A Special Place for Women

by Laura Hankin

“Do you have something to say to me?” a voice asked, close to my ear.

  “Shit!” I yelped, jumping back. A woman, a few years younger than me, wearing a leather jacket and a sundress, had appeared behind me. She tapped at her phone with a look of disinterest on her face.

  “Um,” I said, swallowing, and she glanced up. “Persist?”

  She stared at me for a moment more. “I’m going to need your phone.”

  “Why?”

  She gave me a look of disdain. “Why do you think?” Either this was the most complicated stickup in history, or they didn’t trust me not to take pictures, which was smart of them, because that was absolutely what I’d been planning to do. The woman rolled her eyes. “I know we’re all addicted, but don’t freak out, you’ll get it back at the end of the night.” I turned my phone off and handed it over to her. “Do you have any other cameras or recording devices for any reason?” I shook my head. She pulled something out of her pocket: a blindfold, silky and black. “Okay, now do I have your consent to put this on you?”

  “Kinky,” I said, waggling my eyebrows. She didn’t laugh. I cleared my throat. “Sure. Yeah, go for it.”

  She slipped the cloth over my eyes, knotting it tightly behind my head, her movements perfunctory as if she did this every couple of weeks, like laundry. Maybe this was a duty that the younger, less impressive members performed to work their way up. Or maybe, I thought, as the world disappeared from my view, maybe the members of Nevertheless knew exactly what I was up to, and they’d sent this emissary to lead me to some abandoned warehouse along the highway. She’d tell me to wait and leave me there until I realized, hours later, that no one was coming for me. Maybe I wasn’t Tom Cruise at all, but Extra #3, whose adventure ended before it began, without any fanfare at all.

  The woman gripped my shoulders, then spun me around a few times like we were about to play a very intense game of pin the tail on the donkey. She placed a hand on my back and began guiding me down the street. With my sense of sight gone, I would simply heighten my other senses to figure out where we were going, like a bat! Taking a deep breath in from my nose, I got a real strong whiff of old street piss. Okay, I would simply trust my guide to lead me without pushing me into traffic or a storm drain.

  A rumble of drunken laughter grew closer. “What’s with the blindfold?” a man asked, his words a little slurry. From the sound of it, he was traveling in a pack of bros.

  “Oh my God,” my chaperone answered, her voice turned girlish, bubblegum. “We’re doing a scavenger hunt for her bachelorette party!”

  The guys whistled and whooped. One of them shouted, “If one of the things you’re hunting for is your last one-night stand, Chad is up for it!”

  “Thanks, but not in a million years,” I said.

  My chaperone giggled. “You guys are so bad!” And then, as the pack drifted off, leaving a cloud of Axe body spray in their wake, she said in a low tone stripped of any sweetness at all, “Assholes. And not even attractive ones.”

  “I didn’t miss my chance to have Chad rock my world?” I said as I tried to keep track of when and which way we were turning.

  “No. Seemed like the kind of man who pumps away for a minute and then falls asleep.”

  “Nice,” I said. “That’s what I’m looking for in a guy: someone who has never gone down on a woman in his life.” She laughed, in spite of herself. Maybe she wouldn’t leave me in an abandoned warehouse after all.

  After a few more minutes, we paused, and I sensed her looking up and down the street. I couldn’t tell if we’d gone four or five blocks, or just around in circles. Then, a buzzing noise sounded. She swung open a heavy door and pushed me inside. The noises of the outside world stopped as soon as the door swung closed again—no car horns, no conversation. Just a low hum, a faint buzzing in my ears, like when you’re congested, and then elevator gears creaking, a soft ding, and doors sliding open.

  We rode up without saying anything. The doors opened again. And suddenly, the silent world exploded into chatter and warmth. “Ooh, a trial,” someone said as my guide undid the blindfold, and I saw the inside of the Nevertheless clubhouse for the first time.

