Secret Society

by Robin Roseau

  "No comment."

  I laughed. "This was a good distraction. Thank you. Before you start driving, I want to say one more thing."

  "All right."

  "I don't feel obligated to be here. I'm glad you invited me. I think we're going to get along."

  She smiled. "I'd like that. I should warn you. I can be demanding."

  "I don't have a problem with that," I replied. "I am perfectly able to say no. Unless you wanted to talk about something else, you could tell me about retirement plans. Not a sales pitch, though."

  "All right." She put the car into gear, and she spent the last few minutes of the drive teaching me about 401ks, tax avoidance, and compound interest.

  * * * *

  I'd driven past the Hayward Country Club before, but I'd never been there. It wasn't in West Hollow or even the Village of Broadwater, so Grandmother Cadence had shown no interest, or at least none to me.

  The lodge, or clubhouse, or whatever it was called, was well lit and attractive, constructive of massive wood beams and a great deal of glass, but in a timeless design. Looking at it, it could have been designed any time in the last 100 years. Good design is like that. Oh, for something transitory, it's all well and good to follow temporary fads. But for something like a building that should last for generations, timeless is best, or so I thought.

  "Beautiful," I said.

  "It is. Have you been here before?"

  "No. Are you a member?"

  "No."

  "It's not in Broadwater."

  She laughed. "That's right. This course is open only to members and their guests. I have a membership at Brighthaven."

  "I've golfed there," I said. Brighthaven was open to the public. I wasn't sure what a membership earned her but I thought perhaps reduced fees or priority scheduling.

  "So you golf?"

  "If by golfing you mean throw balls into the water and sand, then yes, yes I do."

  She laughed.

  "I presume you're somewhat better than that."

  "Yes. I'm good enough to avoid embarrassing myself but poor enough the men don't find me a threat."

  "Pity," I said. "You should work on that."

  She laughed again. "They're not ready to be beaten by a woman."

  "How are they going to learn if we don't teach them?"

  "Maybe you should show me how."

  "Maybe I don't have the athletic body for it. You do. I, on the other hand, have well-defined mouse muscles."

  "Oh, a gamer?"

  "A designer. It's almost the same muscles."

  "I suppose it is," she said. "Shall we?"

  Once we were out of the car, she offered her arm. I took it easily. As we walked towards the front door, I told her, "I won't act the bimbo for you."

  "I wouldn't want you to."

  She held the door for me, and then we turned to the right and left our coats with the attendant. A waiting placard indicated we were to head to a room called Dogleg. "It's this way," Opal said. I looped my hand in her arm and let her lead us. We went forward then turned right, passing through a long hallway. Dogleg was immediately in front of us, but she brought us to a stop and then pressed me against the wall.

  Anyone watching could see us.

  I stared up into her eyes as she moved well into my space.

  "Are you about to kiss me?" I whispered.

  "Not yet." But then she leaned forward and nuzzled my cheek. I tilted my head back and enjoyed it. I felt myself smiling. "You feel good," she added.

  "I sure do," I said.

  "That's not what I meant."

  "Perhaps not, but it's what I meant." I laughed lightly. "Are we giving them a good show?"

  "I surely do hope so. You're really going to let me do this?"

  "Would you have given any of the other initiates a choice?"

  She pulled away and looked into my eyes. "No."

  "Then why are you giving one to me?"

  "Because I couldn't intimidate you. It's thrown me off my game."

  "Well, get back into the game," I told her. "If you try, I'm not hard to piss off. But you won't intimidate me. Frankly, you're not in my grandmother's league."

  She laughed loudly. But then she grew serious, and her expression grew predatory. She looked me up and down pointedly, and I thought I could tell exactly what she was thinking. When she spoke, her voice was low. Sultry. It sent shivers up my spine. "But then, she wasn't in mine, either."

  I squirmed and then smiled. "I like that voice," I said. "I hope I hear more of it."

  "Count on it."

