Felicity leaves so abruptly the whiplash slaps my thoughts against my cranium and I simply stare after her, mute. I was fifty-fifty on whether a woman as stunning and successful as she is would be into the idea of starring in a reality show, but by no means did I expect the offer to outright piss her off. If I can’t even pitch this show without getting it horribly—and mysteriously—wrong, what hope is there that I’ll be able to make it a success?
“The fuck just happened?” I ask the empty doorway just a moment before a head pops into view, and my boss flashes a set of bright white veneers at me.
“Got a sec?”
I glance at my watch. “I need to be upstairs with Shazz in five.”
Blaine steps in, sliding a hand into a pocket and jiggling some change. “Just got off the line with Bill,” he tells me. Bill Masters is the CFO, and one of the few people Blaine is afraid of. “The C-suite really wants to make this dating show happen.” He pauses for dramatic effect, half of his mouth lifting in a cocky grin. “They’re giving you a million and a half.”
“Dollars?”
“No, Connor, hookers. Yes, of course dollars.”
The meaning of what he’s said finally penetrates. “They’re giving me $1.5 million for this, but won’t give me $40K for my biodiversity doc?”
He pulls a whistling breath in through his nose, drawing it out, like his patience is a dangerously cracking top layer of ice. “Like I said, kid, we all really want this to happen. By the way, Barb in programming must know where a body is buried because your time slot will be prime time on ABC.” And then he amends, “Saturdays.”
There is literally nothing prime time about a Saturday night time slot.
Reading my expression, Blaine says, “Listen, with this timeline we’re lucky we didn’t land on Friday. There was some scuffle with their new procedural, and we got to them before they filled the slot. Now give me some good news. I heard you were meeting with a possible lead?”
“I was,” I say, lifting my chin to indicate that she’s gone. “She wasn’t interested.”
“Not enough money?” He’s incredulous. To Blaine, that would be the only logical reason someone would turn this down. “Some people are too dumb to see an opportunity when it’s right in front of them.”
“We didn’t even make it to the money part. Wasn’t the right fit, I guess.” The reality that she’s blown me off is settling in and I’m more disappointed than I would have expected. For a minute, while she was sitting across from me, I couldn’t believe the wild kismet that the woman I spotted at the bar last week would end up in my office. And, of course, I realized how nice it would be to be able to work with a sexy, successful romance author for once rather than a group of sun-ravaged, disheartened scientists.
“It’s your job to find the right fit,” he says sharply.
“I was hoping to find someone uniquely beloved by the demographic,” I explain, trying to redirect away from his irritation and toward something productive, “but maybe I was thinking too far outside the box. I might have to go a different route.”
“Just go the regular route: legs, boobs, lips.”
Ah, Blaine. A generation of walking lawsuits. I clear my throat in response.
“Female shaped and willing.” He doubles down. “That’s all we need. Keep me updated.” Blaine raps a knuckle on my desk. “I gotta jet.”
And just as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone.
“This fucking day,” I say to the empty doorway, and only a split second later, another head pops into view, scaring the shit out of me. “Jesus Christ.”
My producing colleague Trent Choi extends an arm, showing me his watch. “We have that meeting with Shazz in three.”
Poor Trent. He is without question the only person who gets to meetings on time around here. “Right,” I say. “Was just chatting with Blaine.”
“Oh?” He quickly glances back over his shoulder. “Do you have a second?”
“Course.”
Stepping in, Trent closes my door until only a small slice of hallway is visible. “I’m starting to freak out that if Smash Course doesn’t work, I won’t have a job.”
I grimace at him in commiseration. “What did Blaine say?”
“That if this show doesn’t work, I’m out of a job.”
“Seems like you’ve got a good read on the situation.” He winces and I try to soften it. “If it makes you feel better, I’m in the same boat. He’s got me doing a dating show.”
“At least those are successful. Who even watches extreme sports challenges?”
“Literally everyone, Trent.” This poor, bookish wanker.
“I’m going to be on the road for six weeks,” he complains. “Six weeks on a bus with sweaty, testosterone-fueled weekend warriors who want to kill each other, and then I have to come back and edit the footage to make it look like a good time.”
“Sorry, mate.” I gently slap his shoulder. I do get his angst. These shows certainly get attention, but I don’t know if it’s the kind of attention we’re prepared to take on. If my dating show sucks, I’m fucked. And if it doesn’t suck, I’m not sure how smoothly I can pivot back to the kind of programming I care about. I guess there’s some consolation that I’m not the only person stuck bottom feeding.
“I’m sure it will be fine. One thing at a time, eh? Right now I’ve got to find someone”—I hold up air quotes—“ ‘female shaped and willing’ and just get through this.”
