“Oh, really? Because last time I checked, audiences weren’t beating down the doors for geriatric love stories. Also, I have no time. I’m supposed to be concentrating on the oh-so-wonderful and innovative pop-up production, aren’t I?”
And now she’s trying to turn the tables on me. Like her putting solid effort into the pop-up is somehow doingmea favor.
“I don’t have time either, Juliette. I’m only here right now because you emotionally coerced me, and I have my own play to work on.”
“And what, you think traipsing around London with young British men will send you into a creative rut?”
“Shockingly, I don’t need the male validation of horny strangers to magically reinvigorate my writing.”
“Okay, if that statement was directed towards me, it is both wildly offensive and categorically not what I mean. I’ve written multiple plays about toppling the patriarchy from the inside out and passed them off as romantic comedies. I ‘Trojan-horsed feminist revolution into ’80s mainstream theater,’ and that is a direct quote from theThe New Yorker.”
“Yes, I’m aware, so please get to the point and tell me what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying I need your help! My writing is tired and outdated, and I can’t create from a new and fresh perspective if I don’t know anything about what’s going on in the romantic world around me. I need you to be my millennial muse. My eyes and ears. You can also have fun and put yourself out there, and we can all win.”
I down my champagne in an irritated gulp. “Me doing this would not be me winning, Juliette. I’m entering the Twenty-Fourth Annual Arthur Brady Playwriting Contest, and I have to actually finish my play if I want to do that. I only have seventeen days to submit it, and I’m already cutting it close by being on this trip.”
Juliette must be slightly moved by my deadline and looks off to the side before facing me again, determined as ever.
“How about this: you help me gather the writing material that I need, and I’ll help you with your play.”
“You’ll read it?” I ask, shocked. “You’ll read it in time for the contest?”
“Now, that will probably be difficult given how busy we’re about to be, but I will absolutely get to it once we’re back to New York. I’ll read it, I’ll give in-depth line notes, I’ll even write you an editorial letter and put you in touch with a producer if that’s what it’s going to take.”
I’m inwardly thrilled, but also hurt that Juliette is only willing to read my work because it’s now in her best interests. She’s not doing it for me, she’s doing it for herself. But I also happen to be desperate enough to consider it. True, I won’t have her edits before the contest, but it’s better than nothing. And at least if I end up losing, her help would be a great opportunity to fall back on.
“To be clear, what exactly are you expecting out of this arrangement?”
“Barely anything, in the grand scheme of things. What I need from you is to sign up for this app so we can choose some guys for you to go out with while we’re in London. And obviously you in no way need to do anything sexual or even romantic with these people. Just ask them questions and get stories out of them to bring back to me. Once I have a feeling for the character I want to write, everything will click into place.”
“And how many guys am I supposed to meet?” I ask.
“Nothing too bad. How about seven?”
“Are you insane? I’ll agree to two.”
“Three, then. We’re in London for twenty-one days, so one meetup per week or however you decide you want to space it. And if you hate it or feel unsafe for even a second, we immediately call it off.”
I pause, thinking there’s no way this is going to pan out the way she wants it to, but also knowing that I could probably handle it, even if I’m not looking forward to it. Years of theater school prepared me for working intimately with quasi-strangers. My embarrassment threshold is basically nonexistent. But still, this whole situation doesn’t sit right with me. This isn’t Juliette wanting me to pick up her laundry or to go to the store for her—this is an inappropriate ask.
“I have to think about it,” I tell her.
“Yes, you think about it,” she says. “I’ll just lie here and wallow in self-doubt until you decide.”
I give her a knowing look as she slowly reclines her seat back down. Rubbing my eyes, I focus again on my computer, which is now alerting me to an email. I click into my inbox and see that it’s from my friend and former professor, Jack. I’m somewhat surprised, since we were all just talking a few minutes ago in the group chat, but quickly open the email and begin to read.
Winnie,
I know you’re currently en route to jolly London-town, but I wanted to reach out to you privately so I could run something by you. As you’re aware, I’ve recently left teaching to become the Director of Development for the West Lane Theater Company (please hold your applause, but present monetary gifts directly). Anyways, I’ve just found out that we’re going to be looking for a new Managing Artistic Director, and I immediately thought of you. The pay isn’t astronomical, but it is competitive. You’d be in charge of curating the season, working with the programming committee and supervising/supporting guest directors.
I’ll still have to post the position online, but if you want it, the job could be yours, pending your interview process and the board’s approval. And before you start second-guessing yourself, I want to assure you that I wouldn’t be putting you forward for this if I didn’t think you were qualified. I know you’ve been in your current spot for quite a while, but there’s room for growth here as well as it being an incredible creative outlet. I hate seeing all your talent go to waste. Just think about it, and if you’re interested, I’d be more than happy to discuss things further. Or you could just tell me to “bugger off,” as would be more geographically appropriate for you at the moment. Either way, let me know.
Best wishes,
Jack
And just when I think my mind couldn’t be any more ready to explode, here we are.
