Four
An hour later I am showered, dressed in jeans and a clean T-shirt, my phone at the bottom of my bag while I continue ignoring
Jerome’s messages. He has phoned twice, and sent numerous texts, apologizing profusely. Even though my anger has abated, I’m
not sure I can deal with this right now. My head is still heavy, although less so with the coffee I grabbed from Starbucks
on the way over, and I pull into the parking lot of the offices we call the Glass Spider.
I hoist my bag over my shoulder, knowing Jerome will be coming to my office, if he isn’t there already. That’s the problem
with relationships at work; there’s no privacy.
“Morning, Curt.” I grin at my favorite security guard. “How’s the little one?” Curt and his wife had their first child, courtesy
of six months of IVF. He’s now eighteen months old, and as cute as a button, according to the photographs Curt shows me on
his iPhone on a regular basis.
“He’s fantastic. He’s playing soccer now. Look.” He brings up a video of his son’s chubby little legs kicking a ball. It’s
so cute, I have to watch it twice.
“He’s so adorable! I can’t believe you haven’t let me babysit him yet!
” I have been offering since Mason turned one, but Curt laughs, as if I’m joking.
“I’m serious,” I say, for the hundredth time.
“I keep telling you. I’m a great babysitter.
And you know I’m trustworthy. If not, you also know where to find me. ”
“I know, I know,” he says, his ruddy Irish cheeks ruddier, and I know he will never ask. How could he possibly have the boss’s
daughter babysit for him? However much I try to prove to him that I am a regular person, as humble and down-to-earth as I
can be, he thinks the gap is too wide to bridge.
I make my way down one of the eight glass corridors that shoot off the main building, smiling and nodding at the people I
pass. After four years you would think I would know almost everyone, but there are almost a thousand employees in this office
alone, and I’m constantly seeing faces I don’t know.
For a long time, my father wouldn’t let me work here. At my graduation, my friends all made a beeline for my father, slipping
him their résumés and attempting to engage him in conversations he would remember. I was the lucky one, they told me; I didn’t
have to persuade him, I was a shoo-in.
Except of course, I wasn’t. He sat in the crowd, next to my mother, both of them managing to put their differences aside and
be there for me. For years I had thought they didn’t make sense, could not have imagined how they were ever in a relationship,
but seeing them sitting next to each other, their faces beaming, filled my heart with joy. I suddenly saw them as a unit,
and for a brief minute found myself filled with hope that they might get back together again.
My father was his most charming self, taking résumés and chatting animatedly, his arm around me, hugging me tight.
It was one of those times when I felt unreservedly loved, and I folded myself into him as my mother took photographs of us.
When they talked, they chatted like normal people.
How beautiful was Harvard Yard, how much the dining hall—Annenberg—looked like something out of Hogwarts, how proud and thrilled they were of me.
Was it naive of me to presume a degree from Harvard would be enough, that I would be able to join ipryy as soon as I graduated?
Of course. Marty insisted I learn about business by working at other companies first, desperate to avoid being accused of
even a hint of nepotism. Had it not been for Clara stepping in four years ago to insist that I would be an asset to the company,
my father might never have said yes.
Clara took me under her wing. If ever I have an idea, or suggestion, I take it to Clara. She insisted I work my way through
every department to fully understand how ipryy works. ipryy started as a chip built into a phone case, then moved on to becoming
an app. It is an app that has taken the world by storm. Everyone uses it now—it comes as part of the package, preinstalled,
on every mobile device you buy. Once activated, ipryy effectively installs a virtual fortress around everything you do. No
longer can your conversations be listened to; no longer do ads pop up on your Facebook feed about something innocuous you
happened to be chatting to your neighbor about the day before; no longer is there any risk of Alexa listening in, or of hackers
getting hold of your information. ipryy truly does give you back your privacy, and as we roll it out around the world, the
reaction is always the same: How did we manage before ipryy?
I could barely tell the difference between software and hardware when I started. Now I know that ipryy started as a software
product, but is now a platform. The ipryy application is an app, but you can log into it online and use it as a web service,
or download it to your phone and log in to a connected app. The reason it has become a platform is to enable other applications,
which we are now developing, ipryy home being the first.
Programming is easier when there is a platform in place, and future products can be developed faster and cheaper.
I understand it all now, but the area I have loved learning about the most, the area that has touched a deep part within me, is the foundation.
Thus far, it has been the place I feel most at home.
It’s also the place that is the most overlooked.
Compared to other foundations set up by similar companies, the Marty Cooke Foundation is paltry.
We are a $3.2 billion foundation, and I believe we should be a $10 billion foundation.
The trick is convincing my father of that.
Charitable giving is not part of his DNA. He will spend thousands at galas, often the highest bidder at the live auction,
but that’s less about philanthropy and more about proving that he is the king, that he has the biggest balls.
He does care about education, which is the key to getting him to give more. Whenever he experiences something personally,
particularly when it involves children not having access to the kind of education that could change their lives, he says he
will do something, and does it.
Sarah, who runs the foundation, does a great job deploying the money we have, but she doesn’t know which buttons to push to
get my father to give more. And I do. Or at least, I think I do. My father is nothing if not competitive, although placing
a piece of paper in front of him showing him what Gates Foundation spends, or the David and Lucile Packard Foundation, won’t
do it. He needs to meet with people, and I have a plan up my sleeve.
My office is right at the end of the glass spider leg. People on electric razor scooters zip up and down the corridors, but
I walk. Walking gives me a chance to clear my head, and I get to take in the view, which never gets dull. The Spider is high
enough that you can see for miles, the Cupertino Hills gradually fading in the distance, like the most beautiful of watercolors.
