Page 60 of Hot Mic

Eleanor laughed lightly. ‘Yes, they brought me in a few months ago in the hopes of, well, raising the bar.’

‘So no more podcasters drooling over serial killers?’ Sienna asked.

‘No, we still do those because people listen to them,’ she admitted. ‘But we want to broaden our audience. And your story was very interesting.’

‘Eleanor,’ Sienna said. ‘I already told the cheesy bugger who called me before that it was a no.’

‘Marcus is a junior producer who only thinks in clickbait,’ Eleanor interrupted smoothly. ‘So now I’m calling you properly, Sienna. Person to person. What Gemma Bates pulled at Violet wasn’t broadcasting. It was a cheap, nasty stunt.’

Sienna stayed quiet.

‘But that’s not what Dating by Design was, and I know because I listened to it every week,’ Eleanor said. ‘You spent years building a real, smart approach to relationships. Are you seriously going to let a trashy polygraph stunt be the last thing people remember you for?’

The logic was painful, but Eleanor was right. Staying quiet wasn’t protecting her reputation. It was just letting Gemma win.

‘If I do this,’ Sienna said carefully, ‘what’s the setup with Robin?’

‘Robin Croft?’

‘Yes,’ Sienna said, her fingers digging into the edge of her desk. ‘I’m not doing a reunion. I’m not getting dragged into dramatic confrontation just to give you good ratings.’

This was a dealbreaker. Sienna couldn’t see Robin again. It was simply too painful.

‘Totally agree,’ Eleanor said without skipping a beat. ‘Separate segments. Separate green rooms, separate studios, zero overlap. You sit down, explain your side, and clear your name on your own terms. She does hers. You won’t even have to cross paths.’

‘She said yes to this?’

‘We approached you first.’

‘I’ve got a non-compete clause,’ Sienna pointed out. ‘That’s why I don’t host anymore. I literally can’t.’

‘If it’s standard issue, it shouldn’t bar you from appearing as a guest,’ Eleanor replied.

Sienna closed her eyes. She didn’t want this, but Eleanor was persuasive. And Sienna had to admit, she wanted her name back.

Sienna opened her eyes.

‘Send the contract over,’ Sienna said. ‘I’ll be there.’

Fifty-One

Robin was on the toilet when she heard the metallic thwack of the letterbox flap snapping shut down the hall, followed instantly by the skitter of claws on linoleum.

Fuck.

She grabbed the toilet paper, finishing at breakneck speed and running out to the hall. Kiki’s small jaws were already clamped around a white envelope.

‘Give me that!’ Robin cried, wrestling the dog for the post. ‘Drop it, Kiki! We’ve talked about this!’

Slobbered, crumpled, but just about intact, the envelope came free. Robin wiped a streak of dog saliva off the envelope onto her leggings. Then she saw bold red text printed through the cellophane window:

IMMEDIATE PAYMENT REQUIRED.

‘You want it back?’ she asked Kiki, holding out the envelope. But Kiki had already lost interest.

The glory of walking out on a fancy podcast contract was that you got to keep your dignity, but dignity apparently didn’t cover rent on a droughty studio flat. She was trying to get back in the black with her new gig, but it paid peanuts.

Her phone rang. ‘If this is about the gas bill, I’m waiting on an invoice from a voiceover gig,’ Robin answered as she walked into the kitchen.