Page 23 of Everyone Is Lying to You
“None! I’m more of a childless cat lady.” She laughs. “I saw ahole in the market. I’m here for the networking, but keep that on the down-low. If they find out I don’t have kids, they might run me out with torches.”
“Your secret’s safe with me. I often prefer childless cat ladies. The app sounds great,” I say, meaning it, although the last thing I want is another reason to be on my computer or my phone when I don’t have to be. I don’t think I can stomach another “productivity platform” even if it’s life changing.
A woman sitting on my other side chimes in. “Itisgreat. And she deserves all the funding.” I turn to look at her. She’s older than most of this crowd and stands out because she’s foregone the muted pastel dresses and onesies for a bright purple pantsuit. Her salt-and-pepper curls have a single purple streak running down the middle. I love her a little bit at first sight.
She conspicuously looks at my name tag. I wonder how far we are from a future where no one needs to clock name badges anymore, but when AI will alert us through a little chip in our brains who we are about to talk to and whether they are worthy of our attention.
Ding, ding, this person is useless for both your social and business climbing. Move along.
Ding dong. This woman is an HR executive at a big firm looking to hire a content director. Turn on that charm. Talk about your personal development journey.
“You’re Rebecca Sommers’s friend,” the purple-suited woman says. Our friendship, if you can still call it that, isn’t indicated anywhere on my badge and her shit-eating grin lets me know she likes catching people off guard with an excessive amount of information. Maybe she already has the AI chip in her brain.
“I’m Lizzie,” I say instead of validating her claim.
“I know. I work with Rebecca. I’m Olivia Jackson.” A look passes between her and Katie, but I can’t tell what it means.
“What do you do with Rebecca?” I ask Olivia.
“A little of this. A little of that. I’m an advisor. Accountant. Friend.”
Is “friend” a job now?I don’t say it out loud.
“Olivia is everyone’s accountant,” Katie says. “And manager.”
“Not yours,” Olivia fires back jovially.
“Only because I can’t afford you yet, but you will be.” Katie rolls her eyes and explains more to me. “About a decade ago Olivia realized that influencers were going to be the future of both media and commerce. None of her old colleagues in LA believed her. So she quit and started her own thing. Now she specializes in accounting, management, and financial planning for influencers who are worth more than…What now, Olivia? What’s the total amount of money you manage?”
“I don’t kiss and tell.” Olivia delivers that devious grin again.
Katie waves her hand in the air. “More than, like, a billion dollars. Anyway, she’s a baller.”
“How is an influencer accountant different than a regular accountant?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Oh, it isn’t really. I just understand how the creator income streams work better than the average Joe Schmo who doesn’t get that when you’re a creator your entire life is your business.” Olivia leans in to explain to me.
“So they can write off everything?”
“Not everything, but a lot. They’re always creating content and always marketing.”
“And you work with Bex—I mean Rebecca.” I stammer to get the name right.
“I do. Have for years.”
“The Sommerses must have a complicated tax situation. They have so much going on.”
“Oh, I don’t work with Grayson Sommers,” Olivia says pointedly. “Just Rebecca.”
I think about my own relationship with our accountant, Joel Wasserstein, who has a small office in Alphabet City in Manhattan. We only talk in February when it’s time to start getting all our expenses and forms in order and we’ve never actually communicated with Joel except by email. He definitely wouldn’t know I was bringing a friend to a work conference.
I decide not to play it cool. “How do you know who I am?” But Olivia is not frazzled by the question.
“Rebecca’s one of my top clients. We talked about you coming.” She stops and it’s clear that’s all she wants to say about that.
Before I can follow up, a hidden stereo starts pumping out the eighties yacht-rock anthem “The Final Countdown” and the room goes entirely dark.
“What the hell is happening?” I blurt out. No one else is fazed.
