Chapter 1 #2
lead into a fun little anecdote about him. I resolve to give him the benefit of the doubt; maybe he’s just the chatty kind
of nervous. Maybe we can turn this thing around.
“I founded the company. We’re in the prelaunch stage right now but have some exciting expansion plans coming up soon. It’s
a great time to get in on the ground floor.” I fiddle with the stem of my glass.
“Mmmm,” he replies insightfully. “I like to dabble in crypto.”
He tells me about his cyber wallet and how he was one of the few people in his office who “didn’t fall” for the NFT fad because he only bought “one or two.”
“That’s great. My company is more in the FemTech space,” I say, my leg bouncing harder under the table as I prepare to present
my case.
He scrunches his face as though I’ve just told him I don’t think male stand-up comedians are funny. “What’s FemTech?”
My lips creep into a smile. “It’s shorthand for technology addressing mainly women.”
His shoulders lower. “Oh right, yeah, like periods and shit.”
I swallow my indignation. “FemTech does encompass menstrual health, yes. But Wyst, my company, is a platform for women to talk to therapists, counselors, and doctors
for free about all sorts of women’s issues.”
“Right.” He nods his head like he’s interested, but I can see his eyes starting to glaze over. Maybe it’s the wine. “So how
is that meant to make any money?”
“Advertisers, and we rigorously vet every advertising partner. Branded content. Usually sanitary products, fitness brands,
health and wellness products.” I nod, feeling my defenses rising up like tide dams. “With the aim to move to a tiered premium
subscription model later down the line.” He doesn’t ask a follow-up question, but I push on while the microphone is on my
side of the table. “Which is why I reached out to you, to chat about potential investment opportunities.”
“Right.” He sighs. “I just want to be straight with you.”
“Okay . . .” I lock in, ready for some unsolicited business advice I’ve likely heard already from a mean man’s mouth before,
sometimes with a sweetheart thrown in for good measure.
He shakes his head. “I’m not really interested in the ‘career woman’ type.”
My hand freezes against my glass. “Excuse me?”
He laughs. “I know that’s not like progressive or whatever, but I’m really looking for someone who is more of a homebody,
who is happy for me to be the breadwinner.”
I study him, a long deep line between my brows.
He sighs, like he assumed I wouldn’t understand. “I just don’t think a relationship can work if both parties are working all
the time. Who’s going to make meals and keep the house in shape? Look after the children?”
“What?” Seemingly I have lost the ability to speak in full sentences.
“I get having your own life and hobbies, but I just don’t think this would work.”
I blink at him in silence, flabbergasted, until finally my brain reboots to ask, “Do you think this is a date?”
He furrows his brow, looking at me like I’m insane. “What else would this be?”
I scrape my chair across the floor, moving out from the table. “A meeting, to discuss you investing in my company.”
“Oh.” He huffs a laugh, clearing his glass. “You were serious about that? I thought you were just shy.”
My mouth hangs open. “We connected on LinkedIn?”
One corner of his lip snarls up. “I know, right? Dating apps are so crap these days, too many weirdos and time wasters. I
was on Ignite for a while, but it never ends well for the nice guys. It’s so hard dating in the city.”
“This is not a date,” I clarify one last time to get it into his skull.
He lowers his eyes and grins. “Come on, you don’t need to be coy just because we aren’t compatible from a relationship standpoint. I still think you’re a good-looking girl. We could just, ya know, keep it casual?”
I can’t help the way my mouth twists into a disgusted scowl, but then my mind starts second-guessing everything I’ve said
and done up to this point. The messages I sent, my leg brushing against his as I sat down, maybe I should have worn a suit
instead of a dress. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but this isn’t a date. I’m not dating or ‘keeping it casual’
with anyone right now.”
And even if I did have the emotional or mental capacity to date someone, it certainly wouldn’t be this guy.
His eyes squint for a second. “Right, well. That’s fine. I’m not that attracted to you anyway; not a fan of brunettes.” He
sits back in his chair. “Especially when they don’t look like their profile picture.”
It takes everything in me not to question why he even came here, but I don’t want to continue this conversation.
His eyes crease curiously. “It’s weird because now I’ve seen you in person, you do seem quite familiar. You went to business
school, right? Do we have any friends in common?”
“No,” I say on reflex. A champagne cork popping makes me jolt out of my skin as a familiar dread rises in my stomach, curdling
the wine into vinegar. “No,” I repeat quietly.
He leans in, scanning my face. “Are you sure? You went to Goldsmiths, right? I have a few mates who went there.”
The blood draws from my face, metastasizing into hives across my throat. “Probably not, it was a big school.”
He clicks his fingers in front of my face, eyes wide. “Wait, I know what it is. You worked at Graystone. Were you there when that grad scandal happened? That was crazy. I can’t believe the poor guy got fired over a couple of photos.”
My chair scrapes against the terra-cotta tiles. “Excuse me, I’m gonna use the bathroom.” My mouth forms a tight smile as I
leave the table and meander through the crowd to the back of the bar.
The moment I close the bathroom door my chest begins to heave.
My brain is throbbing so hard it feels like a computer lagging and overheated. Flashes of memory appear as black dots in my
vision.
Walking into the office, everyone staring.
My friend’s face as she pulls me aside.
Seeing the photos, my world imploding.
The sex was consensual, but not when Malcolm took those photos. He convinced me after that they were just for him.
Heart racing, I check LinkedIn for William Salter. My hand freezes on the screen, my skin cold and clammy. He was right; we
have seven mutual connections. Four through university, but my three former colleagues at Graystone bash alarm bells against
my skull.
Eyes stinging, I sit on the toilet seat and put my head between my legs, breathing through my nose like the YouTube videos
taught me, and stare blankly at the upside-down layer of dust accumulating around the bottom of the porcelain basin and count
to sixty—the world’s most efficient panic attack. After my breathing’s normalized, I wash my hands, roll my fingers across
my bottom lashes and then through my hair.
Before I exit the LinkedIn app, my eyes snag on a post by Odericco Investments, one of my dream investors at the top of my funding spreadsheet.
Open call for start-up pitches, ending tonight at midnight GMT.
Due to scheduling conflicts, a space has become available for this year’s TechRumble competition.
A link to an application form sits below the post. The original deadline for this year’s TechRumble finalists was months ago,
back when I was in the final stages of talking to another investor. The deadline passed, and our investor called me “petal,”
then ghosted me. I bookmark the post, mentally steeling myself for the more pressing issue—getting back to this car crash
of a meeting. As I swing open the bathroom door and head back to the table, William has vanished, along with his coat. All
evidence of our “meeting” gone, except the unpaid bill sitting on a small silver tray in the middle of the table.