by Kathy Wang
The man—who’d introduced himself as Lars Sundstrom—was already signaling his intentions in that direction, with a determined gaze that kept returning as if propelled by magnetic force to the deep V neckline of her dress (she’d bought it on a whim, thinking the Moroccan print pretty, before stashing it in the back of her closet; Linda had pointed it out and insisted she pack it, over a plain black Ann Taylor option).
“Do you ever work with Sonny Agrawal?” Lars asked.
“No, not really.”
“Oh.” He looked disappointed. “That’s too bad. It would have been great to land an introduction. I have a meeting with the X ventures team next month; I hear he’s very close with the leadership there. He advises on certain investments, doesn’t he?”
“You know, I’m really not too sure.” In fact Kate had penned the majority of Sonny’s last missive to the group, a ranting treatise on autonomous vehicles, but she had no intention of divulging such. At this stage she saw little advantage in exposing herself to a potential barrage of networking emails in exchange for a one-night stand. “What does your company do?”
“I’ll share if you try to keep an open mind.” He offered a shy smile. He looked better than Charles the salesman from Ireland, Kate decided. More interesting features. She nodded.
“It’s bras. Before you react, just listen. I promise I’m not a deviant. Almost every adult woman in this country wears a bra. Right?”
She crossed her arms. “I suppose.”
“And they start wearing them from approximately the age of, say, thirteen, and the average life expectancy right now for an American woman is eighty-one years. That’s sixty-eight continuous years of wearing the garment. Yes? Now, if you’ll allow me to ask a personal question: Do you love your bra? As in, does it do everything you’d like for it to? Would you be willing to sleep in it at night?”
“No, that’d be way too uncomfortable. It’s the first thing I take off when I get home.” She wondered if that sounded too suggestive.
“And how many bras, approximately, do you own?”
Kate considered this. “Forty? But I probably only wear ten.” The answer was actually closer to five, but she didn’t want to sound gross. “I keep buying them, in various colors. Or I try a new style, wash it, and then realize I don’t like it at all. But at that point it’s too late to return.”
“Exactly!” Lars thumped the air, excited. “We hear that same story from so many women. They buy for a certain occasion, or because the material feels comfortable, or because they like the design or print. They have a dress with thin straps, or they find they need a certain level of support. The reasons are endless, really. But what everyone has in common is that so far, they’ve been unable to find the perfect bra.”
“And you’re going to change this.”
“We’d certainly like to. Custom lingerie, produced specifically for each woman’s body, at a reasonable price. You know how big the global intimates industry was last year?”
She shook her head.
“Thirty-two billion dollars. And how much of that money spent was a total waste, just more fabric and wire sitting unused in a drawer? Not to mention the environmental impact of clothing manufacturing, which is a whole other externality we haven’t even explored.”
“I do like the idea,” Kate said. She hated most of her bras. She had once spent more than $1,000 at Agent Provocateur out of a misguided idea of glamour and had never worn most of the pieces even once. “But how are you going to manufacture at an individual level? Isn’t that terribly labor- and cost-intensive?”
“Some of that I can discuss publicly, but most of it I can’t. I can tell you that 3-D printing is technology we’re very excited about. And we’ve had preliminary meetings with some of the big brands, Victoria’s Secret and the like, white label production. Of course, there’s no way we’d enter brick-and-mortar retail ourselves.”
“And what’s your target market? Every woman above a certain age?”
“That’d be great, but too broad for us at this point. Right now we’re looking at women with a certain household income, and we have to limit where we ship, at least initially. Apparently some countries are very strict about their undergarment imports. But you’re right that the market is huge. And why stop at women? There are men out there who buy bras too. A very important and largely neglected audience.”
“Seriously? Like a fetish thing?”
“Sometimes, but mostly they’re overweight or have a medical issue. Usually they’re too embarrassed to go to the store and ask for help, so they just suffer in silence. It’s a highly underserved market. Something else we’re doing differently.”
“Hmm.” In Kate’s experience, highly underserved was the phrase typically deployed by executives when there was a pet project with flawed fundamentals they desperately wanted to push through; no woman, she thought, would describe the male undergarments market as one in dire need of innovation. “So is your founding team all men?”
Lars hesitated. “We’ve had only a few hires so far, since we’re still in stealth. So yes, technically. But once we start ramping up the sales team, we expect to have more women.”
Kate finished the remains of her drink and searched for the bartender. “Do you ever get heat for that?”
“You think that because my company is led by men, it can’t address the needs of women?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Because discrimination is a real problem, for everyone.” His tone had turned frosty. “It exists universally, even for men. Even for white men. And to answer your question, we do get shit. In fact, we just had some promised seed funding drop out, after the investor learned we didn’t have any women on board. Do you know how unfair that is? Do you understand how difficult it is to find a CTO or VP of Engineering who has the necessary skills, background, and education and is also a woman? Or, for that matter, an operations expert? Or let me put it a different way: Do you like this hotel?”
“The Bellagio? It’s fine. Breakfasts are good.”
