Chapter 38
Dee pressed her ear against the wall dividing one conference room from another at Topnotch Resort and listened as her Studio Managers trickled in, grabbing apples and FitFams-branded bottled waters and chatting as they checked the seating chart. On each of the eight round tables was a stand-up card with a name like “Dreamer” or “Self Love” and a black-and-white image of Dee from a recent Vanity Fair shoot with Annie Leibowitz at the top of the Huayna Picchu “Stairs of Death” in Peru.
Dee moved to peek through a crack in the dividing wall and took in the faces, bodies, stretch pants, and movements of the 56 Studio Managers in the Summit Room. She knew all of their names, their basic back-stories, and the revenue-generating potential each person represented. Anything else she needed to know, she believed she could intuit — she was online-certified in “Workplace Physiognomy,” the practice of assessing a person’s character from their appearance — or suss out during the drinking and sharing portions of the weekend.
Her eyes landed on Dana, freckle-faced with wild, curly, blonde hair piled in bun on the top of her head, nervously sizing up the others as if she thought she might have to fight them to the death in the Hunger Games. There was Sasha, with her porcelain skin and shiny black, shoulder-length hair, now slouching in her chair, not talking to anyone, clearly texting her friends at home about how stupid and woo-woo and new age this weekend was going to be. There was Camilla, a brunette with carefully crafted waves falling to her shoulders, who sat ramrod straight on the edge of her chair, facing the front of the room — an obvious teacher’s pet, ready to shoot her hand up first when the class was asked a question. And then there was Lizzie, another brunette but with a pixie cut, who was biting her nails and bobbing her knee and likely wishing she’d put a nicotine patch on her butt before showing up in this room.
Then Dee’s eyes landed on a blonde who seemed to be telling a funny story to her tablemates, then listening closely as the woman next to her prattled on about … was it shoplifting? Or shock treatments? Or shoe racks? Dee wasn’t sure; she still had a few more modules to complete in her online “Lip Reading for CEOs” course. The blonde was nodding along, turning to include others in the conversation, drawing attention but not in an ostentatious way, using body language that indicated she was friendly, open-minded, and someone who could be trusted to lead.
Interesting, Dee thought. And then the woman’s name popped to mind: Willa, from Atlanta. That’s right.
For a brief second Dee wondered whether she ought to be threatened by Willa’s poise and confidence, then laughed at herself for entertaining such a ridiculous notion.
Shaman Jeff came to stand beside Dee at the partition and placed a hand on her shoulder. After getting fired from his lucrative career as a stock broker, he’d developed ulcerative colitis and a conscience, so went on a medical and spiritual retreat in Bali to examine both. While there he became convinced that a special and almost unpalatable mix of ashwaganda, storax, dragonwort, beet root, and Metamucil could cure physical ills and bring about spiritual enlightenment. So when he returned to New York City, he began concocting and selling the mixes and became known as a shaman. He was also Dee’s second cousin — and his powders and smoothies kept her regular, which meant fewer trips to the colonic clinic — so she gave him her seal of approval on social media and brought him on as FitFams’ Spiritual Advisor.
Today he was barefoot, wearing a Jesus-like white robe, a vest made of rib bones of unidentifiable origin, and a metal helmet with four antlers, each pointing in one of the four cardinal directions. He pushed the partition open just enough to slip through, then heel-toed slowly to the front and center of the room, his hands clasped in prayer, his eyes closed until he banged his knee into a large decorative pot.
There were several reasons Dee didn’t join the group for the guided visualization session, or for the first team dinner. She knew the Studio Managers were waiting to see her, and she liked to build anticipation. It was important that they strive, even compete, for her approval and attention. She didn’t want to be accessible; she wanted to be aspirational. She never wanted her people to become comfortable, complacent. She liked to keep them just a little off-balance.
That’s why she showed up to the Summit Room at 7:30 p.m., a half-hour after the Studio Managers had begun their drinking games, just in time to insert herself into a team for a round of flip cup.
“Alright, let’s do this,” Dee said, fist-bumping the stunned Studio Managers on her team and casting a smile to the group of four set up across the table. Did one of them gasp? Dee loved this, loved it when people gave her ego a deep-tissue massage. She also loved knowing that her employees were silently calculating whether they should try their hardest or let Dee’s team win.
One red Solo cup, filled with beer, sat in front of each person at the table. Tara, playing DJ, cued up Doja Cat’s “Say So” and Dee yelled, “3-2-1, go!”
She and the person directly across from her grabbed their cups and slammed back their beers as fast as they could, then overturned the cups on the table with the lip hanging just over the edge. With two fingers, the Studio Manager across from Dee tried again and again to flip her cup back upright. But with extra long, Kylie Jenner-style fingernails, Petra was no match. Dee flipped her cup on the first try.
The teams continued to battle it out, one leading, then the other, until it came down to the last players. They grabbed their beers at the same time.
Dee’s teammate — Eleni, a Connecticut manager with a lavender-platinum fashion mullet, pale blue eyes, and strong shoulders — chugged her drink, wiped her mouth, overturned the cup, and set to flipping it. Teams from other tables paused their games to come watch. Eleni flipped once, twice, three times, four times. The cup would bounce or skitter but it would not land upright. Dee could see sweat starting to bead at Eleni’s hairline. Her competitor was having similar difficulty, but with better form, so it looked like she was going to win.
Everyone knew that Dee did not like to lose. She stared hard at Eleni, and the buzz of alcohol and happiness seemed to evaporate from the room. The players flipped and flipped, but no one was looking at them — all eyes were on Dee. What would she do? What would she say?
Dee took a small step closer to Eleni, who shot a scared glance at the boss.
“I’m usually so good at this game,” Eleni pleaded, sweat now on her upper lip.
Dee crossed her arms. She could sense that everyone around her was holding their breath. This was an important moment. Dee had the power to break this woman down or build her up. Show mercy or cruelty. Make her feel like a star, or feel like shit.
“Eleni,” Dee said, close to her ear. “Listen to me.”
“OK,” Eleni peeped.
“You got this. I know you do. I hired you because I believe in you,” Dee said. “You’re special. You’re like me. And I’m a winner. So are you. You can do this. Now do it.”
Eleni turned to look at Dee and visibly swallowed. Then she gritted her teeth, turned to her cup, and flipped it upright.
And the crowd went wild.