Barry Levine’s house was fucking disgusting.
This was what happened, Julia thought as she passed a glass case containing a dinosaur skull—next to the bones was a placard clarifying it was real, a real dinosaur, a baby T. rex—this was the end result, when you were late fifty-something and your dick had a high priority line to your brain: saddling your wife—sorry, let’s be clear, your first wife—with the five children you’d so enthusiastically bred, all while dumping your slimy Caltech PhD seed all over the Valley. And then settling with your current USC or SCU or whoever it was, a submillennial who wore glasses because you thought it was hot, whose idiotic colloquialisms on female ambition Julia then had to endure at parties. Julia had known Barry a long time, had even gone to a few of his bashes, years back—they’d been held at his Pacific Heights place then, the one with the wraparound view. The catering was always fabulous, and they had these baked potatoes, kept warm and wrapped with aluminum foil: you’d come up with your plate and a server would dollop sour cream and caviar on top. Yum.
There’d been drugs then, too. Subtly served, on silver trays, but Julia always declined—she’d seen enough of what drugs did at the institute, where sedatives and psychotropics were freely distributed as childcare, to be off pills forever. Though she did drink. Once, after she’d accepted a glass of champagne, she even recalled Barry making a pass—his hand pawing as he gazed at her with the limp eyes of an animal being euthanized, and she’d stared back, like, Really? And then he’d groped harder, even though First Wife was there, a woman with whom Julia sympathized greatly even though she could no longer remember her name, and wasn’t that just an allegory for everything? And now all of it was gone: the Pac Heights mansion, the caviar potatoes, the little Christofle trays. And all that remained was this vulgar cubic house filled with Art Basel castoffs.
Julia descended the staircase, a twisted steel-and-stone monstrosity with suspended slabs for steps. She was arm in arm with Charlie, whose idea it had been to come. They were parents now, he said, and it’d been Julia who’d asked for date nights. She’d tried for another dinner at Suki-Ya, but it was Charlie’s turn to choose and so here was his choice.
They reached the ground level. The floor itself was elegant, a rare aesthetic relief set in black and tan marble. On the walls was a series of Aboriginal paintings, the canvases oversize and rendered in spring greens and pinks and reds.
Charlie examined them. “I like these. We need to get more art. Did Barry pick all of them? That’s pretty cool if so.”
“Uh-huh,” said Julia, though she knew the paintings had actually been purchased via Barry’s art consultant, a young woman in a black dress paid millions to tell Barry his bad taste was good. She secretly believed most art to be overpriced, but wished to avoid that squabble. Charlie had been very considerate today, had read to Emily for twenty minutes while Julia showered, followed by an idyllic half hour in bed, hands clasped in a family cuddle. “Isn’t this incredible?” she’d asked. “Don’t you think life couldn’t possibly get any better?” And Charlie had agreed that yes, life was indeed very nice . . .
Julia’s breasts were straining against her dress, one of the few benefits of postpartum; she’d never had large breasts before. And nursing itself was going well, after she’d recovered from her bout of mastitis. On Friday she’d felt so good about her overall state of affairs that she’d done a surprise swoop-and-poop on Lara Conrad’s staff meeting: dropping in unannounced like a visiting liege lord, stabbing holes all over Lara’s road map. And then floating back to her office on her favorite Blahniks, where, on impulse, she’d called Taffin and ordered a custom choker with sapphires and ceramic. The necklace was still being made; on her wrists, however, were the jade Verdura bangles she’d purchased during the same spree. “Should we get some paintings later? Or sculptures? Some furniture?”
“Yeah,” Charlie said. “All of the above.” He liked to shop.
They continued to wander. Julia waved at or was obligated to greet a few guests of note—there always seemed to be another step on that staircase of upward mobility, though lately for Julia it’d been less other executives and more the actual vectors of power, the politicians and the money who backed them. The lists from Leo were usually an interesting entrée: all the scientists, academics, politicians, and executives who were already dirty or whom the SPB was looking to mire. A good dozen or so were at this party. I know who you are, she thought. And even better: You do not know me.
The buffet was set near the door, and as Julia arranged her plate she surveyed the other guests. In one corner was Ari Cheever, an Israeli entrepreneur who resembled a friendly sheepdog. He waved to Julia, his other hand clapped firmly over the ass of a slim, vacant-eyed woman who could only be one Mary Lim Cheever, forty years his junior. Dan McClaren was by the salad, another one-hit-wonder venture capitalist, known as the “Godfather of Silicon Valley,” even though by Julia’s standards he’d engendered very little into the world but a string of shitty companies and even dafter progeny. It always amazed Julia when powerful men married dumb models; it was as if they didn’t ascribe to biology, simply believed their sperm could magically colonize whichever low-quality receptacle they happened to land in. McClaren had emailed her years earlier, referring his youngest to Tangerine—Bay Area royalty always touting meritocracy, except for their own—and to this day Bennett McClaren remained in brand marketing, no doubt torturing the rest of the team with his unearned self-confidence.
