I picked my way over to a long leather couch and sat myself next to two women who were discussing an upcoming IPO for a popular tech start-up. I had nothing to add to that conversation, so I folded my hands on my lap. Since I couldn’t exactly pull out my notebook and scribble everything down, I recited the details in my mind, committing them to memory while trying to appear relaxed. Like I belonged.
The problem was that I wasn’t calm at all. There was something strange and thrilling about being in a room—a full, bustling room—of only women. I knew how Margot and her ilk might describe it in a promotional brochure, not that they would ever make such a thing: a paradise where you could spend time with interesting, successful women without having to worry about some asshole mansplaining or hitting on you.
But that particular kind of paradise brought its own set of complications. I throbbed with adrenaline, wanting in spite of myself to impress and ingratiate even more than I might have if men were around. The air seemed full of possibility. Certain worries evaporated (was I attractive enough to be wanted, but not attractive enough to be harassed?). New ones rushed in to take their place (was I interesting enough, warm enough, strong enough, full enough?).
I tried to figure out how old everyone else in this room was. I’d recently become obsessed with age. Every few minutes, men think about sex. Every few minutes, I thought about how old various women I admired were when they’d made their mark on the world. Whenever I enjoyed a piece of writing by a woman, I immediately Googled the year she was born. Each time I found out that some girl had published her first New York Times article at age twenty-six, I wanted to stab myself in the heart with the nearest sharp object and bleed out like the useless old crone I was. How dare these children simply charge forward straight out of college with a clarity of purpose and zero learning curve? I mean, I was happy for them, but how dare they? I’d started living in fear of the annual Forbes 30 Under 30 list. Unlike sex, age was not a fun obsession to have, since I couldn’t do anything about it. (Not that I could do anything about sex either lately. My vagina had hung out a closed for business sign and wanted to take it down only for the most inconvenient man.)
The accomplished, accepted women around me ranged from around twenty-five to thirty-five, although they all glowed with the same good health that came from expensive skincare regimens.
“Hey, newbie, you don’t have a drink!” a woman said, parking herself in front of me. “Could I interest you in some artisanal bubbly water from a female-founded company? Free samples tonight, but normally, for each case of it sold here in the U.S., one case gets sent over to dehydrated girls in Africa!” She beamed at me and wiggled one of the trendy, unfamiliar cans I’d seen earlier. She was curvy, with a hint of Southern twang in her voice, and she had one of those smiles that managed to be both entirely transformative and a little bit nervous at the same time. It took over her whole face, creasing and dimpling her cheeks, but her eyes held a hint of terror. As if she’d been one of the unpopular girls in high school, and she didn’t want anyone in her new life to find out. It was endearing, in a way. I wanted to tell her not to worry. Of the two of us, I had the far more damaging secret.
“Oh, uh, sure,” I said, and reached out for the can. Fizzi, it read on the front in a curving script, with a pretty swirling design. I turned the can to see a map of Africa, and a long block of text explaining the mission, written in a minuscule font but still dominating the entire length of the can. “Thanks so much.”
“Of course!” she said, and wedged herself in next to me on the couch, staring at me expectantly. “Go ahead, give it a try. I love watching people take their first sips of it.” Off my look, she smacked herself jokingly on the forehead. “Oh, d’oy! I’m not just, like, an obsessive water fan. I started the company!”
I cracked the can open and took a sip. “Mm,” I said. It tasted like seltzer. “Refreshing.”
“Thank you! I really think so too.” She sat back and sighed with satisfaction. “It was so nice of them to let me bring in samples tonight. This is what I hoped it would be like, you know? Women helping other women! I just got invited for the first time a month ago, so I guess I’m a newbie too, although it’s such a warm and amazing community that it feels like I’ve belonged here my whole life!” She smacked her forehead again. She was going to give herself a concussion if she kept that up. “Oh, I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Libby.”
“Jillian,” I said. “Are you still a trial member?”
Libby beamed. “Oh no, I’m official!”
“Hey, congrats,” I said. “So how many times do they blindfold you to bring you in? Not that I don’t like being blindfolded, but, you know.”
Libby puffed up, excited to have the inside scoop. “Only the first few times, until you’ve passed the tests and they’ve decided that they can really trust you. That’s when you sign the contract and the nondisparagement agreement—” Shit, was I going to have to sign something that prohibited me from fully writing about them? Would they sue me if I did? They were so good at keeping things secret, I should’ve realized that they’d have legal protection in place. Nondisparagement I could maybe deal with, as long as it wasn’t a nondisclosure. I needed to talk to Miles about
