by Kathy Wang
“Yes, at Saks. She’s no longer employed there.” There’d been exactly one news piece written about Erika’s email, a short article in the Daily Mail, run far enough down the site that you had to scroll. “A Woman Scorned! Jilted Hungarian Socialite Blows Up Financier Lover’s Career.” Erika posed on a stool in a navy Roland Mouret shift dress and pointy black heels, a self-described “luxury stylist.” She’d sent him several messages before the piece ran, attempts to have him provide a quote so that they could print his name. He’d ignored them all. Her short period of notoriety had already fizzled, though not before she’d gained several thousand Twitter followers.
“You’re lucky this was post–Hulk Hogan and Gawker, otherwise it would have definitely been picked up by the mainstream media. Your ex, she’s too good-looking not to be. And you, well. You’re one of us.”
Did he mean ugly? Or dare Fred believe that the eminent Don Wilkes was actually referring to them as being in the same industry? Lion and Motley Capital, uttered in the same stinking cigar breath?
“Men who’ve been targeted by women, it’s not exactly a catchy cause célèbre,” Wilkes went on. “Believe me, no one’s out there feeling sorry for you. But it’s a real thing. Happened to me, too, though thankfully a few decades back, before everything was online. You ever hear of Moth Magazine?” Fred shook his head. “Hmm. I wouldn’t have thought you were that young. Regardless, they did a long segment on me, one of my first-ever pieces of publicity. Initially I was thrilled. Moth! Before it folded, it was our generation’s Vanity Fair. I had just started MirrorStream a few years back; the company was finally getting some traction. I figured it was all coming together. Then the article came out, and I thought I would die. It barely touched on MirrorStream. Instead the majority of it covered a personal detail from my past, the fact that I had an ex-wife and three children in Japan. My ex’s parents, they were upset because she and the kids had moved in with them into their house in Tokyo, and they gave an interview that I never saw the kids. And the reporter, she was one of those uptight bitches, a real nose-in-the-air type—she really hated me. So you can imagine how the article turned out. And afterward I thought it was all over, nobody was going to want to have anything more to do with MirrorStream, or me, ever again, because I was painted as this bastard who refused to pay child support. The situation, of course, was more complicated than that.”
It didn’t sound all that convoluted to Fred; even Leland Wang managed to at least foster his own offspring. He adjusted his arm placement on the couch to mimic Wilkes’s, a lesson he recalled from a Harvard seminar on building trust. “That sounds far from ideal.”
“Once women get past forty, something happens. You ever date someone that age?”
“Close to it.”
“Close to forty and over forty is a big difference, my friend. You’ll learn that eventually. You think younger women are a lot of work? Try someone who’s looking at forty in the rearview mirror, coming up on fifty. You’ll find they require validation. A lot of it. A point will come when they’ll want to send out a signal to the universe. To test whether the world is still receptive. And if they discover it isn’t, then all hell breaks loose. And God save you if they think you’re the reason why.”
Fred coughed. “I may have some experience with that particular phenomenon.”
“Of course.” Wilkes barked a laugh. “I’d temporarily forgotten. The whole reason we’re here.”
A break in their conversation descended, a pause in the natural flow. Fred struggled to recall one of the lines he’d rehearsed at home for precisely this sort of opportunity. “At the Founders’ Retreat, you mentioned the concept of data convergence—”
“It’s the porn,” Wilkes interrupted. “Back when I was growing up, we didn’t have all this variety. All I had were old magazines, and I had to wait until my dad left the house to go riffling through his office drawers.”
“Um.” Jesus. Was Wilkes losing his mind? The abrupt subject change reminded Fred of the old-man stories Griffin Keeles used to launch into at the slightest provocation, droning on about when Britain had been able to colonize all sorts of different Asian countries at will.
“But now,” Wilkes continued, “porn, well. There seems to be something for everyone these days! No matter what seemingly unique, deranged act I come up with, it always already exists, and in more detail and variations than even this old twisted mind could ever imagine possible. What do you all call it, Rule 34? If it exists, there’s been a porn made of it? Lately I’ve realized there’s a whole religious section, plots set in the Vatican. . . . Well, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you any of this, your ex’s letter made that pretty clear! But what I’m saying is that the sheer availability out there can make one do some crazy things. In fact, there was a half hour—well, if I want to be honest, a few minutes, really—last week where I was willing to dedicate the rest of my life to getting my little wife trim enough to fit into a white crop top and a long rosary bead necklace, just so I could act on some deviance. If someone had come up to me during those moments and placed a contract on my desk, I would have happily signed away my whole partnership in Motley in exchange for that fantasy coming to perfect fruition. And then, of course, as these things always do, it passed. And nobody knows anything about that momentary lapse, except for, well, now . . . you.”
Despite an underlying sensation of disgust, Fred felt the thrill of inclusion. “Privacy is the most valuable commodity in our modern age,” he said. “It’s a luxury that everyone thinks they have but few actually do.”
“Precisely what I’ve been thinking and wanting to put into words.” Wilkes glanced at his watch. “Where were you before this? What was that—of course, Lion. An interesting place to be, corporate venture. Any chance you were privy to what went on? Heard Leland’s under the gun.”
