Chapter 13
Recent transactions:
The next few days in London go by in a blur of emails, meetings, avoiding calls from Greg at NatWest, and late nights figuring
out how my bank account is going to stretch like Play-Doh to get us to the next round of TechRumble.
The air is frigid as Cecily and I stand shivering in the line outside Hackney Town Hall. A gust of icy wind whips past us,
taking Cecily’s cigarette smoke and twisting it to dance around us. The doors aren’t open for another fifteen minutes, but
we wanted to get here early to ensure we get good seats. It seems like everyone else had that idea too.
“I knew Dr. Bernie was popular but my god.” I glance down at the crowd quickly forming behind us. Hordes of women of similar
age to us, dressing in floor-length puffer coats and plaid Acne statement scarves, shiver in the evening air.
Cecily nods. “She’s like the Beyoncé of therapists.”
The venue isn’t exactly small, but Dr. Bernie said in a Sunday Times interview that she dislikes massive crowds and prefers to be able to see everyone’s faces in the audience to connect on a
more “healing” level. I’m riding on her spotting us as our ticket backstage. Bringing the news that we have made it to the
second round of investment at TechRumble is a surefire way to get her signed on for the launch. I’m just praying she will
see us.
Eventually, the doors open up, and we speed walk to the second row, agreeing the first row would look too intense.
We tear off our coats, gloves, and scarves in unison while balancing the complimentary green juice with the ticket. We sigh
and grunt as we plonk down in our fold-out seats. Calming new age music is playing in the background while we slip into our
favorite activity: pretending we are talking, but in reality, we’re eavesdropping on everyone around us. We can’t help it
at events like these; this is our target demographic. Wyst is a platform for people of all ages, but the majority who have
signed up are women aged eighteen to thirty-five. The exact array of faces we see here tonight.
When Dr. Bernie comes onstage, we cheer and applaud along with the rest of the crowd. Her velvet deep purple suit reflects
the light like a chic oil spill, complemented by her silk lilac pussy-bow blouse, her staple and highly recognizable uniform.
Her shiny, thick hair cascades down her back, bouncing as she walks to center stage with a jet-black microphone in hand.
After an amazing talk, questions are offered to the crowd and hands shoot up around us.
The audience asks questions about relationships, family dynamics, and careers—the usual topics that are discussed at length on the podcast. Most of her wisdom whittles down to one of her most iconic pieces of advice: “Every conversation is a negotiation.”
I lean toward Cecily. “Do you think she’s seen us yet?”
“No, she’s been mostly playing to the left. I see her agent, Alison, over there, but I’ve never met her in person.”
Checking out Alison, I say, “Maybe she’ll think we’re stalking Dr. Bernie.”
Cecily looks at me deadpan. “That would make sense considering we are stalking her, but Dr. Bernie gave us these tickets.”
“Pity tickets.”
“She gave us these pity tickets,” she agrees. “We are practically VIPs. All we need to do is say hello and casually drop that
we are in the second round of TechRumble. And maybe get a picture with her for social.”
Partially to put the idea of a collaboration in people’s minds, specifically Dr. Bernie’s, but mostly because we want to measure
the reaction across social media. To make sure Dr. Bernie is the right person to bet a huge amount of currently nonexistent
money on. Because sure, both Cecily and I practically kiss the ground she walks on, but we can’t guarantee our audience and
users feel the same without a temperature check.
Cecily posts that Wyst is attending the event, snapping a quick picture of Dr. Bernie onstage with her signature power suit,
pussy-bow blouse, and long silver hair flowing to one side.
“Initial reactions are good,” she says, flicking her finger across the screen to scroll through the Instagram story replies.
“I also put out a poll asking who has listened to her podcast. 57 percent yes so far.”
The community Cecily has built across social channels is a godsend for decision-making.
Sure, I have to be firm and decisive, but to have your first-ever business venture include a built-in audience-testing platform is something I find so valuable.
The announcement of Dr. Bernie as one of the major faces of Wyst would be a huge deal.
A headline-grabbing event we’ve never experienced before.
“Guess who else I’ve been stalking.” Cecily grins, still staring at her phone.
“Who?”
“Your lover . . .” she says, seductively rolling the l.
She turns her phone toward me, my brow furrowing as she reveals Oliver Kavanagh’s Instagram profile and username @olkav96.
My stomach muscles constrict as I immediately feel the phantom press of Oliver’s hand slipping up my bare waist before dissolving
into thin air.
My eyes widen in both embarrassment and excitement. “Wait, how did you get access? Isn’t his profile set to private?”
“Now who’s the stalker?” she teases. “I created a fake guy who works at Odericco Investments and requested to follow him.”
I scoff a laugh. “Oh my god, you’re insane.”
“Sorry, here’s me thinking everyone was lying about their identity nowadays.” Her grin transforms into a devilish smirk. “You are a bad best friend by the way.”
“How?”
“You failed to tell me that this guy looks like a leading man. An investor’s assistant named Oliver?
” Cecily crinkles her nose. “I was imagining a five-foot-seven scrawny guy with glasses and a bad haircut.” She clicks on his profile picture, expanding the photo.
It’s Oliver, candid and smiling with sunglasses on top of tousled brown hair in a pub garden.