  And then she took my hand and wrapped it in her arm again. I leaned my head against her shoulder until we reached the door, then straightened. I was willing to flirt with her, and let her flirt with me, but I was who I was. I was Blythe Suzanna Montgomery Todd. I was my mother's daughter, my father's daughter, my grandmother's granddaughter. I was the worthy date of this woman, an intelligent, alluring woman. I was a member, albeit only an initiate member, of the Order of Circe. I was Guerrilla Girl.

  And I was going to act like it.

  For the next half hour, we roamed the party, Opal introducing me here and there. We received a few raised eyebrows, but no one said a word, and most clearly dismissed me, aiming the conversation for Opal. I said little but listened attentively and paid attention to my date.

  For her part, Opal treated me well, exactly the way I like to be treated, when I let my date play the dominant role. She collected wine for both of us. Red for her, white for me. I sipped slowly. I had no intention of drinking more than one, so I wanted to make it last.

  I met a number of Opal's colleagues, some younger, some older. I caught one woman, about my age, glaring at me, and I turned to Opal. "You have an admirer. Blue patterned dress, black flats, near the windows."

  She was subtle, turning her head and looking down at me, but she flicked a glance in the right direction.

  And sighed.

  "She's married. I don't do married women."

  "I'm getting the stink eye. I thought it was you at first, but it's definitely at me."

  "Oh, maybe I don't do married woman, but that particular woman may not be as devoted to her vows as I'm devoted to her vows."

  I laughed. "It's so rough being popular. How can you stand it?"

  "You tell me."

  I laughed again. "I don't have that problem. No one fights over me."

  "You're not that oblivious, are you?"

  I didn't have an answer to that. I glanced at my wine. Half gone. I wasn't sipping slowly enough. "What do I drink after this? Everyone has some sort of cocktail in his hand."

  "Another glass of wine."

  "No. I want a clear head."

  "We can get you a Shirley Temple then, you lightweight."

  "Hey!" I said, my tone serious. "Do not mock my choices."

  She stepped away, just a little, studied me, then nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry."

  "I'll forgive you if you kiss my cheek."

  She laughed and did just that.

  A few minutes later, Opal introduced me to an elderly woman she called Mrs. Eaton. We clasped fingers more than hands, but the old lady gave me a thorough look over and what I was sure was a practiced leer.

  "I knew a Todd," she said. "Cadence Todd. Any relation?"

  "My grandmother."

  "She was a wonderful woman," Mrs. Eaton declared. "I miss her."

  "So do I," I said. "Thank you."

  "She talked about you," the woman went on. "She said you moved away."

  "Portland. I moved back a few years ago to help my parents."

  "What were you doing in Portland?"

  "I took a job." She asked more questions, and I explained about marketing.

  Then Opal prompted, "But now she owns her own firm with the clever name of Guerrilla Girl."

  "I like that," said Mrs. Eaton, setting a hand on the back of my wrist. And I was suddenly wondering if she was flirting with me. In front of my date, no less.

&
nbsp; We talked for a few minutes before Opal steered us away. I leaned to her and whispered, "Was she flirting with me?"

  "She sure was. Do you want me to give you to her?"

  "No thanks. I leave with the woman who brought me."

  Opal chuckled. "She's been a very good client, and she's an outrageous flirt."

  There wasn't a formal meal. Instead, there was a buffet table. We made our way through the short line, filled two small plates, and carried them to an empty table. Opal promptly fed me a grape, and I laughed.

  "Seriously? A grape? Could you go for a bigger cliché?"

  "What's wrong with grapes? You don't like grapes?"

  "I love grapes. But they are the cliché of foods to feed your lover."

  "You're not my lover."

  "Perhaps not, but do you think anyone in the room doubts it?"

  "Maybe a few, but I see your point. I saw some oysters."

  I laughed. "I actually looked. There were no oysters."

  "Did you want some?"