“I worked closely with Leland Wang, though my tenure ended right before the official announcement of Opus.” For which Fred owed his sincere thanks to Maximilian, for hurriedly pushing through the launch even after news of the SEC investigation had begun to filter out. Personally approving all purchase orders for the press event himself, driving relentlessly to the original date even when major cracks were beginning to show; a random terrified-looking Thai official trussed up and thrust in front of the cameras to shake Leland’s hand. Jack nowhere in sight for any of it, Reagan missing from all official photography but named on the invitations. Rumored to have still been involved at that point, as he worked behind the scenes from an undisclosed location to provide celebrity talent for the after-party, which included a former Disney star and current ensemble actress whose numerous nightclub promotional commitments and inability to reschedule was reportedly what had cemented Maximilian’s resolve to needlessly, recklessly, announce Opus to the world.
“Right, Opus. You know I met the mastermind, the one who’s on the lam now, at last year’s Founders’ Retreat. I was actually on that boat, Killer. Awful name, but beautiful decor. Better than the original.”
“I was there as well. You gave an excellent talk the closing night.”
“So you were.” Wilkes studied him for a long moment. “Did I happen to mention there my behind-the-scenes take on the Wiretel acquisition? Quite the interesting saga.” He segued into another speech, at which Fred’s brain gave a mighty squall of protest, having been fed for the last nine months on binge-watched TV and exciting paperback thrillers, weaned during that period from the prattle of old men long past their prime. He almost stopped Wilkes a few times, told him that he was sorry, he had to go—something had come up, a forgotten appointment—so that he could return to his regular life, the one where he sat at home and researched protein shakes and day-traded his portfolio. It was over for him already. What was a meeting with Don Wilkes going to change? But then the man neared the end of his lecture and once again uttered those words: “You’re one of us.”
And followed them up with, “What can I do?”
And Fred didn’t know exac
tly what Wilkes was saying, whether he meant that he, Fred, was a capitalist like Wilkes or simply a man who had done something bad to a woman and then been punished for it. Either way, he understood that this was it, that in a year in which many doors had closed, another gilded portal was now being held open. This was going to be his moment, and he would use everything he had learned in the last wretched year to grasp tight the opportunity and not let go until he emerged a man.
Kate
The idea had been Sonny’s, which he said arrived to him from a dream. A dream that to Kate had at first seemed closer to a nightmare. To spin off the bra project as an independent entity, separate from the Labs, with X Corp taking a 50 percent stake. Kate to lead as CEO—no longer in charge of a project but an entire company (albeit a start-up).
When Sonny first proposed the concept, she’d been hideously frightened, paranoid that they had given her the title of VP only to claim the statistic for diversity reporting and were now forcing her out. She wasn’t an entrepreneur! After the arrival of children Kate had been wholly satisfied with clocking in and out of a well-oiled corporate machine, one where health benefits and company holidays were clearly defined. What Sonny was describing—at the glass conference table in his office, surrounded by sample packs of proposed flavors of the now-terminated Grommix—was never a fate she’d envisioned for herself.
“I don’t understand why you’d promote me and then not have me stay on under you,” she asked. “Aren’t you happy with my performance?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Sonny was annoyed with her resistance, which he viewed as groundless and hysterical; as she’d continued to push, his face had turned to thunder. “Is this how you act, when someone gives you a fabulous gift?”
“This is a gift?”
“Of course! I want you to be successful. Now that you’ve made vice president, you will want to prove that you didn’t get the title just because you’re a woman. Although as we both know, that isn’t entirely true.”
Kate toyed with a container that, when examined, revealed itself to be a biltong variety of Grommix. “Wouldn’t we have the best chance at success developing internally?” she asked desperately.
“Of course not. The company, it’s gone fat! Too many entrenched interests. If it weren’t so, wouldn’t Grommix have been a best seller? The perfect product, brought down by jealousy and sabotage. Do you know they wouldn’t even let me attend the Costco meeting? Since when are EVPs not allowed at regional sales functions? Fujihara said that the placement of a hundred thousand smartphone units was too important to allow any variables, even when I said I would offer Grommix at cost for a bundle. Costco’s all about the bundles. You don’t want to be constrained like this. The underwear, it has great potential. Go.”
When she finally agreed to exit, Sonny flexed his Friend of Sokolov muscle and negotiated her “pink badge” status, which meant that she was technically still an inactive employee, with vesting stock. Though she lost access to the building and her corporate email, she noticed her photo was still on the Labs site, under executive bios.
As an independent entity, X Fit—she’d have to get a new name, but that could come later—would need manufacturing connections, engineering resources, and advisors in the industry. Each of these components was difficult enough on its own, and the combination even more so, especially outside the plush confines of X Fit’s former parent. Which was how she found herself where she was now, at the most odious and dreaded of events. A venture capital function.
The room had a richness of high tables with a corresponding paucity of chairs, which meant she’d already been standing for an hour. The floors were a light glossy wood, and on each creamy wall was a single installation of abstract art. Everything about the space—its size, location, quality of coffee, and jittery exuberance of attendees—spoke to the power of the entity it served. Motley Capital.
