Impostor Syndrome

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JULIA

Julia Kall was getting married.

Though Kall wouldn’t be her last name, not for long; after the events of the afternoon she’d be known as Julia Lerner, wife of Charlie Lerner. Julia knew that in Silicon Valley, and especially at the levels on which she operated, changing one’s last name was considered passé, an incline of the head to the patriarchy: why not ask for an allowance while she was at it, let her husband manage the money; carry out munchies for the boys on poker night, squealing at the ass slap on her way back to the kitchen. It was the expected thing, to keep one’s last name, especially given her career. But that was why Julia was changing her own. To hint at an inner traditionalist. She already courted that market, subtly; when giving speeches, she usually mentioned that while her job as the second-highest executive at one of the world’s most valuable technology companies was tremendously difficult, it was nothing compared to that of a mother, so bravo, bravo, let’s hear it for the mothers. The audience dutiful in its applause, like junior congressmen saluting veterans, and then she would press forward: balance, childcare, empower. Her (subtly) enhanced red hair, cut to the shoulders, rounding out the image – her heels high, sweaters tight, though with conservative necklines.

Once married, Julia planned to add some bits about her and Charlie to the mix, reflections on her good taste in landing the perfect partner. And then, once they had kids – because naturally kids would follow – she would post about the whole family. I used to think what I did at work, you know, managing billions of dollars at one of the world’s most valuable companies – I used to think that was the important thing! But it wasn’t until I became a mother that I understood it’s what I do at home that truly matters. Raising our next generation. Our future.

You know, all that stupid s**t.

Plus, Kall wasn’t even her real last name, anyway.

The temperature outside was in the high seventies, the sun’s flame reduced by a thin gauze of clouds: a perfect Saturday afternoon in Napa Valley. Though Eisner Gardens had not been her first choice of venue. Originally Julia had thought Napa too basic: yes there were the nice parts, the private estates and wine caves, but there were also the factory wineries stuffed with tour groups, the traffic on Route 29; all the slurring Marina bros and escaped housewives, cheeks fat from bad fillers. Julia’s first choice had been Indonesia – not Kuta or Seminyak, but rather a private resort in Borobudur. Her boss, Pierre Roy, the CEO and founder of the social media and internet giant Tangerine, had done something similar, flying all his guests, Julia included, on his 767 to the Caribbean. She’d already asked to borrow the plane, knowing Pierre would agree, but had then been informed that the wedding was not to take place overseas.

The wedding should be in California, Leo said. In California, more people would come.

At least Eisner was undeniably magnificent, with acres of meticulously attended gardens. A popular historical drama had been filmed on-site, the protagonist galloping up on his polo pony to be met by an umbrella-wielding servant (this always fascinated Julia about Americans, how prideful they were about their democracy while worshipping those who lived like kings). She stood now on the second floor of the same mansion as a seamstress buttoned her into the gown (Ralph & Russo, she’d spent a boatload, and now felt as if she might keel over from the weight of the beading). ‘You’re doing a wonderful job,’ she said to the girl, who appeared thrilled to have received such praise from Julia herself.

Holding her train, taking tiny steps, Julia looked out the window at the view below. The food was circulating, which was good; she’d requested the hors d’oeuvres begin as soon as the first guests arrived. Julia hated parties where the food was served late, the hostess (it was always a hostess) entering triumphantly to the pent-up demand, like a captor doling out warm showers to a pack of hostages with Stockholm syndrome. She scanned the crowd. It appeared most of the two hundred were already here. There was Alan Mark, a Microsoft executive who frequently announced he had no interest in being Tangerine’s next CEO, which meant only that he did. Then there was Pierre himself, with his new girlfriend (despite the Caribbean wedding, the bride herself had not stuck); clearly Pierre was going through one of his Japan-worshipping phases again. His date, in one of those tacky jersey dresses cut to the navel, tossed her black hair and laughingly cajoled Pierre to take a selfie. At the last second, with expert agility, Pierre pulled away, said hi to someone just out of the camera’s reach.

Finally, Julia sighted him. Leo, in a charcoal suit, in the shade by Rebecca Mosley, the wife of a Tangerine board member. Rebecca was one of those older intellectual housewives with something to prove – who, whenever she encountered Julia, liked to pose all sorts of middling questions on Russia, as if it were not a global power with twice America’s landmass but rather one of those minor landlocked countries with a hilarious McDonald’s menu. Chances were she was subjecting Leo to the same abuse, since he was here as Julia’s ‘uncle’ – poor Julia, with no other living family to speak of, and represented solely by this humble, well-formed former water bureau manager. How was he finding the first world, Rebecca was likely pressing, did he love California? Wasn’t it nice here, because as everyone knew, Russia was so cold, all the time?

Though Julia did, in fact, love California. Imagine if they’d sent her to one of those other states – and she knew the SPB occasionally did do this, seeding assets to small politicians, hoping they might one day become big ones. What would she be doing then? Attending the openings of car dealerships, frying chicken nuggets, falling asleep in church. Shopping on the weekends for wooden plaques to hang on her wall: The Conner Family, Est. 2011!

