Five
The funny thing is, when I was a child, he never treated me like one. That was one of the things I loved about him. In my
mother’s house I knew I was a child, but when I was with my father, I felt like an adult.
At six and seven years old, on those rare occasions I stayed over at his place, we would have breakfast perched on the high
stools at his kitchen counter. He wouldn’t ask me what I wanted, would make two of whatever he was making for himself—oatmeal
for a long time, then the egg white omelet phase, then grapefruit and kiwi fruit, sliding my adult-sized portion in front
of me as he sat next to me chattering about whatever was on his mind. The topics ranged from politics to business.
“What do you think I should do?” he would say, and I tried to give my opinion. He never belittled or diminished what I said,
but would nod as I spoke, as if he was seriously considering my perspective.
I watched a documentary with him about the day Princess Diana died. I had no idea who she was, but he put the television on
in the kitchen and we watched it together, the photographs of the wreckage of the cars in a Paris tunnel.
“This was a terrible tragedy,” he kept repeating, over and over, still shaking his head in disbelief, even all these years later. I would have stopped watching, but sensed it would have been the wrong thing to have done.
He explained who she was, pulling up pictures of her on his computer. He told me she was beloved, and found me video of her
wedding day, and pictures of her on a water park ride with her sons.
It was seeing the sons at her funeral that moved me the most. What would I do if one of my parents died? I suddenly thought,
imagining the loss, the devastation.
Now, standing in my office, we stare at each other, and suddenly, my father starts to laugh.
“Oh fuck it.” He shakes his head. “Come to my office at five. I’m watching the game. We’ll get food. It’ll be fun.”
My father does not apologize, but this is as close as he will get. It means that he has forgiven me whatever transgressions
I may or may not have made, and that it is behind us. I will say this for him: He does not bear a grudge. Whereas my mother,
as seen by how she continues to be driven crazy by my father, or perhaps, my father’s absence, can hold a grudge for years.
My father’s office is not in one of the spider legs. He has the entire top floor of the vast reception area, with a huge conference
room adjacent to his office, a basketball court for when he wants to blow off steam, and a kitchen stocked with all his favorite
foods. Catering staff come in and use the kitchen for meetings, pretending not to be thrown when Marty Cooke enters in a T-shirt
and bare feet, padding around and helping himself to the food they are preparing.
His office is floor-to-ceiling glass on one side, lacquered black bamboo walls on the other that press to open hidden cabinets and shelves, a television set.
A huge black suede sectional faces the television, as big as a bed, the ottomans pressed up to the sofa so you can put your feet up and relax.
White leather Eames chairs face the sofa, a metallic silver Jeff Koons balloon dog on the coffee table, and a huge Damien Hirst giclée of assorted pills the only color in the room.
And yet, despite that, perhaps because of the extraordinary views, the room does not feel gloomy, but bright and shiny, the sofas inviting you to sink into them, which is exactly what my father has done.
“Hey, Peanut.” He is on the sofa, legs up and ankles crossed, remote control in one hand, Corona in the other. “Get yourself
a beer.”
I walk to the wall and press against the lacquer as a hidden door opens to reveal a mini-fridge.
“Come sit next to me.” He pats the seat next to him and I kick my shoes off and crawl on the sofa, bouncing into a comfortable
position as we clink our bottles together and say cheers. I am not interested in the game, and I focus on our feet, both of
us with our ankles crossed in the same way. It’s as if someone replicated his feet in miniature form. Our toes are exactly
the same shape, the second toe strangely short on both our feet, the only difference being that his are bigger, with a patch
of dark hair on each toe.
“I’m getting sushi,” he says. “It’ll be here soon.” This is so typical of my father, to order without asking what anyone wants.
I don’t like sushi, and he should know I don’t like sushi, that I always order the teriyaki chicken when we go out for sushi,
but he either doesn’t remember, or chooses not to remember. It’s fine, I figure. I can play around with the yellowtail or
uni he will definitely have ordered, without him noticing. I’ll stop at Shake Shack on the way home.
The elevator sounds, opening into his office, and Clara walks in, opening her arms to give me a hug, awkward only because
I am half sunk in the sofa and she is standing.
“You joining us?” My father is delighted.
“I wasn’t going to.” Clara slides a file on my father’s desk. “I just wanted to update you on the Inferno situation.”
“Did you find them at the party?” I remember the ipryy team saying that’s why they were there.
Clara sighs and shakes her head. “We’ve got them coming in for a meeting next week, but were hoping to meet them first at
a more informal setting. Apparently, they have very full schedules.” She shakes her head, as if unable to believe anyone could
turn down the opportunity to spend time with Marty Cooke.
