“Thank you for validating me.” I briefly summarize my run-in with Brett the buffoon and am gratified by their appropriately outraged reactions. “I guess I didn’t realize Sacred Saturdays was a Brawler thing, but I googled around, and get this: They’ve trademarked it.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Cynthia tosses over her shoulder, scrolling through her phone as she heads out the door. “If there’s one thing those lowlifes at Brawler have figured out, it’s how to monetize being a Neanderthal.” She waves as she exits, her harried assistant rushing to keep up with her.
“They’re like a cult,” I muse to Natalia as the rest of the women file out. “With an army of brainwashed followers. Why does everyone pretend they’re a legitimate news organization?”
“Because if you go after them, their fans go after you,” she points out, looping an arm through mine and tugging me toward the door. “It’s not worth the hassle.”
“They’re basically encouraging an entire generation of men to be the worst versions of themselves, and no one’s going to call them out on it?”
“That’s about the long and short of it,” she says blithely. “Listen, I’m seriously about to gnaw off my own arm. Can we go?”
* * *
“DO YOU THINK this dress sends the right message?” Nat asks later that afternoon, pirouetting on the pavement as we wait to get checked in. “I’m going for I’m bold and beguiling, but won’t upstage you in the press.”
I fan myself, trying not to melt in the city’s muggy late-August heat. “I think it says I’m single and ready to mingle, which you most certainly are not,” I respond dryly, thanking the publicist as she waves us inside. “Does Gabriel know you talk this way?”
“Are you kidding? I sent him a selfie before we left and reminded him that Eric Jessup is number one on my hall pass list. A little jealousy goes a long way.” She checks out her reflection in the mirrored glass walls as we walk past. “Can’t have him getting complacent.”
I chuckle, knowing her outrageousness is (mostly) for show and she’d never cheat on Gabriel, her devoted boyfriend of more than a year. They’re so into each other, it’s actually kind of disgusting. In fact, I’ve often wondered if she wishes she’d moved in with him instead of me, though at the time her rent was hiked and I found myself searching for yet another new roommate, it was too early in their relationship for cohabitation. Natalia Kimura was my best work friend prior to becoming roommates, and while I initially worried we might get sick of each other, her frequent sleepovers at Gabriel’s quickly negated that concern—and despite our differing personality types, our living situation has proven surprisingly harmonious.
She’s bold and brash to my measured and thoughtful; uninhibited to my introverted. I talk her down from flights of fancy, while she’s the devil on my shoulder. We’re opposite but complementary, like flip sides of the same coin. Even our appearances are a study in contrasts. Nat paints herself in loud colors and samples every trend; I stick to neutral palettes and pride myself on the capsule closet of sophisticated basics I’ve built over time. Her olive skin and dark features are the perfect canvas for every shade of lipstick; my fair skin burns even on cloudy days.
If her half-Japanese features are distinctive, I think of my own as distinctly in-between. My wavy hair falls somewhere between curly and straight, in a shade of burnished copper that’s neither brown nor red. In some lighting my eyes trend toward green; in others, hazel. I’m neither short nor tall at five foot six, and I’m trim and toned but just shy of curvy (or at least lacking the generous bust my sister inherited). My most striking attributes are my wide smile and hearty laugh, which have been called Julia Roberts–esque—a comparison I pretend to be embarrassed by but secretly love.
While Natalia’s fire-engine red dress is meant to draw attention, tonight I’m wearing my version of a work uniform: fitted black cigarette pants, my favorite trusty nude pumps, and a white blazer with the sleeves scrunched to the elbows. It’s my own personal brand of New York chic, my sartorial suit of armor, appropriate for any and every industry event I’m called to cover.
I survey the restaurant, getting the lay of the land while the chill of the air-conditioning cools my skin. We’re early, so the vibe is still relatively relaxed, with most attendees standing around awkwardly sipping the Jessup Julep, tonight’s signature cocktail. Moody blue spotlights project the words FORCE BY ERIC JESSUP onto every available surface. Centerpieces featuring cologne bottles perched atop tiered glass pillars anchor each table, alongside spherical glass bowls crammed full of baseballs (for ambience or autograph signing, I’m not sure which). The room positively reeks of cologne. While the scent might be fine in moderation, the olfactory-straining superdose saturating the enclosed space is more potent than a sixth-grade stink bomb.
It’s the calm before the storm, though I know that’ll change the second Eric shows up and everyone’s forced to jockey for exclusive sound bites. I tend to see the same group of familiar faces at these events—entertainment reporters, lifestyle bloggers, colleagues from our competitors Refinery29 and Bustle—but this crowd’s different, skewing heavily male. Likely a bunch of sports writers coerced into covering the athletic-adjacent event—and not thrilled about it, judging by the restless looks on their faces.
“Hellooo, sausage fest,” Nat says, nodding at a guy who very obviously checks us out as he walks past. “I’m a-likin’ these odds.”
“This is a work event,” I remind her as I fish my phone out of my purse so I can test the voice recorder, which takes me a hot minute because my overstuffed tote rivals Michelle Pfeiffer’s magic bottomless bag in One Fine Day. My sister Christine calls it my “diaper bag” despite me not having any kids.
“Not for me, it isn’t. And as the resident singleton here, you should be paying closer attention. It’s not every day you find yourself in a room chock-full of men.”
“That reminds me—one of the 125 man-trapping tips is to check census reports and move to a state with a higher male-to-female ratio. In case you were wondering, Nevada has 138 males to every 100 females. In 1958, at least.”
She grabs my arm with a gasp. “OMG! We’re totally going to try out some of those tips tonight!”
I fake-gasp back. “No, we’re not.”
“This is literally the perfect place to practice.”
“How is a room full of our colleagues the perfect place to practice?”
I spot a couple of publicist types huddled near the kitchen and make a mental note to keep an eye on the back entrance. If Olivia is planning to attend, it would make sense that she’d try to sneak in to avoid the crush of photographers out front.