It made Mike laugh out loud, because she sounded like an angry eight-year-old. “Joanie, I’m kind of busy and haven’t really—”
“The board needs to meet with you. Immediately.”
He’d been expecting this. “I see,” he said. “And when and where?”
“They’re in your office right now.”
“The board?”
“Yes, every single member. They’re sitting here. I’ve given them coffee, I’ve given them doughnuts, I’ve given them pretty much everything I can but they want you, not me. Not fried dough. Not more lattes. Get in here now.”
“You…I don’t appreciate…”
“I don’t appreciate, Mr. Bournham,” she sighed, “being lied to.”
The click took him completely off guard and he sat in his apartment, sweatpants and an old ratty t-shirt on. He’d just played a basketball marathon to drive himself into the ground. Jeremy had obliged. And now he dragged himself into the shower, knowing already what he was about to face. If they’d been waiting this long, they could at least let him get clean. Could at least let him come clean in order to get whatever answers they wanted.
As the hot water hit him, it wasn’t the balm that he had been expecting. Instead, it felt like porcupine pinpricks all over his neck and shoulders, bunching with tension. The past two days had been close to the worst of his life. The hardest part was not the exposure, not the endless mocking, not even having Diane claim responsibility after, unfortunately, Lydia’s name began to seep out. But instead, the hardest part had been twofold. Having Lydia leave, and realizing just how much he had lost himself. That was worse.
In preparation for what he assumed he would walk into in a few hours, the past couple of days had been a flurry of activity for him. It was refreshing. As he soaped up he thought about everything he had done in the past two days. He had cashed out a bunch of stocks in other companies, careful not to trigger an FCC violation. There were no subsidiaries of Bournham Industries that were public. He had some privately owned vestments that he was able to sell off, and some publicly owned stock that had nothing to do with what was about to happen with his own company.
He knew that the scandal meant that the IPO would be tabled, and that would slow down the amount of money that various investors—him most of all—would make going public with Bournham. He put his Cape Cod house on the market, sold his second car—on Craigslist of all places; who knew how easy that would be?—and found himself tying up loose ends. Putting all his bills on auto-pay, calling his accountant to talk about financial realities, and giving his mom a heads-up that she could expect a visit soon. It felt good, it felt grounded, and it felt more like being Mike and not Michael Bournham.
The press had had an absolute field day with that viral video. It made The Daily Show, unfortunately hitting the news cycle just in time, and Jon Stewart had taken Mike’s signature phrase “Bespoke or be nak*d” and turned it into “Be at the office and be nak*d,” among other vagaries. He had portions of that video appear on Jimmy Fallon, on Jimmy Kimmel, on pretty much any comic show with a host named Jimmy. In many ways, the widespread appearance inoculated him. He became dead to it—the horror of seeing her beautiful, luscious, nak*d ass displayed for billions to watch at the push of a button dissipated slowly as it seeped in that one very private, very passionate moment had become an object of ridicule and scorn and voyeurism for all the world to see because he had put his ambition ahead of everything else.
When Diane had stepped forward to take the heat, it had been the best laugh he’d had in days. She’d emailed him right after he saw her on some talk show, going on about how they’d had this torrid affair and he’d called her at the office and needed her desperately that moment. Her email simply said This is getting me a show on the same network as the Kardashians ;).
More power to her, man, if that’s what she wanted. He was grateful, in fact, for her slimy need for her fifteen minutes of overstretched fame, because it took the heat off Lydia. Their coloring was just similar enough—although, as Diane mentioned in her email, My ass isn’t that big. Is there any way you can get someone to Photoshop that? And he had just lost it. No reply, no need to. She was so self-absorbed she wouldn’t notice his absence. He was glad to be of service, though. At least he’d met the needs of one woman in his life, no matter how convoluted the mess had become.
Shower over, he threw on what he suspected would be the last business suit he’d wear in quite a long time, and caught his face in the mirror. He had shaved his head, his hair so damaged from the dye jobs that he’d been told the best approach would be to just get rid of all of it and let it grow in naturally. What stared back at him was an angular, very intense face. His blue eyes cold and alive all at once, the sharp, angular cheekbones so Nordic he could almost see Asgard. His face looked gaunt, hollow, angry, and the mouth that tried to smile as he worked to prop himself up just couldn’t.
He was not defeated, but rather more sanguine. Ready to accept whatever was coming. Already manipulating his future in his own way, by his own accord, tapping into whatever authenticity remained buried deep within, untouched by blind ambition or nak*d greed. “Bespoke or be nak*d” had come to take on a completely different meaning lately. What he’d meant when he coined that stupid term was just that he would wear hand-tailored clothes or nothing at all. And yet, the idea resonated on other levels now. Handcraft your life, make your own choices, go where you want to go—or do nothing. Accept no less.
