“I don’t know what happened,” James says, looking dejected. “I did everything you said!”
“I know, but—”
“I bought her another coffee, I offered her my shirt . . . I even said I liked that silly country song!” he continues. “But she just rushed off without even looking. I didn’t even get her number. What went wrong?”
I’m wondering the same thing.
We’re in the break room at James’s hospital, doing a postmortem on what was supposed to be the perfect first encounter with April. But postmortem is a good term for what went down, because he basically murdered that meet-cute, despite me giving him all the info he needed to hit a home run. Her favorite music, her old-fashioned-romantic-type vibe . . . I never send my clients in blind, but even with all the right preparation—and a perfect opening line (thanks to me paying that bike messenger ten dollars to literally shove her into his path)—James still struck out. Big time.
It might just be the worst first meeting I’ve seen in my years doing this job, but I can’t exactly say that to him. Time for some pep talk-slash-damage control.
“It wasn’t a complete bust,” I tell him, upbeat. “You got in front of her. She saw you’re a good, stand-up guy. Ready to offer her the shirt off your back—literally. It’s just the first step. Don’t even worry about it. Not everyone falls in love at first sight. Sometimes, it takes a second or third try.”
James pauses. “I don’t know. Maybe hiring you wasn’t a good idea. Setting up this whole meet-cute thing, it seems like a lot of effort when I could just introduce myself and ask her out.”
“Sure, you could be direct, but what if she turns you down? You’d be leaving way too much to chance,” I argue. “Why leave things to fate and coincidence when you can engineer destiny instead? People make their choices for a million different reasons—and it’s my job to set the stage to guarantee your romantic success. And I will.”
“I guess so . . .” James still looks on the fence, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to wave a lucrative client goodbye all because he couldn’t take things to the next step.
“Trust me, I’ve done the research on this April chick. I know what she’s looking for in a guy. The next time she runs into you—pun intended—you’re already set up to work that bashful magic. She knows you have a job, are charming, and a gentleman. We’re laying groundwork. Rome wasn’t built in a day—even by a professional Romeo,” I add with a grin.
“OK, we’ll give it another try.” James looks more enthusiastic this time. “You’re going to make it happen though, right? From the second I saw her, up to her elbows in floral wreaths, at my cousin’s wedding, I knew she was the one.”
Bless.
I’m not the kind of guy who believes in love at first sight. Lust, yes. Intrigue? Absolutely. But it’s what happens next that makes all the difference . . . which is why I’ve made a career out of engineering that “next” to give my clients their maximum shot of turning a great first impression into something more.
Because it all comes down to good planning.
Screw fate, ignore destiny, try some expert research instead. The way we feel about someone is all just chemical reactions in the brain. Chemicals that can be manipulated—I mean, encouraged, given just the right setting. From finding out people’s interests and secret passions to setting the scene with just the right music, ambiance, and—sometimes—hormones, I do it all. For a handy fee. It’s not exactly matchmaking or relationship coaching. I like to think of it more as directing the perfect romantic production.
Where only one half of the couple knows the whole thing is staged.
“It will happen,” I tell James, confident. “The spilled coffee routine should have worked. Something was off. I’ll get her next time for sure. I mean, you will.”
James gets a text. “My surgery just got moved up. I need to go scrub in.”
“Go, save lives,” I tell him. “I’ll text you the details of the next setup. Don’t worry,” I add. “This time, she won’t be able to resist.”
“I’m counting on it!”
After I finish up with James, I head out across town. I’ve got a dinner meeting with my boss to update him on my latest clients. I was hoping to be able to report back another stunning success with James and April, but it looks like this one is going to take a little more work.
Why didn’t April take the handsome pediatric doctor bait?
I figured he’d be just her type—which is useful. Sometimes, I have to do a total 180 on my clients to whip them into eligible shape, but James didn’t need any makeover at all. From scoping out April at her shop the other day, I figured she’d be all about getting rescued by a cute stranger. The “coffee trip” is a classic in my book, and great for getting a conversation started.
At least, it normally is. But April bolted before James even stood a chance.
I go over some ideas in my head, looking for inspiration for Round Two, because I’m not ready to concede defeat. The scene today should have worked. I staged it perfectly. The smell of warm cinnamon rolls wafting, making her feel homey and safe. “Jolene” on the stereo, reminding her of true love. A helpful stranger, coming to her rescue . . .
Nope. Clearly, it’s time to take things up a level. I need to learn more about April to make it personal. No, not just personal, irresistible.
They don’t call me the King of Meet-Cutes for nothing. And I’m not giving up my crown without a fight.
I reach the restaurant where my boss, Winston, likes to meet, and I head inside. It’s an old-school Italian place, with faded red leather banquettes and black-and-white photos of Sinatra and co. on the walls.
“Hey Seth,” Gino greets me in the lobby. “Winston says he’s running five behind. Go on back and have a drink, and he’ll catch up.”
“Thanks.” I tip my hat and head to our usual booth. Winston doesn’t go for anything as basic as an office; he runs Romeo, Inc. out of half the classy cocktail bars in the city. I had my doubts to begin with—when he first tried to recruit me, I thought he was running some kind of weird escort service—but I learned soon enough that the Romeos don’t do the dating, we just make sure everybody else does.
