by Anna Yen
I stopped and turned around, my face hot with alarm that I’d opened a can of worms. “Oh, nothing. It’s fine. I just thought it was so moronic.”
“That’s not okay, Sophia. I feel really strongly about that. It’s serious and there’s no excuse for it. I’ll definitely talk to him about that.”
“Please don’t, Grant. I have to work with him, and it’s really important to me that he feels we can say anything—anything—to each other. I’m sure I’ve said plenty of inappropriate things to him, too,” I said, remembering a few past examples of obnoxious comments I’d thrown Tyler’s way. “I need him to see me as one of the guys and not some prissy, thin-skinned girl who will run to the boss when her feelings have been hurt. He won’t trust me, then, and that will make things so uncomfortable. Please don’t say anything.”
Grant’s expression was steadfast; the best I could do was getting his promise that he’d limit his comments to Tyler to “that’s simply not okay.” He studied my face then, and said in a fatherly tone, “I know you were here really late last night, and here again early this morning. You’ve been working extremely hard and I’ve never even said thank you. Get done what you can by a decent hour today and then go home, okay?”
I lay in bed half-awake noticing the rapid beating of my heart. Get up, Sophia. Get up. Although my mind was doing its best to send alert signals through my body, the messages were clouded and too weak to move any of my limbs. I wasn’t aware that my blood glucose levels had dropped to a perilous low; I only knew I needed help. Get up, Sophia. Get up. Looking as though I’d had too much to drink, I stumbled to my desk and plopped down in my chair. I strained to clear my foggy head but felt nothing except confusion. The only comprehensible thought I had was Audrey. Help. Audrey. I pressed the first speed dial number on my phone; when Audrey’s voice came over the speaker I tried to say something, but only nonsensical words came shouting out from between my lips. In a panic and no longer able to hear her on the speaker, I picked up the telephone receiver, held it to my ear, and continued to shout—louder and louder.
The next thing I knew, I was seated on the floor, fighting the sugary gel that was being forced down my throat. Minutes passed before I could articulate any words, but I could hear Dad calling my name. Although my eyes were closed, I knew he was holding me upright; it was unclear how much time had gone by before I realized it was Mom squeezing the glucose into my mouth. Slowly, the fog cleared.
“I’m going to throw up if you keep feeding me that stuff,” I mumbled to my mom with my mouth full of gel and my eyes still closed. She told me to be quiet. Then she put the gel down before sticking a straw in my mouth and using it to feed me orange juice.
“I’m going to throw up, Mom,” I said as I swallowed, unsure of why I could hear Audrey’s voice shouting through the telephone receiver that dangled off the edge of my desk.
Mom ignored me.
“Mom, I’m going to throw up,” I said more loudly, feeling nauseous from the sudden spike in my blood sugar level.
I opened my eyes and vomited all over my mother, then smiled smugly.
“I told you I was going to throw up!”
The to-do list for Red Bean Wireless’s IPO was ten pages long, and I was just beginning to dive into it when the telephone rang. “Hello, Mei-Mei. Sweetheart, did you get your blood tests taken this month?” Mom asked over the phone. I glanced at the calendar and realized it was June 25 (i.e., late June—i.e., shit). For as long as I could remember, I followed my doctors’ orders and had blood samples drawn at the beginning of each month so we could catch early warning signs of any diabetic side effects. The last time I remembered being stuck in the veins like that was . . . March? Bad Sophia!
I wanted to lie to Mom—to get her off my back—but I didn’t. “No, Mom. I haven’t gone yet.”
She took a deep breath and went from zero to sixty in less than one second. Oh boy. Here we go. “What have I always told you? Your health comes first!” she shouted. “Use your brain! If you don’t have your health, you don’t have anything. Daddy and I aren’t going to be here forever, you know. You need to learn how to take care of yourself!” She droned on and on, and on, and on. I thought of Penny Jenkins and how men don’t hear certain tones in women’s voices. I wonder if I could develop that talent. I pressed the Mute button and continued typing on my keyboard. Let her get it all out. When it was time for me to leave for my meeting, I did what I knew would shut her up for now—an apology.
