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

Alice took a moment to flick her dark blonde waves back into place over either shoulder. Nerves were burning a blush into her cheeks, even as a shiver ran down her spine, both nerves and shiver unrelated to the wet weather. Max’s Bistro on 34th St, Manhattan, was an elegant restaurant. It was the sort of place in which business people entertained each other, but where ordinary people went for special occasions. Alice had arrived five minutes late, and moved forward to be greeted by the maître d’hote as if she was the most important guest of the evening.

“Mademoiselle, how lovely to see you again!” the silver-haired, impeccably dressed man 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 arriving 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, staring into the middle distance. This was normal for him, and caused no concern. His face was thin, sharp, below slicked dark hair and brown eyes. 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 was 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 had immediately 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 now the moment was here, and she would perhaps only have a few minutes to decide, but she was excited. Very excited, to be asked.

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 had persuaded herself in the cab. He didn’t look particularly 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, when he wasn’t in his lawyer suits. She waited briefly for his comeback, but this was aspirational. Sam had never complimented her, not in two years, not since their first date. Her British ancestry made her bad at taking praise, so it didn’t matter.

“So, how was your week?” Best keep things simple, until he gets his courage in the right place.

The conversation was quite desultory, as they ordered and ate their way through coquilles St Jacques and then 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 her anticipation nicely, so much so she could almost admire the way he was keeping her on those tenterhooks. Her heart rate was higher than usual, the blush still in place, the shiver still running up and down her spine like Billy Joel practising scales.

“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.” This response always worked with Sam, but she hadn’t been listening carefully, because she was waiting for the Big Question. Until he asked it, nothing could be allowed to 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 advised, and everything had turned out brilliantly.

She tuned out a little from Sam’s story, giving her time to re-assess the moment. If they moved in together, would it be to his little one-bed apartment in the East Village, which was very small, or to her rather larger apartment in Brooklyn, with its two bedrooms? Hers would be better for her, and his presumably would be better for him. If they did choose his, that horrible wallpaper would have to go. Who the hell chose a black pattern for wallpaper? It gave her the creeps. She didn’t buy his claim that it made for a darker, more romantic atmosphere. It looked cheap and felt scary. Or perhaps they could sell both and move somewhere new together? Maybe Murray Hill or one of those nice lofts in Williamsburg? The important thing was that he wanted to commit, and that was new news. On balance, she felt he probably wasn’t going to propose yet – that wasn’t his style, if they hadn’t moved in together yet. She wasn’t sure quite what his style was, but it wasn’t that.

But if Sam wants me, then that’s great, isn’t it? Whether it was to move in, or to be married, it was a huge step forward.

The rhythm of Sam’s drone had reached a familiar level, and she thought he might be getting to the end of the tale. It was time to dial back in.

Sam was just finishing up. “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, I hope so, darling. 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’d spoken. The tablecloth looked white, and empty, as their hands parted. Even as the first cold frisson of concern wafted down her spine in counterpoint to Billy Joel, she finished carefully.

“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.”

The 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 affectionate 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 warm thrill of anticipation. Even Billy Joel took a break.

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. I think it is more polite to do it this way. 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. She didn’t know how to respond, so she absently dipped the spoon into the panna cotta again.

“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. But this is all me.”

Alice froze, with the spoon halfway to her mouth, on automatic. 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 relationship depth charge with no emotion of any kind.

“Someone else?” she asked, bewildered.

“Tracey, her name is. She’s a hair stylist. Not a hairdresser – a hair designer.” He leaned forward, coating 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 really love you, even if you do love me. She’s a real All-American girl. I’ve been cruising along, not feeling anything much, for weeks.” His eyes took on a distant cast, as if he was remembering something this Tracey slut had done that he liked more than Alice. It was revolting and shaming at the same time. “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.” He sat back again, presumably hoping she thought this was another feather in his figurative cap.

Alice had already re-frozen. Break up? What about moving in together? Isn’t that why we are here? The sting about Tracey being All-American had hurt. Alice was a US citizen, even if her parents had brought her over from the UK when she was twelve.

