Plenty of Fish

Robin Wright Full manuscript: 78,000 words

Plenty of Fish

by

Robin Wright

Adult

Romance with comedy

Epigraph:

A lady tossed her curls
At all who came to woo
She laughed to scorn the vows
From hearts, though false or true
While merrily she sang
And cared all day for naught
There are plenty of fish in the sea
As good as ever were caught

Stephen Foster (extract from There Are Plenty Of Fish In The Sea, 1867)

Chapter 1 – The Need

Outside the restaurant, Alice was happy, but nervous. Max’s Bistro on 34th St, Manhattan, was a classy restaurant. It was the sort of place that business people entertained each other, but ordinary people went for special occasions. Alice had arrived five minutes late, to be greeted by the maitre d’ as if she was the most important guest of the evening.

“Mademoiselle, how lovely to see you!” the silver-haired, impeccably-dressed man had gushed, though she had never been there before. As she gave her coat to the check girl, she heard him say the same thing to two other couples, so it was probably just his schtick. Sam was waiting at the table, a clear drink in a cocktail glass in front of him. The rich food smells from the kitchen gave the evening even more promise.

She had met Sam on a dating app, two years ago. He had been handsome, at least to her. Smart, if a little bit dour. They had generally had fun, and he had been there for her at family events and parties. When he had asked her to have dinner at the upmarket Max’s Bistro, she thought he was going to ask her to move in together, or maybe even to propose. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about either of those options, and she would only have a few minutes to decide, but she was excited. Very excited.

Alice greeted Sam with a kiss, as he half-rose from his chair, and swung herself into the seat opposite.

“This is lovely, darling,” she began. “I’ve never been here before. You look nice – very smart.” Classic opening for a girl who wasn’t expecting anything special tonight, Alice persuaded herself. He didn’t look nice, of course. His usual look, to which he adhered with snail-like suction, was more mid-town drug dealer than smart man-about-town. She waited for his comeback, but knew this was aspirational. Sam had never complimented her, not in two years.

The excitement had begun that Friday afternoon. turning in her article on women starting their own businesses with some reservations unaddressed, so she would have time to get home and ‘doll herself up’ as her best friend Sally called it. It was not her best work, she knew, and the editor at her magazine, Christine, had pursed her lips as she had accepted it. Christine had read most of it while Alice was closing her laptop with an apologetic smile. Christine’s expression had left her feeling like the restaurants at a lot of her dates with Sam – full but not particularly nourished. Not Clarissa McKechnie nourished, anyway. Clarissa was the best writer on the title, always turning in something that made the rest of them feel slightly grubby for not having thought of it first. As a result, Clarissa was always given the best articles to write. Alice was not the worst, though– that was definitely Will Unwin.

That afternoon, she had stood in front of the mirror, talking to herself out loud.

“Well, Alice, you are not going set the world on fire. Your boobs are too small for world-burning.” She usually wore a 36B, but the assistant at Rigby and Peller always, always measured her at 34A. She didn’t go back there too often, because everybody knew 34A was the equivalent of two aspirins on an ironing board, and she usually felt a lot sexier than that.

“If being mistaken for an escaped zoo animal, and not necessarily a mammal, is a zero, and Margot Robbie is a ten, then you are probably a six. Maybe a seven, if you scrub up and make a real effort. Tonight you are going to do that.”

Her bras were a bit loose, but that was a small price to pay for feeling like a woman, and not a girl. Sally always thought it was hilarious, but she filled a 36DD with some left over, so her opinion could obviously not be trusted.

But if Sam wanted her, then that was great, wasn’t it? Whether it was to move in, or to be married, it was a huge step forward.

“So, how was your week?” Best keep things simple, until he gets his courage in the right place, she thought. The conversation had been quite desultory, as they ordered, and ate their way through coquilles St Jacques and a steak for him, sea bass for her. She knew she was on tenterhooks, and every time he opened his mouth to say something, her hopes rose.

The normality of the dinner was building the anticipation nicely, and she could quite admire the way he was keeping her on tenterhooks.