“Okay, Mom. I’m sorry. I’ll go there today.”
But I didn’t. I just kept working. I knew I needed to go home to shower and change clothes before the next day, though, so I stayed at the office until I was certain my parents would be asleep, then snuck in. And back out to the office.
The next day, I was seated at my desk reviewing a document when Grant appeared in my doorway. I looked up but remained hunched over the papers.
“What do you want?” I snapped, wearing a huge smile. It always entertained me to pretend he was working for me; Grant thought it was funny, too.
He laughed at our never-old joke and said, “Nice pants. Going to the derby?” I looked down at my loud blue-gingham pants and tried to think of a clever comeback, but before I could, Grant continued, “Your father came to see me about you.”
This was one of those times that the Daddy’s-girl role didn’t suit me. I put down the pen, sat up straight, and chuckled nervously. “Uh-huh. And what did he say?”
“That man is scary.”
I laughed. “No, he’s not. Come on.”
“I’m not kidding. There’s something about him that is intimidating. In fact, I’m afraid of him.”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s a total pushover.”
“I’m serious. He’s scary. And he’s all business. He said I’m working you too hard and that you have something personal to take care of.”
“But—”
“But nothing. For God’s sake, get your blood tests done! I don’t want to see your dad in here again,” Grant said. Then, as he turned to go back to his office, he shouted, “Unless he’s bringing us business!”
I sat at my desk, frozen by my embarrassment. How could Dad barge into my work and embarrass me like this? I’ll deal with him later. I dialed Daniel’s number to tell him what had happened, but his comments were less than supportive.
“Why do you work so much? We never even get to see each other anymore,” he complained.
Way to turn this into something about you, Daniel.
“Because people are depending on me,” I replied, defensive. “We’re all working hard.”
“Well, you can’t keep this up. You won’t last. We won’t last.”
His comment took me by surprise. Is he thinking of breaking up with me? I changed the subject then, and asked Daniel how his day was going. He had just started a full-time job at the environmental consulting firm he had interned at last summer and was in the midst of moving to an apartment in downtown San Francisco. There was too much happening already for me to engage in any fight, and besides, it wasn’t the time for drama. Later, though, when the emails and phone calls had slowed and my Do Not Disturb sign hung from my closed door, I thought about what Daniel had said and wondered whether I really would need to choose between my career and my relationship. My career. A few years ago, those words would have seemed ridiculous coming out of my mouth, but now they elicited a sense of satisfaction and pride that surprised me.
If Daniel truly loved me, he wouldn’t make me choose.
When a private company starts the IPO process, its employees and shareholders imagine the value of their shares soaring; excitement over the millions of dollars that they will collect fills their hearts and faces. That is, until they learn they have to sign a “lock-up”—an agreement that they won’t sell a single share for six months after their precious IPO begins trading. The stakeholders’ grand illusions fade . . . because everyone knows anything can happen in six months.
Althoug
h it was only quarter to two, the glow of the early August morning looked as though the sun were already trying to make its appearance. I quietly closed the door to our house and headed to work, feeling completely exhausted and alone driving through the empty streets of Silicon Valley. But as soon as I turned into Sterling, Rich’s parking lot and saw all the lights turned on, my loneliness disappeared. I knew it was business as usual at the firm—meetings were going on and lawyers were hunched over their desks. Ah, the place that never sleeps.
The glass doors felt particularly heavy at this oh-dark hour, and I walked through them cursing the person responsible for my late-early day. His name was Ciaran Hayes and he was the trustee of Red Bean’s largest shareholder, Peekamoose Family Trust. Mr. Hayes was based in the Isle of Man, a tax haven in the middle of the Irish Sea, and he was ignoring me. Doesn’t he know who I am?!
