An invisible fishhook pulls at the edge of Suki’s lip before she whips her face back around to face the room.
“So, where does that leave us, as purveyors of stuff?” Suki slaps the wall, rounding off her oratory frenzy. “What do people want when life gets tough?”
Her eyes dart back to me.
“Um, sex?”
Everyone laughs. I have sex on the brain today. I blame the hot fireman and feisty redhead.
“Love,” Suki corrects me. “Love is what makes people feel good when the world outside feels bleak. Our How Did You Meet? and proposal pages are consistently the most clicked-on sections of the site. If we can lure in the numbers with love, we might just be able to keep the product partnerships paying all our wages.”
Suki takes a pen from the table and starts scribbling on the white board behind her, the pen squeaking like a mouse being garroted. She writes, Love = Views, Views = Sales, Sales = Jobs.
“We need clicks. We need content that warms people’s hearts.” Her voice takes on a somber tone. “The reality is, if site traffic is down again this month, we won’t be able to sustain a team of this size.” Murmurs of concern circle the room; people glance at one another nervously. We already lost three colleagues in January. Suki’s face softens, her eyes full of compassion as she holds out her hands to the room. “And you know you are all like family to me.”
Her ability to flit from tyrannical to faux maternal in the space of a sentence is disturbing.
“So, what unmissable content have you got for me— Vanya?” Suki releases me from standing with a finger click, and my glute muscles sing in relief. Now it’s Vanya’s turn, and I know for a fact she was out on a Tinder date until three a.m. last night and that she has a killer hangover to show for it. Vee and I rent a place together near Queen’s Park. I put in a good word for her here last year after the literary journal she worked for went under. There are only a few people I could embrace into both my home and my work life, but Vee is definitely one of them.
“Well, I had a couple of article ideas.” Beads of sweat dot Vanya’s upper lip, and her usually smooth black bob has sprung into frizz on one side. Suki clicks her fingers, indicating she should fire off her ideas. “Bed linen to save your marriage.” Suki shakes her head. “Kitchen appliances you didn’t know you needed.” Silence. “Working-from-home wardrobes of the rich and famous.” Suki grimaces. Vanya’s voice gets thinner; she pulls her arms up into her sleeves as though trying to hide inside her top. “Top ten lipstick shades to make your face look younger, happier . . . wiser?”
“Thank you, Vanya,” Suki says in her “quiet, disappointed” voice. “Byron? Do you have anything substantial to share?”
“Well—I, er—I have a story that could work for Laura’s How Did You Meet? segment,” Byron says, pressing his gray mustache between thumb and forefinger as he stands up. “An elderly couple who met at a funeral home. They were both burying their other halves, and it’s a funny story because—”
“There is nothing sexy about funeral homes, Byron—let’s keep things young and lively, yes. No one likes reading about old people.” Suki claps her hands.
“Laura, tell me you have something original. What happened to that When Harry Met Sally . . . story you pitched the other week?”
“Ah yes, the couple in America who met on a road trip who are genuinely called Harry and Sally.”
“I liked the sound of that,” Suki presses her hands together.
My throat suddenly feels painfully dry.
“I’m afraid when I looked into it in a bit more detail, well— Sally was trafficking drugs in that car, and she’s now serving time. She and Harry are still together, though, so that’s nice.”
“No, no, no.” Suki throws her hands in the air. “No old people, no felonies. And, Paula, before you tell us again about the hot cousin you met at a family barbecue, no incest. We need heartwarming, original content. Personal stories that no one else is covering.”
I have nothing. My hand reaches for my pendant. Suki’s voice softens again, her face an expression of pained pity. “Come on, darlings, help me here.”
“There is one love story I could write.” I start speaking before I can overthink it. “My parents’ story.”
Suki stares at me unblinking, so I take her silence as an invitation to elaborate and swallow the discomfort in my throat. I’ve never thought to pitch their story before. All our How Did You Meet?s usually take the form of an interview—but now, I wonder if that needs to be the case.