“Mathieson wanted to give in to them, but I said we shouldn’t do that. And he agreed with me, and the next thing is they caved. On everything. So I was right, do you see?”

“Well done you! Another feather in your cap.” She hadn’t really been listening, because she was waiting for the big question, and until he asked it, nothing could really intrude.

Alice frowned slightly as the server cleared their main course plates and Sam began another anecdote about another client who had done exactly what he, the mighty Sam, had proposed, and everything had turned out brilliantly.

“So I’m hoping this will get me a fast track to partner status.” As the anecdote ground somewhat turgidly to this close, Alice pounced.

“Well, this is lovely, Sam. You are doing so well, and we are out at this lovely restaurant. The food is wonderful, and the company, of course.” She flashed him her sultriest smile. He looked up at her, and withdrew his hand from where she had covered it with her own as she spoke. Even as the first cold frisson of concern wafted down her spine, she finished.

“Is this a special occasion, sweetie? Was there something you wanted to ask me?”

Sam looked at her more closely, for a moment, and then nodded.

This must be it!

“Alice, the reason I asked you to join me here is that I’ve got something I need to say.” That word ‘say’ jarred, and Alice had the time it took the waitress to slide a dish of raspberry panna cotta in front of her and a cheesecake in front of Sam to process the incongruity. ‘Say’ did not sound as good as ‘Ask’, that was for sure. People ask when they want something from you, such as your company in their apartment or your love for all time. They say only when they have already made up their mind. She picked up the little spoon, and tried the panna cotta. It was sensational. She had better eat some before he did his ‘saying’.

“Go on. Tell me more.”

He wrong-footed her again, as he dabbed his mouth with his napkin and pushed his chair back slightly.

Oh my God! He’s going to get down on one knee! The frisson was blasted away in a thrill of anticipation.

Sam didn’t get down on one knee. Instead, he swung one leg over the other, and cleared his throat.

“Yes, there is something I want to say, Alice. To ask, really. I think it is more polite to ask. You see, I think our relationship has run its course. I think we should end it, now. Tonight.”

Alice’s mouth dropped open in shock. Whatever had been running through her mind and down her back, this hadn’t been it.

“The thing is, Alice, I need something different. Me. Not you, you’re lovely. A bit skinny, perhaps, and not enough up top, as we’ve discussed.”

Alice froze, with the spoon halfway to her mouth. Different? How different? Different how?

Alice opened her mouth to protest, but was a fraction of a second too late.

“But I’ve found someone else.” Sam released this depth charge with no emotion of any kind.

None of this computed, at the time.

“Someone else?” she asked, bewildered.

“Tracey, her name is. She’s a hair stylist. Not a hairdresser – a hair designer.” He coated the words with a sepulchral tone, like verbal gluten, as if by breathing heavily over them he could influence Tracey’s career dynamic. “She’s going to win awards. She just does a lot more for me than you ever did – made me realise I don’t love you, even if you love me. I’ve been cruising along, not feeling anything much, for weeks. So you see, I need to move on, and that means we need to break up. I’m sorry and all that, but I didn’t want to do this other than in person.”

Alice had already re-frozen. Break up? What about moving in together? Wasn’t that why they were there?

Alice did not have her finest half hour after that, that was for damned sure. The books all said you were supposed to be aloof, majestic and imperious in defeat, but she didn’t do anything which could be described in any of those terms. She couldn’t manage any of that.

“No, Sam! We have a great time, don’t we? We don’t have to break up, surely?” she had cried, reaching across to his hand, and finding it as responsive as a tranche of turbot.

“I’ve made up my mind, Alice.”

“What if I had the breast augmentation whatnot? Would that make the difference? You can decide how large I go, so it is right for you?” she had pleaded. “Then I’d be just right, wouldn’t I?” As she said this, a slight stab of concern had struck her, as to why she was even considering making such an offer.

It didn’t hold her back, though, as he just shook his head.

