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 her #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.”