It doesn’t feel amazing to be a better computer than somebody else. But it does feel good to be better at being a human. Running a massive corporation gives you endless opportunities to feel human. I am addicted to the performance of my own humanity.
It is actually rare that a private, family-owned corporation is entirely run and operated by the family itself. Why bother, when you could just count and spend your money?
But Alistair and my father and I love running Nylo. There is no better game. It’s a totalizing competitive experience. It’s always there for you. And unlike most games, the rules are only limited by the laws governing your country’s financial sector.
For instance, it feels like I have been trying to buy Playqueen—the hip new feminist toy company making STEM toys for nerdy girls that is trying to eat our market share in the under tens—all year, but I have constantly been thwarted. Dad is always noncommittal when we talk about it and whenever I try to set up a meeting with the execs, someone cancels at the last minute. Just this afternoon, I resolved that my next go will be successful. Deciding this so demonstratively makes me feel slightly dizzy.
I have sent my assistant, Peter, home for the day. I know he is headed upstate with his boyfriend for the weekend, but I also know he will worry and fret over me, no matter how hard he tries to relax. I have to remember to check in with him at least once a day while he’s gone, to let him know I am hydrating.
I look at the schedule he printed out for me for the next few days on thick, cream-colored paper. It is embossed like a restaurant menu, with the Nylo logo at the top. “Caitlyn Nylo,” it says. “Agenda for June 7–9.”
I get these agendas first thing in the morning, along with a perfect popover, a warm pat of salted French butter in its own ramekin, a single soft-boiled farm egg slathered in hot sauce in a separate dish, and a steaming mug of black coffee.
My Friday is unusually empty. There are only two meetings this afternoon: first, a strategy session for what to do about Playqueen, and then a simple marketing meeting about our fall line of video games that I insist on attending—even though I know I will mess up the flow and rattle everyone just by being there because I don’t know enough about video games. I need to stay on top of everything, especially the stuff that doesn’t innately interest me.
Saturday morning Ben is bringing over the girls, and then there is the birthday party that afternoon. Sunday we’ll recover and do whatever the girls want, like always.
Since my day is so clean, I take the elevator up to the very top floor, where my father has his office. There’s nothing else up there except a giant conference room bounded by four walls of soundproof glass. The conference room is empty right now, aside from several bottles of water chilling in an ice bucket, perpetually ready for spontaneous meetings.
My father’s assistant, Devi, has her kitten heels dangling from her pedicured toes and is chewing on the end of a straw while typing insanely fast into the razor-thin laptop on her glass desk. She closes the laptop as soon as she sees me and smiles.
“He’s in there,” she says. “Just go right in.”
I don’t need her permission, but I smile sympathetically just the same and scoot down the hall to my father’s office. The door is open. He isn’t sitting at his desk or staring out the window with a glass of gin in his hand, which would actually be normal morning behavior for him. Somehow what he is doing is even sadder. He’s sitting on the couch with his hands on his knees and his head down. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, and he wears a blazer and no tie and no socks. He looks deflated—defeated. He looks unfun.
“Hey, hey,” I say, knocking on the open door. He raises his head like someone is yanking his bangs up and manages a small smile.
“Player number one,” he says.
“So are we going to buy Playqueen or not?” I ask. “I want to buy and gut it, clean it, and crush it. Do I have your blessing? I’m tired of dicking around.”
“Always working,” he says. “You used to take breaks. You used to get really excited about vacations.”
“Did I?” I ask. “I used to like vacations because they reminded me how much I love work. Now I don’t need any reminders.”
“How are the kids? Are they excited about their cousin’s party?”
“I’m sure they are,” I say. “I’m not involved with any of it. It’s at Bernard’s and I’m sure Phoebe is taking care of everything. I’m just going to show up with the girls and do my bit, just like you.”
“You work too hard,” he says, sighing. He hangs his head again, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. Are we done talking? Is that it?
Sorry, Dad. You can tune me out all you want, but I won’t give up on Playqueen that easily. I will not be swerved. I will not be ignored.
3
I wander down to R&D, which stretches from the fifth floor to the basement. This is the guts of the Nylo empire. Whatever Alistair requests, he gets. I deny him no expenses and greenlight every new budget that he tentatively slides across my desk, no matter how insane. I know exactly how valuable he is as an innovator and specialist, and we have provided him with the best team in the business.
This