The books all said you were supposed to be aloof, majestic and imperious in defeat, but Alice felt unable to do anything which could be described in any of those terms. Instead, she flailed around for a way to reverse this.

“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 again, finding it a poor second to her seabass in terms of emotional response.

“I’ve made up my mind, Alice.” Now he was moving away, emotionally, the sharpness of that face looked more reptilian to Alice.

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

The ethical stiletto 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 stood up, even as their waitress passed by with a calorifically unwise slice of gateau for another table, and asked the surprised 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. 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. She caught the maître 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 stepping 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 started.

*

“The expression is ‘misery loves company’, and that is not what it means anyway, girl.” Sally would always correct loose language. By Saturday lunchtime, Alice 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, comparing this post-hoc analysis with yesterday’s much more hopeful one. 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?

Her excitement had begun to build in her office the previous afternoon. She’d been 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. The article was not her best work, as she well 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 she did when leaving a lot of the restaurants on 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 – everyone knew that was definitely Will Unwin.

That afternoon, Alice had stood in front of the mirror, talking to herself out loud for self-encouragement, and for protection against the nerves. That protection had worked about as well as a chocolate condom. It was time to be more honest with herself, now the damage was done.

Well, you are probably 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 & Peller always, always measured her at 32A. She didn’t go back there too often, because everybody knew 32A 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, Alice Weatherall. Maybe a seven, if you scrub up and make a real effort.

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

The mental jury carried on analysing.

You don’t have perfect teeth, or astonishing eyes. You’re not a six foot beanpole on which any clothing will look amazing. You’re five foot four and a half, and usually happy at about eight stone. So you sometimes have to eat carefully to stop ballooning quickly from there, but the occasional blowout isn’t a disaster, such as when you got dumped by your arrogant shit of an ex-boyfriend and need your 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 this was just prejudice, as she had no information to go on. What did Tracey offer Sam, that you can’t? What could you, Alice, ever offer a man, that the Traceys of this world cannot knock aside?

Thought of Tracey made her consider her hair a little more closely than usual. Her hair was nice, she decided, even now, so that was something. Naturally blonde, but darker blonde, rather than ash blonde like Sally. Natural highlights, too. Her own hairdresser Jenny claimed she had a picture of Alice’s hair in the salon, to show customers what they should be aspiring to match with chemicals.

You’re not going to turn everyone’s heads, but you’re not going to put anyone off their food, either. You’ll have to be comfortable with that balance. Now you just need to find someone who likes that balance. Being comfortable with ‘not very good’ made her think of her colleague Will Unwin, as did the need to find another partner. Not today, obviously, but she always hated being single. And definitely not Will himself. The jury applauded this assessment.

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.

He wasn’t always terrible – Alice had almost 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, even married, who had met using each novel method.

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 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. She was determined to turn her skills into that novel at some point. Well, she told herself she was determined, but there was nothing to show for it so far.

One day.

*

Sally pushed the button for a third time. “Come on, come on, you lazy mare. Answer the blessed doorbell!”

Alice’s four-storey building in Brooklyn held eight apartments, two to a floor, but had not got any video doorbells yet. 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, focusing on his beautiful royal blue eyes 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 had a very nice, rich voice. The lobby smelled as usual of indifferent cleaning standards and elevator dust, but with a very nice cologne upper note.

“Do you want any help with your packages?” the man 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, 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, as if 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 how, 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. Do I detect a transatlantic accent?”

Sally was surprised. She didn’t think she had any English accent left. Like Alice, she had been the child of British immigrants, her father having transferred for his company in the pharmaceutical industry.

“You must have a good ear. I’ve been here for twenty years.”

JB smiled. “I’m a musician – it’s sort of compulsory. 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, but he went there knowing 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, same as. Then, when the desserts arrived, he tells me he has something very important to say.”

“To say? Not to ask?”

“No, definitely to say. I didn’t fully 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, he is very good-looking, I grant you, but 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 in drag look like a Navy Seal.”

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

“Yes. He may be unavailable, but at least he is gorgeous and always helpful. Only been here three months and he must have carried my groceries up 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...