Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
T
he knocking on my bedroom door grew louder and more impatient.
“Come in,” I mumbled into my pillow.
It was Beth, wearing flannel pajamas with pink fluffy sheep on them. With her wide blue eyes and golden hair split into two long braids, she looked like she was twelve. “I was worried about you. Brought you warm milk and cookies.” She paused and added, “I could hear you sniffling and I don’t remember you being sick earlier.”
My room was dark—a good thing because ugly crying in your thirties was exponentially uglier than in your twenties. Nowadays when I had a good emotional sobfest, my cheeks turned blotchy and my eyes swelled, like I’d been stung in the face by an angry swarm of bees. At my age, the subsequent de-puffing process took a full day.
She placed the plate and glass on my dresser, then plopped down on the foot of the bed. “You missed a fun party. Mia and PJ hit it off and were karaokeing by the end of the night. Ethan was wondering where you went.”
When I didn’t reply, she changed the subject. “Mia told me a little more about why you’re back at Carlthorpe. I know this is incredibly cheesy, but I’m so glad you came back, because I’m having a better time my senior year because of you. I transferred in a couple years ago with a long-distance boyfriend and I’m pretty sure we’re getting engaged after college, so I’ve been pretty nose-down in studying and not appreciating the social parts of college. You’ve already had a big impact on someone’s life who hasn’t actually read your book . . . yet. So chin up, lady! Time to take a big ol’ bite out of a truth cookie—what you’re going through isn’t permanent, and even though it might feel like you lost something when you came here a second time, you’ve gained a loyal friend. And as a bonus, you get free, unlimited baked goods as long as you’re under this roof! Some people might even be envious of that.”
I lifted my head from my pillow and sat up, smiling weakly.
She handed me the plate of baked goods. “There’s a theme of positivity here. I made these just for you.”
The shortbread cookies were shaped like sheep and intricately decorated in icing. Beth had written “I believe in ewe” on all of them.
“Thank you. Or
ewe
. E-W-E.” I smiled and bit off a sheep’s woolly ass. It was delicious.
* * *
I
CHANNELED ALL
my energy the rest of the weekend into studying for midterms. Burying myself in the required
reading for my senior seminar and reviewing Python assignments were effective distractions, providing me with mental and emotional distance from the last encounter with Jake. By Monday morning, I felt confident about the upcoming exams after so many hours of studying. I had a quick breakfast and hopped into the shower before class.
My phone rang the second I turned off the water.
It was my editor. “Lily! Are you sitting down? I have some great news!”
I was not sitting down. I was standing naked in a small puddle of water from my dripping hair and body that had pooled by my feet.
“You’ve been invited to speak to the London Business School’s U.S. alumni group in NYC in two weeks. It’s part of a debut book tour launch and they asked if you would be the in-conversation partner.”
This really was good news, and there were no signs of a bait-and-switch “it’s time to give back your advance for your fraudulent credentials, actually” call. I sighed in relief. I hadn’t done too many in-person events and this seemed like a good promotional opportunity. Towel-drying my hair, I noticed she didn’t outright mention the author.
“Who is the event with?” I finally asked.
She coughed. “Two authors actually. The O’Haras.”
No.
“Are you serious? Why me?” I cried out in frustration, which my editor heard and took literally.
My editor replied, “Of course they’d want you! They specifically asked for your participation, actually; it was originally supposed to just be the two of them. The topic was chosen
by the alumni group and will be ‘Diversity, Inclusion, and Shattering Glass Ceilings Once and for All.’”
Now it all made sense.
Before I could say HELL NO, my editor added, “The O’Haras have arranged a signing opportunity after the Q and A with a local indie bookstore, and they’re running ads in
The Wall Street Journal
to promote the event.”
Okay, this was tempting.
The Wall Street Journal
audience wasn’t exactly a perfect fit for me, but it was a way to broaden my reach.
“And it will be catered. Wine and fine finger foods.”
Well, shit. She got me by dangling free food. “I’m in.” My student-budget brain made me cave. Dining out was something I’d missed ever since I had returned to Carlthorpe.
“That’s wonderful! If you’re available, we would love for you to pop into our office this week so we can discuss your questions for this event, plus meet the O’Hara marketing team for some other promotional ideas they have for their book launch. They have a big marketing and publicity budget and we’re thinking this is a good opportunity for you to ask for what you want. I suspect they’re even putting in some of their own money and reaching out to their personal network, so we’re hoping to maximize your exposure.”
I looked around for a clean towel but settled for a terry-cloth bathrobe. “When’s the meeting?”
She laughed nervously. “Could you come tomorrow afternoon or Wednesday late morning? I’m sorry if that’s too short notice, but since you live close to our offices, we’re hoping it’s not a problem.”
I cringed as she continued. “We’re trying to move fast, especially if they’re doing ads in newspapers.” Knowing me all too well, she added, “I’ll order in lunch and text you the menu. There will be desserts.”
I laughed. “Sure, I can be there tomorrow.”
With Mia offering her chauffeur services, we rolled into the city the next day after my 9
A
.
M
. class ended.
As we headed into Midtown, I asked, “Do I look okay to meet with the O’Haras?”