“Please, Sam, don’t do this. I’m begging you.” Why was she begging him? He wasn’t exactly Ryan Gosling. The tears were beginning to overwhelm her self-control, and she could feel a bubble of snot emerge from her nose, and swept it away hurriedly in a previously perfectly-starched and pressed linen napkin.

Sam had stood up, even as the waitress passed by with an unfeasibly large slice of gateau for another table, and had asked the stunned server for the check.

He paid the bill in their miserable silence, and left immediately thereafter with a look of disdain. Alice pursued him half-heartedly, knowing it was a waste of time and yet wandering out of the restaurant after him into the cold, thin, drifting drizzle, her hands flapping as if to wave him back, but no words came to her. She felt that even the weather was conspiring to emphasize the ruin of her happiness. None of that had been expected. Not the slightest suspicion had ever crossed her mind.

It occurred to her as the first drops ran down her neck that she needed to go back inside. The rain was of the floating kind that soaks everything it touches, and she was what it was touching. She sat back down at their table, contemplating the now paid-for panna cotta as if it was Judas’s thirty pieces of silver that he had given her. She caught the maitre d’s eye as he checked her over, presumably wondering if she was going to burst into tears and cause a scene. On tottering steps, she rose again and moved to the entrance, before running back inside to ask for the coat she had forgotten in the coat-check.

She Uber’d back to Brooklyn and got back into her apartment in a zombie trance state. Then the sobbing had started.

*

“The expression is ‘misery loves company’, and that is not what it means anyway, girl.” Sally would always correct loose language, Alice knew. By Saturday lunchtime, she had recovered enough to call for the bestie ambulance, by text.

Alice’s lips came together in a pout as she read the text, all the same. The three dots told her Sally was still typing. Alice typed back quickly. “It’s not you who just got dumped, Sally. It’s my misery, and I need my bestie to bring me ice cream.”

The reply came back in a few seconds – Sally must have been composing it even as Alice has responded. “I will happily turn up laden with whatever flavour you ask for, but saying it’s because 'misery loves ice cream’ is not the persuasive argument you think it is. What flavour do you want?”

Alice thought for a second. Sally was probably right – she was a lawyer, and accuracy was her thing. Alice needed total comfort food. “Milk & Cookies, if they have it. Or Cherry Garcia. Unless you can find that salted caramel gelato you brought last time. That was the bomb.”

The reply took a little longer, this time. “Ok, my darling, I will be over about four-ish. I can get the gelato, here in Manhattan. Is the ice-cream going to be enough, or should I bring some Chinese and wine?”

Sally was just the best, Alice thought.

“Whatever you think, Sal. This is the worst, though. The worst ever.”

The exchange over, Alice went through to her bathroom, and examined the damage. In the bathroom mirror, she saw a fairly ordinary woman of twenty-eight. She had nice features, she thought, although she had to make substantial allowances as they were all red, blotchy and puffy from where she had been sobbing her heart out for twelve hours. Everything was in its proper place, wasn’t it? She didn’t have perfect teeth, or astonishing eyes. She wasn’t a six foot beanpole on which any clothing would look amazing. She was five foot four and a half, and usually happy at about eight stone. She sometimes had to eat carefully to stop her weight ballooning quickly from there, although the occasional blowout wasn’t a disaster, such as when she got dumped by her arrogant shit of a boyfriend and needed her best friend to come round and commiserate.

She wondered about the girl Sam had dumped her for, Tracey, and imagined a pneumatic blonde airhead, though she acknowledged that this was just prejudice, as she had no information to go on. Tracey made her consider her hair a little more closely than usual.

Her hair was nice, she decided, even now. Naturally blonde, but darker blonde, rather than ash blonde like Sally. Natural highlights, too. Her own hairdresser Jenny said she had a picture of Alice’s hair in the salon, to show customers what they should be aspiring to match.

She was not going to turn everyone’s heads, but she wasn’t going to put anyone off their food, and she was comfortable with that balance. Now she felt she just needed to find someone who liked that balance. Being comfortable with ‘not very good’ made her think of her colleague Will Unwin, as did the need to find another partner.

