Page 3 of Love's a Script
Mary shifted to the edge of her seat, casting her notes aside. “This isn’t a lifetime subscription, okay?” she said sharply. “When the hot air balloon lands and the string quartet leaves, all that’s left is the couple. They have to make it work. We have a 92 percent success rate, which shows the love people find through our service is real.” She could hear herself getting louder. “I suspect you’ve been unlucky in the relationship department, Mr. Byers. If you have, I’m sorry about that, but your cynicism is misplaced. I would encourage you to seek out a matchmaker and see for yourself. One within your budget, of course.”
Mary’s face was hot against the receiver and a slight tremor burdened her hand, but soon her heartbeat began to settle. It was then she realized the silence on the other line. She waited. “Hello?” Listened. A dial tone was the eventual and only response.
Mary knew the apologetic message she sent her boss immediately following the interview would remain in purgatory until the next day, but it didn’t stop her from checking for a response all evening or waking up in the middle of the night because she thought her phone had chimed.
Cassidy’s reply came instead in the morning while Mary was making breakfast. We’ll chat when I get back, her boss wrote in her email. Tone couldn’t be accurately discerned from those six static words, but left to her psychological tendencies, Mary spun a scenario where not only was she out of the running for cruise lead but also at risk of termination once her boss returned from her trip.
The interview was hardly a topic of discussion at work, and no one was as concerned as Mary was about the potential fallout. She clung to their nonchalance, trying her best to make it her own, until partway through the day, she learned of two comments that had appeared on the agency’s review page.
“They’re bogus. Clearly trolls,” Eden said. She’d come to Mary’s office to bear the news dressed, appropriately enough, in all black.
“What did they write exactly?” Mary asked.
Eden’s steady eye contact strayed, and Mary changed her mind, saying, “Actually, don’t read them. Just give me an idea.”
“Okay. One’s calling you shrill, and the other is calling you bitchy.”
The air seemed to congeal in Mary’s lungs, turning her breathing shallow. Those reviews—which Cassidy and future clients would inevitably read—made her sound like someone who caused scenes in public and stiffed on tips. Mary didn’t ruffle feathers. Ever. She was nice, friendly, sweet. “A pleasure to have in class” had been a staple comment on her grade school report cards.
“You okay?” Eden asked.
“Yes!” Mary replied and even managed to smile. “As you said, trolls. But thanks for letting me know.”
Eden nodded and moved to exit. At the door, she paused. “If you ask me,” she said, “you did nothing wrong. He’s the one who went off script.”
Chapter Three
Each weekday morning, the small team of All Intents and Purposes gathered in a conference room with a standing double-sided whiteboard to plan that evening’s eighty-minute radio broadcast. It was a vital meeting that would shape the many hours they’d spend writing scripts, lining up guests, and preparing for interviews. But on this day, Ruben Byers struggled to focus on the news story a staff writer was pitching because the show’s production director had chosen that time to clip his nails.
As director, Hugh stood inside the rack room with the audio technician, managing the progress of the show Ruben cohosted. The almost sixty-year-old was good at his job, which allowed him to push the limits of social propriety, but when one of Hugh’s clippings landed too close to the open box of blueberry muffins, Ruben finally said, “Hey, could you hold off on that until we’re done here?”
Hugh blinked like he found the request confusing but ceased all personal grooming thereafter. At the end of the meeting, Ruben set a time for the group to reconvene in the afternoon. And as the writers, editor, and line producer got up to leave, Hugh asked Ruben and his cohost, Chesa, to stay behind. Ruben shared a look with his partner, and in the silent shorthand they’d developed over the five years working together, they agreed this couldn’t be anything good.
Once the room had cleared, Hugh began, “About last night’s broadcast and that interview with the matchmaker?—”
“I know. I was too confrontational,” Ruben said, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“You were being thorough,” Chesa said, and Ruben appreciated the defense, especially since she’d been frustrated with how the interview had escalated. There was a balance they aimed for with each episode, and he’d complicated one of the few easy stories they sprinkled in between the serious interviews and discussions. But for better or for worse, he was beholden to truth and authenticity, so he hadn’t been able to go along with the breezy interview when it helped trivialize the scandal unfolding in the mayor’s office.
“Actually, it’s good the interview went in the direction it did,” Hugh said. “We got more calls and emails about that segment than anything before. The listeners loved the banter between you and the matchmaker.”
Ruben wouldn’t call the exchange banter. There had been nothing friendly or good-natured about it. He remained convinced matchmaking relied on manipulation, but he had nothing against the matchmaker… Mary, was it? In fact, he’d been impressed with how well she’d held her own. He was no stranger to debates, to parleys. But rarely did someone locate him in their arguments so accurately or as smoothly as she had. It was thrilling, like the first hit of air on a cold day.
“Happy ending then. Right?” Ruben said, still wary.
“Yes, and it’s why we’re going to give the people more of what they want and make the next feature about modern dating.” Hugh held his hands up like he was framing a lit marquee. “Sex robots, speed dating, and matchmaking, oh my!”
There was a stunned pause before Chesa said, “But we’re already doing it on labor and employment. We’re halfway through interviews, and we’re meeting with Novak next week.”
“Don’t kill it. Put it on ice for now,” Hugh said as if it didn’t take them a number of weeks to produce their quarterly features. Restarting that process with a new topic and with less time would require supreme organization.
“Oh, and I was also thinking,” Hugh continued, “that it would be cool if Ruben did an on-the-field component and hired that matchmaker from the interview.”
“Hire the matchmaker?” Ruben said.
“Yeah, some immersion reporting. Get the real scoop on matchmaking. A first-hand experience.”
“No,” Ruben replied. “Absolutely not.” It was gimmicky, and he would not subject himself to a contrived affair. And he didn’t think the matchmaker he’d offended would be happy to work with him anyway.