On yet another level, it was more ‘bespoke and be nak*d.” Do both. Reveal who you really are instead of living the shell that everyone wants you to be. Pretty and perfect on the outside, conforming and obeying whatever you’re told. As Mike rode the elevator down to his car, Dom somehow magically present and ready to take him, he climbed in, said “hello,” and as the limo pulled away, he suddenly knew exactly what to do next.
Entering the room, Mike decided that he would take control before they did. It was simple. Two words. “I resign.” The looks of shock were strangely appealing; it was what he needed to be in control. Not in control of a company, not in control of a billion dollars, which he was walking away from. The minute that video hit the public, his billion-dollar dream was gone.
What was laughable was how much it just didn’t matter anymore.
As these old, largely white men, judged him, he could see the anger on their faces. It had morphed from fury that the IPO had been possibly jeopardized by his animal instincts into fury that he had taken their trump card away. They thought they could manipulate him, could turn him into a puppet, could make him do this and that and the other.
Michael Bournham wasn’t going to let them make him do anything.
Thomas Stoughton, the chair of the board of directors, stood. He’d known Mike his entire life. This was a guy that his father, Joe, hadn’t enjoyed doing business with, but a well connected, thoroughly enmeshed, and very powerful businessman in New England. “Is that your decision, Mike?”
“I don’t need to say it twice, Tom.”
Tom nodded, glasses slipping down his nose. He pushed them back up, took a deep breath, looked around the large oval table at the other members, and said, “Then it’s done and we have no more business here. Mike, you’ll leave with whatever the terms of your contract state. I’m assuming you’re not going to put up a fight.”
Mike smiled a close-mouthed grin. He hadn’t even thought about that. The old Mike would have. The authentic Mike just didn’t care. “Whatever the terms are, whatever makes this happen as fast as possible.”
Tom nodded. Everyone else was mute, completely taken off guard by this. Mike wanted to wrap it up in thirty seconds so whatever Tom had to say he better say it fast. “And your PR statement?”
“I will simply state that I’ve resigned, that I have the best interests of Bournham Industries at heart—and that’s it. No more comments.”
“Fair enough.” One of the board members muttered into the ear of another, but Mike didn’t care what they were saying. He was so close to freedom. He was so close to walking away from every single thing that he had thought was important over the past ten years, and it felt fabulous. His hands clenched into fists as he watched people try to decide what to do, what to say, how to handle this.
Mike decided that he’d help them by taking care of it himself. “Gentleman. Ladies.” There were two on the board of directors. “Good day. Thank you and I hope the IPO goes smoothly. When it does, I will remain an investor in the company—obviously, not a majority investor, not even a majority minority investor—but I will remain an avid, involved stockholder.” He made eye contact with every single person in the room, holding the look steady until it became uncomfortable. Until, for them, it became unbearable. For him it was as if he derived power, recharged his batteries – took control again. Whatever that reality TV series had sucked out of him, this…this moment gave it back. Letting go of control in order to gain it. This is what he had needed for far too long and had denied himself.
He turned on his heel, marched out into the hallway, and by the time he reached the elevator his tie was off, his jacket over his forearm, and he was ready to call Jeremy and play more basketball.
“I have a huge favor to ask.” Mike was wavering inside until the words were spoken. He could keep this to himself, could try to maintain as much control as possible over an impossible situation. There was absolutely nothing he could do right now about what had happened with Lydia. She had ignored every email, text message, and voicemail. All he knew was that she accepted the job in Iceland. That was it. Mike had to resort to using Jeremy as a conduit. It was a last-ditch effort and it would probably blow up in his face—like everything else he tried in his life lately. But it was an effort he couldn’t skip. This was the only way he could think to make sure that in the end that Lydia would be okay.
His apartment seemed smaller somehow, even though he had gotten rid of so much. An uncluttered space to begin with, it now had almost an echo, with knick-knacks, photos, books and other small pieces of his life either packed away or given to charity. Why the room seemed small mystified him. It should seem cavernous and empty, echoing and done. Perhaps Jeremy’s presence, his tall, looming figure, a great big giant of a man, made it seem tiny. But the semi-claustrophobic feeling may have just been self-generated, his mind playing tricks on him as he struggled with losing the love of his life.
“You want me to what?” Jeremy’s face looked back at him with a pensive, startled expression. Then he raised his eyebrows, cocked his head, and said, “You want me to go after Lydia?”
“No.” Mike shook his head. “I want you to follow her.” He frowned. “Even that sounds creepy. That’s not what I mean.”
“You want me to protect her? Wouldn’t Dom be better at that? He, you know, looks like something out of The Sopranos and probably has a few hits under his belt, so he could take on anybody that tried to hurt her.”