Will was a terrible writer, in her view, always banging on about weird details instead of things the reader wanted to know. Given a hotel to review, he would always inform his audience of the thread count of the linen, or the average age of the waiting staff, but never whether it was a comfortable place to stay or if the food was any good. There had even been complaints, which was fabulously rare. Few people would actually bother to contact or write in to a magazine to say they had either enjoyed or not enjoyed an article, let alone to say that the article was rubbish.

He wasn’t always terrible – Alice had enjoyed Will’s article on how people were switching away from dating apps to other forms of meeting people, everything from going back to bars to chatting to strangers on multiplayer online games. He had found a couple of examples of people in good relationships who had met using each novel method, and some of the traditional ones too.

Alice was in the middle somewhere, with some good articles and some where she knew she had freewheeled. She was a good writer on her day, though. She was determined to turn her skills into a novel at some point. Well, she told herself she was determined, but there was nothing to show for it so far. One day.

She had not intended to become a features writer – like many a creative genius before her, she had wanted to be an investigative reporter. A couple of very dull watches at college shadowing an actual investigative reporter had taken the edge off that ambition like a great white shark tasting a surfboard. Casting around for alternatives, she had considered the deeper but less immediate task of the features department. She had found something of a métier in Features, at least until she sat down to write the Great American Novel.

It was not like the Hallmark movies, she thought, where every features writer was always up for an award or a promotion, before they met the love of their life, who was always a billionaire or a dreamboat rockstar or something. Real features writing was hard, and promotions very rare, unless someone left, which was also rare.

*

Sally pushed the button for a third time. “Come on, come on, you lazy mare. Answer the blessed doorbell!” Alice’s building had not got any video doorbells yet, she knew. The landlord was always promising them ‘next month, for sure’, but to Sally’s certain knowledge he had been saying that for at least two years.

There was a slapping sound on the stairs visible within the block through the glass door, but it wasn’t Alice. A tall, slim guy in t-shirt and jeans, maybe thirty-ish, blond, barefoot and carrying a pair of headphones came into view on the last short flight, his shadow announcing him first. Wow! thought Sally, as he came into view. He’ll do. The man crossed the lobby gracefully and opened the door.

“Can I help you?” he asked, leaning through the partly-opened door.

In so many ways, my friend, Sally thought, before saying out loud “I’m looking for my friend, Alice Weatherall. She’s expecting me.”

He pushed the door wide. “Then come in, friend of Alice Weatherall,” he said. He had a very nice, rich voice. “Do you want any help with your packages?” he asked, nodding at the big Chinese takeaway bags she had left on the pavement as she moved through the door. She looked where he was indicating, and realised her error. “Oh, yes, thanks. I was -” What was she? Distracted, that was the true answer. Wondering what those big arms would feel like as they swept her up, what those luscious lips would feel like pressed against -.

“I’ll get them, don’t worry.” Pushing the door wide so it wouldn’t close on him, the man jumped into the street, grabbed the heavy takeaway bags and jumped back through.

“Expecting more people?” he asked, and when she looked mystified, raised the heavy takeaway bags horizontally, like it was some oriental gourmet weightlifting exercise.

“Oh, er, yes, I think Alice....I’d better get up there.” She didn’t want to explain that when they were commiserating, both she and Alice could shift enough food for a pro football team. She started up the steps, hearing him move smoothly up behind her.

“I hope she feels better soon,” the man said.

“Who?” Sally asked, momentarily at a loss.

“Alice. She’s been upset, I collect.”

Who the hell says ‘I collect’ these days? Sally wondered. “Oh, er yes, she’s had some bad news. Did she tell you?”

“No. I haven’t seen her in a week.”

Sally moved up to the next landing, the second, for Alice’s apartment, and turned to see him take one giant stride to stand next to her.

“So how did you know she’s upset?” she asked.

“Ah, well, I was listening to music, earlier. Classical music. Very emotional. But the, er, emotional part carried on even when the music had stopped. So...” He indicated the headphones.

Alice nodded in understanding. “Sorry. She’s quite upset, Mr – what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. But it is John. John Buckley. My friends call me JB. They’re not a very imaginative lot. Miss...?”