“Yes. You can’t even tell you’ve been slumming it with your dress code the last few weeks. You cleaned up nicely.” Mia grinned as she pulled into a loading zone. “Meet me at my apartment when you’re done. We can grab dinner and drinks before we head back.”
“I was planning to take the train. I’ve already bugged you enough times for rides.”
“Honestly, I don’t mind the drive. And I love commuting to and from the city to Carlthorpe. It’s like having a Hamptons or Fire Island timeshare, but rent-free and a full fridge.”
A honk blasted from behind. “Drop off and pick up only, sistah!”
“Looks like you need to unload yourself ASAP,” Mia said, looking into her rearview mirror. “Good luck today!”
“Thanks!” I hopped out of her car and waved goodbye.
Pushing the revolving door, I couldn’t help but notice how my business clothes felt against my skin. In the glass reflection, everything looked familiar and put together, but I’d gotten so used to wearing jeans and sneakers around campus that my skirt, silk blouse, and heels were insanely uncomfortable,
like I had borrowed someone else’s costume for Halloween and it was unseasonably hot that day. When security asked for my ID and asked me to confirm my identity, I hesitated. Of course I was Lily Lee, the same Lily who had been in these offices several times before, but admittedly, something inside me felt a little different. On the ride up to the twenty-second floor, I tried to remember if this was how I’d felt when I started my first corporate job, wearing business clothes for the first time. Maybe the shift inside me I was feeling was just temporary, like someone forgetting to wear a retainer for a few days, letting their teeth move and then shift back to the right positions after reuse.
My editor, Katherine, greeted me at the elevator bank. “Thank you so much for coming on such short notice. When the O’Hara family contacted us out of the blue, it took us by surprise. Amanda can’t make it, she was pulled away by HR for some kind of alumni outreach event planning.” She smiled and swiped her badge to gain access to the floor. “They’re here early, and now that you’re here, we can just jump in and get started. Did you have any questions before we head into the meeting?”
Yes. A few.
What’s for lunch?
And am I just a random token non-white person to go on a tour with, or do they actually see me as their peer?
Is there compensation or reimbursement for expenses?
Maybe it’s paranoia, but . . . is there an underlying motive for them?
Offering my most gracious smile, I said, “No questions at
the moment. Let’s start the meeting and I can get a feel for what they’re thinking.”
She opened the door to reveal the massive O’Hara publishing entourage. Other than Mary O’Hara, everyone else around the long, oblong table was male. Ten people in all, including the O’Hara twins. It was like an executive meeting at my last male-dominated corporate job all over again. Aside from below-market pay, I left there for a few reasons, and let’s just say that dealing with this particular demographic in the highest ranks of the company was among them.
My marketing lead and publicity assistant lined up at the door behind me. We greeted the O’Hara team as we entered the room. My eyes widened as I looked past everyone and saw the lunch buffet against the far wall: some blessed saint had ordered a three-tiered dessert tray. My mouth watered as I shook hands with everyone.
We quickly took our seats so the meeting could begin. My team was not only outnumbered by the O’Hara party, we were out-everythinged. Out-marketed, out-publicized, out-budgeted, and even outclassed: they had partnered with all the finest spirits companies, fashion designers, and top business schools across the country, they announced. It appeared the O’Haras’
You Go, Girl!
book was going to be a hit no matter what, whether it was organic or devised that way, and by targeting so many aspirational brands, they were clearly going after a specific type of clientele who had probably never heard of me. And honestly, I’d never heard of half of them either.
So why was I here again? Especially compared to all the
name-dropped celebrities and influencers in their marketing presentation, I was a big ol’ nobody.
After their publicity director covered event outreach, they finally cut to the chase. “Lily, we would love to pitch you with Mary and Cameron for some of the more urban opportunities.”
“Urban?” I had no idea what they meant by this. I’d never considered anything about me urban. I wore clothes from Urban Outfitters sometimes, that was it. And maybe listened to Keith Urban on occasion. I ate from dining establishments that were cash only, did that count? I wore J.Crew flats and Madewell dresses for God’s sake. What was this urban nonsense?
Kylie, my publicist and fast friend, scribbled something in her spiral notebook and pushed it over to me. “URBAN—MAYBE SHE MEANS NOT RICH OR WHITE?”
Oh.
Silence took over the room. I bit back cutting words that teetered on the tip of my tongue, knowing what I really wanted to say about the O’Haras’ perception of race and class. It would certainly lead to the end of this so-called partnership. But just as I opened my mouth and found the courage to speak my mind, Mary O’Hara surprised me by being the first to say something after the uncomfortably silent stretch. “Lily, I adore your writing, and your book inspired me to become an author myself. I’ve talked about your book a lot in interviews because it’s a must-buy for anyone trying to make it in the business world, for anyone, but especially women of color.”
I took a deep, calming breath. “Thank you.” I met her gaze without glancing down, because my therapist had worked with me a lot about accepting compliments and not dismissing them as being “no big deal,” as I was always apt to do. It was a combination of being a modest people pleaser for so long, plus the humility stemming from my Korean heritage, with my parents instructing me to downplay all of my successes, while they were allowed to brag and talk them up.
