“I’ve been dating my three lovely boyfriends for almost a year now,” Josh reads into the mic, his eyes scanning the email on his phone. I yawn, trying to stay awake. “And it’s going great. The only problem is, it’s almost impossible for all four of us to spend time together because of our schedules. We’ve got a baby girl, and I really want her to get quality time with all of her dads. How do we handle our clashing timetables? From Beth Ellis in London.”
“Dude, that’s such a mood,” I say into the mic. “We ain’t shared a girl in a couple of years, but back when we were all dating Monica, we used to share an online calendar, so we could see when everyone was free.”
Luke nods. “And we tried to be as flexible as possible, trading shifts at work and such. Honestly, the best thing you can do is—”
My phone bleeps in my jacket.
Luke sighs loudly, and Josh closes his eyes. I swear, fumbling to unzip my pocket.
We’ve been in the recording studio since nine this morning, and we have almost no usable footage. Three Single Guys releases eight episodes a month; one a week, with an extra weekly bonus episode available for people who pay to subscribe. Normally, we try to get the recording out of the way during the weekend, and spend the rest of the week editing and doing admin. But today, nothing is coming out right.
First, we couldn’t find any of our mic covers. Then we recorded a full hour of footage, before realising that Luke’s mic wasn’t even on. Then we somehow lost the listener questions that Josh had spent all week selecting and filing. And now we can’t get through a damn sentence without stumbling over our words, or dropping something, or saying something stupid.
None of us can focus, and we all know why. It’s Layla.
I hook my phone out of my pocket, checking the screen. Layla’s face pops up.
Finally.
“Quit texting under the table,” Josh mutters.
I shake my head, thumbing open the message. “Hang on. It’s her.” I read the text aloud. “Can you please tell the guys sorry? I’m so embarrassed.”
Luke looks confused. “Why is she embarrassed? We’re her friends. I’ve seen you get drunk and do much more destructive things than talk about your feelings.”
“Uh, because she hates emotion?” I remind him. “Crying in front of people is probably her idea of literal Hell.” I swipe to respond to the text. “I’ll tell her we all suffered simultaneous traumatic head injuries and are now suffering from a very specific form of amnesia, yeah?”
Luke’s mouth presses into a firm line. He looks grimly back down at his notes.
I think we were all shocked by what happened last night. It was so out of character for Layla. I’ve never seen her cry. She’s usually so on top of her shit. I actually think that’s why she can’t find a guy — I reckon she’s intimidating them.
Hell, when we first met her, I thought she hated me. It was the day she was moving into the building. I heard a girl was moving into the flat opposite, so obviously I went over to see if she needed any help. She refused me with a tight smile, disappeared into her flat, and avoided me for the next month.
I thought she was cold. Aloof. Kinda stuck up. The more I got to know her, though, the more I realised that she’s not really any of those things. She’s just shy. Some girls are shy and soft; Layla is shy and hard. Because she acts confident, and dresses like a supermodel, and makes a shitton of money, people interpret her social awkwardness as being rude, but she’s really just a dork.
It took a hell of a lot of time for her to let down her guard around us, but when she did, it was worth it. She’s great. She does what she wants, and she doesn’t care what other people think of her. Hell, she models her own underwear designs online, for God’s sake. Puts pictures of herself half-naked on social media, even though she gets a ton of creepy guys leaving gross comments on them. She doesn’t care. She wants to model her stuff, so she does.
Which was why seeing her break down last night was so odd. I’ve never seen that side of Layla. I don’t like the thought that she’s been all sad and alone in her apartment, right at the other side of the hall.
“We should do something,” Josh mutters.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Josh has been head-over-heels for Layla ever since they met, but he won’t admit it. It’s obvious, though. When she’s happy about something, he’s wandering around the flat, humming under his breath. When she’s stressed, he gets all moody. He’s filled our kitchen cupboard with all of her favourite snacks, and lights up whenever she texts him. Seeing her cry probably killed him.
“We could just… do what she asked,” I point out. “Helping people with their relationships is literally what we do.”
“We’re not dating the girl,” Luke cuts in, sounding exhausted. “And she doesn’t need our help.”
“Then why was she crying in our living room?” Josh snaps back. “You saw her.”
“She was drunk.”
“That doesn’t mean that she wasn’t really upset.” He glances back down at the emails in front of him. “I think we should help her. Yeah, we can’t accept money, but maybe we could still… take her on a few practice dates, or something. Just to get her used to it.”
Luke stares. “You’re joking, right?”
“She said that she feels comfortable with us!” Josh argues. “That’s a big deal.”
Luke’s jaw stiffens. “Well, I don’t know if I feel comfortable telling a former student how to improve her love life.”
“You’ve got to get over this, man,” I tell him. “She’s not your student anymore. Come on, what’s the point of doing this job if we can’t even help people we care about?”
Before Luke can retort, there’s a knock on the door. “Guys?” Paul, our manager, calls through the wood. “Can I come in?”
I rub my eyes. I hate this guy. Ever since the podcast blew up years ago, we’ve been working for a media company. Buzztone. They produce a ton of podcasts.
I hate them. They can cut our pay whenever they want, they pick crappy sponsors, and we’re not even allowed to swear on our own show. And to top it all off, Paul is a money-hungry git.
“You may as well,” Josh calls tiredly, taking off his headphones. “We’re not getting anything done here.”
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.”
