In Five Years: A Novel - Rebecca Serle Page 0,54

know Yahtzee?”

“Of course.” Yahtzee is one of our tech companies. They’re primarily known as being a search function, like Google, but they’re relatively new and building in interesting and creative ways.

“They are ready to go public.”

My eyes go wide. “I thought that was never going to happen.”

Yahtzee was created by two women, Jordi Hills and Anya Cho, from their college dorm room at Syracuse. The search function is outfitted with more youthful terminology and results. For instance, a search for “Audrey Hepburn” might lead you first to the Netflix documentary on her, second to E! True Hollywood Story, third to her presence in modern CW shows—and the ways to dress like her. Down the list: biographies, her actual movies. It’s brilliant. A veritable pop-culture reservoir. And from what I understood: Jordi and Anya had no intention of ever selling.

“They changed their minds. And we need someone to oversee the deal.”

At this, my heart starts racing. I can feel the pulse in my veins, the adrenaline kicking, revving, taking off—

“Okay.”

“I’m offering you to be the key associate on this case.”

“Yes!” I say. I practically scream. “Unequivocally, yes.”

“Hang on,” Aldridge says. “The job would be in California. Half in Silicon Valley, half in Los Angeles, where Jordi and Anya reside. They want to do as much work as they can out of their LA offices. And it would be quick; we’ll probably begin next month.”

“Who is the partner?” I ask.

“Me,” he says. He smiles. His teeth are impossibly white. “You know, Dannie, I’ve always seen a lot of myself in you. You’re hard on yourself. I was, too.”

“I love this job,” I say.

“I know you do,” he tells me. “But it’s important to make sure the job is not unkind to you.”

“That’s impossible. We’re corporate lawyers. The job is inherently unkind.”

Aldridge laughs. “Maybe,” he says. “But I don’t think I’d have lasted this long if I thought we hadn’t struck some kind of deal.”

“You and the job.”

Aldridge takes off his glasses. He looks me square in the eye when he says: “Me and my ambition. Far be it from me to tell you what your own deal should be. I still work eighty-hour weeks. My husband, god bless him, wants to kill me. But—”

“You know the terms.”

He smiles, puts his glasses back on. “I know the terms.”

The IPO evaluation begins in mid-November. We’re already creeping further into October. I call Bella at lunch, while bent over a signature Sweetgreen salad, and she sounds rested and comfortable. The girls from the gallery are over, and she’s going over a new show. She can’t talk. Good.

I leave work early, intent on picking up one of David’s favorite meals—the teriyaki at Haru—and surprising him at home. We’ve been strangers passing in the night. I think the last time I had a full conversation with him was at the hospital. And we’ve barely touched our wedding plans.

I turn onto Fifth Avenue and decide to walk. It’s barely 6 p.m, David won’t be home for another two hours, at least, and the weather is perfect. One of those first truly crisp fall days, where you could conceivably wear a sweater but because the sun is out, and still strong overhead, a T-shirt will do. The wind is low and languid, and the city is buzzy with the happy, contented quality of routine.

I’m feeling so festive, in fact, that when I pass Intimissimi, a popular lingerie company, I decide to stop inside.

I think about sex, about David. About how it’s good, solid, satisfying, and how I’ve never been someone who wants her hair pulled or to be spanked. Who doesn’t even really like to be on top. Is that a problem? Maybe I’m not in touch with my sexuality—­which Bella, casually——too casually—has accused me of on more than one occasion.

The shop is filled with pretty, lacy things. Tiny bras with bows and matching underwear. Frilly negligees with rosettes on the hem. Silk robes.

I choose a black lace camisole and boy shorts, decidedly different from anything I own, but still me. I pay without trying them on, and then make my way over to Haru. I call in our order on the way. No sense in waiting.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. I hear David’s key latch in the door and I’m tempted to run back into the bedroom and hide, but it’s too late now. The apartment is littered with candles and the low stylings of Barry Manilow. It’s like a cliché sex comedy from the nineties.

David walks