Julia sighed. A party like this was depressing. It was physical proof that you could tell yourself you were extraordinary but really it was to the ordinary that most extraordinary things happened; these ordinary people then accumulated layers of the extraordinary—wealth, houses, art—until their brilliance was blinding.
Ah! But here was good news! The baked potatoes! They were back!
She was behind Charlie, loading up on caviar—it was self-serve now, one of the few improvements from earlier—when she heard: “Charlie?”
Julia turned. The girl was in her mid-twenties, fawn-eyed and wearing a low-cut shirt edged with lace. In one hand she held a wineglass.
“Hey,” Charlie said. “Hey.” Julia wondered if he’d forgotten her name.
“I know who you are, of course,” the girl said, turning to Julia. “You’re like, insane. I mean, insanely great.”
“Thank you.” Aware people were watching, Julia extended her hand.
“I’m Mandy.” Mandy’s palm was supple and her nails were painted a light violet. “Mandy Lewis.”
“I met Mandy when she was doing an intern program at the hospital,” Charlie said. He was looking around, already distracted, craning his neck at the desserts.
“I’m not a doctor. I’m a law student at Santa Clara.”
“Wonderful,” Julia said. She gave a little tilt of her head, to indicate they should get out of the way. Mandy did not move, but pointed at Julia’s plate. “What’s that?”
“Baked potatoes.” Julia turned to the table, relieved to have something to do. “You’ll enjoy it. Here, let me put one together for you.” She gathered the cheese, the onions, the sour cream, and then added a healthy scoop of Petrossian Special Reserve on top. Why not? It was Barry’s money.
“Thanks,” Mandy said. She really did seem sweet; she had that naturally wholesome look that Julia both envied and admired. “Honestly, I don’t even know if I can eat this. I mean, Julia Lerner put this together for me. Maybe I should take it home and frame it.”
“Bless your heart,” Julia said, and then took Charlie’s arm and slid away.
Another hour passed. A handful of networking pests came and introduced themselves: a random Apple executive, two venture capitalists she’d never heard of, a Stanford professor hunting for a board seat. Lilian Aptos floated over, an old software hand who sat on Tangerine’s compensation committee. Lilian liked young men, and had two chiefs of staff, whom she rather nauseatingly referred to as CP1 and CP2, Cutie Pie 1 and Cutie Pie 2.
“How’s your little sweetheart?” Lilian asked. She was wearing a shift printed with enormous abstract flowers, one of those garments that look simultaneously deranged and expensive.
“She’s wonderful.” Julia found she couldn’t help but feel pleased whenever someone asked about Emily. And Lilian was safe to speak with, given that she was already ancient and rich, in contrast to the other middle managers who constantly circled, waiting for conversational gaps to insert mentions of their twins.
“When are you going to be running the place?” Lilian said. But in an indulgent way, how one might cheer an overweight child about to enter a sporting event.
After sighting a muscled Turkish entrepreneur in his mid-twenties, Lilian quickly moved off. Julia went looking for Charlie, who had disappeared. He hated it when people networked in front of him; it was demeaning, he said, she didn’t understand how it made a man feel to be passed over, ignored. At times Julia was surprised to recall all the things she’d thought Charlie didn’t care about, only to discover after marriage that he actually cared about very much. She vowed to find him, to be soft and sweet and catering, when after kneeling to adjust her sandal strap, she looked up and saw not Charlie but: Aaron Pina.
Her brain rearranged itself. Aaron. Aaron was across the room. The space was not large, and he should have already seen her, but he was busy, in conversation with a group of men, including Ari Cheever, whom she’d waved to earlier.
How the hell had Aaron met Ari?
Julia shifted her focus to the overweight man on Aaron’s left, running him through her mental bank until she’d identified him as Dmitri Marin, the Russian investor she’d once looked up on God Mode for Leo. The former oligarch who now spent his days chucking money at start-ups, calling in to podcasts, and recording his own clips attacking the Kremlin. Julia had seen the videos before—Dmitri speaking from his homes in Woodside, Water Mill, Malibu, narrating the latest conspiracy theories in his meaty accent as palms swayed behind his head. Pierre had come by her office once, after sending a link to one of Dmitri’s missives: “How is this guy not dead yet?” Pierre laughed, and she’d ha-ha-ed while rocks tumbled in her stomach. And now she was thinking of Jefferson, and she hated to think about him, the rotting feeling it brought to her chest.
And then—without quite understanding what she was doing—she walked over.
“How are we?” Julia asked, drawing up. Friendly. Brainless. The neglected wife at a business dinner, returning from the bathrooms and tired of being spoken around, deciding that this is it, she’s going to insert herself and Make Conversation!
Aaron turned. Instead of the expected fear or surprise, there was a low pleasure on his face, and a ping of fear rang within her.
“Ah you know, the same,” Dmitri said. In person he was even larger than in his videos, though he wore his girth not like an American but rather a European, the weight evenly distributed like an expensive overcoat.
