming way, in order to get positive responses from the kind of men you’d like to meet. I think you’ll be happy to know I have a one hundred percent success rate.”

  My cheeks get slightly pink. (It’s not technically a lie. I’m one for one!)

  “Sweet,” she replies. “And you’re like a spellchecker and grammar bitch?”

  “Exactly. Minus the bitch part.”

  “Good, because I’m not about having my commas policed.”

  “What’s your schedule like? Want to meet in person today or tomorrow to update your profile?” I’m feeling the pressure of the gift card memo to work fast. But I also don’t want to push too hard and scare her off. “Of course, next week’s fine, too.”

  Not really, though! It’s Cinnamon Toast Crunch Time and the clock started ticking the moment she rang.

  “Couldn’t I link you to a profile that’s already up?” she asks.

  “You could, but I’ve found people will open up in ways they don’t expect if we chat in person, and it helps me get a feel for your personality, your likes and dislikes, and what you’re looking for physically. Because that counts as much as the mental connection.”

  “Truth.”

  “We’ll sync laptops and find a handful of candidates to reach out to, then see where that leads us. What’s your favorite online service?”

  “Last week it would’ve been Flirtville, but there are waaaaay too many STDs in that population,” she says.

  Ah. Something DID happen to push her to activate the gift card. I have a sudden chilling thought of Clifford listening in on our call. I have no idea how but I don’t want her to say anything personal over the phone in case it ends up in front of a man who regularly closes out correspondence with, “Smell you later.”

  “Whatta Catch and Game, Set, Match are good, but those tend to appeal to people who are looking for something more serious. Does that work?”

  “YES. I definitely want to go the serious route. Can you meet at Dominik’s for lunch on Saturday?” Bree says.

  I pull up a map on my laptop and shudder at what I see. Fifty-Fifth Street and Eighth Avenue. Two subway rides away.

  “Normally that’d be fine, but my cat’s sick,” I say in a guilty rush. He’s so sick he’s wasting away, almost as though he doesn’t exist… . “So unfortunately, I need to stay close to home. I’m in the East Village. Have you heard of Cheese?”

  “Is this a ‘Bree’ joke?”

  “No, sorry, I meant—it’s a restaurant, called Cheese.”

  “Do they serve anything besides cheese?”

  “I don’t think so. If you don’t eat cheese we can totally find someplace else.” How do you feel about Duane Reade, the only other food-dispensing place on my street?

  Miles catches my eye. “Say cheese,” he whispers as he passes by.

  I roll my eyes. Plus, how did he hear me? I’ve been speaking very quietly so as not to get on anyone’s nerves. At least, I thought I was. Maybe all the talk of cheese got me excited. After all, I can expense the meal.

  “Do they serve wine with the cheese?” Bree wants to know.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I could bring my own bottle.”

  “Okay, cool. Why not?”

  Having a glass of wine is a great idea. Then she’ll really open up. Also, I can pretend I have a friend in the city and we’re meeting to have wine and cheese, which is a completely normal, well-adjusted, healthy thing to do, rather than, say, going to a cheese-themed restaurant solely because I live, work, and “play” on a single city block.

  We settle on a time for Saturday and I give her the location.

  “What do you look like?” she says.

  “I have two-toned hair. Not because I’m cool, just out of neglect. It’s dark on top and turns light halfway down.”

  “I have one-toned hair, blond, and I’ll be in my 1981 Undersea T-shirt. I got it at a yard sale last weekend. I almost felt bad paying five bucks! I wanted to be like, ‘This is probably worth five thousand, sooooo …’”

  “Do you like the movie, or is it more about the vintage pop culture?” I’m truly curious. Fandom comes in many forms.

  “Oh my God, I loooooooove Undersea—you have no idea. It’s something I never put in my profiles, because I don’t want to be labeled a fake geek girl or whatever, but I’m all about wearing costumes at the midnight showing, I can do ‘the hair’ and all that, and this time for my profile I’d like to be up front about it. Really be ME, you know? Because otherwise, what’s the point?”

  I bite my tongue. I’ll be being her, at least at the beginning. But denying that fact is the number-one rule in the Freelancer’s Handbook:

  Never remind them you’re communicating with their potential dates as a Cyrano. That line of thinking derails the client-ghostwriter relationship; they might start to wonder whether they’ll be able to bridge the gap between what you typed and what they do or say on the in-person date. It’s best to get in and get out as swiftly as possible and let the client take over once you’ve attracted the interest of a good match.

  “You’ve seen it, right?” Bree says, reeling me back in to the topic at hand. “If you’re going to be talking like me, you have to be able to at least reference Undersea,” she adds.

  I don’t answer right away. I’m too busy shaking my fist at the universe. Twenty-nine years I avoided that ridiculous film. For eight of them, it was at the request of the Duchess herself.

  “You’re right,” I agree. “Can I borrow yours for a refresher course?”

  I opt for a minimal bluff by implying it’s just been a while since I watched it. (If Sweet Nothings attracts a fetish contingent we’ve never heard of and Clifford needs to change the company name again, I’ll suggest Minimal Bluff.)

  “
Original or director’s cut? Special edition or—”

  “Totally up to you. Whichever one you can most easily part with.”

  We exchange cell numbers so she won’t have to call the switchboard each time she wants to chat. I tell her I’m looking forward to meeting her and seeing her vintage Undersea T-shirt tomorrow.

  Somewhere in California, Mary raises a glass to me and laughs.

  CHAPTER 5

  To: All Tell It to My Heart Employees

  From: Leanne Tseng

  Re: Einsteins

  Team,

  Here’s what I know: You are all creative geniuses who are not necessarily getting the financial compensation you deserve due to circumstances beyond all of our control. Here’s what else I know: I think we can harness that creative IQ to try and change that.

  Got an idea for a great promotion? An exceptional tie-in? A snappy (jingle-less) ad? I’d love to hear it. Off-the-wall and out-ofthe-box are welcome here but, at the same time, simplicity often wins the day too. An idea as mundane yet infuriatingly brilliant as—just off the top of my head—gift cards could really mean the difference between a struggling company and the premier one in the field. It’s no secret that I want us to be the latter and I hope it’s also no secret that I want to take you with me.

  Oh, and besides the promises of future glories and promotions, any actionable ideas will also get a $500 bonus.

  Yours,

  Leanne

  MILES

  I haven’t been running much over the past six weeks. I haven’t exactly been feeling motivated to stay in shape, or get fresh air, or treat my body like a temple as much as a mausoleum for dead things, like feelings or a sense of self-worth. Every now and again, I’ve been doing a loop around Morningside Park, which is just a few blocks over from Dylan and Charles’s apartment, but that’s mostly been when Charles’s passive aggression has gotten the best of me rather than for any sort of health purpose.