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.