Page 112 of The Perfect Rom-Com

“—and you can see the screen live on the wall.”

I take a couple of steps inside and look above the door. Sure enough, there’s Melinda on her vibrant green couch with her vibrant pink lipstick and her big smile and yellow sunshine mug that says “LET’S MAKE IT A BEAUTIFUL BRIGHT MORNING!”

The man behind me has taken up a remote control and is tapping at the screen. The sound goes up. Melinda’s voice surrounds us.

A woman is suddenly at my side delicately clipping a mic on my blouse.

“Here’s the remote.” The man places it in my hand.

“Well, I—”

“Water bottles are in the corner.”

Well. It’s not a kidnapping at least. More like prison. But the nice, air-conditioned, and stocked with Scandinavian mountain–sourced water in a mini fridge type.

“Your agent is just getting mic’d up now.”

“My . . . agent?” I feel that familiar pinch in my chest. “Why . . . ?”

He shuts the door.

After a little inspection to ensure there’s no electricity line running through the chair, I take a seat.

Well well well.

So I’m in the show’s “secret room.” How many of the celebrities who come on here have their own people for such purposes? Makes sense if you think about it. All those celebrities being unusually hilarious at eight in the morning when put on the spot. Maybe this is where all their improv specialists sit, throwing out lines through mics in their ears.

“All right, I’m ready,” Jack says, opening the door and stepping inside. He looks around for a chair and the stage manager takes approximately one millisecond to snap his head back and hiss, “Chair!”

Three humans emerge simultaneously, each carrying a chair.

The manager grabs the one closest and rests it on the floor beside me. He listens to something in his ear for a moment, then nods, takes the remote from my hand, presses Mute, and sets it back in Jack’s. “I believe we’re ready,” he says, and I’m not sure exactly whom he’s directing his words to—us or the people in his headset.

Regardless, he grabs the doorknob, says, “Five minutes,” and pulls it shut.

Leaving Jack and me together.

In this soundproof room.

Alone.

My brow rises at the sight of a mic line running from the collar of Jack’s shirt.

Jack is straight to business. “The job is simple, Bryony. Answer the questions—honestly, to the best of your ability—and this should all be over in thirty-six minutes.” He pauses. “I’m sorry it had to come to this.”

“It’s fine,” I reply politely. I’m sitting straight up. As in, rod straight toward the ceiling.

“Do you want to . . . talk . . . for a moment?” he says tentatively.

I shake my head firmly. Decide to stare at the screen. “No. I’d rather not say anything that could get me sued, thank you very much. Once is enough for a lifetime.”

Jack rubs his face. Looks at me for several long moments. Then nods at the floor. “Here we go. And, Bryony?”

He leaves my name so maddeningly long in the air I eventually reply with a tart, “What?”

“Just know, I was always and will always root for you.”

Something draws his attention in his earpiece, and he nods. “Audio is on,” he says to me and unmutes the screen. Why does he get the earpiece? Where is mine?