“Don’t be pissed at me,” Maren said. “I didn’t do anything.”
Topher was staring at us. “Five minutes,” they said.
“You don’t even know Evan. You had one conversation with him and you think you understand what’s happening? There’s a lot you don’t know, Maren. A lot. Like the fact that we’ve been seeing each other. Did he tell you that?”
She blinked. The paper fell from her hand and stuck to a piece of black electrical tape on the floor. “Seeing each other in what way exactly?”
“You know.”
“No, Devin, actually I don’t.”
“He’s my boyfriend. I just didn’t know how to tell you.” I could tell how true this sounded by the crestfallen look on her face.
“You should have told me sooner.”
“When? At the office? Because that’s the only place I ever see you anymore?”
“Maybe you could have found some time to squeeze me in between your Botox and your brow-shaping appointments.”
I almost felt sorry for her. We both knew that the reason Foundress invited me to moderate the conversation with Arianna was because of the way I looked. The time and money I spent on my appearance gave me an advantage. Maren would never admit this. It meant we weren’t equals.
“I don’t understand why you had to keep it a secret,” she said. “That’s all.”
“Just because I didn’t do something the way you would have wanted me to do it doesn’t mean I did it the wrong way, okay? And now I have to go.”
“This conversation isn’t over. We’re putting a pin in this.” She picked up the statement and pressed it into my hand.
I checked my makeup and strode toward the front of the banquet room, imagining summertime at the country house—Evan saying, Mom, I’m bringing someone—the two of us sharing a hammock, taking a photo of my bare feet next to his, posting it to Richual. Picking blueberries. Catching fireflies in our hands. Roleplaying sexy drowning victim/lifeguard by the pool. Four hundred women were seated at round tables in the audience, waiting to hear what I had to say. For once, I won. I told Maren something she didn’t already know.
* * *
...
Arianna was half-Vietnamese and half-Scandinavian and one-eighth Sephardic Jew. She was six foot two in heels and lost the baby weight in sixty days by going keto. I estimated her pants size at a 26 long. In 2015, her company was nearly destroyed by a scandal over whether or not the estrogen ingredient in her restorative eye serum was truly vegan since it was taken from the urine of pregnant horses, but they survived (the company, not the horses) by pivoting to wipes. None of this was in the official bio on the conference website; it’s extra research I did on my own on her social accounts and Wikipedia.
Arianna was no slouch. She was wearing a wool crepe sheath with flutter three-quarter sleeves in a shade of pink pearl and she found a way to perch in the wingback chair, smooth as a headless department store mannequin, without wrinkling her dress or revealing too much leg. I predicted she would be wearing a dress, so I went for a herringbone pantsuit.
Ready? I mouthed and she gave me a wink.
“How’s everybody doing this morning?” A few women put down the spoons from their overnight oats to clap. There was one loud whoop from the back of the room. “This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. I know I have. I’m here this morning with Arianna Tran, foundress of S’Wipe, to talk about money and power.”
“Devin, I am seriously your biggest fan! Can I be on your shine squad?” From the way her head was angled, it was unclear whether this question was addressed to the audience or to me.
“This is actually the first time we’re meeting IRL,” I said. “And yes. You can.”
Arianna turned to me. “You know what I just realized?”
“What?”
“It’s kind of funny that we’re having this talk in a room where every oil painting on the wall is of a man.”
“I love that you just said that,” I said, smiling through my déjà vu. Did Maren tell her to say that?
“I hope I didn’t just jeopardize my speaking fee!”
Laughter rolled through the crowd.
“For those who are new to your work, maybe we could start by you telling everybody a little bit about your background.”
“Absolutely.” There were two male event photographers documenting every time we crossed or uncrossed our legs, switched the microphone from one hand to the other, brushed our hair from our shoulders. “To be honest, I grew up working-class in Cupertino. Both my parents worked, like, a lot. My dad is an anesthesiologist and my mom is an econ professor at Stanford. When I tell people I’m from Cupertino, they assume I grew up immersed in tech and startup culture, but I really had zero exposure. Everything I’ve built, I built it myself.”
“How did you get started in business?”
“All my friends in high school—their parents were buying them cars. I wanted a Jetta so bad, you guys! I also had asthma as a kid so I was always different, an outsider. Raise your hand if you’ve ever felt like you needed to look different or have different stuff or even breathe different to fit in. Don’t be shy! That’s all of us. I thought maybe having the right car would help me fit in. Because my parents worked so much, they instilled in me that work ethic. This was during the dot-com boom and I got a job doing sales after school and on the weekends for a box website and made twenty thousand dollars in commissions. I was only a junior.”
“Dropbox?”
“Pre-Dropbox. A website that sold boxes. Our company supplied boxes to other companies, but instead of ordering from a catalog you could order from our website.”
Arianna must have been way older than I thought. I couldn’t help scanning her face for what had been filled and lifted. We were losing our audience. The bubble burst before most of these women got their first periods.
“Let’s actually stay on that topic of money for a minute,” I said, checking my notes. “Now that your company has expanded from nontoxic makeup remover wipes to nontoxic baby wipes to a patented, uniquely biodegradable flushable wipe you call the ‘Number 1 for Number 2’ organic adult wipe on the market, can you tell us something you learned along the way about negotiation and closing the deal?”
Arianna set her mic in her lap and just stared at me, expressionless, like I’d said something borderline offensive and she wanted me to reflect on it.
I tried again. “Sorry, I mean I was just wondering if you had any negotiation tips for the women in the audience who are negotiating with suppliers or even, like, in an interview.”