“Did you invite them to dinner at my house?” My father seems unimpressed that they are unimpressed.
“I think they’re kids,” Clara explains, flushing as she realizes I am the same age. She turns to me. “I didn’t mean that as
an insult, I just meant that the team behind Inferno are younger millennials and Gen Z. They’re not interested in hanging
with old fogeys like us.”
“Want me to invite them to my place for dinner?” I am half joking, half not. Both Clara and my father laugh, ignoring the
half that is not joking.
“Goddamned Inferno,” mutters my father, grinding his teeth in the way he often does before he explodes. I feel a familiar
anxiety at the prospect of one of his rages, even though it has nothing whatsoever to do with me.
I know it pisses him off that he can’t access the people from Inferno before the meeting.
ipryy is deployed all over the world, partnering with more companies every day who manage the app from their territories.
We are now focused on the Asia Pacific region, specifically India and Pakistan.
Conquering India alone would transform ipryy, make it amongst the most powerful companies in the world.
Last year, we were about to sign with a huge tech company, all set to launch the app in India, when the founder of the company was arrested on rape charges, and the deal fell through.
Inferno may not be the biggest tech company in Asia, but it is the fastest growing, and most exciting, the subject of countless
articles in the tech magazines over the past six months. It is exactly the sort of company ipryy should be getting into bed
with, a company that is young, focused on growth and the future.
There are competitors in Asia who claim to hold a bigger market share than ipryy could ever hope to attain, but that doesn’t
put us off. If anything, my father welcomes competition. We have always chosen our partners carefully, ensuring the companies
who manage ipryy in every territory are local, with a deep understanding of the culture, able to tweak the app as needed for
each place.
“Is there anything I can do?” I say. “Given that I am a dreaded younger millennial?”
I look at Clara, in her black pants and sensible-heeled shoes, a crisp white shirt and chunky silver necklace. It is the same
uniform she has been wearing for years. Understated, simple. At thirty-nine she has more in common with my fifty-nine-year-old
father than she does with me, or anyone my age. “Think like a man” is her motto, which has always served her well. I can see
her frustration at not being able to connect with “the younger millennials and Gen Z kids” in the way she wants.
“Unfortunately, not at this point,” Clara says, swiftly changing the subject to bring my father back from the brink. I feel
my shoulders sink in relief.
“How’s the game?” We all turn to the screen where the Warriors are running across the court. I am interested only in as much
as it allows me to have time with my father. He never bothers watching the game at home, because Scarlett hates sports, and
won’t let him have the alone time he wants, hence his watching the game at the office.
My father groans as a basket is scored by the other team. Clara and I swap glances as I suppress an eye roll.
There is a knock. An underling enters, a file under his arm. He is blinking in a way that tells me he is nervous, this may
be the first time he has been sent into Marty Cooke’s lair.
“What?” My father doesn’t take his eyes from the screen.
“Um, I was sent here from Product Development. I have the file you were asking for with the illustrations.”
My father grabs the file, finally taking his eyes off the screen to flick through, as a cloud darkens his face.
“This isn’t the right fucking file!” His shout is like an explosion. I feel my breathing quicken as I watch the young man
startle, the terror on his face now clear. “Get the fuck out and don’t come back until you bring the right fucking file!”
The underling backs out, visibly shaking. I suspect my father has brought him to tears. I look to Clara, hoping she might
tell my father not to speak to people like that, but she catches my eye and shrugs, a shrug that says this is part of his
genius, this is what we have to put up with.
“Stay for sushi,” says my dad, a smile back on his face, as if the past few seconds hadn’t happened.
Clara makes a face. “What are you getting sushi for? Missy hates sushi. Get her a burger.” I love this woman, am tempted to
throw my arms around her in gratitude.
My father turns to look at me with faint horror. “You hate sushi? Who the hell hates sushi? What’s the matter with you? How
can any daughter of mine hate sushi?”
“Leave her alone.” Clara leaps to my defense before I have a chance to speak. “What’s to love about sushi? Raw fish? No thank
you. Give me a well-done steak any day.”
“Philistines,” mutters my father. “The pair of you.” But he makes no move to order me the burger suggested by Clara.
“I think I may head out,” I say, now hungry and craving a burger, and, despite myself, stung by my father asking how any daughter of his can hate sushi.
I think of my half siblings, Paloma and Nico, how at eight and six years old they eat sushi almost every night.
I wish I could release myself from my father’s hold.
I am twenty-nine years old, a grown-up in every possible way, and yet around my father, I regress to a little girl.
I feel myself wanting.
Yet again.