I’d been chasing after my latest crush at the time, a PR girl for a fashion magazine who liked to grab lunch at a Chinese place around the corner. I slipped the guy behind the counter twenty dollars to give her a special fortune cookie telling her that love was right in front of her, and then I “accidentally” lost her umbrella in the pile. A “casual” introduction later, I walked her back to the magazine under my umbrella big enough for two, and just like that, I was all set for a date Friday night—and Winston (who’d been at the next table) had offered me a job, using my skills of romantic staging to help the lovelorn folks of New York connect with the partners of their dreams.
The girl is ancient history, but I’ve been working for Winston ever since. And loving it. He started out behind the scenes on Broadway, and has been a romance pro for thirty years. He’s taught me everything he knows. How to create atmosphere, to read people and figure out what they want more than anything. And then how make it happen, using every trick in the book.
“We’re running the biggest production around,” he likes to say. “What’s a stage show without music, costume, dialog? Love is just like that. You’ve got to wow them from the start!”
So, I treat every job like its own production: orchestrating every moment so people can’t help but swoon. Some people are looking for excitement and daring; others like to feel they’ve known someone for years.
And, yes, most of them want to believe in soulmates. That fate has delivered the perfect person right to their door.
They just don’t realize there’s someone giving fate a helping hand.
“Ah, Seth, there you are.” Winston arrives, looking dapper as ever in a three-piece suit. He’s just like the restaurant: a New York classic, through and through. He slides into the seat opposite me, and immediately, Gino materializes with two dirty Martinis and a basket of bread.
“The usual?” Gino asks.
“You got it.”
Winston turns to me and raises his glass. “Congratulations are in order. I just got another wedding invitation. Thanks to you.”
“Laura and Carlos?” I ask, smiling. I already got mine in the mail.
“Indeed. To another happy couple.”
I toast him and take a drink, glad at least my skills have worked for some people.
“What was the magic trick for them?” Winston asks.
“Laura came to me last year,” I recall. “Carlos worked in another office in her building, but she never got a chance to get talking to him. So, I got her a seat at the Knicks game right next to his season tickets, and I paid off the Kiss-Cam to focus on them at halftime. The two of them took it from there!”
“A job well done.” Winston gives an approving nod. “Now, how are your latest clients getting on?”
I fill Winston in on the James situation. “Clearly, I need to take things up a level. The coffee spill is a good classic, but someone who cares about romance and symbolism like this florist might need something more dramatic.”
Winston nods. “You said James is a doctor? How about a minor medical emergency on the C train? Nothing like a little drama to get the adrenaline pumping. If they band together to save a dying passenger, that’s a story she won’t forget. And the human body can’t distinguish between the oxytocin released by panic, and the stuff released by lust.”
I pause. Staging a heart attack just to impress April might be going too far, but Winston is the expert . . .
Maybe.
“Either way, I have every confidence in you, boy. Next thing you know, we’ll be at their wedding, toasting my retirement.”
I nearly choke on my Martini. “Retirement?”
He chuckles. “Not yet, but someday. These winters are getting to me. Maybe I’ll get a yacht, cruise around the Med for a while. Enjoy the scenery,” he adds with a twinkle in his eye.
I grin. Winston is a die-hard bachelor, and pretty much my role model when it comes to enjoying himself without getting tied down.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I tell him. “You love this city.”
“That, I do,” he agrees, and he raises his glass in another toast. “To New York . . . and all her lovelorn inhabitants.”
“And their checking accounts,” I add with a grin.
“I’ll drink to that.”
I stay for dinner with Winston, soaking up his stories about his bachelor days—and a bottle of wine. I’m just about ready to crash by the time we’re finished eating Gino’s finest spaghetti carbonara, but I’m not done yet. I need to do more recon on April so I can figure out the best way for James to sweep her off her feet. She’s clearly a romantic, so it’s just a matter of setting the stage and getting her to realize that James could be The One.
I detour via her neighborhood to get inspired and see what raw material I’m working with. But I can’t risk her recognizing me, so I keep a low profile: staying low behind my scarf and coat collar. Luckily, the weather is still so bad that everyone’s bundled up, and it’s hard to make out anyone, but as I’m strolling towards her street, I see her coming straight for me!
Damn.
I duck back into an alleyway, out of sight.
Luckily, April is walking fast, wearing an adorable pair of fluffy earmuffs against the wind. I have to admit, I understand why James fell for her. She’s definitely cute, and from our flower shop conversation, I also know she’s smart and funny . . .
And a challenge.
So how can I engineer the perfect meet-cute for them?
I step out from the alley and carefully trail her down the street. I’m not exactly stalking her; research is a vital part of my job. You know when you meet someone, and they magically like all the same movies and books as you, and you wind up talking for hours, feeling like you’re on the same wavelength?
Well, let’s just say that kind of connection doesn’t come without some serious research.
I follow her past the bodega and back to that coffee shop on the corner, the site of her failed meet-cute with James. They’re just closing up for the night, and it’s kind of late for coffee, but as I watch through the window, April doesn’t go to the counter. Instead, she pins something up on the community bulletin board, waves goodbye to the barista, and heads out again.
I wait until she’s gone before ducking inside.
“We’re closing.”
“I know, I won’t be a minute.”
I hurry over to the noticeboard, and look to see what April just posted.
It’s an ad: ROOMMATE WANTED - 2 bedroom. Please be neat, responsible, no death metal fans. First/last, bonus points for cooking skills.
There are tabs at the bottom of the sheet that have April’s name and number listed, so I tear one off.
Perfect.
Something tells me she’s about to find her dream roommate.