“Oh, er, Sally. Moss. Friend of Alice’s.”

“Yes. Well, nice to meet you, Miss Moss. You know your way from here, I expect?”

Sally turned and saw she could reach out and touch Alice’s door. “I’ll be fine,” she said, seeing the smile in his eyes. “Nice to meet you too, John. JB, even.”

She watched as he crossed the landing and went back in to the apartment opposite, whose door he had obviously left ajar for the purposes of going downstairs and letting her in.

She shook herself, like a puppy leaving a puddle. What the hell are you doing, Sally? You’ve got a boyfriend. Harry may be – and is – a useless, unhygienic, vacuous, stingy and unimaginative lump, it is true, but until you dump him like you keep promising yourself, you’re not available.

A few seconds later a very bedraggled Alice let Sally in to her apartment, a tissue to her reddening nose.

“What has that miserable bastard done now, babes?” Sally said in greeting.

*

Alice was settled on her own couch with a duvet, a box of tissues and a tray holding a bowl of hot and sour soup and one of lo mein.

“It was all a bit predictable, really, I suppose, with hindsight. I went there thinking he was going to ask me to move in, and he went there thinking he was going to ask me to move on. He didn’t say anything major for the whole of the starter and the main, just told me about his week as usual, really. Then, when the desserts arrived, he says he has something very important to say.”

“To say? Not to ask?”

“No, definitely to say. I didn’t pick up on it, at the time. I mean, he’d been a bit distracted, but he often was quite a moody git.”

“Oh, babe, moody doesn’t come close. I often thought he was planning a serial murdering spree.”

“No, you didn’t.” Alice looked vaguely scandalised, and put down her soup spoon.

Sally surrendered. “Okay, well, maybe not, but he was way beyond moody, anyway.”

“Yes, fair enough. Anyway, you can say what you like about him now, I guess. Then he says he thinks our relationship has run its course, and he wants to end it. I say no, there’s a lot of room to grow, and he says he’s met a slut called Tracey who sweeps up at a hair salon.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be paraphrasing, would you?” Sally grinned.

“So what if I am? He’s a massive piece of shit.” Alice rarely swore, but this was entirely justifiable, they subconsciously agreed. She dipped her spoon back into the slightly gelatinous, aromatic and spicy soup.

“No argument from me.”

“And now I’ve got to start all over again. I hate that part.” Alice didn’t hate it so much that it stopped her scooping delicious hot and sour soup into herself, though.

Sally dipped a vegetable spring roll into a chilli dip pot and took a bite. Through a small cascade of crumbs, she announced “I met your new neighbour. What a gorge.”

“What a what?” Alice asked, a forkful of lo mein noodles caught artistically twixt bowl and lip.

“Gorge. Gorgeous, you know. Dreamy.”

“Cool your jets, Miss I-have-a-crappy-boyfriend-who-I’ve-been-planning-to-dump-for-three-months. JB’s gay. Very gay indeed.” The noodles made their final journey into Alice’s mouth, and she bit down, striking a piece of hot chilli immediately, as her eyes betrayed.

“I’d dump Harry in a split second to have even one night with Mr John Buckley, gay or not, let me tell you.”

Alice was trying to recover from the sudden scalding sensation from the chilli, and was perhaps not her most empathetic self at that moment. “Well, unless you’re going to wear a constraining binder, put on a deep voice and let him take you from behind, he isn’t going to be interested.”

“Is that an option?” Sally pretended to perk up.

“You’re filthy.”

“How do you know he’s gay? He didn’t seem at all gay to me.”

“That’s because you’re you and he didn’t have boobs. No, I saw him kissing a ‘friend’ at seven a.m. on the day after he moved in. On the mouth. And the friend made RuPaul look like a Navy Seal.”

“Okay, that does sound a bit gay. What a shame. Right next door, too.”

“Yes. He’s lovely, though. Always helpful. Only been here three months and he must have carried my groceries up half a dozen times.”