“You know the person who developed it, Steve Wynn, is a man. And nearly the entire current management team, and board of directors, are men. Do you think that makes them less qualified to build hotels for women to patronize? Since you’re obviously enjoying yourself.” He stared pointedly at the neckline of her dress.
“That’s an insane argument. A hotel is nothing like a bra.”
“Wow. . . .” He drew out the word, making it undulate. “Are you a bitch, or what?”
Automatically Kate pushed herself off the stool and reached for her bag.
Lars caught her arm. “Where are you going?”
She jerked at his touch. “Let go of me.”
He didn’t and instead brought his mouth closer to her face, to a distance where the smell of what she had thought was Vegas, but now refined itself as vodka, permeated the air between them. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it. Let’s start over.”
“Let go of my fucking arm.”
He yanked her closer. “Coarse language from a woman is disgusting.” His voice had gone oily. His grip tightened, and it felt as if his fingers were hitting bone. Kate felt the dizziness of shock and fright, a familiar but faraway sensation.
With her free hand she hurriedly searched her bag and brought her phone up, face level.
Lars recoiled. “What the fuck are you doing? Are you taking a picture? You can’t . . .”
But he let go of her arm, and she took the opportunity to walk, nearly run, to the bank of elevators, which between certain hours were manned by a security guard to prevent overflow. Lars wouldn’t be able to follow her, she calculated—working at a start-up he probably wouldn’t be staying at this hotel, even if its management team did merit his approval. But she didn’t feel completely safe until she had entered her room, locked the bolt, and pressed the cobalt armchair against the door. She sunk to the carpet then and leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. Her arm, which she’d imagined at the very le
ast would be bruised, appeared unblemished.
“Hello?” As usual when Kate called Linda over video, she was greeted by dark movement. “Ma, face the phone toward you.”
Ethan came into view. “I got five new trucks today,” he informed her. “And they move with a remote.”
“Wow, really cool.” His voice was like a soothing balm, and she thought she might cry from the release of so much tension. She suppressed a gasp, collecting herself. “Your Wai Po bought you five?”
“It was the size of the warehouse pack,” Linda retorted. “I cannot control these things.”
“And I suppose they just had pizza for dinner, or those chicken ranch sauce things.”
“Oh no, I told Ethan and Ella, when we go to Costco, they can each choose between a toy or the food court. So they both pick toys. We had Hainan chicken and stir-fried vegetables for dinner. I used the brown rice. Sunflower oil, so not too greasy.”
Her arm had begun to throb; she rubbed it against her leg. “Fine. Sounds fair.”
“And very soon we are going to have Asian pear. Do we all like Asian pear?” Linda called out behind her. She peered at the phone. “Why do you look so old? What did you do today?”
“Pear sounds good. Thanks again for watching them.” Kate hung up. It was comforting to argue with her mother, but she wanted to keep the flow of information limited, to negate the chance of any misinterpreted details. She knew Linda harbored some furtive hope that she might start a new relationship on this trip, evolving some existing collegial friendship (preferably senior vice president level or higher) into a bona fide marriage. That was how her mother had always handled problems, a bulldozer path to the most direct solution. While Stanley ineffectively raged, Linda was the one who calmly acted, driving relentlessly to resolution. Kate realized she wanted to impress her, and the thought was depressing.
Because how could she possibly explain anything to her mother, who already thought her life so easy—high pay, appreciating home values, loose moral standards and all? That her world was in fact not simple but filled with violent, thin-skinned men who behaved only when the threat of exposure was dangled above them? And that to wield public shame was the only reliable way to hurt them in the same tender places they wished to bring harm onto you, for no reason except that they were furious at a world they felt had slotted them in the wrong place.
How could she explain to Linda that aspect of being a woman today?
* * *
Early the next morning, Kate woke to a thumping in her legs and head. Her limbs felt as if they were filled with tiny stars, a sensation that had grown familiar enough that she knew she needed to curtail her drinking. Halfway through room service she noticed the purple prints on her arm, in the unmistakable fanned pattern of a palm, and she felt a perverse wave of satisfaction. A story like hers needed evidence, even for herself.
The events team had only two styles of logo’d company tops, both short-sleeved, so Kate opted for one of her own pieces, a softly starched cotton tunic with wide sleeves that covered the bruising. As the day progressed, she noticed the lack of uniform seemed to elevate her—since she and Sonny were the only Labs employees not in branded gear, various staff seemed to assume that she, too, was senior management, privy to certain privileges. When she wandered over to the snack table, a coordinator she hadn’t seen before rushed to direct her to a private ballroom, an executive-only oasis of tea sandwiches and ample seating. “You’d probably be more comfortable in here,” he confided. Ken Bullis was the only person to raise an eyebrow—literally—as he walked in with a reporter from Adweek, but he then conducted his meeting in a back corner of the room, and nothing was said of her presence.
In the late afternoon, Sonny appeared. “I hate these MBA rotational program events,” he said, as he sank into the chair across from her. “Why do I even have to speak at them? They interrupt to ask such stupid questions, just to hear themselves talk, and then afterward email me without end, to request one-on-ones to discuss their career trajectories. It’s relentless! And why are young people these days all obsessed with being vice presidents?”
