New York, Actually. Sarah Morgan

funny. Any tips?”

      “I don’t have any advice to offer on relationships except maybe don’t do it.”

      “I was talking about the dog.”

      “Oh. Well, you could start by calling him by a name he actually recognizes.” Fliss made for the door. “And if he has behavioral issues, then at least that’s one thing the two of you have in common.”

Three

       Dear Aggie, if there are plenty of fish in the sea, why is my net always empty?

      Molly let herself into her apartment, dropped her keys into the bowl by the door and headed straight to the shower.

      Ten minutes later she was back at her computer. Valentine curled up in a basket underneath her desk and put his head on his paws.

      Sunlight flowed in through the windows, bouncing off the polished oak floor and illuminating the handwoven rug she’d picked up from a textile design studio she’d discovered on a trip to Union Square. In one corner of the room was a large wooden giraffe that her father had shipped to her from a trip to Africa. No one glancing at her overflowing bookshelves would have been able to discern much about her character. Biographies and classics nestled against crime fiction and romance. Also on the shelf were a few remaining author copies of her first book, Mate for Life, Tools for Meeting Your Perfect Life Partner.

      Do as I say, don’t do as I do, she thought. She’d dedicated it to her father, but probably should have dedicated it to Rupert. For Rupert, without whom this book would never have been written.

      But to do that would have meant risking exposure, and she had no intention of letting anyone discover the real person behind “Dr. Aggie.”

      No. Her father was the safest option. That way she could ensure that everything she’d built stayed standing and she could push the whole Rupert episode, as her father called it, into a mental box labeled Life Experience.

      When she’d first moved to New York, she’d shared a room in a dingy walk-up in the outer reaches of Brooklyn with three women who had an addiction to beer pong and all-night parties. After six months of panting up one hundred and ninety-two stairs (she’d counted every one) and taking the subway into Manhattan, Molly had blown the last of her savings on a small one-bedroom on the second floor of a building several blocks away from Central Park. She’d fallen in love with the apartment on sight, and with the building, with its cheerful green door and iron railings.

      She’d fallen in love with her neighbors, too. On the ground floor was a young couple with a baby and one floor above them was Mrs. Winchester, a widow who had lived in the same apartment for sixty years. She had a habit of losing her keys, so now Molly kept a spare set. Directly above Molly were Gabe and Mark. Gabe worked in advertising and Mark was a children’s book illustrator.

      She’d met them on her first night in her apartment when she was trying to fix a misbehaving lock on her door. Gabe had fixed it, and Mark had made her dinner. They’d been friends ever since and new friends, she’d discovered, were sometimes more reliable than old ones.

      The friends she’d had from childhood had abandoned her in droves when her life had fallen apart, reluctant to be sucked down into the deadly quicksand of her humiliation. At first there had been a few supportive phone calls, but as the situation had worsened, the support and friendship had trickled to nothing. They’d behaved as if her shame was infectious. As if by standing side by side with her, they might catch whatever she had.

      And in a way she didn’t blame them. She understood the hell of having reporters camped outside the house and of having your reputation shredded online. Who needed that?

      Plenty of people wanted fame and fortune but no one, it seemed, ever wanted to trend on Twitter.

      It had made her decision to leave London even easier. She’d started a new life, complete with a new name. Here in New York, she’d met new people. People who didn’t know. The people in her apartment block were wonderful, and so was the Upper East Side. Amidst the vast grid of tree-canopied streets and avenues, she’d discovered a neighborhood flooded with New York history and tradition. She loved it all, from the ornate prewar co-op buildings and brownstone row houses to the classic mansions along Fifth Avenue. It felt like home and she had her favorite haunts. When she couldn’t be bothered to cook she’d nip out and pick up a panini or homemade pastry from Via Quadronno between Madison and Fifth, and when she felt like celebrating she’d head to Ladurée and indulge herself in a selection of macarons.

      She’d explored Manhattan and discovered hidden salsa clubs, arts clubs, jazz clubs. She roamed the galleries, the Met, the Frick and the Guggenheim. But her favorite place was the sprawling expanse of Central Park, a brisk ten-minute walk from her small apartment. She and Valentine spent hours exploring hidden corners together.

      She flicked on her laptop and reached for her water while she waited for the machine to boot. Her desk was cluttered. Papers stacked high, scribbles and notes, two coffee mugs abandoned and forgotten. When she worked, she focused and that included blocking out the mess.

      When her phone rang she checked the caller ID and answered immediately. “Dad! How are you doing?” She listened as her father told her about his latest adventure. He’d moved from London a few months before her embarrassing fall from grace, something for which she would forever be thankful. Having retired from his job in an electronics company, he’d bought himself an RV and proceeded on an epic road trip of the continental US, exploring his homeland state by state. In a dusty, sunbaked town in Arizona he’d met Carly and they’d been together ever since.

      Molly had met her once and liked her, but what she liked most of all was that her father was so happy. She remembered watching him, stumbling his way through those first few years after her mother had left, his confidence drowned in the wake of monumental rejection.

      She couldn’t remember exactly when she’d started encouraging him to date. It had started in school, during her teenage years, when she’d realized that she was more interested in observing other people’s relationships than in having one herself. And observing had uncovered an ability to match people up. She could see it so clearly. Who would be good together and who wouldn’t. Whose relationship would last, and whose would crash on the rocks at the first sign of rough seas. Word had spread that she had a gift. And she loved using that gift. Why not? It was hard to find the right person in this crowded, crazy world. Sometimes people needed a little help.

      They’d called her The Matchmaker. Which was a lot better than the name she’d earned herself a few years later.

      At school, most of her lunchtimes and a large chunk of her evenings were taken up giving relationship advice. Having seen her father exhaust himself trying to please her mother and failing, she’d always encouraged people to be themselves. If you weren’t loved for who you were, a relationship had no future. She knew that. If you weren’t enough for someone, you’d never be enough.

      No matter how hard he’d tried, her father hadn’t been enough for her mother.

      Molly hadn’t been enough for her mother either.

      Her father’s voice boomed down the phone, dragging her back to the present. “How’s my girl?”

      “I’m good.” She deleted a few spam emails with a stab of her finger. “Busy. Working on proofs of my next book.”

      “Always helping other people with their relationships. How about your own? And I’m not talking about Valentine.”

      “I have plenty of men in my life, Dad. I have a packed schedule. Tuesday and Friday is salsa dancing, Thursday is spin class, Wednesday is cooking class, Monday is theater group—there are men at all those places.”

      “But you’re single.”

      “That’s right. It’s because I’m single I can do all those things.”

      “Relationships