“What does he do, Mr John Gay Buckley?”

“Works at the Met, he said, I think.”

“Ooh, is he a singer? He’s got a lovely voice.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t explored his tonsils, yet, with your prehensile tongue.”

“He didn’t offer. Anyway, I’m going to put this nastiness of yours down to the fact that you have had bad news.”

It was both the right thing to say and the wrong thing to say. “Oh, what am I going to do, Sal? I was just settled, thinking I might be happy.”

“No, you weren’t. It’s only a week since you spent forty minutes fulminating to me over a glass of falanghina in Zito’s about how thoughtless Sam was.”

“Well, he was a thoughtless massive piece of shit.”

“We need to get you a better vocabulary, Alice, darling. He said he hoped you would be feeling better soon.”

“Who did - Sam?”

“No. Mr Buckley of the washboard stomach.”

“How does he know I’m upset? How long did you spend chatting about me? And how do you know he has a washboard stomach?”

“Just a few seconds, as we came upstairs. He said he was trying to listen to classical music, and your sobbing sounded in line with the music until the music stopped. He was quite funny about it. He was only wearing a t-shirt and jeans. He’s definitely got abs.”

“Oh, well, I’m happy that my misery is providing you all with a source of amusement.”

“Oh, don’t be so crabby, babe. What are we going to do about you?”

“Oh, what am I going to do, Sal? It took me six months of swiping to find Sam. I swiped left so often I think I got RSI in my thumb and forefinger.”

“Well, there are many ways of finding a man, these days. Perhaps I should finally dump Harry and we could go on the prowl. But the dating sites are still a pretty good start.”

“Will Unwin says people are meeting on Warlocks & Witches and NeverWinter and Final Fantasy, these days.”

“What are they? And who’s Will Unwin?” Sally asked, entirely reasonably.

“They are online computer games, where you pretend to be an orc or an elf or a freaking centaur or whatever, and wander around virtually until you find someone to smite, or to chat to.”

“That doesn’t sound like your cup of tea.”

“It isn’t. Will is one of my colleagues. He did an article on new ways of dating a few months ago, which I thought was interesting.”

“Well, there you are. Even a couple of months ago you were thinking about dating.”

“I guess so. But Will’s research can be flaky and so I doubt any of it is credible.”

“Is he available? Will?”

Alice shuddered. “Oh, honey, even you would draw the line. There are not enough bargepoles in the world.”

“Have you got that article here?” Sally asked, expecting the answer no. “It might be a good place to start.”

“I can pull it down from the company website, I expect. Let’s have a look.” Alice slid in front of her laptop, and a couple of minutes later, her printer whirred asthmatically into action. She gathered the few sheets, and handed them over. “There you go.”

“He guarantees ‘a relationship to last the Seven Ages of Man, in only Seven Months’?” Sally chuckled. “Flaky is right – two of those Ages are infants, if I remember rightly. And another is a schoolboy, and isn’t one a loony, or something? I can’t quite remember. Let’s see, here. Meeting someone at work, tick. Meeting in a bar, makes sense. Dance class? I guess there is a chance. I wouldn’t have thought a high chance, but hey ho.” She munched away at her spring rolls as she read the article, interspersing her chewing with occasional comments, accompanied by a slight spray of crumbs. “Dating website, check. Video-gaming, just like you said. Wild. A sport – that’s a new one. And speed dating. Textbook.”

“What do you think?” Alice asked. “Of the article, I mean. Any mileage in it?”

“The last time I read anything this badly written, the author still believed in Santa Claus.”

“Yes, that’s Will for you. But he’s not making any claims for the sequence, really. It does seem that it would give one a pretty decent chance though.”

“Well, let’s start with the basics. Why don’t we have a bit of fun making you a new dating profile, and a profile of your ideal man? That’s always fun, isn’t it?” Sally took a laptop out of her capacious bag. “And cathartic.”

Alice looked at her friend, her tears in abeyance. “You are too good to me, Sal. Much too good.”

“No, I’m not. Now, do you want to start with ‘Goddess’ or ‘Princess’?”