Twenty
My morning routine is different since I have been CEO. It is not enough to fall out of bed, grab a coffee or an egg sandwich
I have—shocker—started exercising. I love hiking and walking, but the idea of formally working out has always been anathema
to me.
I am not sure where this aversion comes from. I feel stupid stuffed into leggings and a sports bra, leaping around a room
with a bunch of other women. I understand striding up a mountain, or biking around town, but the gym thing does not do it
for me.
My mother didn’t exercise. She is, like me, an ectomorph—a light build, small joints, and lean muscle.
As far back as I can remember, girlfriends have been trying to persuade her to attend yoga classes with them, attempting to convince her that she, of all people, would love it; she, of all people, would benefit.
I am sure those girlfriends were not only well-meaning, but right, and yet my mother refused to go.
She didn’t see the need for any kind of exercise other than walking, which she did frequently.
Yoga, or anything of that nature, seemed to elicit the kind of anger in her that only emerged when she connected something with Marty.
Sure enough, Marty has practiced yoga forever. He bikes, he hikes, he has a private yogi that visits his home multiple times
a week to put him through his paces. My father will get up from the sofa, sometimes during a meeting, and do a headstand in
the middle of the floor, often while someone else is speaking. They will pause as my father stands up, but he will tell them
to carry on as he gets ready to assume the pose. If they should stop speaking, he will encourage them to continue, even as
he kicks off his shoes and bends his forehead to a pillow he keeps nearby for just this purpose.
When my mother heard this, she thought he was showing off, that this was a ridiculous ploy for attention, but my father has
always said he does it because it calms him down. I believe him, and also think he does it to mess with people’s minds.
He’s had me join him in yoga, and I’ve enjoyed it, but that usually has more to do with the situation—when we were in Tulum,
or Parrot Cay, for example—than the exercise itself. I do it to please my father rather than to satisfy anything in myself.
But now that I’m the CEO, I have started to exercise. I hate it, but by the time I’m showered and on my way to work, I’m wide
awake and ready to take on whatever is thrown at me.
Today, I’m doing Pilates on a reformer machine, with a personal trainer called Kristy who I like enormously. She moves my
arms and legs into the correct position, then stands back to watch, chatting away all the while as I move through the routine.
“Look.” She points to something on my arm.
“What?” I try and see what she is looking at, but it is just my arm.
“I think, my God, don’t tell anyone, but I think that may be some definition!” She comes over and taps my arm, squeezing it gently. “My God, Missy! You have muscle forming!”
I laugh, and she helps me off the machine, hugging me and telling me she will see me tomorrow, “same time, same place.”
“What’s tomorrow?”
“Lifting.”
At least she breaks it up for me so I don’t have a chance to get bored. I jump into a quick hot shower, then change into the
clothes I have started bringing to the gym. Hair brushed and caught in a messy bun at the nape of my neck, I finish with lip
gloss and mascara, and get out my phone as I’m striding confidently across the parking lot toward my VW bug, amazed at how
good I can feel after just a little exercise.
I see a flurry of texts, and slow to a stop in the middle of the parking lot to see what they are all about.
The first one I read is from Keith Berger, the head of Legal.
I am so sorry about the Journal piece. I’m trying to find out what happened. Our team are looking into whether there’s anything
we should do, and what recourse we have.
There is a text from Jerome: Are you okay?
A text from Clara: Call me as soon as you get this message.
From Lucy: Fuuuuck. What a CUNT. Call me.
I pull up the Journal on my phone and feel instantly sick. There, in high definition, am I, in Lucy’s gold sequin pants, her huge Lucite earrings,
smiling in a way that some might construe as superior, that I know to be uncomfortable, beneath the following headline: Can Spoilt Little Rich Girl Give Up Partying for ipryy? By Eleanor Perkins.
I keep reading, knowing that headlines can be deceptive, that it is the copy editors, not the journalists, that create them, and that they will sensationalize anything if it will help entice readers. But the copy, if possible, is worse.
MISSY COOKE clicks across the lobby in her high Aquazzurra sandals ($1,145), her perfectly manicured hand extended as she
shakes hands with a mere mortal (me), and makes a comment about the unseasonable heat, hoping I haven’t melted on my way from
the parking lot. It is the kind of thing I imagine Kim Kardashian saying to one of the minions who is lucky enough to be working
at a party at her home. I am dumbstruck by the inanity, or perhaps by the sequins glistening on her gold vintage Figue pants
($595).
She is a vision of what we now call luxury boho chic, the quintessential party girl whose gym-honed thighs cross elegantly,
one over the other, in her father’s office, which she has now redecorated in what one can only call boho-party style. Marty
Cooke’s trademark black suede and polished wood office has been re-created in multicolored haute embroidery, white fur pillows,
amusing objets that only the very, very wealthy would collect. I am surprised, and I will be honest, somewhat disappointed, that there is
not a disco ball in the ceiling. I say as much, and Missy Cooke’s immaculately made-up face breaks into a small, tight smile.
“I’m working on it,” she says.
I remember her saying that, but I never said I’m working on it. I had no idea what she meant, and I just laughed. What does
she mean, “perfectly manicured”? I extend my hands and look at the nails, nails which have been polished perhaps three times
in my life. I never wear nail polish because I have a habit of picking it off within a day, and I keep my nails short because
long nails have always irritated me.
As for my “immaculately made-up face,” I wore what I always wear: lipstick and mascara.