She continued. “It was my idea to bring you into our marketing plans, but I didn’t specify when or how.” She turned to her brother. “Can’t we just ask her to join wherever she’s comfortable rather than dictate what type of events are best—”
Cameron interrupted. “We have more than adequate coverage in our core market, and the press releases are already out. It’s this larger, more urban reach I’m interested in pursuing. With her credentials and streetwise advice it seemed like, synergistically speaking—”
He’d said “urban” again, and anyone who used the term “synergistically speaking” was not worth my time. It was my turn to steer the conversation.
“Actually, I’m pretty busy today, so maybe we could wrap up sooner rather than later. I can look through the list of opportunities in your appendix and let you know the ones that interest me once you’ve sorted out your targeting strategy. We can go from there.”
Mary nodded. “Thank you, Lily. Any time you can offer is very much appreciated.”
I responded, “And I’m still on board with the in-person event sponsored by LBS alumni. I’ll email you the interview questions after the meeting. Shall we eat? This looks wonderful, thank you to the people who ordered it.”
Kylie beamed and grabbed a plate. “I ordered too much, you all might need to take some home!”
My editor leaned over and whispered, “Thank you for being open-minded about this. We can just do the LBS alumni event for now and evaluate their other ideas. It’s a great way to promote your book series.”
I nodded. I hadn’t agreed to much, but it was worth it to investigate opportunities open to me that I couldn’t otherwise afford. One of the points in my book was about self-advocating and self-promoting, and how women need to do more of it. This was something I always had trouble with too.
Another thing I firmly believed in was for women to develop relationships and networks, even pushing outside of their comfort zone. I would need to run this O’Hara quasi-partnership by my personal board of directors—aka Mia, some former work friends, and Beth. They had my best interests at heart while the people in this room might have their own agenda. If the exposure and platform the O’Haras provided would be worthwhile, my trusted friends would help me see the true value and risk of this opportunity.
I took a turkey and Brie sandwich, Caesar salad, chips, and a weighty cupcake back to the table as the O’Haras’ publicist confirmed that
The Wall Street Journal
ad would be running soon, and that the publisher would be promoting the event in social media leading up to that day as well.
Mary O’Hara said, “Thank you for that update!” just as Cameron barked, “I hope you can do better than just
The Wall Street Journal
. How much is it for
The New York Times
?
The Washington Post
? Have you even thought about going bigger with our brand?”
Cameron’s handlers, all three of them, whispered among themselves, and although it was too low to hear it, I caught snippets of “too expensive” and “looking into it.” Mary offered me an apologetic glance and forced a smile. She did seem grounded and genuine, but I’d been burned in the past by people who seemed one way and turned out to be another. I wasn’t going to let my guard down so easily. At least not until I’d had lunch and my hangriness subsided so I could think clearly.
Cameron eventually calmed down and the conversation picked up again, going in an interesting and pleasant direction. We all talked more candidly about how hard it was to release a book in a noisy, cluttered online world, and how publishing was like being an entrepreneur because you had to not only create a product but also promote, market, and sell it. I chimed in and said one of my favorite perks was being able to read books by other authors before their release dates, and both Mary and Cam couldn’t wait for that time to come. The room energy shifted from stilted to relaxed. So we had a few things in common. Finding common ground was good for relationship-building and gaining trust.
Mary asked, “I’d love to know what made you finally write a book, Lily. It’s so hard to not only get words on a
page but also have the guts to put your work out into the world. What inspired you to be so brave?”
It was a question I’d been asked before by business bloggers and podcast interviewers, but for people in this room, who already knew about publishing, my answer could go more in depth. “Honestly, I hadn’t seen anyone write a book from a perspective like mine. I wanted it to be like a mini-mentorship for people just starting out, giving real-life, practical, actionable advice for those who needed to build their careers from the ground up.”
Both Mary and Cameron nodded as I spoke, but what shocked me most was Cameron opening the spiral notebook in front of him and scribbling notes. I continued to talk about my mission to empower women and help them navigate the complexities of work-life balance, self-promotion, and performance evaluations, primarily in male-dominated environments.
Cameron placed his elbows on the table, put his hands together, and tapped his index fingers on his lips. “This is all very insightful.” He made eye contact with me. “Thank you for sharing your perspective with us, I am so glad you came today.”
While the words he spoke were extremely kind, something about his tone and demeanor was not entirely sincere. A nagging sensation pulled at my chest, but I couldn’t pinpoint anything specific. This was different from the general feeling of angst and worry manifesting inside my chest every day, which was all too familiar for me. My internal alarm bells
rang all the time for guys like him, and in response I always had my guard up. But I couldn’t deny the niggling feeling that he was up to something. Or maybe this was just a vibe that guys like him radiated all the time and I happened to have an extra-sensitive douche-o-meter.
When the meeting ended, my editor, publicist, and marketing lead lingered in the room while Cameron and Mary walked with me to the door.
“Looking forward to our event next week,” I said, shaking their hands.
Mary smiled. “Thanks for being part of our launch.”
“See you soon,” Cameron said with a megawatt grin. But for him, my douche detector wouldn’t stop ringing.