I passed the very full VIP conference room at the top of the stairs and slowed my pace so I could rubberneck as I passed by. Which Silicon Valley hotshot is here now? Confident I wasn’t in the semi-presence of anyone special, I headed down the familiar hallway to my office, where I turned my attention to the first task at hand: hunting down rogue lock-up agreements.
Seated at my desk, I rolled up the sleeves of my white button-down shirt, took off my sensible black ballet flats, and prepared for battle. Come to me, Mr. Ciaran Hayes! I put the phone on speaker mode so I could free up my hands to attack the stack of letters and packages that had piled up. As junk mail flew into the recycling bin, a pleasant voice with an English accent said, “Good morning, office of Ciaran Hayes. This is Lorraine. How may I help you?”
Her accent disarmed me and I turned on my friendliest tone. “Good morning. This is Sophia Young and I’m calling from Sterling, Rich in San Francisco. May I please speak to Ciaran?”
“I’m so sorry, but he’s in a meeting right now.” I quickly analyzed Lorraine’s voice to determine how I might get past her. She seemed professional but genuine, and not part of the Ciaran Hayes conspiracy.
“Oh gosh. No problem. When do you expect him to be finished?”
“I really don’t know. But I can take your number and have him ring you back if you like.” Then, likely realizing the time, the voice on the other end of the phone continued, “Isn’t it quite late in San Francisco?”
Here was my chance to soften Lorraine. “It is really late—just past two in the morning, in fact. The only thing keeping me at the office is a signature that I need from Mr. Hayes. I won’t be able to leave until I speak to him.” To sound tired, I spoke softly and quietly and channeled pathetic as best I could.
“Oh my,” she said with a tinge of concern. “I will pass him the message immediately and ask him to ring you as soon as he’s free.”
Two hours and another three calls later, Lorraine had lapped up my finest chitchatting and ass-kissing, so when I dialed for the fourth time, she knew my voice.
“Hiya, Sophia. Sorry, no. He’s still in the meeting.”
“Is this the same meeting he’s been in?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
“Do you think he’ll be coming out soon?”
“Well, I suppose he’ll have to come out at some point to use the loo,” she said, chuckling.
“Let’s hope he had a bran muffin and coffee this morning,” I offered sarcastically.
Lorraine burst out in laughter and I enjoyed the fact that I’d warmed up the secretary. Just then I noticed a scruffy head peeking into my office unapologetically, peering right at me. Who is this weirdo with the rimless glasses and black T-shirt? And how long has he been standing there? I looked him over uneasily and assumed he was with the late-working group in the VIP conference room. He must be on his way to the bathroom.
I pointed toward the men’s bathroom and waved the stranger away. When he didn’t leave, I got up to shut my door in his face, but he insisted, “Come talk to me when you’re done.” Even after I closed the door on him, I could still see the outline of his body through the door’s frosted glass.
The sound of Lorraine whispering into the speakerphone brought my attention back to my phone call in progress. “Listen, Sophia. I’ll go get him. I’ll just tell him I forgot to ask who was on the line.”
Score!
Less than a minute later, a male voice came over the phone. “This is Ciaran Hayes.” He sounded like someone who got paid a lot for doing whatever his rich clients told him. A yes-man.
I turned on my friendliest I’m just doing my job voice. “Mr. Hayes. This is Sophia Young calling from Sterling, Rich. I know you’re extremely busy, but I was wondering when I might get the signed Red Bean lock-up agreement returned from you.”
Clearly annoyed, Ciaran responded, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You goddamn liar.
I hid my impatience. “Oh dear. That’s my fault and I am so sorry. But would it be all right for me to email it to you right now?” I asked, bringing up the soft copy on my computer screen.
“Our email is down, I’m sorry.”
“Well, I can fax the document to you,” I responded, clicking the Print button on my screen.
“Our fax machine is broken.”
That was it. Mr. Hayes had pushed me over the edge. I came out with guns blazing and in full Penny Jenkins mode. “I’d have to be stupid to believe there is no way to get you a two-page document in this day and age, don’t you think?”