In fact, they wanted to send a hair and makeup artist for the photoshoot, but I refused.
I don’t want to look like someone else, I want to look like me, just in better clothes, and if my skin wasn’t airbrushed into submission, so be it.
The journalist, who was very young, very friendly, who I offered to help if she ever wanted to write anything else about the
tech industry, makes it sound as if I am a spoiled, privileged party girl, a girl who only got into Harvard because of who
my father is, a girl who has done little other than “pretend to work” at her father’s company.
She describes me as rolling in every day with my yoga mat clutched under my arm, every outfit more outrageous than the last.
“We have an office pool going on Missy’s most ridiculous outfits of the week,” says a source. “She doesn’t seem to realize
she’s in a tech office rather than a party.”
Immediately I find myself making a mental list of who might say something so cruel, before wondering if it is true. Do I wear
ridiculous clothes? I feel a hot flush in my cheeks as I think about my office clothes. Skirts and leggings, shirts and sweaters,
sneakers and flat pumps. The only time I wore gold sequined leggings and strappy high sandals was for this interview and photoshoot.
I would never look like that ordinarily.
Other sources are quoted as saying I arrive in the morning clearly hungover, that I show up to meetings unprepared, and not
knowing what is going on.
“Marty Cooke,” says a source, “would be horrified.”
The level of untruths, the vitriol, leave me standing in the parking lot, shaking, tears of frustration and disbelief springing
into my eyes. I am trying to do it on my own, and it’s hardly my fault that my father is Marty Cooke. Nepo Baby. The worst
insult you can give, and never accounts for the amount of work, or drive, or brains that the individual might have.
My phone rings and it is Clara. I pick up, my voice reedy and weak, cracking as I say hello. I know I am about to burst into tears.
“Oh, honey,” she says. “I am so sorry.”
I start to cry.
The day is spent doing crisis management. I feel like a shadow of myself. Part of me expected this. It’s why I’ve never wanted
to be in the public eye, never wanted to be this kind of a target.
“I don’t understand,” Jerome keeps saying. “I thought this was supposed to be a puff piece, celebratory, positive.”
“It was,” says Clara. “But it was a young journalist who I guess thinks she can prove herself by doing a hatchet job. I hate
this kind of journalism. She came with an agenda, and nothing you would have said or done would have changed what she wrote.”
“What can we do?” Jerome turns to Keith, who has been speaking to the lawyers, who, in turn, have been speaking to the lawyers
at the Journal.
“We don’t want to go down the defamation road. It’s very hard to prove and the piece is mostly observation, just awful observation.
They have agreed that it is not positive, and are willing to write a retraction tomorrow.”
Clara seems to breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” she says.
I look at Keith. “What about online?”
“Online?” He looks blank.
“It used to be, as my father would say, that today’s news story is tomorrow’s fish wrapper, but not anymore, thanks to the
internet. We have to get this piece taken down. I don’t care about a retraction, but I do care that these vicious lies will
forever come up when someone googles my name.” The shaking has gone, my upset replaced by fury. “I want the piece, the cache,
the history, whatever else, removed so it disappears forever. That’s all I care about. That this piece disappears.”
“Do you think you can do that?” Clara looks at Keith.
“I can try.”
“There is no try. Tell them that unless they make this disappear, we will not only come after their journalist, but we will
come after them. We are ipryy for God’s sake. Let them know that we will sue the hell out of them if they don’t do this.”
I know that quashing negative stories may be perceived as an authoritarian move, but I don’t care. What is the point of having
the power if you’re not going to use it? I will not stand here as CEO and let this ridiculous piece destroy my father’s company.
Keith nods and leaves the office, as Jerome looks at me. “Are you sure you want to take it down?”
I hold his gaze. I know what he’s saying. There will always be people who underestimate me, who target me because of who my
father is. I don’t win by getting pieces removed. I win by winning. By proving them all wrong.
And maybe, just maybe, the winning is the revenge, the dish served cold.
I take a breath. “You’re right. Fuck them. Fuck her. Leave the piece. They’ll be writing something very different soon.”
“Good call.” He nods. “Use that anger to show them just what you’re made of.”
It is just me, Clara and Jerome left in my office. I look around at the embroidered fabric on the sectional, the fabric I
love so much, and I feel embarrassed.
“Does it look like a party palace in here?” I ask, my cheeks reddening.
“God, no! She was just a journalist with a very big chip on her shoulder and something to prove. This will be okay. But . . .”
She sighs as I turn my face to see her frowning.
“What is it?”
“I’ve got to go and meet the shareholders. The shares have dropped throughout the day and they are blaming this piece.”
“I should come,” I say.
“I’m not sure you’re the best person to take this meeting right now,” she says. “They approached me, although,” she quickly
adds, seeing my face fall, “they know it’s all bullshit. Anyone who has ever met you or even seen you walk around the office
knows it’s bullshit. They’re not worried about you, more about the public perception. Keith is working on a positive piece
in The New York Times, which will hopefully quickly replace this one. And we have the CNN profile coming, which will definitely be positive. I
just have to reassure the shareholders, and honestly? I’m not sure you need to be there. They all know you, and more importantly,
they know your father. There is no way Marty Cooke would have put you at the helm if he didn’t believe in you. And he’s right
to believe in you,” she quickly adds. “All I have to do is remind them that you pulled off the Inferno deal, and all will
be forgiven.”
I hope she’s right.