Chapter 4
Recent transactions:
“This is going to work, right?” I say mostly to myself before leaning back in my chair, the nerves fully taking flight. An
anti-nausea tablet and that yellow “herbal remedy” throat spray would usually give me the placebo courage I need to get through
a phone call like this with no trouble. But the added factor of deception on the phone to a potential investor is clawing
through any medicinal walls built to house my anxiety.
Pacha stands over me, his neon yellow tracksuit glistening in the speckled sunlight. “My program? Yes. Your plan? No.”
When I asked Pacha if he could create a voice changer software for me, I did not imagine he’d be able to do it so quickly, no questions asked.
This plan came out of pure unadulterated panic, and he didn’t say anything, but I think he could see it on my face.
I’ve been holding on by the tips of my fingers for the past three years, and this might be my last chance.
All that money, time, and energy. I have to do this.
My stomach gurgles like a washing machine on a heavy load as the voice changer spits out my voice at a lower octave. There’s
a second-long delay, which I blame on my old phone’s crappy signal. I have no doubt Pacha would have been able to create some
sort of all-out AI man-face filter for me, but I’m still thanking the tech gods Odericco Investments didn’t want a video call.
As the clock ticks toward 3 p.m., my hands vibrate against my phone. Cecily answers the intercom and receives a gigantic bouquet
of pink, yellow, and purple flowers. She admires them in the kitchen for a few seconds and then breaks the bunch into four
mini bouquets, placing them in used jam jars.
This is a fairly regular occurrence. She will deny the existence of sugar daddies in her life but if I had four or five adoring
men who want to take me out for dinner at the hottest restaurants, buy me flowers, and send me for massages and facials at
the swankiest hotels in the city, would I really be saying no? I’ve heard people in tech say “never spend your own money,”
a phrase I clearly didn’t take to heart. Cecily’s parents have more than enough money that she doesn’t need to work a day
in her life, but it doesn’t mean she has to spend it. After a while, Cecily started referring to them as her personal “investors,”
because is what we’re doing really any different? No. Is she much, much better at soliciting financing from men in fancy suits? Yes.
She brings one of the bunches to me with a warm smile, the pink roses, violets, and yellow ranunculus vibrant against the
dull gray, black, and white of my desk setup.
“You’re going to be great,” she says, squeezing my shoulder as I plug my headphones in.
“Thanks.” I tap my pencil on the surface until my phone begins to shift under vibration.
I let it ring once, switch the voice changer on, and answer the phone.
There is an odd sense of camaraderie radiating from both Cecily and Pacha at this moment.
It’s not like they haven’t been supportive of Wyst getting funding in the past; they are wholly aware that eventually Wyst’s cash flow, aka their salaries, will eventually run out if we don’t.
But maybe it’s me edging on a panic attack, my excitement at the email invitation to this call, or maybe the desperation of this plan that is hinting at something not being quite as fun and exciting as these kinds of opportunities used to be.
It feels dangerous to fuck this up, rather than exciting to go forward.
This feels and probably to Pacha and Cecily looks like a last chance.
A Mary I’d only be hailing if things have really gone to shit.
“Mr. Cole?” a smooth, self-assured tone asks.
“Yes, this is he,” I reply, bringing down my own voice just in case the voice changer doesn’t work. I catch the feedback of
my lowered tone, genuinely thinking for a second that Spencer is also on the call. Cecily sucks in her cheeks as I try not
to acknowledge the ridiculousness of this situation. But we’re in it now, no going back. With nothing else to do, I go into
business pitch mode. “Thank you so much for the opportunity to talk to you about Wyst, Mr. Kavanagh, we are big supporters
of Odericco Investments and would be thrilled to be thought of among your top-tier portfolio.”
“That’s great.” Mr. Kavanagh seems unfazed or perhaps completely uninterested by my compliment.
“I’d like to start by hearing a bit more about Wyst.” His American accent doesn’t surprise me.
The call came through from a blocked number, so this guy is probably calling from the New York office.
Odericco Investments have offices in London, New York, Paris, and Hong Kong and do business in just about every other country in the world.
