Page 8 of The Perfect Rom-Com

We are a thing.

For whatever reason (illness, signed a contract with another agent, sudden panic attack . . . probably the sudden panic attack), there is a system in place for “spontaneous bonus appointment openings.”

A conference attendee calls and cancels his or her upcoming appointment and in that moment, the conference vultures—the small group of conference dissidents who ignore classes and watch with beady eyes for spontaneous appointments—pounce as a staff member scribbles the newly available name and time on the board.

The name of the agent or editor would be revealed.

Hands would fly through phones, researching the new person.

The conference staff would call up the next vulture number. I was number seventeen.

And so, on the day went.

AGENT THERESA JONES, 12:15.

AGENT THERESA JONES, 12:15.

EDITOR PHILLIP PARKS, 2:45.

EDITOR PHILLIP PARKS, 2:45.

The board filled up and emptied of names while you waited, watching the board like a stockbroker, anxiously researching anything you could find out about the person in question until your number popped up—on the delusional hope that everyone else suddenly lapsed into stupidity and didn’t realize the name in block letters was a good one.

Agent Theresa Jones was single. A cat lover. Her author gave a glowing review about her in the acknowledgments section of a recent release, The Gentlemen of Shanghai. She won two apparently incredibly important awards in the past three years, given the general glowyness of the trophies and fluff level of her dress. She hobnobbed with a celebrity once, via the backdrop of a 2018 movie release. She was into knitting cat hats.

Agent Jones was kind and successful.

Agent Jones was a winner.

Ergo you and every other anxious author surrounding the dry-erase board wrung your hands with delusions of hope as you waited and hoped and prayed for Jones.

But of course, Jones would last on the board twelve seconds.

Cue bitter disappointment.

Then surprise! Someone just called in to free up a new appointment.

Cue delusional hope.

It was exhausting, sitting hours in that chair riding an emotional roller coaster.

There was one name, however, that always stayed on the whiteboard.

AGENT JACK STERLING 12:30.

AGENT JACK STERLING 12:45.

AGENT JACK STERLING 1:30.

Sterling, as it turns out, was also single—although the number of different (and yet all the same?) women who jumped in and out of his frames on his socials was concerning. An ego man. A Peter Pan. Red flag. Jack kept a small clientele list, no more than fifteen, and all the kind of names you’d see splattered everywhere from the CVS checkout line to coming out of the mouth of the eight-year-old you babysit. Household names. This is another red flag.

He wasn’t desperate for fresh meat, and whenever he wanted, he could easily pick up someone with far more experience and credentials than you.

He was too good. Too established.

In fact, it was a little concerning to even see him here. Why was he here? He was by far the most successful and well-known agent in the business, the caviar of agents in the caviar of agencies. Even the conference directors tried to schmooze up to him at mealtimes and casually/not-so-casually slip him comments about their own books every other second (to the great frustration of their own agents; it’s actually been a bit of a drama).

Jack enjoyed skiing in places where the mountains in the backdrop were just, you know, the Alps. And the goggles over his face were shiny in an intimidating, look-how-expensive-these-are kind of way.