  Imagine if a West Elm showroom and Anthropologie made a baby at the Women’s March. That was the room before me: a little kitschy, very color-coordinated, in shades of pale blues and peach, with girl-power slogans everywhere. A bunch of lights spelling out nasty women adorned one wall. i’m ovar(y) the patriarchy, read another large sign, in cursive wire letters. God, if they had brought down Nicole Woo-Martin, I hated them all with a fiery passion. These beautiful, dangerous hypocrites, putting up signs with one hand while desperately clutching their money with the other. Maybe they’d all plotted Nicole’s downfall in this very clubhouse, talking about how she’d gotten a little too progressive in the glow from the nasty women novelty lights.

  I swallowed my anger and kept scanning the room. Anywhere there wasn’t a slogan, there was a plant—succulents, ferns, vases of fresh flowers scattered all around—and yet despite this profusion of greenery and girl power, the whole space maintained a clean, clutter-free feeling. A door off to the right was marked with a sign reading powder room. There were two other unmarked doors off to the left.

  The room could hold maybe one hundred women comfortably. On this particular night, about forty of them, mostly white, floated around, sipping champagne or fizzy water in a trendy pink can that I’d never seen before. Some of them were dressed in their business casual from a day in the office—their feet in high heels, their pencil skirts perfectly tailored. Others wore artsier, cooler fare: oversize shirts and high-waisted shorts, flowing flower-print dresses. Some paid me no mind, engrossed as they were in their networking or gossiping. But others turned and smiled at me warmly. I stared at this wonderland of women. And then Margot pushed her way through the crowd.

  “Thank you, Yael,” she said to the woman who had brought me in. Then she threw an arm around my shoulder and turned to the crowd. “This is Jillian, everyone! She’s a budding literary star.” She hugged me and said, thrillingly close to my ear, “Glad you could make it.”

  “I’m excited to be here.” I gave a thumbs-up, then regretted it.

  “You’re just in time,” she said. “We’re doing a special workshop.”

  All the women began assembling on couches or poufs, facing an open space by the windows where two wingback chairs had been set up. “Hey, witches!” one woman in a blazer said, waving to her friends. “Over here.”

  A couple of other women passed me and Margot. “No, the best psychic I’ve gone to is out in Astoria. I’m telling you, she actually makes it worthwhile to go to Queens. I’ll get you her card,” one of them was saying.

  “That would be amazing,” said her companion. “It’s like I can literally feel my aura getting cloudier and cloudier. I swear my boyfriend’s ex put a curse on me.”

  “Wow,” I said to Margot, “people are really into your coven of witches joke, huh?” It had gotten popular for women to call themselves witches, to harness the danger and excitement of the term in order to assert some power. I didn’t quite get it, but apparently it had struck a chord and gone commercial: I’d seen the books at Barnes & Noble, called things like A Witch’s Guide to Smashing the Patriarchy or Spells for the Badass Witch. But in this gleaming clubhouse, the attempt to conjure some kind of magic seemed hopelessly awkward.

  Margot pursed her lips. “I make one joke, one time,” she said. “And suddenly we’re overrun with cosplayers.” Her annoyance surprised me. Proclaiming oneself a witch didn’t seem all that different from getting into astrology. Both were ways for women to distract themselves with some illusion of control. I would’ve expected Margot to smile benevolently upon talk of hexes and spells, but it seemed that was a bridge too far, even for her.

  She caught me looking at her and shook her head. “I don’t mind it that much, but it bothers Ca
roline. It’s ‘unserious.’ And I’d rather not bother Caroline right now.”

  Interesting. Some tension between them, perhaps? “Well, then,” I said. “Good thing I left my cauldron at home.”

  She smiled. “Anyway, think of yourself as our guest for the night and grab a seat. Yael will escort you out again at the end of it all.”

  I picked my way over to a long leather couch and sat myself next to two women who were discussing an upcoming IPO for a popular tech start-up. I had nothing to add to that conversation, so I folded my hands on my lap. Since I couldn’t exactly pull out my notebook and scribble everything down, I recited the details in my mind, committing them to memory while trying to appear relaxed. Like I belonged.

  The problem was that I wasn’t calm at all. There was something strange and thrilling about being in a room—a full, bustling room—of only women. I knew how Margot and her ilk might describe it in a promotional brochure, not that they would ever make such a thing: a paradise where you could spend time with interesting, successful women without having to worry about some asshole mansplaining or hitting on you.