“Titles are important.” Kate closed her laptop. She knew she’d have to finish her work later. “Especially with this generation. Why be a schmo with a manager title when all your friends are VPs at start-ups?”
“But you’re a manager and perfectly satisfied.”
“Actually, I’m a director. But I’ve been going through some recent life changes where a VP-level stock package might really come in handy, so.”
“You’re a director?” Sonny stared at her agog. “What do you do?”
“Are you kidding me? Do you enjoy it when your products launch on schedule?”
“Yes, but that’s part of your job description. Do I receive extra for my innovation? For daring to push X Corp forward into new and uncharted technology frontiers?”
“I would argue that you do, but that’s a different discussion. I manage a lot outside of my specific job. Who do you think cleans up your messes? Makes all your whims come true? Do you have any idea how difficult it was to get Curry Grommix approved on such short notice for shipment in Japan?”
“I didn’t know you wanted to become a vice president,” Sonny said. “Now I feel bad.”
“Oh, it was a joke.” She flicked her hand. “I know how stingy the company is with titles.”
“Are they really? But I am an executive vice president.”
Kate nodded patiently. The honorific had been bestowed as part of Alexei Sokolov’s original employment offer; there were only four in the entire company.
“I could probably make you a VP,” Sonny said, after a brief silence. “I’ve been under some pressure, to do promotions.”
Was he bullshitting her? But then Sonny wasn’t really a liar, Kate thought. He didn’t know how. “Really,” she said carefully.
“Because you’re a woman,” he continued. “Sokolov promised in the last board meeting that there’d be more of you. Apparently, we don’t have enough! So I’m supposed to promote females, but I have only two currently reporting to me, you and Marissa.” Marissa was Sonny’s executive assistant, who he was actively trying to fire. “The good news is, at the Labs we at least have enough Latinos and blacks. But perhaps we should identify one or two candidates of each in reserve, for good measure.”
“Well, if that’s all it takes to be a VP, then by all means.” Kate pushed her forehead into her palms. “Since I’m a woman and all.”
“Why are you upset? You should be proud. I’m doing you the courtesy of informing you of the specific situation directly, as I would a man. It would be best if you weren’t Asian, but I can’t be too picky. Of course, you’ll still need a project. Some initiative people will associate with you that I can use as justification to the executive committee. I can’t just name anyone; I have to give a list of reasons, examples of the nominee’s initiative and character. For example, I would never nominate Marissa, because she talks on the phone every morning even though I’ve repeatedly informed her loud voices before noon give me migraines.”
“What sort of project?”
Sonny stopped to think. “An entrepreneurial one. Since we’re the Labs. Something new that could turn into a real business, like Grommix.”
Then she was screwed. Creativity had never been Kate’s strong suit; she was always better at following through on specific directives than conjuring things entirely out of her imagination. Sometimes she could move pieces around, rearranging them so that they fit better into place, but the concepts had to exist somewhere to begin with, for her to mold and reshape. She was like Linda in that way.
A thought began to nibble at the fringes of her consciousness. She slowly cracked her knuckles, which produced a sound she knew Sonny found lulling. She needed to buy a few moments to knock loose the idea.
“I’ve got a bra project,” she offered.
“Bras?”
“Undergarments. Uniquely designed and produced for each c
ustomer, using 3-D textile printing. It’s a huge industry, more than $30 billion. There are other entrants, but they’re all in nascent stages. If we execute right, we could be first to market.”
She’d worried Sonny might be squeamish, but instead he removed a small notebook from his right jacket pocket, a sign of high respect. As he hovered over the pages with his pencil, he had her describe in detail all the various fallacies of the current product—pinched straps, twisted underwire, deformed and misshapen cups. “How fascinating,” he commented, after he’d finally exhausted his questions, “that women are willing to put up with such aggravation. In the same situation, I would probably not wear anything at all.”
“Then you’d have a whole other set of workplace problems. You realize I don’t even wear sleeveless tops in the office in summer? Whereas I heard you gave your last presentation to the board in hiking sandals.”
He eyed her for several seconds. “I think this could easily fall into the bucket of wearables,” he said, ignoring her earlier comment. “Since we haven’t had a compelling project there in a while. Ever since the sneakers that gauge barometric pressure were killed by the go-to-market committee. The more I think about it, the more potential I see. Yes, I’m very excited.” A sly look crossed his face, and for a moment Kate was paranoid that Sonny was about to steal her idea and improve upon it, right as she was about to do the same to Lars Sundstrom. “You’ll act as the head of the program on this, then,” he announced. “Assign a product and project manager, and we’ll get you the engineering resources.”
“I also think we need to meet with the ventures team and make sure that they haven’t made any similar investments. It might also be best if they recuse themselves from engaging with any other start-ups exploring the industry.”
“Yes, good idea,” Sonny said. “Send an email today.”
If she could land a bump in pay, it would at the very least relieve some of the pressure of the separation, Kate thought. And help with the kids’ college funds. If there was any left over they could install a guesthouse in the backyard. She’d always wanted one; Denny had never agreed. But then that was no longer a problem.