The wedding planner was back in the room. ‘Are you excited?’ Libby Rosenberg was one of those competent former sorority girls Julia liked to hire into marketing. Though Libby had been clipping between the gardens in a full suit, her makeup was still perfectly matte. ‘I’m getting excited.’

‘Of course.’

‘You eat? You should have something in your stomach before you go out. Michael, why doesn’t Julia have a plate? It’s her food, you know.’

She’s right, Julia thought. It is my food. I’m the one paying for it. And then she returned to the window, to enjoy the view a while longer.

of course, julia wasn’t foolish enough to believe she’d achieved everything on her own merit. There was help, especially in the beginning. Arriving at her depressive studio in San Carlos, initially stunned by the strip malls and sheer ugliness of the place, only to visit Stanford University days later and fall in love, because here – amid the Romanesque architecture and towering palms and lopsided wealth – was the California of her dreams. A PhD candidate in electrical engineering, she’d been set up with Kurt Marshall, described by Leo as a ‘friendly’ professor, who proceeded to match her with another ‘accommodating’ company, at which the ancient Marshall was paid a quarter million a year as an advisor. The company sponsored her visa, no one in Immigration Services curious why a small business repackaging USB keys was navigating the hurdles of an H1-B for an analyst; she’d worked there a year before Leo returned to California and presented her with a laptop. ‘Now you go fundraise.’

She stroked the machine, chunky and metallic. ‘What is it?’

‘Facial recognition software. I assume you still recall enough of your studies to give a convincing demo. I made up the working name, VisionMatch, but change it if you like. It’s your company.’

She disliked the name but sensed he was proud of his creative output. ‘Face recognition?’

‘Properly deployed, it can match each face in a crowd of thousands in seconds. Such technology has also been on the SPB’s wish list. So why not multitask?’ He laughed.

‘Where did you get it?’

He named an American technology giant, the sort that sponsored stadiums.

‘And they won’t realize we took it?’ Julia was surprised that such a thing could be lifted without consequence. At the institute, if someone stole even an apple, blood was drawn, the accumulation and tracking of possessions being of chief interest among the residents.

‘These companies have so much, they probably won’t ever use it. It’s not their chief business, only one of hundreds of side projects. Something to remember about America: waste is part of their culture.’

Just a year after she launched VisionMatch, Tangerine – the social network already frequented by half of all Americans – came to call. Pierre Roy, who’d started as a freshman at Waterloo at fifteen, had at one point, due to his semi-dreamy looks and a habit of grandiose announcements, been referred to in the press as the ‘Frat Genius.’ A nickname Pierre hated, because he thought it undercut the fact that he really was, you know, a genius. By twenty-eight, he’d built Tangerine to deca-unicorn status and no longer cared what the media said. He held 88 percent of the outstanding voting shares and was thus not subject to the hedging and consensus building of lesser entrepreneurs; he made brash declarations and dated a string of minor actresses and very good-looking academics. Pierre wanted VisionMatch’s facial identification software – Tangerine could do it in-house, he informed Julia, but this was just easier.

‘There’s another company that’s got something similar, you know,’ Pierre murmured during their closing dinner at Alexander’s. Bankers on both sides, ordering the A5 Wagyu because they could. ‘But the company’s one of those big bad corporations, so they’d never give it to me. Hopefully yours is as good.’

Oh oh oh, Julia thought. You have no idea.

And now she was chief operating officer of Tangerine, second only to Pierre. Total comp last fiscal year: $39 million.

Julia knew she had a reputation – what was her latest nickname? It used to be the Sweetheart of Silicon Valley, but that was when she was doing the stuff that embarrassed her to think of now: baking cookies for reporters, giving interviews on her twelve-step skin-care routine. While publicly railing against gender inequality, she’d quietly torched the path of any rising female at Tangerine, the same as any man would have done to his own competition. As Tangerine’s user count continued to explode, journalists sought a female executive to quote – please, any woman! And then they found Julia, her finger in the dam just in time, before male hubris overflowed and drowned them all…

She looked back out at the crowd. She could sense Libby hovering behind, waiting to speak.

Leo had separated himself from Rebecca and was now by the bar, his face tilted at the windows.

Julia waved and blew him a kiss, and he tapped a finger against his watch. Don’t waste time.

She turned to the room, to the assistants, the planner. Weeks later each would receive a handwritten note thanking them for their contribution. In the room were no bridesmaids, no sisters clutching at modest bouquets.

‘I’m ready,’ she said.

the next afternoon, julia sat with Leo.

The wedding had been lovely, of course. Lovely, charming, inspiring – Julia’s frequently deployed descriptors, used for everything from baby showers to politicians. Her nuptials conducted beneath two willows, the pool’s midafternoon reflection casting a gleam. The party afterward, the dinner, the dancing (Julia hated dancing), the fireworks, which she’d watched with utter joy, tracking the arc of each light as it shattered in the sky.

It’d been a month since she and Leo last met. A year earlier, when Leo announced he was moving, Julia was alarmed. She’d not wanted a local handler, one available to observe at close range the vast perks of being free and rich in California. But since his arrival, Leo had mostly left her alone. Their meetings were brief, quiet lunches at her house or empty restaurants, as she passed interesting gossip.