  But that particular kind of paradise brought its own set of complications. I throbbed with adrenaline, wanting in spite of myself to impress and ingratiate even more than I might have if men were around. The air seemed full of possibility. Certain worries evaporated (was I attractive enough to be wanted, but not attractive enough to be harassed?). New ones rushed in to take their place (was I interesting enough, warm enough, strong enough, full enough?).

  I tried to figure out how old everyone else in this room was. I’d recently become obsessed with age. Every few minutes, men think about sex. Every few minutes, I thought about how old various women I admired were when they’d made their mark on the world. Whenever I enjoyed a piece of writing by a woman, I immediately Googled the year she was born. Each time I found out that some girl had published her first New York Times article at age twenty-six, I wanted to stab myself in the heart with the nearest sharp object and bleed out like the useless old crone I was. How dare these children simply charge forward straight out of college with a clarity of purpose and zero learning curve? I mean, I was happy for them, but how dare they? I’d started living in fear of the annual Forbes 30 Under 30 list. Unlike sex, age was not a fun obsession to have, since I couldn’t do anything about it. (Not that I could do anything about sex either lately. My vagina had hung out a closed for business sign and wanted to take it down only for the most inconvenient man.)

  The accomplished, accepted women around me ranged from around twenty-five to thirty-five, although they all glowed with the same good health that came from expensive skincare regimens.

  “Hey, newbie, you don’t have a drink!” a woman said, parking herself in front of me. “Could I interest you in some artisanal bubbly water from a female-founded company? Free samples tonight, but normally, for each case of it sold here in the U.S., one case gets sent over to dehydrated girls in Africa!” She beamed at me and wiggled one of the trendy, unfamiliar cans I’d seen earlier. She was curvy, with a hint of Southern twang in her voice, and she had one of those smiles that managed to be both entirely transformative and a little bit nervous at the same time. It took over her whole face, creasing and dimpling her cheeks, but her eyes held a hint of terror. As if she’d been one of the unpopular girls in high school, and she didn’t want anyone in her new life to find out. It was endearing, in a way. I wanted to tell her not to worry. Of the two of us, I had the far more damaging secret.

  “Oh, uh, sure,” I said, and reached out for the can. Fizzi, it read on the front in a curving script, with a pretty swirling design. I turned the can to see a map of Africa, and a long block of text explaining the mission, written in a minuscule font but still dominating the entire length of the can. “Thanks so much.”

  “Of course!” she said, and wedged herself in next to me on the couch, staring at me expectantly. “Go ahead, give it a try. I love watching people take their first sips of it.” Off my look, she smacked herself jokingly on the forehead. “Oh, d’oy! I’m not just, like, an obsessive water fan. I started the company!”

  I cracked the can open and took a sip. “Mm,” I said. It tasted like seltzer. “Refreshing.”

  “Thank you! I really think so too.” She sat back and sighed with satisfaction. “It was so nice of them to let me bring in samples tonight. This is what I hoped it would be like, you know? Women helping other women! I just got invited for the first time a month ago, so I guess I’m a newbie too, although it’s such a warm and amazing community that it feels like I’ve belonged here my whole life!” She smacked her forehead again. She was going to give herself a concussion if she kept that up. “Oh, I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Libby.”

  “Jillian,” I said. “Are you still a trial member?”

  Libby beamed. “Oh no, I’m official!”

  “Hey, congrats,” I said. “So how many times do they blindfold you to bring you in? Not that I don’t like being blindfolded, but, you know.”

  Libby puffed up, excited to have the inside scoop. “Only the first few times, until you’ve passed the tests and they’ve decided that they can really trust you. That’s when you sign the contract and the nondisparagement agreement—” Shit, was I going to have to sign something that prohibited me from fully writing about them? Would they sue me if I did? They were so good at keeping things secret, I should’ve realized that they’d have legal protection in place. Nondisparagement I could maybe deal with, as long as it wasn’t a nondisclosure. I needed to talk to Miles about all of this, ASAP. Libby kept chattering. “—And start paying dues. Which, honestly, five hundred bucks a month is such a steal for this! Then they give you the address and you’re allowed to come whenever you want! Well, not whenever—the clubhouse closes at eleven p.m., unless they’ve got some special event going on.”

