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“Well, if you don’t mind,” I add before she can ask me any more giddy fucking questions I don’t have answers to. “I’m going to head out and get ready for my meeting with the five women.” She gives a little nod of approval, and I waste zero time hauling ass out of her office.
Once I’m settled at my desk, I prepare myself for the first priority of the day—the nerve-racking phone call to Mr. Bachelor himself.
It takes several deep breaths and numerous more read-throughs of the bullet-pointed and numbered notes I took in preparation.1. Name: Jake Brent. (Don’t forget to identify yourself as Holley Fields from the Tribune!)
2. Tell him the readers loved his personal ad submission and he has been selected as the Bachelor in the SoCal Tribune’s Bachelor Anonymous Contest.
3. Give some time for him to react positively; act supportive and excited.
4. Tell him it’s best if we get together in person to go over all the details and sign some paperwork; ask what time works best for him. Possible locations if he doesn’t suggest any: Grey Street Coffee, Ballard’s Restaurant.
5. Don’t forget to ask if he has any questions about the way the contest works; detailed rules and procedures listed on paper under this one.Hello, neurotic, right?
Well, trust me, there’s a reason for my neuroses, and it revolves around my lifelong track record of turning into a flustered, bumbling mess on a dime.
When I’m confident I have all the important reminders laid out in front of me, I pick up my phone from its cradle and carefully dial the numbers from Jake’s application one by one.
Here goes nothing…
When the first ring sounds over the line, I take a deep breath and toss my reading glasses onto the top of the desk.
Of course, I panic then, because I’m not going to be able to read any of my notes without my damn glasses, and I scramble to get them back on my face as the line clicks over to answered.
“Hello?”
“Uh, hi.” I stumble over my words, briefly surprised by the young, female voice. Cold calls are not my forte—to be honest, they’re not even my “five-te.” While I may be a confident, successful, intelligent woman by some measure of the world, I am also an eternally awkward mess. Babbling, stuttering, fumbling—I’m guilty of all the cardinal tells. “May I speak with Jake Brent, please?”
“Oh! He’s not in right now,” the girl says cheerfully. “Can I take a message?”
Shoot. I wasn’t entirely prepared for this. I was expecting Jake himself to answer the phone, to be able to follow my little prewritten script, and I foolishly didn’t prepare a backup script for the instance of leaving a message. Still, there is an actual human waiting on the phone for me to get my shit together, which becomes even more apparent when she prompts, “Hello?
“Ah…yes,” I force through my saliva-filled throat. “I’m Holley Fields with the Tribune. I’m just…” I glance down at my notes, and in all of two seconds, I try to soak up as many bullet points as I can. “I’m…uh…calling regarding his entry into the Bachelor Anonymous Contest. He’s been selected, and I need to go over the details. Can you tell me when might be a better time to reach him?”
There’s a muffled shuffle and a muted yell on the other end of the line, and I draw my eyebrows together slightly. When a thud sounds in my ear, I pull my desk phone away from my face to look at it—as if the clunky plastic handset will tell me anything—and then put it back. I still hear a small scream in the background. What is happening over there? I swear to Jesus, this guy better not have a secret wife. I cannot redo this contest! The voting already took six weeks to process. Not to mention, the additional seventy hours of work I had to suffer through last week, just to choose the damn women!
“Did you say Holley Fields?” the woman asks, an edge to her voice that I can’t exactly place. All I know is she no longer sounds easy like Sunday morning.
“I did.” I said it quite well, actually, thank you very much, I congratulate myself. Eloquently, even. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
I smack my forehead. Now I sound like the Queen of England.
“Chloe,” she says simply before adding, “Chloe Brent. Jake’s daughter.”
His daughter?
Of course, it’s his daughter, you moron! His personal ad is titled Single Dad Seeks Juliet!
Oh hell. Suddenly, the reason I gave for calling seems a little too detailed. I sure hope she knew her dad was signing up to be part of an all-out dating meat market since I just outed him. Yikes. You’d think nearly ten years of journalism experience would’ve prevented that horrible mistake, but here I am, fumbling and bumbling my way through this call.