I guess we’re getting straight down to it. I take a deep breath and explain the entire concept, probably going into way too
much detail, but I’m so pitch practiced at this point, I might as well throw every morsel of information onto the plate. By
the time I’m finished, I realize I’ve been talking for over a minute and the man on the other end hasn’t said a thing. The
urge to hedge the conversation, to say something to soften my domination of the conversation, like “but I’ll stop waffling
now ha-ha-ha,” bubbles up within me like a geyser ready to blow. But this is a man speaking; Spencer is sure, certain, and
unflinching in his words even if they are wrong. A man would not hedge; I finish my sentence and hold for his response.
After a few seconds of excruciatingly painful silence, only punctuated by the sounds of phones ringing in the distance and
the whirring of an air-conditioning unit on his end, he finally asks, “And what about daily functions? Can you explain your
current setup?”
“Sure. We’re based in London, a dedicated team of four.” I’m lying about Spencer and Pacha being full time, but it’s par for
the course at this point. “We are on the final push to get our beta version live, and we are in talks with a major figure
in the health and wellness space to come on board as the face of the brand.” I scrunch my face, regretting saying it the moment
the words slip off my lips. Please don’t ask who. Please don’t ask who. Please don’t ask who.
“Who?” he asks.
Shit.
This guy really doesn’t mince his words. I can’t tell if he’s simply disinterested or genuinely thinks he’s too important
to speak more than ten words an hour. My gut twists, flip-flopping over the two potential roads to go down like a fish trying
to get back to water. If I tell him, reveal the name of the big-time, influential figure who is intrigued by the concept,
it’s adding another lie on top of everything else I have just said. But what’s one more lie. I’ve already lied about where our initial funding came from, the amount of employees we have, my own fucking identity;
compared to that one, this feels like a shiny little maraschino cherry on top of a yummy Neapolitan sundae of deception.
“Hello?” he asks, his voice a furrow of the brow. I can just imagine him, sitting in his big fancy chrome office, thousand-pound
Herman Miller chair—probably one of those obnoxious wooden captain’s desks all men of a certain corporate caliber love to
own to give them the illusion that they aren’t a tiny cog in the machine; they are the captains of their own four-by-four
office space. His voice is smooth, so I imagine his look would be too. Sharp suit, clean haircut. A classic New York Finance
Bro.
“Dr. Bernadette Reid,” I say, teeth clenched. My fingers snake through my hair, gripping at the scalp. What am I doing? This
is so stupid. I need Dr. Bernie to be in with a chance of getting funding, but I can’t have Dr. Bernie without funding.
“That’s a big name,” he says, tone unaffected. No opinion, no emotion, just a fact that yes she is a big fucking deal, three
million followers across her social media platforms, a bestselling book, and a podcast that holds a permanent place on the
top ten charts.
“It is,” I agree. Maybe this is how businessmen talk to one another, instead of feigning interest and politely smiling, nodding and laughing in all the right places.
One thing working at Graystone taught me was that the way I conducted myself, and probably still do, was not the “correct” way of doing things.
To be a successful businessman you must be callous, calculating, ruthless, and emotionless.
That is, if you completely ignore the fact that anger is actually an emotion.
Even in my business school classes, I knew being a woman would hold me back.
It would make men put their efforts into holding me back, a physical hand on the lower back at a bar, pushing me out of the way, establishing contact when there was no need, even when I wasn’t truly a threat. Me just being in the room was a threat.
For a second I think about the last time a man considered me a threat in the room, but I pull myself back into the phone call
with a shepherd’s crook.
We speed run the next few questions:
“When will the beta be live?” he asks.
“In a few weeks,” I answer.
“And what are your projections for daily active users?” he asks.
“We already have major registered interest from twenty-five thousand users who will be part of the soft launch,” I answer.
“Is there a reason you’re soft launching?” he asks. I can hear a pencil being rhythmically tapped across the line.
Yes, because we don’t have the money for a full balls-to-the-wall campaign rollout.
“It’s . . . a savvy audience. We want to encourage our users to feel like they are part of an evolving community, not having a product being thrust upon them,” I answer.
“Right,” he says. I hear typing in the background. He’s taking notes.
“But once our beta test has worked out any potential kinks, we will be going full steam ahead with a countrywide roll out
as soon as possible.” I nervously click my phone to check the time; it’s only been ten minutes.
“Okay.” He types some more.
“And the U.S. will go live straight after,” I offer.
He stops typing. “Excuse me?”
“The U.S. will go live afterward,” I repeat.
