by Alam, Donna
‘Here’s to hoping,’ I reply brightly, though my smile is more brittle than bright. It’s make or break time. Do or die. Finance my company, you lovely bunch of people, or . . . or I don’t know what. At this stage, I don’t have a plan B, just a desperate need for a cash injection.
‘You’ll kill it,’ he repeats, my eyes finding his calm, reassuring ones. I nod, and with a deep, fortifying breath, I let my gaze slide left to the bank of windows. Beyond the glass, the sun shines on the city of London, glinting like diamonds from the mass of glass and steel buildings that are glimmering symbols of the wealth in this city.
Wealth I need to get my hands on today.
Even the iconic dome of St Paul’s Cathedral looks brilliant this morning when, in reality, it’s more grimy grey in the daylight. With a final glance at the Gherkin, the Cheesegrater, and the Walkie-talkie, I turn back to the room, trying not to smile too much at the ridiculous nicknames these building have been gifted by locals as I feel a kind of affinity or privilege to be in on their jokes.
This is the universe’s payday, I decide.
The sun is shining, I have an amazing business plan, and I’m headed to an appointment with one of the best venture capitalist companies in the country. My pitch is faultless; practised and repeated so often, I can probably recite it in my sleep. I’ve become a devotee of my business plan, and this pitch is my mantra. A mantra I’m about to repeat in front of these dozen good people . . . and most of them men.
But I am going to kill it.
From the back of the room, Luke gives me a wide smile and a double thumbs up. I nod in response, grateful for his help. Whatever happens after this pitch, I’m pretty certain our friendship will be changing. Deepening. Turning a little more physical, at the very least. It’s kind of become inevitable, and we’ve been dancing around this for a while. But for the need to keep things professional, things might have moved in that direction already. You see, Luke is my college crush. My unrequited crush. We’d reconnected recently, and at first, I was afraid his interest in helping me was a means to get into my panties, which is ironic because, as he takes his seat at the very back of the room, his eyes following the movement of my hands as I smooth the fabric of my skirt over my thighs, I realise I’m more than ready to get to that part.
‘Ms. Welland?’
My gaze glides to the man seated in a Le Corbusier chair at the front of the throng of suits—a wad of suits? A wallet of suits? I’m not sure what the appropriate collective noun should be. Around five foot eight and portly, he’s somewhere in his early fifties with a shock of silver-grey hair. His navy-blue suit is well fitted and doesn’t so much scream wealthy as sneer it imperiously. My mind runs through the company hierarchy, and I pick him out as Mark Jones, the managing partner here. The head honcho and the man to impress.
I take a deep breath and smile in his direction as I prepare to sell the suits on some romance.
Piece of cake.
I depress the button on the remote in my hand, and the smartboard behind me fills instantly with an image of a couple in love. The girl’s golden hair is a mass of curls blowing in the breeze, the dark-haired man smiling lovingly down at her as he pulls a lock free from her cheek. This isn’t a stock photo but an image of my best friend, Reggie, and her one true love, who I helped her find. Ladies and gentlemen, my app works, and you’re looking at the very beginning of my business. But I digress.
‘We’re E-Volve,’ I announce to the quietened room, ‘the socially conscious Tinder.’
My eyes touch on each of the main players before moving to those farther back, making everyone feel involved by spreading the connection. But I hesitate as my gaze lingers on the silhouette of a figure at the far end of the room. Tall and definitely a he with shoulders that almost fill the space of the open doorway. And though his face is in shadow, I somehow sense he’s staring at me.
No matter, I intone, ignoring the involuntary shiver of awareness that ripples through me. Whoever he is, he’s not part of this pitch and is therefore of no interest to me. I click the remote again, the smartboard changing to an image of the company logo as I begin my pitch with a mildly amusing anecdote from my own online dating experience.