“Ummm . . .”
“So are you calling me stupid?”
“I, uh . . .”
“Well? Do you really think I’m stupid?”
“Of course not,” Ciaran said.
“Okay, then. We both know you’re just trying to avoid signing this, and believe me, I understand. I wish we could just forget this whole thing. I really do. But the investment bankers aren’t going to let this go, because you—or rather, the trust you manage—are the company’s largest shareholder. I’m sure you’re a very reasonable person, but the bankers will not take Red Bean public without this document.”
Doesn’t Ciaran know this? Or does he think he can bamboozle the SEC?
“Well, I’m sorry, Sophia. But I really can’t sign the document.”
“Why not?”
“That’s confidential.”
I saw through his ploy to avoid the lock-up. “Okay. Well, Ciaran. The way I see it, you can not sign the document, and then you explain to your client why his shares are worthless. At least I did everything I could,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect. “Or you can sign the document, we can get the green light from the bankers, and I can stop harassing you. Trust me, I get no pleasure from it. We’re all just trying to live our lives here. That being said, lives are much more enjoyable when there’s a roof over our heads.”
There was silence on the line. Then, “Okay. Fine. Email the document.”
“Thank you! Will you please sign it as soon as you receive it?”
“Yes,” he responded, sounding like a broken man.
“Great. And you will email the signed document right back to me, with the original to follow by overnight mail?”
“Yes.” He sounded annoyed.
“Okay. Thank you very much, Ciaran. You are a true hero.”
With a grudging laugh now, he responded, “Good day, Sophia.”
Satisfied, I hung up the speakerphone without saying goodbye and opened my door. Minutes had passed, fifteen at least, and the scruffy man was still standing there, peering at me with his eagle eyes.
“I’m sorry. Are you looking for someone?” I needed him out of my way so I could march over to Grant’s office and tell him the good news.
“No,” the man said. “I heard you talking on the phone.” He let an awkward grin cross his face. “Very impressive. You’re going to come work for me.”
“Oh, I see. Eavesdropping on one phone call and you’re sold?” I asked incredulously.
“That’s all I ever need.”
“Who are you?” I deman
ded.
He looked surprised that I was asking, but not disappointed. Nor did he extend his hand to introduce himself. He just said, “I’m Scott Kraft.”
Chapter 6
It was not the first time I’d heard his name. He was the genius high school dropout and cofounder of Quince, a maker of revolutionary computers that were known for their simplicity and ease of use. Scott had coined the term user experience and redefined the standard for the entire personal computing industry by making technology accessible to the masses. He wasn’t just a genius; he was a fixer, solving problems people didn’t even know they had yet. I didn’t care, though. I just wanted him to get out of my way so I could give Grant the good news about Ciaran Hayes.
As Scott stood there staring at me, I noticed what I hadn’t earlier: trademark Levi’s, a simple black T-shirt, and Toms organic shoes. He had smudges on his rimless rectangular glasses that made me want to grab them and wipe them clean, but I refrained. Years ago Scott had been publicly humiliated when Quince’s board of directors fired him from his own company. At least, those were the rumors. Although I’d heard about him being in a meeting or two with our firm’s founder (and my dream crush, yet to even say hello to me), Austin Sterling, Scott had been seen very little in public. I wondered why he was standing here.
“You may not know me, but I’m the CEO of Treehouse. I want you to come work for me.” Treehouse? Never heard of it.
“You’re right,” I reminded him. “We don’t know each other.”
“But I do know you,” he insisted. “I picked up on your energy from the hallway. You know how to open your valves and vibrate to get exactly what you want.” He pushed his glasses up higher on his nose but didn’t take his sharp eyes off me for a moment. “You have a holistic way of manipulating people.”
What he said sounded halfway between New Age hokiness and a sexual come-on, and I truly had no idea what he was talking about. Valves? Okay, friend. I ran through a few possible responses before I decided to be offended. I’d been called manipulative by more than one ex-boyfriend, so that’s where my head went first.