“And how much of a raise are you asking for?” Louise asked a few minutes later.
“Fifty thousand dollars, annually,” Maya replied.
Louise pursed her lips, in imitation of a hard-line boss. “Isn’t fifty thousand a little much?”
Maya hesitated, then put her hands on her hips as if reminding herself of the Wonder Woman power pose. She thrust her chin up. “If anything, it’s low.”
Louise nodded. “I see. Well, then.” She reached into a pocket in her blazer. What was she going for? A stick of gum? The women in the room leaned forward in confusion, as she withdrew a slim black checkbook and a heavy ballpoint pen. “You’ve convinced me.” No one breathed as Louise opened the checkbook and began to write on it, then signed her name with a flourish. She wasn’t actually . . . No, she couldn’t be. Maya’s body froze in anticipation. With all the self-possession in the world, Louise ripped the check from the booklet and handed it to Maya.
“Since fifty thousand dollars is a little low, here’s sixty,” she said, and from the look on Maya’s face as she stared at the check, everyone in the room realized it was true. A $60,000 gift, given as casually as a scented candle. A collective gasp rang out as Maya began to shake and weep, and then threw her arms around Louise. The other women in the room began cheering, a few quickly sliding happy masks over their jealous expressions, mad that they hadn’t raised their hands just a little bit quicker. A sense of possibility rippled through the room, the rapturous realization that at any time in this clubhouse, life as you had previously known it could change. (Although to most of these women, what was $60,000? A single fancy vacation?) Yup, this group of women valued their money, all right. Worshipped it, even. Would clearly do a lot to protect it.
Tears streamed down Libby’s cheeks, mucus beginning to drip from her nose.
“Are you okay?” I asked, putting my hand on her shoulder.
“I’m amazing,” she said. “I’m just so happy to be here.”
“All right, and that’s our time,” Louise called out. “But before I go, I want to remind you all that you have one more powerful tool in your toolbox. You have each other. Women need to support women.” When Nicole Woo-Martin had announced her resignation (and thus the death of her wealth tax), had Louise Boltstein popped some champagne, thrilled that her piles of cash would remain undisturbed? “Look your partner in the eyes.” I stared at Libby’s watery green irises.
Louise spoke slowly, her words gathering force. “Next time you go in to negotiate for a raise, I want you to call your partner beforehand. She has seen you own your power tonight.” Louise spoke now like a preacher, her voice rising and rippling through the room. “She will reassure you that you! Deserve! The! World!” At that, Libby stepped forward and embraced me, squashing me against her chest, as the other women in the room burst into a thunderous round of applause.
“Let’s totally be buddies,” Libby said to me. “I’ve got your back.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ve got yours.”
• • •
The members hung around for a while after the talk was over, jostling one another in the politest possible way to get their chance to meet Louise, to experience her firm handshake and show off their own firm handshakes in return. I stood back and watched, recognizing a few faces in the crowd. Here was a young designer who had taken New York Fashion Week by storm this past year. There was Iris Ngoza, a body positivity model I’d read about in Cosmopolitan just the other day, unsurprisingly radiant. Vy Larsson, the experimental artist who hated me, wasn’t around tonight. I couldn’t imagine her bellowing “I AM WORTH IT” in the midst of a crowd. Or maybe she wasn’t a member after all.
As Louise left, bound for a private car waiting outside to take her home, the other women headed for the exit too. Yael, my guide from earlier, materialized at my side, with the blindfold back in her hand, my cell phone still held hostage in her pocket.
“Time to go,” she said.
“Do I need to thank anyone?” I asked her. “Or make it clear that I want to come back?”
Her mouth curled. “No, it’s always clear.”
“Let me just run to the bathroom,” I said. In case I never gained access again, I wanted to get as full a picture of the place as I could.
“Fine, make it quick, please,” Yael said.
The “powder room” was like the most luxurious gym bathroom I’d ever seen. It was inconceivable that a toilet in here had ever gotten clogged. Underneath a long mirror, the white marble countertop was laid with bottles of lotion, dry shampoo, mouthwash, and perfumes. A large glass bowl was filled with organic tampons. (I didn’t fully understand what organic tampons were, but I supported them?) Above the mirror, someone had painted the words Hello, goddess! I stared at my flushed cheeks, my shiny forehead, and snorted. Not exactly goddess material. But good enough, maybe, to fool people tonight.
When I reemerged back into the nearly empty clubhouse, Margot was standing with her hand on the second unmarked door, the one that no one had gone near all night. Vy Larsson was with her, both of them seemingly intent on something.
“Oh, Jillian,” Margot said, startling when she saw me. Her hand jumped away from the knob, like a reflex. “I didn’t realize you were still here.” She quickly covered her surprise, her languid smile sliding back onto her face, but not quickly enough. Vy scowled. What the hell was behind that door?
“I just wanted to say that I had such an amazing time tonight,” I said.
“I’m so glad.” Margot came to my side and slung an arm around my shoulder, casually walking me away from the door and to the elevator, where Yael waited with my blindfold. “We’ll