The houses I grew up in, the craftsmen cottages my mother rented, were dark, and dusty.
They were in crowded neighborhoods, with small patches of forsaken lawns that were mostly overtaken by weeds when we moved in.
The only house that had a pretty garden was the one that had Nasreen living upstairs.
I would come home from school, and Nasreen would see me in the kitchen window and call me outside. She had pulled up most
of the lawn and replaced it with gravel, with raised vegetable beds in which she grew herbs, lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers,
and exotic spices—at least to me—like ginger, and turmeric, their wizened, twisted shapes fascinating me.
There was a large blue plumbago that tumbled over the fence at the bottom of the garden, and Nasreen had created a semicircle
of gravel underneath, on top of which sat a small wire table and chairs that she had found on the sidewalk one day. She had
placed lanterns on the gravel, interspersed with terracotta pots of lavender so the air smelled fragrant and sweet. When my
mother was up to it, they would sit at the table, talking and laughing, the glow from their cigarettes moving through the
darkness as they drank wine and discussed, more often than not, my father.
That semicircle of gravel held a kind of magic, even though it was overlooked by the neighbors, and surrounded on all sides
by a tall fence. Nasreen would call me outside to help her with weeding, or staking the tomatoes that were always top-heavy
and dragged on the ground, before sitting me at the wire table and bringing me sweet mint tea in an etched pink glass, with
homemade nankhatai, the cookies she always kept in a tin on a shelf in her kitchen.
When we left that house, I longed for that semicircle of gravel, the constant delight of watching Nasreen pour the mint tea
from high in the air, so high it should not have hit the glass, but she never spilled a drop.
I didn’t find that kind of magic again until I started working here. There is something about this view, walking slowly along
this glass corridor every day, earbuds in and listening to music, that lifts my soul every morning.
In my office, there is a huge bunch of flowers on my desk, an oat milk cappuccino with a dusting of cocoa powder, an almond croissant and a bag of kiwis.
I look for a note, but there isn’t one. There doesn’t need to be one, for this could only be from Jerome, who knows how much I love almond croissants and kiwis.
In an instant I forgive him, and when he shows up in the doorway, minutes later, I wipe the dusting of confectioners’ sugar from my mouth, and raise the half-eaten almond croissant in a silent toast.
“You’re good,” I say, the sweetness of the almond filling still in my mouth.
“I try.” He comes over and puts his arms around me, and I lean into him, feeling how firm he is, how stable. This is what
I need, I think, pushing aside my doubts, pushing aside Lucy’s doubts, which have just crept into my head.
I haven’t had great success with men. I have been very good at one-night stands, and short relationships, but nothing long-term.
I spent years dreaming of someone just like this, someone who would take me in his arms and make me feel safe, someone who
would show up when he said he would, who would look after me. And here he is, reliable, sturdy, strong. I tip my head back
and look up at him, waiting for him to dip his head and kiss me.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“I’m sorry too.”
“No kissing at the office.” Sarah strides in and we jump apart, although when I look at her, she is grinning. “Don’t worry.
I won’t tell anyone. But Missy, apparently your dad’s on his way over to see you.”
“I’ll go,” says Jerome, squeezing my hand and leaving with Sarah, as I steel myself for what will doubtless be a reprimand
after last night.
My father walks in and closes the door behind him, his face serious.
I notice that he is looking thinner than usual, still handsome, his hair more salt than pepper now, a faint stubble on his tanned face.
He is in his favorite faded Levi jeans, a soft T-shirt, and sneakers.
I have always thought that he looks like a cowboy in a Ralph Lauren ad, and I think it again as he walks over and slides his iPhone across the top of the desk to me.
Apprehension and anxiety mix with the thrill of being with my father.
I wonder if all girls feel this way about their fathers.
I tried to explain it to Lucy once, presuming she must feel the same way.
“Are you completely nuts?” she had asked, and I felt embarrassed, until she kept pushing me to talk about it, and we concluded
that of course I would feel this way given how little I had ever had of my father. When he did show up, I was thrilled with
whatever breadcrumbs he offered, hoping that this time I might make him love me enough to actually be present. He was the great romantic hero of my childhood, and whenever I get alone time with him, I am filled with that same mix of
pride, love, and unease.
I pick up the iPhone and look at it, feeling sick. It is one of Silicon Valley’s most popular bloggers, who details the lives
of the tech billionaires, with regular blind items revealing insider information that anyone in the know would know.
And there is the blind item:
Which Tech Titan’s daughter was sent home in disgrace last night after prying open a few too many vodka bottles at a glamorous
party in the Cupertino Hills? Daddy showed up unexpectedly (what a coup that was), and was heard to call the daughter’s boyfriend and demand he remove her before she disgraced herself. We are all very sad the
daughter didn’t strip down to go pool diving as the rest of the party did. Hint: it’s in the copy . . .
“It could be worse.” I put the iPhone down, reading the anonymous gossip making me feel grubby. “They could have had photos.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t. But it is worse. Read the comments.”
“I don’t need to read the comments.” I have learned my lesson, and painstakingly avoid the comments section underneath any
article about my father, or ipryy.
“When are you going to grow up?” says my father, in an exact echo of Jerome.
“Maybe when you stop treating me like a child?” My voice sounds exactly like that of a child.
“You would have to behave more maturely in order for me to do that,” he says, as I feel tears spring into my eyes.