Page 10 of Engineering a Love Story

“We need to meet with Aurelian,” I say, just as Evan and I land at the edge of my cube. “You heard those guys upstairs. Our clients want to know about this company. We have to speak with them, learn more about their new product, publish some research.” My voice rises, all the anxiety about my disintegrating life leaking into it. I have to stay on track here at Gilroy, can’t fall behind or screw up again.

“I know,” Evan says. “But he’s fully booked.”

“Call again,” I say. “Coffee, a drink, breakfast—whatever Manish can do.” Given the influence Gilroy has on tech buyers, we don’t usually have to chase software vendors. Generally, they knock down our doors, wanting to convince us how great their products are so we’ll recommend them to Gilroy clients. But Aurelian doesn’t seem to play by the rules. “Make it happen, Evan.”

After Evan goes, I sit at my desk and attempt to work through the backlog of email that accumulated during The Symp and my weekend offline. I respond to inquiries from clients and confirm travel details. Before long, I lose myself in these tasks and find it’s a relief to be here at Gilroy, on what feels like stable ground, relatively.

June

Six

Russ Boyer keeps large cats. “Like, they’re not fully tame,” one of the IBM product managers said at dinner last night. He snickered as he spoke of his boss, who hadn’t joined us for the meal. “He has them imported from somewhere. Morocco, maybe.”

When Russ enters the conference room at the IBM Research Center in Almaden, hills rolling hot and brown outside wide windows, I know who he is without an introduction. You can tell he’s in charge by the way he leans possessively against a back wall. The demeanor of all the guys in the room shifts too, when Russ comes in. They sit taller, speak louder, and attempt questions that are a little more aggressive than they’d been ten minutes before.

Evan and I have spent a busy week in the Bay Area. The bustle has been absorbing, though I’m so glad to be away, I’d be happy anywhere.

I’d thought, after our conversation in the driveway two weeks ago, that Ash might go stay with his parents. But he’s remained in the house. I can’t ask him to leave, and I have nowhere else to go, so we’ve been coexisting, creeping around each other mostly, engaging in awkward small talk only when necessary.

The worst day came last week—our wedding anniversary, as it happened, though neither of us mentioned this—when Denny, the realtor who sold us our house a year ago, stopped by to finalize our listing. Ash skulked in the kitchen while Denny and I sat at our dining room table, my face hot with shame. Denny boasted about the high demand for homes on the North Shore. “You won’t have any trouble selling,” he said, his heavy watch banging repeatedly against the table’s glossy wood, jangling my nerves every time.

I didn’t ask Ash to help me arrange the furniture for Denny’s photos, and I cleaned the whole place by myself before the open house Denny had arranged.

It was an absolute relief to fly out here on Sunday night.

Though when I booked this trip, I made the mistake of telling Gilroy’s travel agent I hadn’t been to San Francisco before. “I’ll put you someplace fun,” she promised, and Evan and I have spent the last four nights at a musty tourist hotel on Fisherman’s Wharf, nestled alongside an antique arcade parlor and a crab shack.

We’ve had a full week of meetings, but this all-day session with IBM is the reason we flew across the country. Like most large tech vendors, IBM is behind with internet technologies, and this team bought a day of our time to review the company’s plans for online banking.

At the front of the room, I’m speaking to a chart showing IBM’s potential competitors in this market, when Russ Boyer raises a finger. “Chelsea, pardon my intrusion. But, do you find there’s much substance behind all the Aurelian flash?”

It doesn’t surprise me Russ wants to know about Aurelian. The start-up is a gnat compared to IBM, but the rules of the industry are changing and guys like Russ are worried about even the peskiest of players.

I relate the good experiences Gilroy clients have had with Aurelian so far. “But sure, Aurelian’s marketing is out ahead of product.” We spent the last few hours reviewing IBM’s product plans; marketing is always ahead of product.

Russ dips his head and waves a hand, indicating I should proceed.

When I finish the presentation, I glance at Russ, who continues to recline in the doorway. He looks like Silicon Valley: shiny and fit and in clothes that are vaguely athletic, as if he might spring out the door for a jog at any moment. Though I suspect Russ already did some kind of pricey exercise this morning. In my year at Gilroy, I’ve learned that, unlike the scrappier start-up guys, big-company execs like Russ appear to be well tended, well paid, and well fed. And they spend actual money on odd pets, apparently.

Russ again raises a finger. “What about this new Aurelian product—PayNow? We’ve had customers asking about it.”

This is the same product State Street wanted to know about, and I have to admit I’m not up to speed on it yet. “I should know more soon.”

Evan worked to schedule a session with Manish. “Wonder boy is only free for dinner,” he explained after he got off the phone with Aurelian’s PR person, Claire Sanchez. “On Thursday. And that will have to work, because I can’t call that woman back.” Evan looked at me with exaggerated alarm.

I laughed. “You need to stop being afraid of PR people.”

“I’m not afraid of her,” Evan said, though his expression indicated otherwise. He shook his head. “Though Thursday means I can’t make it.” Evan is flying back tonight to attend a wedding this weekend. I’ll have dinner with Manish alone this evening.

“I’d be very interested in anything you learn,” Russ says. “Perhaps we could arrange a time to chat next week?”

Technically, it’s not my job to gather information from one software maker and feed it to another. But vendors also purchase Gilroy services and IBM is one of Gilroy’s largest clients. Given I’m still recovering from my performance at The Symp, it won’t hurt me to please a bigshot like Russ Boyer.

“Sure,” I say.

Russ looks at the product manager who made fun of his cats. “You’ll confirm?” Once this man agrees, Russ dips his head again, this time so low it’s nearly a bow, and he leaves the room.

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