I tip an imaginary hat. “I am grateful for your recommendation to the position.” Despite having fired me, Mr. Fletcher was kind enough to get me my new job at one of the local papers. He may not have been thrilled about the actions I confessed to in last year’s interview, but my matchmaking claims convinced him I’d do well as a romance columnist. Hence my current vocation writing under the pseudonymAsk Gladys.
He gives me one of his rare smiles. “You may not have followed my advice about keeping your articles appropriate, but I must admit, theCedar Hills Gazettehas never been more popular. Readers love what you’ve done with theAsk Gladyscolumn.”
I nod. “My article ‘Fifteen Steps to Fantastic Fellatio’ sold so many copies, the paper had to print an extra run by ten in the morning.”
Mr. Fletcher’s grin turns into a grimace at the wordfellatio. Again, how does this man publish the isle’s smuttiest smut author? He rubs his brow. “Yes, well, it may not be my reading material of choice, but romance columnist suits you.”
He’s right, it does suit me. I’ve always had a bit of an obsession with matchmaking—with my own twist, of course, which usually involves annoying the hell out of two people until they realize they like each other. That obsession translates well into answering romance queries and penning mildly inappropriate articles. My new boss has been so impressed with my work that he requested I compile my best romance advice into a how-to guide and publish it under theAsk Gladyspseudonym. I’ve never wanted to be an author, but my boss posed a challenge I couldn’t refuse. If I land this publishing deal on behalf of theGazette, he’ll contract me as Gladys for six more years. Not only that, but he’ll offer a signing bonus on top of my portion of the publishing advance. Normally, theGazetteonly contracts their columnists for a year at a time, so this kind of opportunity won’t likely come around again.
I live for challenges, particularly if they feel like a game. What better game to play than proposing a book to the man who once fired me?
Not to mention I really fucking need the money.
“So…” I spread my hands and give him my most charming grin. “What do you say? Does Fletcher-Wilson want to carry me to fame?”
Mr. Fletcher’s expression shifts from amused to exasperated. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Phillips. I already said it wasn’t perfect.”
“Well, do tell.”
“Your book compiles the most sensible advice you’ve given on modern courtship.”
I smirk at his emphasis onsensible. He’s right to differentiate my book’s contents from my usual fare, though. Most of myAsk Gladysarticles are humorous if not a touch obscene. “How to Lace a Corset for the Ultimate Breast Buffet.” “How to Unlace a Corset for a Titillating Striptease.” “How to Flap a Fan to Draw Attention to Your Assets.” “How to Get Off When Your Fae Lover is Incorporeal.” But I alternate those topics with true gems regarding everyday courtship. As someone who’s been courted, flirted with, eye-fucked, and nearly mauled by eager lovers, I know what turns a man off or on. What tempts a suitor into long-term commitment and what sends him running for the hills. These are the topics that form the bulk of my manuscript.
Mr. Fletcher continues. “It is unique in that your audience is working-class women but you utilize your perspective as a former aristocrat. You merge modern feminine freedoms with the rules of courtship that normally only apply to highborn ladies.”
“It’s brilliant, isn’t it?” I lean forward in my chair, ensnared by his praise and ready to be reeled in with more. “What else do you like about it?”
He ignores my commentary. “But what it lacks are real-life examples. As of now, you’re merely spouting advice without concrete proof that your words are worth their salt. It comes across as pompous and belittling.”
I settle back into my seat, fighting my urge to extract a cigarillo from my jacket pocket. Writing behind a pseudonym has protected me from the horrors of face-to-face criticism of my work, so his assessment stings. “I intended for the tone to come across as grandmotherly and wise.”
“You are neither a grandmother nor wise.”
“But Gladys is.”
He cuts me a withering look. “Gladys is a pen name, and I will not publish a romance guide for women written by a man under a woman’s name without disclosing it as such.”
I purse my lips. This shouldn’t surprise me, considering what a stickler Mr. Fletcher is. One of his most popular titles is a book written by a woman under a male pseudonym. He only agreed to publish it if the copyright page disclosed both the writer and performer of the work. I do hope he doesn’t expect me to reveal my real name as the author. Then again, it would be hilarious if my father found out I’d written a book involving such unrefined topics as sex and courtship. But if my career reaches a higher level of success, I risk him being proud of me. I’ll be damned if I give him a reason to try and bring me back into the fold.
“We don’t have to disclose your identity,” Mr. Fletcher says as if my worries were written on my face, “but we will make it clear that Gladys is a pen name and property of theCedar Hills Gazette. Regardless, Gladys needs to back her advice with proof, whether she’s a wise grandmother or not.”
I shrug. “Fair enough. I can post a request for testimonials from my readers. I’ll have it published in Monday’s issue.”
“That may add legitimacy to your advice, but your readers write to you anonymously. You can’t guarantee your testimonials will come from the same people, or just those eager to see their words published. I wantrealexamples.”
“Can I use Edwina Danforth and William Haywood?” As his expression darkens, I rush to add, “I know it’s a touchy subject, considering I was fired for matching them?—”
“You weren’t fired for playing matchmaker between them. You were fired for the unseemly behavior you demonstrated as a publicist when you managed their book tour. More so for admitting to it in a rather detailed interview.”
Oh, that fateful interview, published in the very paper I now work for. I suppose I could have acted with more foresight when I relayed the events of The Heartbeats Tour. A year had already passed since the tour, so I didn’t see the harm in sharing some of the most entertaining moments. Apparently, Mr. Fletcher didn’t feel the same way. Particularly about the part where I propositioned Edwina for casual sex. In my defense, it was a ruse to spark William’s jealousy.
“But you do agree I matched Weenie and Will, right?” I say. “To this day, they insist I played no part in their relationship.”
Mr. Fletcher squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Did either of them knowingly utilize the advice you’ve written about?”
I open my mouth to say yes, but I suppose that would be untrue. While I could lie, I’d prefer to win this challenge fair and square. And while I may have encouraged Edwina and William to notice the feelings they were already developing through my strategic use of jealousy and misdirection, I hardly gave them any real advice.
“No, they didn’t,” I confess.