  “Got it,” I said. “And wait, when you said you have to pass their tests, you meant metaphorically, right? There aren’t actual tests—”

  “Ooh,” Libby gasped, grabbing my arm. “Speaking of special events, this one is going to be so good!”

  The women in the room all snapped to attention as Caroline emerged from one of the unmarked doors. Aha, that one must have led to a greenroom or an office of some kind. I wondered what the other one led to. Maybe a maintenance closet.

  Caroline wore a plaid miniskirt, into which she’d tucked a ribbed white turtleneck. How did she get her shirt to stay tucked so neatly? Maybe good posture had something to do with it. Caroline stood up ramrod straight. She smiled at the crowd before her, ready to present, like the type of friend you’d want to give the big toast at your wedding because she would keep strictly to the time limit. Still, though, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was some kind of charisma void. She’d keep to the time limit, but she wouldn’t make your wedding guests laugh. That Vogue article had implied that Caroline wanted to run for office someday, but she’d be so much better as someone’s chief of staff. “Hello, ladies. I don’t think I have to tell you how excited I am for tonight’s guest.”

  “Tell us anyway!” someone in the crowd shouted.

  “Okay, I’m so excited!” Caroline said. She held up a hand and began ticking things off on her fingers. “Just a few of the incredible facts about her: she’s been called ‘the Sheryl Sandberg of Enterprise Information Systems Technology,’ she’s made the Time 100 Most Influential People list six years running, and oh yeah . . .” She affected a blasé face for a moment, then continued, “She just officially became a billionaire!” Some of the women in the crowd whooped. I did not understand the hard-on that people had for billionaires. Being that rich was just a form of hoarding, but instead of collecting old newspapers and dead cats, you were piling up money you could never use. I wouldn’t even know how to spend more than $15 million. Well, okay, no, I lived in New York City. I could probably spend $20 million if I had to. But not a penny mor
e. “Here to talk to us about closing the wage gap, and how to ask for what you’re worth, please welcome Louise Boltstein!”

  The women applauded, with a few even standing up to cheer, as a businesswoman in her fifties walked out from the door. Louise Boltstein was sleek, with a blond bob and an incredibly subtle plastic surgeon. I’d seen her in the news occasionally. She’d testified at some hearing on Capitol Hill, where she’d shut down the ultraconservative senator who was asking her questions. Also, she was friendly with Oprah. She walked over to Caroline, money and power swirling around her in the air like dust motes, and they exchanged kisses on the cheek. Then they took their seats and leaned forward to have an Important Conversation.

  “Thank you for having me,” Louise said. “My daughter is jealous that I get to be here right now.”

  “Oh please, it is such an honor,” Caroline said.

  “This is amazing,” my new friend Libby whispered to me. “Louise is like the ultimate girlboss!”

  “I have to tell you,” Caroline said, “that when I was in college, I had a picture of you hanging on my wall of inspiration, right in between Katie Couric and Madeleine Albright.” Louise laughed like she heard those kinds of stories all the time. “So maybe it’s a little embarrassing, but I’m not ashamed to say that I fangirled when you agreed to talk to us.” Caroline would be the type of woman to reclaim embarrassment, to turn an accidental fart in the middle of a work presentation into an opportunity for an earnest speech about how yes, women had gas! And they should celebrate that, because until men saw women as equals in all ways, including bodily functions, we’d never reach true parity!

  “Now,” Caroline said to Louise. “You’re here to give us all some guidance on what we can do about the ever-stubborn wage gap.”

  “That’s right,” Louise said, and looked out at the crowd. “There aren’t that many female billionaires, and I need some of you to join me so I don’t get lonely!” The crowd gave an appreciative chuckle. “But seriously, for years, I failed to reach my earnings potential because I never asked my male colleagues what they were making. And then one day I learned that I had been settling for thousands less even though I was just as, if not more, qualified.”