‘It’s two thousand and seventeen. Covent Garden. A girl sits at her desk, staring at her phone at the profile of a man she’d swiped right on the previous weekend. His bio painted a man of diverse interests. A man well-travelled. A man whose profile and social media images were pretty epic. With tattoos and a hipster beard, the man had a retro vibe. The girl was young,’ I add with a small smile. ‘Please try not to judge.’
A tiny ripple of laughter travels through the room.
‘Cut to a couple of weeks later. The girl sits in a coffee shop waiting to meet the man of her dreams when a senior citizen takes the seat opposite and smiles. Those aren’t his own teeth. The girl wonders if the man is a little lost—maybe he has memory problems, and he only thinks he knows her. But then she notices his tattoos. They’re old, sure, and faded, but with a sinking feeling, she realises they’re the same as the guy she’d been speaking with. This man hadn’t used a cool filter on his social media images; he’d used originals. But they were decades old. Her date was old enough to be her grandpa.’
The chuckles deepen, and I know I have their interest.
‘This is what we at E-Volve call the realities of online dating. With our app, we connect people not by the lies of retouched profile pictures and inflated bios but by social mapping. And not from our contacts and our friend’s social networks, but of our own.’
This is done using blockchain technology, which I’m not sure I one hundred percent understand myself, hence the need for a developer on staff. I only understand enough to have sunk my inheritance into getting my idea off the ground.
From here, I hit them with the numbers. Lots and lots of lovely numbers that will, no doubt, tickle the pickle of these here finance suits.
‘Tinder has over ten million daily active users; sixty-five percent of them are male and thirty-five percent female. Fifty-two percent are single. Of course, it’s unknown how many of those are shielding the truth in order to attract a temporary mate . . .
My own personal statistics tell me honest and single don’t necessarily go together.
‘American singles alone fuel a two-point-five-billion-dollar online dating industry . . .’
I run through the rest of my business model in three minutes flat—succinct, sexy, and relevant—detailing our customer acquisition strategy, our scaling plans, and ultimately, our exit plan, the part where we make lots of money. Next, I move through the scary part—the so many zeros in the investment numbers I’m seeking. Me. Just me. While I may be using “we” as a pronoun, in actuality, my business is all me.
‘E-Volve is about quality matches,’ I say as I conclude. ‘We’re intentional about the direction of our lives; our careers, our aspirations, our accomplishments. Why leave our love lives to chance?’ I flick the screen to our logo, the one chosen by expensive marketing and focus groups. ‘Find your person; Evolve.’
My heart is beating out of my chest as the suits begin to talk amongst themselves, when I hear the phrase “business-lifestyle model” repeated.
No, no, no! This is a make lots of money model.
‘Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen. This is a cash-producing business,’ I offer. As well as a labour of love. ‘We foresee our growth leading all the way to a successful exit where we intend the market leader to pick up E-Volve.’
And for this little company to be swallowed by another, making me rich. Though, in all honesty, I’d be happy at this stage not to be declared bankrupt. And it’s close, believe me. But this isn’t just about me. It’s also about the people who have invested their time and their energy to get our app off the ground. The people on my small team deserve a reward for their faith. Also, I’d like to buy a half decent bottle of wine from time to time while no longer regarding ramen as a food group.
‘Matches,’ murmurs a man to the left of Jones, and I jump on his comment.
‘Yes, Matches is definitely in our sights, given they are the biggest player in the online dating marketplace. They’re our ultimate aim.’ Our best-scenario exit strategy. Cha-ching!
Jones nods, and there seems to be so much consideration in that small action that it’s hard not to become excited, those butterflies beginning to soar.
‘While I’ll admit to being intrigued,’ he begins, ‘I’m not entirely sure your model fits with our portfolio.’
I resolutely ignore the dip of their wings because this is so up their alleyway. Even if I have to knock them out, then drag and dump them in that alley myself.
‘I’ve done my homework, Mr Jones,’ I respond evenly. I’ve considered their reputation, studied their press and website, and prepared for this response. ‘Given your recent investment in the Grant app, I believe this is very much in line with your portfolio. Romance may be seen as low-tech, but we both know apps available to Android and iOS are where the money is.’
