It took a hell of a lot of time for her to let down her guard around us, but when she did, it was worth it. She’s great. She does what she wants, and she doesn’t care what other people think of her. Hell, she models her own underwear designs online, for God’s sake. Puts pictures of herself half-naked on social media, even though she gets a ton of creepy guys leaving gross comments on them. She doesn’t care. She wants to model her stuff, so she does.
Which was why seeing her break down last night was so odd. I’ve never seen that side of Layla. I don’t like the thought that she’s been all sad and alone in her apartment, right at the other side of the hall.
“We should do something,” Josh mutters.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Josh has been head-over-heels for Layla ever since they met, but he won’t admit it. It’s obvious, though. When she’s happy about something, he’s wandering around the flat, humming under his breath. When she’s stressed, he gets all moody. He’s filled our kitchen cupboard with all of her favourite snacks, and lights up whenever she texts him. Seeing her cry probably killed him.
“We could just… do what she asked,” I point out. “Helping people with their relationships is literally what we do.”
“We’re not dating the girl,” Luke cuts in, sounding exhausted. “And she doesn’t need our help.”
“Then why was she crying in our living room?” Josh snaps back. “You saw her.”
“She was drunk.”
“That doesn’t mean that she wasn’t really upset.” He glances back down at the emails in front of him. “I think we should help her. Yeah, we can’t accept money, but maybe we could still… take her on a few practice dates, or something. Just to get her used to it.”
Luke stares. “You’re joking, right?”
“She said that she feels comfortable with us!” Josh argues. “That’s a big deal.”
Luke’s jaw stiffens. “Well, I don’t know if I feel comfortable telling a former student how to improve her love life.”
“You’ve got to get over this, man,” I tell him. “She’s not your student anymore. Come on, what’s the point of doing this job if we can’t even help people we care about?”
Before Luke can retort, there’s a knock on the door. “Guys?” Paul, our manager, calls through the wood. “Can I come in?”
I rub my eyes. I hate this guy. Ever since the podcast blew up years ago, we’ve been working for a media company. Buzztone. They produce a ton of podcasts.
I hate them. They can cut our pay whenever they want, they pick crappy sponsors, and we’re not even allowed to swear on our own show. And to top it all off, Paul is a money-hungry git.
“You may as well,” Josh calls tiredly, taking off his headphones. “We’re not getting anything done here.”
The door edges open, and Paul steps inside. Today, our squat little manager is dressed in a pinstriped three-piece suit with his hair oiled back, like an American car salesman. His face is grim.
“Let me guess,” I say flatly. “Numbers are down. Again.”
Paul’s mouth thins. “Worse. Sweetheart Soulmates have been making some comments about you guys overnight.” He slaps a tablet onto the table between us. “You need to see this.”
My fists clench. Sweetheart Soulmates is a rival relationship advice podcast that started getting popular last year. Normally, that wouldn’t bother me — I ain’t afraid of competition. But the advice they give is total crap. They tell their listeners that it’s a wife’s job to stay at home and look after the kids. That new fathers shouldn’t take paternity leave because they have to provide for the family. That giving teenage daughters birth control will just encourage them to sleep around. And the worst thing is, people actually believe them. I squint at the tweets.
Spent this evening listening to @ThreeSingleGuys DISGUSTING latest episode, which promotes FEMALE PROMISCUITY under the label of ‘s*x positivity’.
These men do not know what they’re talking about and should NOT be allowed to give advice. We are DEEPLY concerned for the impressionable young girls listening to their programme.
Each one has over three thousand likes.
I scoff. “Yeah, well, at least we give people actual advice. Instead of just tellin’ women, ‘hey, if your man cheats, it’s your fault, ‘cause you ain’t giving him enough blowies and sandwiches’.”
“If you don’t want people to take their advice,” Paul says calmly, “maybe you should focus on bringing their listeners over to Three Single Guys instead.”
“How?” Josh presses, scowling. “We haven’t changed anything. I don’t know how we’re losing listeners.”
Paul slaps a hand on the table. “Exactly. You haven’t changed anything. You’ve been doing this for five years now; your content is stale.” He plucks at the pile of printed listener emails. “There’s only so many of these questions you can answer before you’ve said everything ten times before. You need to branch out.”
“How?” Luke asks calmly. “Do you have any suggestions?”
Paul shrugs. “That’s your job. But if you don’t start bringing in more listeners, we’re gonna have to cut your funding.”
“Shit,” Josh mutters, putting his head in his hands.
At Buzztone, budget cuts are a death knell for a podcast. I honestly don’t care much if the show dies and we have to move onto something else, but Three Single Guys is Josh’s baby. He started the podcast five years ago, when he was studying communications in uni. Luke joined after about a year, but I came in later.
It’s a funny story. Growing up, Josh and I were best mates — we both lived on the same street and went to the same school. We lost contact for a bit when I started playing rugby, but after I tore my ACL and got kicked off the team, Josh found me again. I was a mess: drunk and depressed. He scraped me off the floor of my hotel, moved me into his apartment, and flat-out demanded that I join the show.
It was actually a really great move; I attracted a ton of new listeners to the podcast, and Three Single Guys has been doing pretty well ever since.
Until now.
“Figure something out,” Paul orders, giving us one last stern look, then picking up his tablet and leaving the room.
I flip off the door as it swings shut. “I still think we should just go independent,” I say. “We’ve been doing this long enough to work stuff out by ourselves.”
As usual, no one listens to me.
Josh is frowning at the pile of papers in front of him. “Something fresh,” he repeats. I can practically hear the cogs turning in his head. “That we’ve never done before. That will attract viewer engagement, and prove to people that we actually know what we’re doing.”
“You got something?” I ask.
He nods slowly. “I think so.” He looks up at me. “Call Layla. Have her meet us at our place after she’s done with work.”
“What?” Luke asks. “Why?”
“I have an idea. But we’re going to need her help.”
SEVEN
LAYLA
“You… want to date me?” I ask later that evening, my stomach flipping.
“Fake-date,” Josh corrects quickly. “It would all be pretend.” Zack nods and grins, like that makes perfect sense. I squint at them.
This was not what I expected when Zack asked me to come over to their flat after work. I honestly thought it would be some kind of intervention. I spent the whole afternoon in my meetings mentally drafting my apology. When I finally made it back to their flat, all three men were at their breakfast bar, drinking beers and huddled over pages of handwritten notes. Before I could even open my mouth to say sorry, they’d sat me down, offered me a drink, and proceeded to pitch the stupidest-sounding idea that I’ve ever heard.
I look between the guys. Zack is beaming enthusiastically. Luke won’t look up from his beer. Josh’s eyes are fixed fiercely on me.
I bite my lip. “And you think you can actually teach me how to date?”
“‘Course, pet,” Zack says easily. “We’re love masters.”
Luke frowns. “There’s no way this is really necessary,” he says flatly. “You can’t be that bad at dating.” He waves at me. “I mean, look at you.”
I look down at myself. “What do you mean?”
Zack leans forward, a shit-eating grin splitting his face. “Yeah, Mr Martins. What do you mean?”