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Josh smiles slightly and lifts his glass, but doesn’t say anything else. I take a deep breath, looking at the papers spread out in front of us. “So. Where do I sign?”
Josh taps the bottom of the paper. I pick up a pen and scrawl my signature along the bottom. Zack whoops as I set down the pen.
“Nice. Brace yourself, babe. You’re about to get the full boyfriend experience. Twice over.”
“But first…” Josh picks up the papers, stacking them together neatly. “You’ll have to record with us. We’ll see you at the studio at eleven.”
I nod firmly, trying to ignore the nerves squirming in my stomach.
***
EIGHT
***
LAYLA
Sunday morning is Podcast Recording day, and I am terrified.
The guys record their episodes in a media studio owned by their production company, BuzzTone. The room is small and snug. There’s a round table set up with microphones and recording equipment, surrounded by four plush chairs, spaced as far apart as possible so our voices don’t get picked up on each other’s mics. Bottles of cold water are set up in each space, next to a pile of printed emails the boys are going to respond to. The room is oddly shaped: triangular, with a low ceiling and no windows.
“It’s to prevent echo,” Luke explains when I point it out, sliding into his chair and adjusting the height so his long legs fit under the table. “Parallel walls increase echo, because sound waves bounce between them more easily.” He nods at the black egg-carton foam covering two of the walls. “Same with the acoustic foam. The protruding patterns absorb sound waves much better than a flat piece of foam would.”
I can’t help but smile, despite my nerves. “Thank you, Mr Martins.”
He gives me an unimpressed look as I bend to set my bag on the floor, my leather trousers squeaking slightly. Even though we’re just recording audio, I’m dressed up today, in a black crop top and sky-high boots. Fighting clothes. Nothing makes me feel stronger than being dressed like the hot villain in a superhero movie. And right now, I need all the strength I can get.
I barely slept last night. I couldn’t eat. I spent all night relistening to old episodes of Three Single Guys, analysing the way the guys talk and joke as they dole out their advice. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t imagine my own voice fitting into that easy to-and-fro banter. I’m not funny. I’m not charming. I’m not witty. I can’t even get a man to sit and eat dinner with me for an hour, for God’s sake. I’m that unlikeable. I watch as Josh and Luke fiddle with the equipment, my heart in my throat.I’m going to screw this up.
“Hey, babe!” A low voice comes from the doorway. I turn to see Zack wandering into the room, holding a takeaway cup of coffee. He smacks a kiss on my cheek and gives my butt a light slap, making me jump. “Mm. Your bum looks great today.”
I glare at him, twisting to slap his bum back. “Wish I could say the same to you.”
He just beams, pulling out my chair. “Sit down and stop being so grumpy. Look, I got you coffee. Ain’t I a good boyfriend?”
“We’ve not started the experiment, yet,” Josh mutters, staring at his computer screen as Zack dumps the drink by my elbow and sits down next to me. “Say something into the mic, Layla.”
“Babe,” Zack corrects. “You gotta call her babe. Or honey. Or sweetbuns. Somethin’ proper romantic.”He frowns. “I wanna make an amendment to the contract. I want it in writing that I can call you whatever cheesy pet name I like.”
“Say something, sweetbuns,” Josh deadpans.
I clear my throat. “Um. Hey,” I say into the mic.
“Something more,” Josh says. “We need to test the mic settings.”
“Sing an Adele song, muffin-face.” Zack advises. “That’s what I always do.”
“Testing, testing?” I try.
Josh rolls his eyes, tapping at his keyboard. “Original. Okay, you go, Luke.”
I watch as the rest of the guys test out their own mics, making adjustments to their chairs and mic stands. They’re all so professional. Even Zack is serious, reading through his notes with his brow furrowed.
Cold sinks into my stomach. I have no idea what I’m doing. What if I screw up and hold up filming? Or I say something dumb, and hurt the guys’ reputation? I don’t know how to make myself likeable to an audience. Their listeners will probably all hate me, and the show’s numbers will go even further down, and I’ll get mean tweets, and the boys will lose their sponsorships and their audience and their jobs—
A light hand touches my shoulder. I look up at Luke. He’s dressed casually to record, in a white oxford shirt and worn jeans. His grey eyes are kind behind his glasses as he passes me a bottle of water. “Breathe,” he says quietly. “You’re overthinking this.”
I swallow and nod. “Always.”