I have his interest—I can feel it, my hands curling into fists behind my back as though I can almost touch that thick wad of cash—but just when I sense he’s about to answer, my attention moves to the figure in the doorway once more. Only this time, the shadowy man has been replaced by that of a woman—a woman young enough to be an assistant or intern. She bustles her way deeper into the room, handing Mr Jones a note. He unfolds it, scans the contents, then slides it into his top pocket. Something tells me the tide has turned.
‘Ms Welland, I’m afraid we must adjourn for the day.’ A protest rises in my throat, but I manage to hang onto it. ‘Your pitch was impressive, and you’ve given us a great deal to consider.’
‘Just don’t consider too long,’ I reply, aiming for a kind of haughty confidence. An unspoken threat. This deal is too good not to be in, my friends. But maybe I’ve overshot as he doesn’t answer. Instead, he inclines his head before he and his team file from the room.
‘Do I want to know what he said to you as he left?’ I ask when Luke and I are the only two left.
‘Only that he wanted to see me this afternoon,’ he answers, tugging on his ear before sliding his hands into his pockets and tipping back on his heels.
‘Do you think he didn’t buy my pitch?’
‘Ols. No. That’s can’t be it. Your pitch was great—spot-on! It’s my job to bring interesting options to the table. I only wish I was a couple of positions higher than I am on the decision-making end because I’d snap this deal up, just like I want to snap you up.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I demur.
‘No, but you will. Tonight.’ He’s careful not to come closer or display any connection between us as though we’re being watched, which is entirely possible in an office built from glass. ‘It went well, really well, Ols. Promise.’
‘You’d make a good boss,’ I tell him, wishing I could say I’ve retained my earlier confidence. ‘You give good pep talks.’
‘I also give good pillow talk.’
‘Is that so?’ I conceal my ridiculous smile by beginning to pack up my things.
‘My dirty talk is on point, too,’ his low-pitched voice teases.
It’s official. This is happening tonight. The level of innuendo between us has never been this blatant.
‘I’ll take that under advisement. God!’ I add, the word hitting the air as a groan. ‘I could do with a drink.’
‘To celebrate, not to drown your sorrows, right?’
‘I can’t celebrate something I haven’t achieved.’
‘Great things are still waiting for you.’ As he pulls his cell phone from his pocket, he frowns down at it. ‘You’re going back to the office?’
‘No. I can’t face them yet.’ The truth is, I didn’t tell the team about this morning’s pitch. I didn’t want to build their hopes up, though they’ve been hinting that Luke might use his connections to get me in the door. And he has. But I’ll be devastated if I haven’t held up my end of things.
‘And we’re still on for tonight?’
‘Well, if you’re offering . . . ’ I draw out the words that are heavy with meaning.
‘Oh, you know I’m offering. But I reckon the first round is on you,’ he replies with a naughty wink.
‘I was hoping to show my appreciation in some other way.’ As though drawn by invisible strings, we find ourselves in the centre of the room
‘Oh, were you, now?’ he almost purrs.
‘That sounded bad, didn’t it? How about I buy you a drink for business advice rendered, and then maybe I’ll appreciate the hell out of you.’ I let my gaze roam over his chest so there really is no doubt about my intentions.
‘Let me take you to dinner first.’
First. So much meaning in that one little word—a meaning I’m more than ready for. So I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak.
‘Eight?’ I nod again. ‘I’ll text you the address of the restaurant.’ He pauses, his expression taking on a wicked light. ‘Should I bring a toothbrush?’ This time, my answer is a peal of laughter. ‘What about pyjamas?’
Blood rushes through my veins as I raise my hand, almost sliding it around the back of his neck. But as I remember where we are right now, I settle for brushing invisible lint from his bicep.
‘I have a spare brush,’ I almost whisper, clasping my hands demurely in front of me now. ‘I also prefer to sleep naked.’
