Chapter 3
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The next morning I stare at the latest post on Dr. Bernie’s Instagram. Our meeting with her is in an hour, and my nerves are
getting the better of me. Scrolling through her posts I stop on an image of her looking immaculate in a deep purple velvet
As Cecily and I finish packing our bags and decide the best bus route to get to the hotel, Spencer’s head pops up from above
his computer. “Hey, this email might be a scam, but I’m gonna forward it to you just in case. If you click the link and it’s
porn, it’s not my fault.”
I furrow my brow and click on the fresh email as it pops into my phone’s inbox.
FWD: investment@
From: Odericco Investments
Subject: Your Application
Dear Mr. Cole,
Thank you for your application to TechRumble’s open call for start-up pitches.
We would like to schedule a call to discuss further.
Please select a preferred time for a call tomorrow:
2:30 p.m.
3 p.m.
3:30 p.m.
4 p.m.
Mr. Kavanagh
Odericco Investments
Everyone turns to me as I gasp, “Oh my god!” My hands shake as I reread the words “discuss further” over and over again.
Cecily jumps up to see what’s on my screen. “Oh shit! You got an interview?” She takes the phone out of my hand and immediately
scowls. “Wait, Jess . . . You know when we were saying you should change your prefix to Mr. and apply as a man?”
“Yeah.” I laugh at the ridiculous idea, high on approval adrenaline.
“You know that we were joking, right? That was a joke.” Her eyes flick back to me, a mix of confusion and dread on her face.
My stomach drops, my body tingling with a different kind of adrenaline. This is the kind you’d feel if you bungee jumped off a bridge and realized halfway down you’ve forgotten your harness.
Eyes widening, I scan the top of the email again. The application, I sent it from “Mr. Cole.”
I turn to Spencer, who is sat on the other side of the room yawning and typing emails with one finger. He senses me staring
and sits upright, clearing his throat.
“Sorry, was it porn? Let me know if it’s good.”
A few hours later the bus trundles along the cold concrete as we head to Soho for the Dr. Bernie meeting. I tap my finger
against my phone screen, reading and rereading the draft of an email reply to Odericco Investments.
“What’s a professional way of saying, ‘I accidentally pretended to be a man when submitting this application; can I still
go ahead despite trying to dupe you please?’”
“Hmmm, that’s a hard sell. Admin error?” Cecily offers.
“I don’t know which sounds worse to a company like Odericco; I’m careless enough to make this kind of stupid mistake or reckless
enough to subconsciously do this on purpose.”
She puts a hand on my arm. “Maybe let’s focus on Dr. Bernie for now. She’s a real, viable option.”
“You’re right.” I sigh, sending the half-written email reply to drafts as the bus lurches to a stop.
We enter the hotel lobby with nervous energy, gilded columns and raspberry-red walls giving the space a maximalist grandeur that suits this occasion perfectly.
I etch the details into my mind almost as though I know this is a core memory as it’s happening.
An out-of-body experience where I can’t fully feel or hear what’s happening around me, like I’m recalling the moment as I’m living it.
This could be it, a defining moment for Wyst.
Our heels click on the marble tile floor as Cecily and I weave our way through the lunch crowd of freelance creatives on their
third spicy marg. According to her assistant, the only time Dr. Bernie had available today was her thirty-minute “Caesar salad
slot” in between a radio interview and filming The One Show to promote her latest self-help book, Permission to Feel. As well as hosting a chart-topping podcast, her books are front and center in every airport, train, and chain bookstore.
As we approach her table, I put on my confident CEO persona. “Dr. Bernie? Jess Cole. So lovely to meet you—I’m a big fan.”
Cecily shakes her hand. “So, so great to meet you; thank you for making time for us.”
“Hi ladies, please sit.” She waves at the two chairs in front of us in a way that somehow doesn’t come off entitled. She’s
definitely used to the praise and doesn’t have time for it today.
Sensing her urgency, I jump straight in. “Let’s get down to it, shall we?” I open up the folder with the pitch.
“Sweetie.” She rests a soft, perfectly moisturized hand on mine, silver rings with turquoise stones cold on my skin. “Firstly,
we’re not in session; please call me Bernadette. Secondly, I would like you to tell me, not a pile of paper.”
Cecily gives me an encouraging nod, her eyes suggesting this is a good sign.
“Sure.” The folder creaks as I close it and slide it off the table onto my lap; my fingers brace the cardboard edges like
it’s a sled and I’m about dive off a snowy cliffside.
“Wyst is, at its core, a discovery platform. A way for women, girls, and people who identify as women to have a constantly evolving resource on everything to do with women’s health.
“As I’m sure you already know, women’s physical and mental health is, the majority of the time, not taken seriously. How many
times have we heard ‘It’s because of your period,’ ‘Try losing some weight,’ or ‘Come back if the pain gets worse’? Then with
search engines losing their potency in the wake of AI integration, most users are resorting to Reddit or Quora. Which is the
Wild West for misinformation.”
She nods her head so I power on. “We are launching a completely free-to-the-user resource where women can access clear, professionally
vetted, judgment-free advice from leaders in the industry such as yourself. We already have a wait list of twenty-five thousand
users for our beta. Women want something like this.”