Aaron’s mouth had assumed the curve of a smirk, which bothered Julia enough that she asked, “How do you all know each other?”
“We don’t,” Aaron said. “We just met. The Russian connection.”
“Right.” She turned to Ari. “But you aren’t. Russian, I mean.”
“I admire the people,” Ari said, and Dmitri gave a low snigger. Julia automatically chuckled before realizing he was referring to the women, all the lush young Svetlanas and Anastasias, at which point her laughter abruptly died. To dispel the awkwardness, and also out of pettiness and a desire to regain lost ground, she said, “Aaron works for me. At Tangerine.”
“Ah, yes.” The men exchanged a look of discomfort, as if she’d been rude in announcing this, like a toddler pointing at a disabled person. “Tangerine,” Dmitri finally said. “You’re really at the center of everything, aren’t you.” His smile edged on pity.
The talk limped on, but it was clear her entrance had ruined things, as if she were a needle that’d deflated the entire conversation. After a few minutes Julia couldn’t stand it anymore and grabbed Aaron—“A contract I had some questions on,” she said, nearly yanking, and he was smart enough not to protest. They went through the house, Aaron navigating with seeming familiarity behind. Was this his first time at Barry’s? Or had Aaron been before? Would she never be able to relax, to enjoy with abandon this life she had so exactingly crafted?
Finally Julia found an office walled in glass, not completely private but at least contained, and there were only a few others visible in the adjoining rooms. The space was modestly lit, with a musky scent of dirty breeding that reminded her of her first studio in San Carlos. Julia let Aaron settle in a chair and then turned to face him, hands against the table behind her. “What did I say about staying out of my way?” Her voice low.
“It’s a party. Take it easy.” Take it easy. Like an American would say.
“It’s the kind of party I would go to. Thus, given our agreement, you should not.”
Aaron raised his eyebrows toward a couple on a couch visible in the next room, a woman with purple hair straddling her partner. “Is it.”
She ignored this. “What’re you doing with Ari?”
“He was next to me at the bar. We got to talking.”
“And Dmitri?”
“I introduced myself. Said I had some classmates who’d worked with him at Gazprom.” Because naturally Aaron would have such classmates. Because Aaron had gone to Moscow State, had worked at McKinsey, had had everything go right in his life, and still had to try to take some of hers.
“Dmitri was open to you? He didn’t think you were a plant?” Julia realized this was why she’d never spoken to the man, despite their shared commonalities, mainly being rich and Russian and living in Silicon Valley. She was worried that were she to approach, Dmitri would know who she was somehow, sniff her out, and with his fat hand point—Traitor! And her life would be over, for all it took was one person, one convincing accusation, for it to be undone.
Aaron looked at her. His eyes were so clear and his features so symmetrical—no wonder he’d done so well in Dresden, she thought. She waited for his reply and then recoiled when he began to laugh. “Dmitri? You truly believe that ‘fled oligarch’ shit? Oh God.” He laughed harder. “Oh God, you don’t know he’s one of us. You’re so goddamned ignorant, you think you’re the only one.”
“No.” But her voice betrayed her. Because as Aaron said it, she knew it must be true—she should have known about Dmitri being an asset, she should have known about many things. But it was so hard to be totally aware when there was so much else to do: managing Tangerine and running six miles in the morning and being a good mother and keeping her marriage intact. Just do more, Leo would say. Work more. Work harder.
She allowed herself the question: “Did Leo tell you about him?”
“No.” She couldn’t tell if Aaron was lying.
“Then how do you know?”
“I have connections, Julia. Friends. It’s something you should try. Besides, you think Dmitri would be alive otherwise? With all his money, and traveling as he does?” Aaron laughed again and smiled. When he did this he looked younger, sweet; if not for the SPB she probably would have gone her entire career believing him to be a very pleasant person.
She was losing control, her voice and hands making those miniature vibrations when her anger was near overflow. “I could destroy your career. You think I don’t have influence? It’d be very easy for me to show you how much I have.”
Aaron ran a hand through his hair. His breathing was heavy but she couldn’t tell if it was from the drink, and when he spoke his voice was calm. “Go ahead. Run and tell your friends what a bad man I am. What do you think, that everyone will be on your side?” He came forward, so near as to be almost touching her. “I’ll tell you a secret. All the men out there? And women? They hate you.”
Julia was surprised to feel a dull ache. She shrugged, but weakly, and seeing this, Aaron moved closer.
“You’ve been lucky,” he said. “You were here early, the only woman. Pretending to be so nice, but you’re quite vicious yourself, aren’t you? You can’t hide it forever. At your level, it’s impossible. And what you should remember is that there are so many of us, and we’re willing to wait. Until you’re done, and we’ve taken back our power.” Aaron bent his head, and in a swift movement licked his finger. Then, leaning in, so that to anyone outside it would appear only as if he were whispering into her hair, he quickly touched his finger to the skin behind her ear. Pressed down hard, tracing a curve. She forced herself to smile, in case anyone was watching.