“I hardly think you blackmailing me into highly problematic, subservient behavior is a proportional response for my lack of a wedding date.”
“Oh, ‘blackmail’ is such a strong word,” she says airily. “Think of this as . . . an experiment.”
I open my mouth to argue further, but the word triggers something in my brain and I pause.
This article—one my grandmother’s saved for seventy years—is exactly the kind of story we salivate over at Siren. Just reprinting these half-baked dating tips in all their ridiculous retro glory would generate a million clicks and even more shares, but what if we actually tested them on some unsuspecting suitors? I can see the headline now: I tried these old-fashioned dating tips so you don’t have to! Subhead: June Cleaver meets the modern Manhattanite. We could even turn it into a recurring series. It’s a content gold mine.
Gran’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. “I know you wouldn’t deny an old woman one of her last requests.”
I laugh in spite of myself. “Please, you’re going to outlive us all.”
She wags a finger at me. “I won’t be around forever! My clock is ticking. And I want to see you happy.”
“I am happy.”
“But you could be happier.”
I groan and drop my head into my hands. “I can’t win.”
She shrugs, unrepentant. “I just call it like I see it.”
“You should consider a filter.”
“Nah. One of the few benefits of being ninety is that I’m allowed to say whatever I want, whenever I want. And pressure my grandchildren into doing my bidding, of course,” she adds with a wink.
“I see. And how exactly do you think”—I consult the list—“?‘Asking him to carry my hatbox’ or ‘Dropping my handkerchief’ is going to secure me a significant other?”
She pats my hand. “You’re smart and creative, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“That’s it, huh?”
“What, you need me to lend you a handkerchief?” I sigh in defeat as she starts for the door. “Now that we’re agreed, I want some more of that cake,” she tosses over her shoulder.
“I did not agree to this,” I call after her—but I know I’ve lost before the words have even left my mouth.
Chapter 2
So what do you think?”
I scan the faces of the women lining either side of the conference room table and stop on Cynthia, trying to gauge whether her expression indicates amusement or horror. Maybe a little bit of both.
I’m at our Monday morning editorial meeting at Siren’s offices in Gramercy, where department heads give status updates on both the short-and long-lead pieces we’re working on, as well as pitch and assign new story ideas. I’ve just explained my concept for the vintage-inspired dating feature I’ve cheekily coined “Operation Betty Draper.” I spent my Sunday doing a deep dive into the Military Wife etiquette book Gran gave me (verdict: every bit as antiquated as I expected), fell down a rabbit hole of additional internet research into courtship customs of the 1950s, then somehow wound up inhaling an entire pint of birthday cake Halo Top while streaming YouTube clips from classic films of the era like Pillow Talk and Sex and the Single Girl. Between all that and the 125 tips to snag a spouse, I have more than enough material to work with (and a newfound appreciation for Doris Day, the “girl next door” rom-com queen of the golden age).
“I love it,” Cynthia says immediately, and I beam. It’s one of my favorite things about her leadership style, how direct and decisive she is. It’s either “I love it, get to work,” or “What else you got?”—nothing in between. And she has a pitch-perfect radar for which stories will hit, a skill honed over the course of her twenty-plus years in the always evolving, cutthroat world of modern journalism. She also has a built-in bullshit detector, which is why I come overprepared to every meeting.
She holds up the “125 Tips” magazine pages I’ve since encased in plastic sheet protectors. “These are gold.” She slides them down the table for others to peruse before turning back to her laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard. “So you’re thinking a long-form piece?”
“Yep, maybe a couple thousand words? I thought I could assign the actual testing of the tips to Hannah, since she did such a good job with—”
“Wait, wait, wait. You’re not going to be the one testing them?”
Every head swivels toward me in unison like a pack of meerkats. “I—well no, that wasn’t my plan. You know I don’t typically do—”
“I really think it needs to be you,” Cynthia cuts me off. “The heart of the story is your relationship with your grandmother and the generational divide, if you will,” she says, peering at me over the rim of her cat-eye glasses. “As the reader, I want to see how you balance your commitment to your grandma with your more modern sensibilities. I want to feel your discomfort at this retrogression of gender roles. That’s what makes this so relatable.”
I nod slowly like I’m considering it even as my brain races to construct a convincing counterargument. This is not what I had in mind. “I understand what you’re saying, but I really think it would be better to assign it to someone like Hannah. This type of undercover piece is her wheelhouse. Remember when she re-created Sarah Jessica Parker’s strangest looks from Sex and the City? She wore overalls with a bra and a bird on her head for a week and no one even batted an eyelash.” I grimace regretfully, like it’s out of my hands. “I’m not an actress.”
“But that’s just the point, you don’t need to be.” She steeples her fingers under her chin, regarding me seriously. “This story is you. You can delve into the psyche of a late-twenty-something single woman because you are one. You can explore what her needs are now versus then, how societal expectations for dating and marriage have evolved across generations. What’s obsolete, and what remains? The silly dating tips and how they play out is the setup, but I don’t see this as just some throwaway farce piece. I think that’s selling your concept short.”
Did I say I loved her direct leadership style? I meant I hate it.
“Um . . . okay,” I say slowly, beginning to panic now at the thought of putting myself out there so publicly. I write stories about other people; I don’t want to be the story. “It’s just a little more personal than I prefer to get.” Not to mention that Gran will hobble me if she finds out I’m making fun of her advice.
“We can run it under a pseudonym?” she says expectantly, and I know I’ve lost this battle. Natalia kicks me under the table, and I plaster on a smile with clenched teeth.
“Sure. I guess I’m up for the challenge.”
“I’ll make sure she pulls it off,” Nat offers unhelpfully, and I kick her back even harder. “She can practice on me. It’ll be fun.” She grins at Cynthia, ignoring the death ray I’m beaming into the side of her head. Note to self: Kill roommate.