  "No. It's an acquired taste I have no interest in acquiring. They're slimy and gross, and I do not understand why anyone thinks they're an aphrodisiac. Have you watched someone eat them? I've seen grosser things, but I can't think of any off the top of my head."

  "Would you like a business tip from someone who has been around the block a few times more than you have?"

  "Does this tip involve eating oysters?"

  "Indirectly. Learn to step outside your box. If you want to get along in a man's world-"

  "No."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I'm not going to pretend to be anything I'm not," I said. "I'm not going to slurp down oysters and smoke cigars, or whatever else you were going to tell me to do."

  She drew still then said quietly, "You're going to miss opportunity."

  "So be it."

  "Do you expect-"

  "I don't expect anything," I said. "If you were about to ask if I expect success to be handed to me by my friends, the answer is no, I do not." I looked her up and down. "And I don't think you get to lecture me. You're here with your lesbian date drinking red wine. That's not a martini. I'm pretty sure you don't play that game any more than I intend to."

  "You're right," she said. "But I've hit the glass ceiling. I won't go any higher."

  I smiled. "Perhaps you haven't noticed, but I'm not even 30 yet, and I'm a company president."

  She laughed. "So you are." She lifted her glass as a salute to me and sipped briefly. "You'll lose deals."

  "I'll be honest to myself, and that's a lot more important to me." And then, at least partly to change the topic, I stole a grape from her.

  But I didn't roll it around inside my mouth. I'm sure I didn't.

  A few minutes later, two more people asked if the other seats were taken. I recognized Ken Watson and his wife, June; we had been introduced shortly after arriving. The Watsons were a few years older than Opal. We smiled warmly, and Opal invited them to join us.

  "You remember Ken and June," Opal said, helping me in case I didn't remember.

  "Of course. You talked about a pending merger, but I didn't recognize the two companies involved."

  "There seem to be a few topics that always come up at these events," June said.

  "Let's see. The market. The market. And..." I snapped my fingers several times. "Anything that might affect the market."

  She laughed. "And their golf games."

  "Of course. People discover what they have in common, and after that, habits build. I imagine there are a few people in this room who have recently taken an amazing vacation. Someone undoubtedly has written a book. Someone has a new grandchild or a kid heading off to school. But it would appear narcissistic to talk about those."

  "That's an interesting choice of words," June replied. "It would appear narcissistic?"

  "Appearances matter," I replied. "Everyone wants to talk about the important things in their lives. They would rather do so with someone who has something in common with them about it. So perhaps you've been to Paris recently, and you might discover that Opal has, and so suddenly you both have something in common and an excuse to talk about a trip you enjoyed. So you can both enjoy the trip a second time while sharing the experience rather than boring everyone."

  "And appearing narcissistic."

  "Just so."

  "Perhaps Opal and I should compare recent trips. We may have one in common. Or perhaps you and I do."

  "I would love to hear about your trips," I said. "But I haven't been anywhere in recent years."

  Just at that moment, two more people sat down at our table, this time not waiting for an invitation. Opal introduced me to Eliza Gregory and her husband, Mitch. Mitch appeared to have married a trophy wife, but I would quickly learn it was Eliza that was the dominant one in the relationship.

  "Did I hear someone mention Paris?"

  "Only in passing," June replied. "Blythe was lamenting the fact she'd never been."

  "Actually, that's not true. I haven't been anywhere recently. My grandmother took me to Paris years ago."

  "Mitch is taking me in the spring," Eliza said. "Do you have any tips?"

  "I'm sorry. I really enjoyed the museums. But it was the summer after I turned 18, my first international trip, and it was all rather overwhelming." I smiled. "The food and the museums. And I learned my French was a lot worse than I thought it was."

  "But you have no more recent destinations?" June said. I detected a smile. "I do not wish to appear narcissistic when I wax poetic about my recent travels."

  "Blythe has been too busy becoming Guerrilla Girl to travel," Opal announced.

  "Gorilla girl?" Ken asked. "Like Jane Goodall?"