Cecily chimes in, “With you as the face of Wyst, it brings credibility and global recognition to our mission.”
Having reached the end of the rehearsed section of my pitch, we wait for her response. Bernadette’s jaw twitches as she studies
me. “Why are you the person to build something like this?”
My brain reverts back to sales-pitch mode. “Because I care about women of all ages having access to information about their
own bodies and minds.”
“Don’t we all.” She smiles into her tea, then purses her lips as her blue eyes cut back up to mine. “But as the founder, why
you? With your background at Graystone, you could have had a fruitful career in finance. Why this? Why you?”
I freeze. Literally freeze in every sense of the word. Does she know what happened? My mouth is open mid-thought, my blood sends a shiver through my veins, my hand begins to shake like it’s just been stuck in a bucket of ice.
“I . . .”
Sensing my hesitation, Cecily jumps in. “Jess is incredibly passionate and hardworking and—”
Bernadette’s hand comes up, immediately silencing Cecily.
My finger traces the rim of the cup. “I had a . . . situation . . . during my time there, which resulted in me leaving the
job I’d worked very hard for. In hindsight, I wish I’d had a resource like this to help me figure out my next steps. How to
talk about it, how to handle things better. So I didn’t feel so alone.”
Cecily squeezes my hand under the table.
Bernadette nods, as though confirming a suspicion she’d had from the moment I sat down.
I lean back, my heart pounding as she flicks her silver-gray hair over her ear.
“I read your pitch deck this morning, and I like what you’re doing. I am willing to discuss this further; my only other question
is can you afford me?”
The numbers in my bank account flash before my eyes; the answer is no, but the moment I admit that this meeting is over. The
draft email to Odericco Investments burns a hole in my side. The rejections folder bashes against my temples. I am blacklisted
because of what happened.
Cecily begins to proclaim the PR’d version of the truth. “Well, we are in the process of seeking fu—”
I interrupt before she can finish her sentence.
“We are in talks with investors who have a keen interest in Wyst. The funding we are discussing with them will take us through to the public launch and help us expand our growing team, as well as partner with a high-profile ambassador such as yourself.”
Bernadette sips her tea and nods lightly. “When will you have funding?”
“I’ll know more in a few weeks.” I nod, lying through my teeth. I wonder if she can tell because she gives me an almost imperceptible
look like she knows I’m scrambling.
Bernadette taps her perfect fingernails on the table. “You know I can’t say yes to anything without a definitive contract?”
Cecily’s smile falters into seriousness as she follows my lead. “How about a deferred payment schedule?”
“I’m an international bestseller, I don’t do IOUs,” she says smoothly. God, I wish I was her.
We attempt to bow out gracefully, saying our pleasantries, goodbyes, and we’ll-be-in-touches while both knowing we don’t currently
have the money to make this happen.
Stepping out of the hotel onto the pavement, Cecily takes my arm in hers. “So you know that thing you said about funding?
That wasn’t referring to what I think it is, right?”
I avoid her gaze, focusing on the traffic light. “The Odericco competition? Yes.”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “But what are you going to say? ‘Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention during the application
process and I’m actually a woman’?” If I say that, they might wonder why I did it, then realize who I am. What if exactly
the same thing happens as it did with William at the bar?
“Nooooo,” I drawl nonchalantly, “Odericco Investments is cutthroat. They would never give us a chance after a mistake like that.” And the moment they find out I’m in charge they’re going to use this “clerical error” as an excuse not to give Wyst a chance. But I can’t lie, can I?
If you were a man, you’d probably have funding by now.
I look at her, the sheepishness unavoidable across my face. The only way out of this hole is money. And it’s just a call.
I’m an idiot for getting myself into this situation, but I’d be an idiot to let it slip through my fingers. Do I really have
a choice? I have an in; even if we got knocked out of the first round of the competition, the platform might attract other
smaller investors. Being on the world’s stage is money-can’t-buy levels of exposure.
We stare at each other, unsure of our next move. Until Cecily finally breaks the silence with a nod. “Fake it till you make
it, right?”
I shrug. “It’s just a call. It probably won’t go anywhere anyway.”
As we cross the road, the winter wind blowing against our faces, I pull out my phone and delete the drafted email before starting
a fresh reply.
Dear Mr. Kavanagh,
Thank you for your request. I have some other calls with potential investors this week. Would another member of my team be
able to take the call?
Best,
Jess Cole
Shit.
I delete my first name, type Mr. instead, and press send before I can think about it. This is fine, just a slight fudging of the truth to cover up a stupid mistake to hide an even stupider mistake.
A reply comes back almost instantly.
Dear Mr. Cole,
Mr. Odericco would prefer all candidates to be vetted personally. If you are not available at the listed times, we will unfortunately
have to consider that a pass on this opportunity.
Mr. Kavanagh
“No, no, no!” I say into the screen.
Cecily reads the email. “Shit.”
Despite the chilled air, my hands start to sweat as they plow against the keyboard.
Dear Mr. Kavanagh,
That is completely fine. I am more than happy to take the call personally.
Best,
Mr. Cole
I stare at the message for a few seconds and glance up at Cecily before pressing Send. Just a small lie to cover up the last.
No big deal.