After four hours of running tests and checking filters and a bunch of other stuff I don’t really understand, I finally come to the conclusion that my IP is on a ton of blacklists because someone using it is sending spam.
I don’t know what the Hell to do about that. I’m not even really sure what an IP address is. Irritation boils in my stomach. I don’t have time for this. My eyes flick to the clock at the bottom of my laptop screen. I need to find the invoice before my fabric supplier closes for the night.
Another email comes in.
Subject: I one-starred you on Google. You need to treat your customers better than this.
Swearing, I grab my phone and stab Zack’s contact. He picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, baby. I was—”
“What’s your email campaign rate?” I demand.
“What?”
“What are your click and open rates?”
“As your fake boyfriend, I have to say, this isn’t really turning me on. You wanna know a secret? Men love when you say ‘hello’ to them, instead of barking questions at them like you’re trying to use Siri. We’re sensitive like that.”
“Zack.”
He sighs. “I dunno. Me and Josh are both at a printing press. Hang on, he’s a nerd like you, he probably has them memorized. Let me check.”
“What?” I frown. “Why are you at a press?”
“We’re testing merch quality. All of these t-shirts look great on me. If you were wondering. Hang on, I’ll send a pic.”
I rub my eyes. It’s all so easy for them. They can record and edit a podcast, and film behind-the-scenes footage, and do bonus episodes, and update their website and social media every day, and stay on top of emails, and make new advertisements, and put out new merch every month — and I’m struggling to send a bloody email.
“He says fifty percent open, and eighteen percent click,” Zack says eventually. “Dunno if that’s good or not.”
I sputter. “Fifty percent? Are you sending people treasure maps, or something? How is that so high?!”
“I put grey sweatpants pictures in some of them.”
“Jesus.” I lean back against the wall, breathing hard. “Right. Okay, then.” Clearly, I’m really messing something up. I just have no idea what.
Zack’s tone changes. “Hey. You okay, honey? You don’t sound so good.”
“I’m fine. Just. Having some issues on this end.”
“Luke’s at home. I’ll see if he can come over and check it out for you.”
“No. No, it’s fine. I’ll work it out myself.”
“He won’t mind—”
“I said no,” I say, and my voice comes out sharper than I meant it. The line falls silent, and I sigh. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just stressed. But I’m fine. I don’t need help.”
“Okay, gumdrop.” There’s some muffled speech in the background. “Listen, we gotta go. We’re still on for our date at eight tonight, yeah? Surprise location, wear something pretty.”
My eyes widen. I completely forgot we were due to have another date.
Anxiety clutches at my throat again. I can’t do all this. I take a deep breath, and it comes out more like a hitched sob.
“What is it?” Zack asks, sounding alarmed. “Hey, are you crying? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing. Bye.” I hang up and turn back to the computer. My pulse is beating in my throat. I can’t breathe right. My inbox is filling up with more and more complaints, and the invoices scattered on the ground stare up at me. Before I can work out which problem to handle next, my phone rings again.
I take a deep breath and pick it up. “Her Treat, this is Layla speaking.”
“Miss Thompson,” a woman says on the other end. “This is Vivian White, Anna Bardet’s assistant. I contacted you on behalf of Anna Bardet Couture a few days ago about her latest scholarship scheme, but we’ve had no response from you.”
My eyes widen. Anna Bardet is a huge lingerie designer. Every year, she holds an exclusive scholarship programme for up-and-coming indie designers, where they have to enter design ideas for her upcoming collections. The winning applicant gets to do a collaboration with her.
It’s a massive deal. The kind of thing that could move my career onto a whole other level. I just don’t remember being emailed about it.
I glance at my inbox, my heartbeat speeding up. “I… one sec.” I scroll down, trying to find the message.
“Anna hand-selects twenty applicants for the scholarship every year,” Janie says. “All of the other contestants have responded already. We’re just waiting on your entry.”
“That’s great,” I say through gritted teeth as I scroll frantically. I can’t find the email. “Um, can I get back to you?”
She sounds pissed. “No, not really. We need your response today. We’ve waited long enough.”
“I just…” My hand tightens on the receiver. “Now’s not a good time. I’ll call you back in, like, a minute.”
“Miss Thompson, if you’re not serious about this collaboration, I’m sure there are plenty of similar brands dying for the opportunity to—”
“I’ll do it, I promise. I… just need a sec,” I say, setting the receiver down and putting my face in my hands. Tears pop into my eyes.
I can’t do this. It’s too much. My laptop dings with another notification. And then another. And then another. My office phone starts to ring again. My mobile chimes with a meeting reminder, but I can’t bring myself to check it. I feel completely overloaded. Sinking onto the floor, I put my head in my hands, trying to shove down my panic.
I can’t do this. I can’t.
TWENTY-SEVEN
LUKE
As I sit on the sofa in our apartment, scrolling through my email inbox, my heavy eyelids keep falling shut.
I’m exhausted. Layla has spent every single night for the past week in our flat, and apparently, Josh and Zack are taking their roles as her ‘boyfriends’ incredibly seriously. No matter what I do, I can’t block out the soft moans and gasps that filter through my bedroom wall.
I’m not happy that they’ve both started sleeping with her. I understand why they’re tempted; Layla is a beautiful woman. But there have to be massive ethical issues with exchanging her appearances on our podcast with sex. Not to mention the fact that, when things inevitably do go pear-shaped, it’s going to make our living situation a Hell of a lot more awkward.
I don’t understand why they can’t keep it in their pants. It’s not like they’re the only ones attracted to her. If I’m honest, I’ve liked Layla ever since she moved in. And now that she’s getting closer to Zack and Josh, it’s getting worse by the day. It’s torture watching her wander through our flat in her skimpy little outfits and not being able to touch her. Plenty of times over the last week, I’ve laid in bed and imagined what would happen if I just gave in and agreed to take her on a date.
But I don’t, because I can’t. It would be completely inappropriate. Even if I weren’t Layla’s ex-teacher, I’m over ten years older than her. I’m sure she’d rather die than go out with me.
Sighing, I turn back to my laptop, staring blankly at the email from Paul. Our manager is thrilled that we’ve hit the charts again. I can’t go an hour without him messaging me about another merch idea or celebrity guest suggestion. It’s driving me insane.
On the table next to me, my phone starts to buzz. Zack’s name flashes across the screen. I unplug it from my charger, swiping it to answer the call. “Hello?”
“Hey. Do you know what’s up with Layla?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“She called me a minute ago, and she sounded… weird.”
“Weird, how?” I say slowly, standing.
“I dunno. Shaky? The way Josh sounds when he’s pulled three all-nighters in a row, and we have to forcibly pry his coffee out of his hands because he’s about to have a mental breakdown.” There’s a muffled protest from Josh in the background. “What? You do that, man. Yeah, like, all the time. It’s okay, we still love you.”
I nod. “I’ll go check in on her.”