The sun shines across him, emphasizing his broad shoulders and taut jawline.
I’m briefly overwhelmed by a sense of longing for my own ignorance. To be back at the bar in Rome, the feeling of recklessness,
when pursuing what I wanted had no negative consequences.
I laugh. “Yeah, you were waaaay off with that one.” I scroll through the three most recent pictures, feeling at once like
an obsessed stalker but also an intrepid explorer.
Cecily nods. “Maybe it’s the minimal social media footprint too—that’s hot.”
She’s right. Oliver hasn’t posted much, making him even more intriguing. The most recent is the view from what I assume to
be the Odericco Investments office, the sprawling London skyline slightly muted and blurred from being taken through a window.
The second is a picture taken of him cooking, his back to the camera, a towel thrown lazily over his shoulder as he holds
himself over a steaming saucepan. The final post is from over three years ago, a picture of him smiling and rosy-cheeked among
a group of friends at a bar tagged in New York.
I’m sure if I wasn’t faking my name and my job title, I would have added him, and he would have accepted the follow. So this
doesn’t feel like it’s crossing too many lines. Even so, it feels like a violation of privacy.
“I’m not pursuing anything with him, so it’s for the best. You’ve seen him, you’ve got your ya-yas out, so you should delete
the profile.”
She huffs and taps at her phone screen before slipping it into her pocket. “I just don’t get why this has to be such a big deal.” She crosses her arms. “If you like him, then just tell him the truth; it’s not too late.”
“In what world do you envision that conversation going well?” I ask, imagining the fallout. Firstly, he’ll think I’m insane
and won’t want anything to do with me after that. Secondly, he’d probably go running to his boss, and we’d immediately be
disqualified from the competition. My only hope would be that it wouldn’t get picked up by journalists and become an international
headline, damaging the reputation of all women trying to survive in the tech industry.
She shrugs. “I just feel like if he likes you, then maybe you could trust him to keep it on the down-low.”
I shoot her a look. “Because trusting men I’m interested in has gone so well for me in the past.” Even trying to talk about
it casually feels weird, my cheeks still flushing from shame.
“I saw that little smile on your face when you were telling me what happened—you do like him; you’re just too scared to go
for it. After everything”—she holds a hand out, referring to what I just mentioned—“you deserve some fun.”
“It was indulging in that sentiment that got me into this situation in the first place!” I can feel the blush creeping over
my face.
Cecily smiles at me. “I wonder what Dr. Bernie would say about this.” Then she stands up, jumping up and down until the bemused
event coordinator hands her the microphone.
“Oh, hello,” Dr. Bernie says with a flicker of recognition and a smile.
“Hi, Dr. Bernie!” she says as excitedly as the day we first spoke to her. “I have a question about romantic relationships.”
Dr. Bernie holds her hand out. “Okay, go ahead.”
“My friend . . . Jennifer . . .” she says, forcing the name out. It’s so obvious she has made this identity up on the spot.
“My friend Jennifer had a sexy rendezvous with a very attractive, funny, smart, single man.” The crowd giggles and whoops.
“And now she is so obviously into him but is making excuses to get in the way of her own happiness.”
I cringe, slinking down in my seat and trying to pull Cecily’s sleeve to drag her back into her seat. “Are you serious right
now?” I mumble through my gritted teeth.
She clears her throat as she tugs her arm out of my grip. “What advice would you have for . . . Jennifer? How do you think
I can advise her to make the right decision?”
Dr. Bernie, to her credit, takes the question as seriously as all the others. “If you believe your friend is getting in the
way of her own happiness, perhaps they need to address the underlying reasons why. If this man is as amazing as you claim
he is, she is clearly protecting her heart from something deeper. Perhaps . . .” I swear for a second Dr. Bernie’s eyes meet
mine. “Perhaps your friend needs to look inward and address the issues she has surrounding romantic intimacy before she can let someone new into her
life.”
“And how would she go about . . . addressing that?” Cecily shifts her weight onto her other foot, and the microphone flops
to one side. It’s crazy to see someone so at ease with everyone staring right at her.
I close my eyes as they start to sting. The buildup over the past few weeks settling on my chest like an anvil.
The whole crowd hungry for her next words, Dr. Bernie considers in silence before responding, “Besides talking to a professional, being upfront and discussing the issues with a potential romantic partner before pursuing the physical relationship would be my best advice.”
My disappointment on full display, I stare at my hands and imagine the catch-22 I’ve gift wrapped and delivered to my own
doorstep like a flaming bag of poop. I can’t talk to Oliver beforehand because: shower. And I can’t do it after because I’m in the middle of hiding my identity from him and most of the tech world.
“But specifically for your friend, I would suggest talking to a professional about these issues. Perhaps avoiding pursuing
anything emotionally serious until she has learned to understand and accept these feelings, instead of denying them.”
The idea of talking to a stranger about this makes my skin crawl. Last time I spoke to a stranger about my problems, it culminated
with me at a conference room table with a bunch of lawyers negotiating how much money my mental and emotional state was worth.
As the questions from the crowd continue, I plunge deeper into my seat, melting into the floor as the embarrassment consumes
me whole.