Page 17 of Fake It 'til You Make It

GQinterview day.

It turns out the journalist who was going to come to my home in San Francisco was happy to fly to New York to interview me here, as opposed to sending someone from the localGQHeadquarters.

I respect that. She’s a lead in business and tech related features and apparently was eager to meet me.

In my head, I’m still the person who spent every night coding until I came up with the idea for forensic accounting software. I’ve been shaped by humble parents, who taught my brother and I the kind of work ethic that’s made us both successful in our chosen careers.

But sometimes things, like the effort this journalist is making, remind me that Roman and I have been one of the Silicon Valley success stories.

Pacing Mike’s immaculately clean and tidy lounge, in preparation for the interview, I scoff as I look at my watch. I pick up abaseball from the shelf and start tossing and catching it against the lounge wall, now repaired.

Roman has been on at me for months to convert our partnership to a company and take Vanguard public, raising finance through the sale of stock. I’ve wanted to keep control. I’ve wanted us – Roman and me – to be a team going forward.

But now… God only knows where my head is at. Can I continue to work with Roman at all after what’s passed between us? Maybe an IPO would be better – dilute the ownership.

Hell, maybe a full sale of the business is the only way forward.

But can I give up everything I’ve built, designed, created, because I can no longer stand to even utter my ex-best friend’s name aloud?

Three minutes late by my watch, the building concierge calls the apartment.GQare here. I stop tossing the ball, answer the intercom, and tell the concierge I’ll come down to the foyer to meet theGQbunch.

Glancing in the mirror one more time, I correct a misplaced strand of my unusually combed, tamed and styled hair, and wiggle my shoulders to adjust the position of the shoulder pads in my new suit.

I don’t look like me. Messy hair, casual clothes, sneakers. That’s me. The guy in the mirror looks more like Roman, or even my brother on one of his red-carpet appearances, though he’d usually have an unnaturally attractive blonde on his arm, too.

But this is a gentleman’s quarterly magazine and the interview is about the world of business.

My palms are clammy as I head downstairs in the elevator and I feel jittery, like I’ve overdosed on caffeine. It’s no wonder I ordinarily leave these things to Roman.

I close my eyes for a moment of calm and the elevator halts. Bracing myself with a smile, I open my eyes. But instead of theelevator doors opening to the team fromGQ, they open on the seventh floor of the building, and who is standing there but Lady Big Panties, her face murderous, her hands on her hips.

She’s pouting and the first thing I think is, her lips look soft, natural in size and color. I don’t mean to draw a comparison to Fleur’s lips, but yes, a thousand times more natural and elegant than lips with fillers.

Big Panties’ hair is wet, the make-up and fake lashes from last night are gone, and she’s wearing a white string vest with a pair of tiny bed shorts. She’s like the girl next door that every guy whoever read a Spiderman comic wanted to date as a kid (and big kid!).

She glares at me and seems to want to speak. Then she blinks and, I think, checks out my new suit. Her mouth opens and closes silently, like a goldfish.

‘Are you getting in?’ I ask, reaching out a hand to stop the doors from closing.

She steps inside.

‘The foyer?’

She clears her throat. ‘Yes. Well, no, actually. I was on my way to see you.’

Confusion knits my brows. ‘Why?’

‘Because…’ Her eyes shift to the left as if she’s thinking of a response.

‘Because?’ I don’t mean to sound patronizing but I’d expect a little forethought before some random woman came to knock on my door, wearing hardly any clothes.

‘Well, I thought you were— Were you alone? In your apartment?’

This girl is all kinds of weird. Thankfully, the elevator reaches the foyer and this time, the doorsdoopen to the journalist and production team fromGQ.

Big Panties’ eyes shoot open, like a near-nude deer caught in the lights of a camera crew. She looks to the crew, then up to me. Then she thrusts one arm across her chest and presses her knees together. She isn’t naked but she sure feels like she’s exposed in her little outfit.

This is brilliant.

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