Since neither the operations director nor the mechanical engineer Kate had extended offers to had officially started yet, she’d brought along Camilla for moral support. “You’re too timid,” Camilla said as she sidled up, freshly lubricated from a visit to the bar. She had dressed for the occasion, in cream pants and a loose silk blouse, cut deep at the throat. “You know who you were talking to just now, yes? Don Wilkes! I was standing right behind you guys. You have this weird habit where you stammer and say ah a lot. Why do you do that? You’re thinking the bitchiest things to yourself. Say them! It would make you appear a hell of a lot more interesting and intelligent than you’re currently coming off.”
“Jesus,” Kate said. She wasn’t accustomed to such blunt feedback from a friend. Though it was the kind she always wanted, the sort Linda used to lavish and Denny had provided early on, before the barbed resentment began to show. He was in Mountain View now, in a three-story townhome, the purchase price of which would just be covered by her VP stock grant at X Corp over the next four years. In exchange, he’d signed away any rights to spousal support. The day they completed their divorce papers, she’d told him she was happy for him, with the pleasure of actually meaning it—the kiss-off compliment to a friend you see only once a year and whose developments can be followed from a safe distance on social media. Until she remembered once again that this was Denny, and that he was in her life forever.
“Do more,” Camilla urged now. “Be more aggressive. Tell everyone about your brilliant idea.”
“It’s not really mine. As you know, I kind of stole it.”
“Everybody steals. It’s the nature of the business. You think there are any original thoughts left in the consumer space?”
“Consumer space? Nature of the business? Who are you?”
Camilla looked pleased. “It’s from Manesh Das. Though I didn’t pick it up here. He said it at a dinner I was at once, when I was seated directly next to him. Of course it wasn’t to me; he barked it right over my head to another man at the table. It’s really quite good, isn’t it? That fucker is basically constructed out of one-liners. Speaking of Manesh, is he here? I doubt he’d know who I was, anyway; he’s not the type to remember wives. Isn’t he your brother’s boss?”
“Yes, but if you see Fred, don’t mention it.” He was prickly about that sort of thing, not reporting to the alpha animal in the food chain, even though given his past year, Kate thought his new job should be considered a minor miracle. Who cared if his official title was junior partner? She’d noticed he’d already surreptitiously removed the junior part from his LinkedIn, anyway. “Let’s cut out of here soon.”
“What? We just got here!”
“Yeah, but I’m tired. I can’t stand much more of this. Some kid just told me he wouldn’t hire anyone that he couldn’t see himself doing shots with, and when I heard that, a feeling just crystallized. I don’t belong here. I’m too old and have too much hate. I don’t want it enough.”
“Now you’re making me pissed. You know what I really hate?” Camilla pursed her lips and blew, as if expelling smoke from an invisible cigarette. “Liars.”
Kate drew back. “What?”
“You know exactly what I’m saying. You want me to cheerlead you? Fine. You want me to pretend you don’t already know your idea is a good one? Sure, whatever. But stop with the posturing. No one gets to where you are if they don’t want it. Do you know how stupid and demeaning it is, to keep playing that you’re just some nice girl who got lucky? You want it. Why not own up to it? You’d make things way easier for yourself.”
It’d been that one sentence that did Kate in. You want it. Was it true? How much? She went back to all she had done in the past decade that she’d never before said out loud, partially because she had no one to tell it to. Her stubborn insistence on living for five years under continuous renovation, to finally get her dream home. How she’d gone to bed past midnight every weekday for the past three years, to be the first on the team to talk to Europe. Always answering yes to the extra good-night book, because children need their mother; never saying no to putting out, bec
ause she didn’t want her marriage to be like her mother’s. The thousands of extra hours spent with engineering and operations, family dinner on the table each night, the countless personal pleasures set aside, forestalled in some unnamed quest.
Do I want it? Do I?
And she allowed herself to answer and felt the freedom in its release. Yes. Yes. I do.
Linda
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Linda Liang’s 72nd Birthday Email
Dear classmates,
I hope all of you are doing well and remain in good health. I am still standing, though we all know how quickly events can change at our age. I am thinking of course of our beloved classmate Jackson Ho, who recently passed. My thoughts and well wishes go to my dear friend Yvonne and their children.
As for myself, my biggest news is that I recently moved and now live with my daughter, Kate. She is very busy with her new venture (but remains an employee of X Corp—as a vice president), so I help with the grandchildren. Currently I am living in her top floor, in a converted attic, until the guest home I will move to is finished. It will have a full bath, washer and dryer, and even a kitchen. When I was young, I never dreamed that there could be houses like these in people’s backyards. Isn’t America wonderful? I hope it is completed soon, because I cannot climb these stairs for much longer.
Of course, I still have my place in Palo Alto. That way, I can take a break from “grandma duties” whenever I want. My garden is doing very well, and I have two new dwarf Japanese maples!
Unfortunately, at my daughter’s house, I have discovered many new TV programs. Premium cable is very expensive, and I keep hearing about ways to “download” these shows for free, so that I can watch them at home on my laptop. Can anyone help? Leonard?