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.
“Oh please, you don’t know any of these men. A lot of them don’t even look like writers. They’re probably sports agents or batboys or something. Like . . .” She scans over my shoulder until her eyes brighten. “That guy over there. In the purple tie.”
I roll my eyes but indulge her, subtly spinning in a slow circle until I spot our mark: a man in a suit standing by the bar, chatting with a couple of other corporate-looking types. Brown hair, average height, nothing too intimidating about him. A nice, approachable regular Joe.
I turn back to her. “He looks like a generic finance bro.”
“Or he could be a wealthy cologne executive just dying to meet his soul mate. Maybe he even manages the entire Coty portfolio of fragrances.”
“Or maybe he’s Eric Jessup’s even wealthier best friend,” I say with phony enthusiasm.
“That’s the spirit!”
I scoff. “Please.”
“Do I need to remind you that this story was your idea? You have no one to blame for this but yourself.”
As if I could forget. “Actually, I’m quite content to blame my grandmother.”
“Come on, this is going to be fun! For me to watch, at least.” She rubs her hands together like a cartoon villain. “Now, which one of the tips should we start with?”
I sigh in resignation and surrender to my fate, digging around in my bag until I come up with the plastic pages and hand them over.
She immediately starts snickering. “？‘Cry softly in the corner and wait for him to ask you what’s wrong.’？”
I raise a finger. “Not happening. I have my limits.”
“Probably a bit over the top,” she concedes. “How about this: ‘Walk up to him and tell him you need some advice.’ That’s perfect! Appeal to every male’s overinflated ego. And then just play dumb about whatever it is he says so he can do some mansplaining.”
I glance toward the front door, like if I just stare hard enough, Eric Jessup will magically appear and save me from this nightmare of my own making. “I’m not sure my ego can handle that.”
She hums. “Alright, how about this one: ‘Stumble into him, “accidentally” spilling the contents of your purse all over the floor.’ It doesn’t get easier than that.” She stares at me expectantly when I don’t move. “Chop-chop.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I grumble, reaching into my bag and unzipping my makeup pouch so as to achieve maximum spillage. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Our mothers burned their bras so I could set us back a generation.”
Natalia inhales sharply. “Our target just left his group! He’s walking toward the bathroom. Hurry up, you can cut him off at the pass.”
“Hang on, I don’t want to drop my phone,” I tell her, tucking it into my back pocket.
“Quit stalling, he’s right behind you. Go!”
She gives me a shove, and she must not know her own strength because I go careening backward like a drunken sailor, my arms windmilling comically as I try to stay upright, but I’m no match for gravity （and neither are these heels）。 The ensuing chain of events registers in a slow-motion sequence: I watch Natalia’s eyes pop wide as I collide with my unsuspecting victim. I hear his surprised “Whoa” and low grunt as my body collides with his. His arms lock around me instinctively as I topple him, and I feel the blunt impact of the floor even as his body breaks my fall. And I smell . . . well, I only smell Force by Eric Jessup, because it’s overpowered every other scent within a five-mile radius.