  "Doctor Goodall studies chimpanzees," I said. "You're thinking of Dian Fossey. She was murdered three decades ago. But no. I own a marketing company called Guerrilla Girl."

  But then I turned to June. "And talking about it would definitely be narcissism."

  She laughed. "Oh, you don't get off quite that easily."

  "Guerrilla, with an You-Ee," Eliza said. "As in guerrilla marketing."

  "Exactly. So, are you only going to Paris, or will you visit wine country as well."

  June laughed. "We're not done quizzing you," she said before Eliza could answer. "Stop struggling while we stick these pins in you and slide you under the microscope."

  "Okay, that's a little morbid." I smiled. "What did you want to know?"

  "I've heard that term," Ken said. "Guerrilla marketing. But I've never really understood it."

  "It's based on guerrilla fighters," I said. "Small teams fighting against a much larger, better equipped, established force. To fight effectively, they must employ unconventional techniques. Guerrilla marketing is similar. My clients are local businesses with miniscule budgets. I find creative ways to make their dollars matter."

  "Can you give us an example or two?" Eliza asked. So I explained about the scavenger hunt at the mall and a few more things I'd done recently.

  "So your clients are local businesses," Ken verified. "Restaurants, small shops."

  "Yes. Occasionally I have a larger customer who wants to have a local impact, but that's uncommon. Larger companies go to larger firms."

  "All right," said Ken. "But let's say I wanted to hire you."

  "I'm pretty sure your firm has a rather significant marketing budget."

  "The corporation does, and our name gets out there reasonably well. But my name does not."

  "Oh, I see."

  "So what could I do?" he asked. "If I wanted some local, targeted marketing."

  "Don't answer that," Opal said from beside me. "He's looking for some free consulting. Make him pay for it."

  I laughed. "Zig Ziglar was the consummate marketer. He used to attend sporting events, yell out 'I'm Zig Ziglar, the greatest salesman in the world', and throw handfuls of his business cards into the air."

  "Did it work?"

  I smiled. "I have no idea. If he did that beside me,
I might wonder if he was looking for a job, and I might wonder what he was currently selling, but I wouldn't be curious enough to call him. But you could do almost the same thing, but announce yourself as helping families plan for the future. That might be effective. You wouldn't know unless you tried it."

  "Now don't give him any more suggestions," said his wife. "If he wants your expertise, he can pay for it."

  "Just one more question."

  "Ken," said his wife warningly.

  "What would it cost?"

  "What's your budget?"

  He laughed. "What is a typical budget?"

  "I've done pro bono work for some of my grandmother's charities," I said. "Excluding those, I've done small work for a grand. A typical project can be as little as five grand. Since forming Guerrilla Girl, none of my clients has paid me more than about 35 grand."

  It took about two seconds before a pair of business cards appeared on the table in front of me. "Call me," Ken and Eliza said immediately.

  "Get in line," Opal said with a laugh.

  "I'm in the middle of a big project," I said. "Several big projects. I might not be free for a few months."

  "That's fine," Ken said.

  "Call us," Eliza added. "And we can talk about your retirement plan when you come in."

  "Get in line," Opal said again.

  * * * *

  Ten minutes later, Opal lured me to the side of the room. She made it look like she was flirting with me, but she said, "I'm going to tell you something, and you're going to listen."

  "Of course."

  "Raise your rates. You undercharge."

  "My clients can't afford more."

  "Those two can. What did Mary Ellen tell you to charge?"

  "I can't charge that!"

  "Yes, you can."

  "A top lawyer charges $300-"

  "No," she said. "Top lawyers are over a grand. Associates are $300. She told you something around 200, right?"

  "225."

  "Look, if you're billing a flower shop, then do what you're doing. But if you're going to do work for people earning seven figures, you charge them appropriately. Do not undersell your services."

  "Seven figures?"

  "Ken's a top producer. He's well into seven figures."

  "Oh shit," I said.

  "You can offer discounts for bigger projects or repeat customers," she explained.