Page 18 of Fake It 'til You Make It

I lean down to her ear and tell her, ‘This isGQmagazine and the only thing that could have made this better is if you were wearing those big panties of yours.’

When she glowers at me, I do something wholly uncharacteristic. I wink at her. And the thunder that comes back to her expression is worth good money to see. Her cantankerous nature just met with karma.

She pushes me out of the elevator and starts furiously thumping the button for the doors to close. The last thing she must see is my beaming smile. Somehow, the woman whose name I don’t even know has made me laugh properly, for the first time in ages.

I turn to theGQbunch, who all seem to hold a bemused expression, except Kirsten Stirling, the journalist, who I can tell wants to know which semi-naked girl I just rode downstairs with.

I’m about to clarify that I don’t know the woman and that she is certainly not a conquest, if that’s the insinuation behind Kirsten’s expression, when she holds out a hand and says, ‘Theodore? Nice to meet you.’

‘It’s just Ted.’

‘Ted.’ She gives one stern nod and I wonder whether she’s always so curt or if she’s put two and two together and has decided that I’ve been cheating on my fiancée.

How wrong a person can be.

Out of sheer stubbornness, I choose not to correct her.

Kirsten is young, at best guess about my age, which meansshe’s done well for herself to be a staple features editor atGQalready. I respect her for her work ethic. And I know she’s made her own way because no one who has been handed their position on a silver platter would be wearing All Star converse with a tailored suit.

Even I splurged on a pair of shoes that are killing my feet just to make sure they match the suit for this interview. How Roman wears these fancy shoes all day long is beyond me. I’m counting down the minutes until I can get back into a pair of shorts and some sneakers.

The camera crew – two guys and a girl – busy themselves setting up lights and reflective screens and set the scene for Kirsten and me to have an ‘informal chat’ on the lounge sofa and chair. I offer drinks and I’m thrilled when they only want water because I’m better with Mike’s multi-option water tap than his complex coffee machine – something that would be more at home in a chain coffee store.

We come to sit – me in the armchair, Kirsten on the sofa, both posed informally so that we neither face toward nor away from each other.

Kirsten explains what she’s hoping to achieve from the interview, the crux of which, I understand, is to highlight some kind of difference between Roman – front man – and me – tech nerd – and no doubt to intrude on my relatively private life.

She seems to have moved on from the air of animosity I witnessed downstairs. Now, she’s full of smiles as she rights a few strands that have snuck out from her hair tie and crosses one leg over the other, placing her hands on the notebook that rests on her lap.

I’m nervous. This is not my forte. I much prefer sitting in a quiet room, coding, reimagining, and inventing than giving the company, or worse, myself, the big sell.

‘I am going to record the interview, just so I don’t have to make so many handwritten notes,’ Kirsten says. She isn’t asking my permission, since she’s already placing her phone down on the coffee table between us and I can see she’s already recording.

‘No problem.’

I clear my throat, which feels dry, then take a sip of cold water. It’s not that I can’t easily converse with people. I’m not entirely socially inept. But I am uncomfortable. Even more so than usual, which I suspect is because I know at some point questions will arise about my private life, and how on earth am I supposed to answer them when I don’t even havemyhead around it yet?

Kirsten’s next words are spoken with what I would describe as a telephone voice, and I know we’re now on the record. ‘First, thank you for giving us your time today, Ted.’

I nod. ‘Thanks for coming East last minute. I appreciate the effort.’

‘All part of the job,’ she says, eying me closely. ‘Why are you in New York?’

Heat builds in my palms. I interlock my fingers, hoping the slight tremor I feel won’t show. She has no idea how complex the answer to her seemingly innocuous question really is.

‘Business. Always business.’ I offer a smile. Faux airy.

It must work because she moves on. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. How did you go from college student to being a co-founder of what is predicted to soon be a billion-dollar tech business?’

‘Can I tell you anything that Mark Zuckerberg hasn’t already come out with?’

She laughs with me, and I think,Screw you, Roman, I can be personable.

‘Honestly, I think everyone in my family wanted me to be a pro ball player, like my brother, but I wasn’t good enough, and the only other thing I really enjoyed was computer science, so that’swhere it started. I was just a failed athlete who happened to find coding the most natural thing in the world, ironically, given there’s nothing natural about a tech verse.’

‘I’d love to explore that further. Do you think failure made you who you are?’

‘I suppose in a way it did.’ My mind wanders from baseball to my failed engagement. My failed friendship. Maybe I should start seeing the biggest relationship breakdowns of my life as an opportunity. ‘I guess there’s always something to be learned from failure.’

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