Page 42 of Engineering a Love Story
“Your day. Tell me about your day.”
“No way, not after yours. You had sports, family drama, a history lesson, some arts and entertainment. I can’t compare with that. All I did was work.”
“Tell me.”
He sighs. “Okay. Jesus. I flew home from LA. Then I got my hair cut. My stylist is a gay man named Stefan. We’ve been seeing each other for almost four years. Stefan believes I should more aggressively question my sexuality. He’s maybe joking.”
“Are you questioning your sexuality?”
“Not even a little bit. No offense to Stefan.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Yes. And I’m making this sound more interesting than it is. But it is cool to live near the Castro, like we do. So many great guys in our neighborhood. Then I went to work. And five hours later, I left work. Fascinating, right?”
“Extremely. But that’s what you get for working on a Sunday.”
“True enough. Manish and I did play basketball after. It’s warm here, over seventy. People are everywhere, wearing shorts, sunbathing. We got a pizza, ate it on the sidewalk. Now I’m packing. My flight is at midnight.” He pauses. “Are you in Boston this week? Biking?”
“Yes.”
“National landmarks again?”
“I guess. Most days, I just go through Harvard Square, but that probably qualifies.”
“Would you show me?”
“Show you what?”
“I was thinking I could visit. On my way back from Asia.”
“Is Boston somehow on route to California from Singapore?”
“I have to go to New York. After Singapore. I could come to Boston from there.”
It’s probably just as Bethany predicted: Seth plans to be in the area and is seeking a warm landing spot. And still I tell him to come.
“I’ll email you my dates from Singapore.”
Twenty-Four
With Seth gone to Asia, I’m relieved of listening for his calls. Evan and I complete a first draft of the Market Spotlight before he leaves on a two-week vacation in the Hamptons with his parents, and we submit the report for peer review. Without a commute, I have two more productive hours every day, and I use those to actually get ahead with my quarterly writing.
Ash and I also meet with the mediator, who promises we can move forward with a quick, no-contest divorce. “You have so little to actually divide up,” she says with a sympathetic look in my direction and a copy of the prenup in front of her. But I don’t care. I don’t want Ash’s money. I just want it to be over. He and I barely speak during this session, which happens in a swanky downtown office not far from Monty’s, and as soon as I exit the building, I push the whole thing from my mind.
What buoys me most in late August are the emails that arrive from Asia, all under a Current Signed Customers subject line. From Tokyo, Seth writes of the early morning fish market he visited before the sun was up, the marvel of the soba and tempura, which he claims to not even have liked before arriving there. A few days later, there’s a note from Singapore telling me of his high-tech hotel room where everything is wireless and automated.
I do my best to volley back witty replies, though my days are quiet. I describe my bike rides, our bluebird August days, and the meeting I had in downtown Boston a few days ago, which left me walking on the Freedom Trail. I also poke fun at Bush’s latest gaffe, some nonsense he’d slung during a speech about energy policy and dams: I think he said that human beings and fish can coexist. Which is a relief. Would hate to worry we’re facing some kind of aquatic uprising.
Near the end of the month, I also have travel of my own. I spend two days in Philadelphia, then go to New York for a consulting engagement at JP Morgan that I’d delayed twice during the craziness of the early summer.
When I’m done at JP Morgan, I head to Gilroy’s Midtown Manhattan office. It’s handy that Gilroy has offices all over the globe, though Gilroy’s New York office isn’t as stylish as my home base, which recently received a whole trendy update and is now equipped with puffy furniture and pool tables. Unlike Cambridge, New York doesn’t bother with any pretense that it’s Silicon Valley.
Today, I’m due to meet Simon Fellowes, the sales executive who manages Gilroy’s accounts with New York banks. He’s arranged several sales calls for us the following day and asked me to stop by the office to prep. I flash my Gilroy ID at a bored-looking receptionist, who directs me to an empty cube. I catch up on emails for twenty minutes before Simon, a lanky, handsome Brit with spiky black hair, finds me.
Once Simon relocates us to a small conference room, we review the meetings he has planned for the next morning. He’s particularly revved about a session with Citibank, where he’s been unsuccessfully attempting to sell Gilroy’s services for a long time. “They’re keen on this e-banking though. This might be our shot.” Simon details the online banking project Citibank is contemplating and who will be in the room with us in the morning. “You’ll wow them, won’t you?”
I assure Simon I’ll do my best, though sales calls fill me with dread. A conversation with me is supposed to convince these guys that Gilroy is valuable? To purchase a subscription to our services? I’m certain that in a room like the one where we’re headed tomorrow, the guys will take one look at me and wonder why Simon bothered.
