In the cab to Camila 4 Cam’s, Vivian calls. I almost send it to voice mail. “Hey.”
“Bow-chica-bow-bow.”
I roll my eyes, smiling. “Mature.”
“I’m excited for you.” She makes a panting noise.
“Shut up.” I’m laughing. “Wait, how did you know? Don’t tell me I put it into our shared cal.”
The pop of a can of something carbonated. Seltzer, for sure. “Steph told me.”
I was right. A horrifying vision of the two of them at lunch, exchanging a detailed analysis of everything I say and do. I want to tell Vivian that if she wants to know about my life, ask me, not my best friend. “How’s everything going with Clean Clothes?”
Viv starts in on user registration and conversions without drawing a breath.
I’d prefer Vivian didn’t know that Elan wants to take me out when he’s back in New York. She’d probably give me a series of talking points about the app, or worse still, come along. I need to make sure Steph doesn’t say anything to Vivian about Elan and his massive, throbbing commission.
“I wanted to mention,” Viv says, “our user ratings for last month’s outfits were down. Usually we’re averaging 4.3. We’re at 3.9.”
She says it without accusation. She doesn’t need to; it’s implicit. “That’s less than half a point.”
“I know,” she says. “Could be seasonal depression, post-Christmas slump. We just can’t have it settling below a four. Investors can ask about that sort of stuff.”
I have been phoning the outfits in: spending less time per customer, doubling up ideas. I’ve been distracted. “I’m on it.” The cab swings onto Bowery. My stomach swings into my mouth. We’re a minute away. “I gotta jump off.”
“One more thing.” She pauses, which makes me pause.
“Yeah?”
“H&M are developing an ethical line of womens wear starting this spring.”
“So? We agreed we wouldn’t support any business using slavery in any part of their supply chain.”
“I know. But using an H&M line in our outfits might get our sales figures up.” She lets out a slightly tense breath. “Girls are using the app, they’re just not buying any of the pieces. Let alone an entire outfit. It’s getting harder to dance around that. H&M is a brand that our customers can actually afford.”
The cab pulls up in front of a sleek apartment complex, all brushed metal and tinted glass. “Sounds like a slippery slope. Our whole sales pitch is ethics. H&M isn’t clean fashion, it’s fast fashion. Not into it, sorry.”
Another pause. “Fine. Let’s get those user ratings up this weekend, okay?”
I’m visiting my sister this weekend, but I’m not in the mood to disappoint Vivian further. “Like I said, I’m on it.”
Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with Vivian, but I find it distinctly sharky that she mentioned my user ratings before sending up a let’s-sell-out-our-idea test balloon. As if I’d be shamed into submission.
I met Vivian at a women’s networking event a few months after I moved to New York. I was the slack-jawed yokel who couldn’t contain her excitement at being able to see the Empire State Building. She was charming everyone in the room by being flawlessly relevant: yes, she had read that New Yorker profile on the city’s new poet laureate; yes, she did have opinions on the future of gerrymandering. I took her out for lunch. She took me on as a pet project.
I already had an entry-level position at Hoffman House, but I didn’t know how to behave around rich people, famous people, people with clout. Vivian taught me how to operate in New York, and not just by breaking my tragic vodka-cranberry habit.
Never say you’re a fan. Connect over something equalizing. Be genuine. Stay in touch—never ask for favors out of the blue. In fact, never ask for favors. Present opportunities. Think about it from their perspective. Know that everyone in their orbit thinks they’re owed something. And never, under any circumstances, post a selfie without explicit permission. Deeply uncool.
The chance to work on Clean Clothes came up late last spring: stars aligning, skill sets locking together like LEGOs. (Also, we’d drunk two bottles of rosé and I’d taken it upon myself to reorganize her wardrobe.) It seemed like I was never going to graduate out of junior sales at Hoffman House: I needed to create my own job. A job in a company that Vivian now seems interested in selling out.
Whatever. I’m off the clock. I straighten the seams of my little black dress (when in doubt, go for classic) and check my reflection in a hand mirror. The photoshopped version of myself bares her teeth at me: all imperfections airbrushed with carefully applied makeup. I don’t look like me, and that is good.
Scrawling threesome onto Steph’s whiteboard was almost in jest, but now that I’m here, I’m 80 percent ready to step over my normcore threshold and into sexual experimentation oblivion. I’ve spent the past few days googling How to start a threesome. I don’t have a definitive answer. Half the time it happens in a sexy, spontaneous (re: drunken) way, and the other half, everyone involved practically had lawyers drawing up contracts. I don’t want to feel left out. Or for anyone else to feel left out. Am I supposed to stay over? What if I catch chlamydia or, worse still, feelings?
I hope Camila and Cam look as good IRL. But more so, I just hope I can keep up and not freak out like the newb that I am.
I hope I can enjoy sex with two total strangers.
I hope I can enjoy sex, period. Honestly, that’s pretty much it.
I’m here. I’m doing this. As if in slow motion, my finger lifts through the crisp winter air and firmly presses the buzzer.
Lights? Camera?
Action.