After a brief pause, he asks, “Who am I speaking to?”
I glance down at my phone, and my body is briefly shuffled off this mortal coil, then jolted back to life when I realize the
app is no longer running. Fuck, fuck, fuck. My finger stabs at the screen, trying to reload. I click the icon, my hope soars, then plummets once again as it opens, then
immediately crashes. My body goes rigid; he just heard my real voice.
“Hello?” Mr. Kavanagh says as I wave my arms out to gain the attention of Pacha on the other side of the room. His eyes are
focused on his screen, finishing the code to our forum pages.
I clear my throat and lower my voice to a point of cartoonishness in an attempt to match the software.
“Errr . . . My apologies, that was my assistant . . .” I glance in a panic at the flowers in the jam jar in front of me.
“. . . Violet. She’s . . . enthusiastic.
” I pick up a packet of salt and vinegar kettle crisps from Cecily’s desk and hurl them in Pacha’s direction.
They hit the back of his computer screen with a thwk, and he pops his head up over the gray, shiny edge.
I mouth “Help!” at him, still waving frantically and pointing to my phone while Mr. Kavanagh begins to speak.
“It seems like you have a lot of people who really believe in this vision.” If I’m not mistaken, I can hear a creeping smile
on his stern voice.
“Indeed,” I say in my man voice, cupping the headphone’s microphone in my hands to muffle any other sound as Pacha pads over
to me. My man voice is coming out less like a normal twenty-first-century human and more like Lord Byron. Thankfully, the
monosyllabic nature of our conversation is actually working to my advantage. Pacha picks up my phone and holds it up to my
face to unlock it as sweat begins to coat my brow.
“Great, well, I think I’ve got everything I need. Please send your financial projections and presentation pitch over to the
link provided in my original email as soon as possible. As I’m sure you’re aware, there is a sense of urgency as the competition
begins next week.” The sound of paper shuffling on Mr. Kavanagh’s end loudens.
“Of course, will do,” I bellow, closing my eyes at the sheer idiocy of this plan. Pacha clicks away at my phone and then finally
gives me a thumbs-up. “Thank you for your time.” My real fake voice kicks in again. “We really appreciate your interest in
Wyst. The FemTech space is a fast-growing, lucrative industry; this would be a great opportunity to get in on the ground floor.”
“I’ll pass that on to Mr. Odericco,” he says, hinting that it’s not actually him making any decisions. The realization elates
and deflates me at the same time. “Goodbye.”
“Have a good aft—” The line clicks off before I can finish. I crane my neck to look at Pacha, neon yellow arms crossed in defiance.
“My program works; your phone is just shit.” He gestures to my iPhone 8, its scratched screen and dirty phone case very past
its prime.
“Be civil, children,” Cecily interjects, holding a steaming hibiscus tea between her fingers before placing it down in front
of me. “If your insane plan works, that’s all that matters.”
“I guess we’ll find out soon,” I say, sitting back in my chair, a bead of sweat sliding down my lower back. “But he didn’t
seem that interested.” My internal to-do list yawns awake; there are so many things to do ahead of the beta launch.
Within seconds, a new email appears. My hand trembles as I move the mouse to hover over it.
Dear Mr. Cole,
Thank you for your time; it was great to speak with you.
Mr. Odericco would like to extend an invitation to attend and present at the Odericco TechRumble Round One. Itinerary and
invitation are attached. As mentioned, if you will be in attendance, please have your assistant send over materials for a
presentation.
Mr. Odericco hopes you can make it.
Regards,
Mr. Kavanagh
I let go of the mouse as the green and yellow PDF invitation fills the screen. “Holy shit.”
Odericco Investments invites you to compete at this year’s Odericco TechRumble.
In partnership with Wyatt Regency Rome.
“We got in?” Cecily squeals, leaning down and wrapping her arms around me. I clutch at her forearm as her Baccarat Rouge envelopes
me.
“We got in.” The swell of emotion immediately lances through me. Hope laced with anxiety curdles like oil and milk.
“Shit.” Cecily’s arms loosen as she reads the invitation. “I so didn’t think we’d get away with it I forgot about what would happen if we actually got away with it. You’re going to Italy!”
I rest my face in my hands and say through my fingers. “Worse. Mr. Cole is going to Italy.”
And who the hell is Mr. Cole?