Chapter 3
OLIVIA
Retracing my steps, I head home to my tiny flat in Shepherd’s Bush, an area not as quaint as it sounds, especially the end where I live. Hopefully, I’ll manage to retrace my steps without falling over this time. Bonus!
It’s still sunny when I exit the Tube station, though it could be raining monsoonal levels for all I care because when I pull out my phone to check my messages, I see a very welcome email.
‘Yes!’
I find myself fist-pumping the air, drawing censorious looks from the pensioner pair next to me, the elderly man wrapping his arm tightly around his equally doddery wife as though I’d aimed that punch at her. But it doesn’t matter, nothing can make me feel bad right now, especially things beyond my control, because the PA of my favourite person in the whole wide world (currently) has emailed me to request a second meeting!
Mr Jones, I knew you were a man of discerning tastes.
Opening the door to the imposing Victorian townhouse, or terrace as they call them here, I grab the pile of mail from the console table in the hall before climbing the stairs to my little flat on the top floor. Technically, my home is in the attic of this once rather grand household. I live in the rooms where the maid would’ve resided; only these days, my exposed brick-and-white-walled home is a perfectly bijou dwelling rather than a place you hide the help. It’s the first place I’ve ever lived alone, and I love it. Sure, the rent puts a hefty dent in my rapidly diminishing bank balance each month, but I try not to dwell on the figures so much because, quite frankly, I’m not a fan of the heart palpitations that accompany the trip to the ATM.
Dropping the pile of circulars and reminders, and final notices to the kitchen worktop, I pull a bottle of Pinot from the fridge before making my way to the sun terrace. I say sun terrace when what I really mean is the little bit of flat roof I have access to when I climb out of my bedroom window. I can’t even begin to say how difficult it was to get the little table setting out there at the beginning of the summer. It now takes pride of place in the shade of one of those grand chimney stacks that dot the London suburban skyline like a scene from Mary Poppins.
I pull out one of the pair of spindly chairs, depositing my wine bottle and glass on the intricate wrought-iron tabletop before twisting off the cap and rewarding myself with a generous pour. It’s then that I pick up my phone.
‘Ask me how clever I am?’
‘Is this a trick question?’ Reggie yawns, and I curse myself for not checking the time zones again.
‘I needed to be out of bed anyway,’ she says sleepily. A voice murmurs from Reggie’s bedroom somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic. ‘We’re supposed to be on the road before nine.’
‘That’s right. You’re off to meet the parents this weekend.’
In the background, Josh dramatically adds a little background suspense.
‘Dun-dun-dunnn!’
‘Josh says to say hi, by the way,’ my friend adds. Sheets rustle, a door opens, and a kettle switches on. ‘You’re on loudspeaker now. Why don’t you just tell me how clever you are.’
‘Who have I been chasing for five freaking months?’
‘Luke Bedford!’ she begins excitedly. ‘The guy you’ve been crushing on since college.’
‘I have not!’
‘You haven’t been chasing him or crushing on him since college?’ she repeats lazily as she opens the fridge. I don’t need to see her to know this. Reggie and I have been friends since grade school. Right now, I know without a doubt she’s drinking orange juice straight from the carton, a terrible habit neither Josh nor I have been able to dissuade her of.
‘If I’ve been chasing him, it’s been in a purely professional sense,’ I protest.
‘My bad,’ she replies disparagingly as the sound of glass condiment bottles chinking precedes the slam of the fridge door. ‘Oh, and liar, liar, pants on fire.’
‘It’s true!’ I protest. ‘I may have, from a purely aesthetic viewpoint, mentioned how easy on the eyes the man is—’
‘And how much you want in his pants,’ she adds a little gleefully.
‘But I haven’t been chasing him.’
‘Does following him around with your tongue hanging out count as chasing?’
‘You’re mean before breakfast.’
‘And you’re not fooling anyone. You’ll have that man out of his suit pants before he can say “venture capitalist” just as soon as you’ve secured your—’ Her words halt, and I almost hear the penny drop. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve gotten a pitch meeting!’