Page 2 of That Fake Feeling

Hepunches his space bar.

Thebreakfast-chewing noises stop, and the tension in the room is suddenly as tight as an over-inflated balloon.

Iopen my eyes to see the graph has been replaced by a photo montage.

Ofme.

Picturesof me leaving bars and clubs all overNewYorkCityin the wee hours flash before me.Somebleary-eyed, one with my shirt fully open, another with a bottle ofJackDanielsin one hand and a bent cigarette in the other.Photoafter photo flicks by showing me in various states of dishevelment, many with my arm around women dressed in short, tight, strappy dresses.Neverthe same woman twice.

They’refollowed by screenshots of headlines from gossip columns and entertainment news sites.

ToyBossOnTheTownWithAnotherMysteryBlonde.

GameForAnything:BigBrainBillionaireIsLessThanAClassAct.

SavedByTheBelle:Who’sTheLadyPouringConnorDashwoodIntoACab?

Andnow we’re onto videos.

Igive the person filming me the finger asIlean on one of the guys from the bar and we push through a crowd to get to our taxi.

Ona different night—or early morning, depending on how you look at it—Istagger up to a guy until he’s filming nothing but a close-up of my sweat-stained shirt, and yell at him. “Shutyour fucking mouth.Shutthe fuck up.Fuckoff.”

Thenwe cut to a rear view of me taking a pee in a dark alley behind a pub.

Whatthe hell is going on?Whyis my social life the subject of a slideshow?

Theirritation rising inside me is peppered with burning embarrassment.Suddenly,I’mwide awake, my vision clear.

WhatIdo in my own time has nothing to do with the board of directors or consumers.

“Whatis this?”Igaze at the stony faces around the table.

Myheart rate picks up in anticipation of a confrontationIcould really do without and am one hundred percent not in the mood for.

“It’syou,Connor,”Jorgesays, as if he’s addressing a two-year-old.Andnot a very bright one.

“Yes, it’s me.”Ispread my arms in frustration. “Butwhy?Whyare we looking at pictures and videos of me?Unflatteringpictures and videos of me?”

“It’sa bit of a problem,”Jorgecontinues. “Isn’tit,Connor?”

“No.It’snot a problem.Allthese things are completely out of context.”

Ipoint at the screen that’s frozen on my peeing silhouette.

“Thatpub had a plumbing emergency.Therewas a giant line for the restrooms, andIwas absolutely desperate.Ifound the most private spotIcould, but still some asshole whipped out their phone.TheguyIgave the finger to was completely blocking our way out of the bar and refused to move.Andthe oneIyelled at had made a vile commentIwon’t even repeat about the two womenIwas leaving the club with.”

Ingrid, our chief financial officer, drops her fork into her fruit salad and looks at me as ifImake her sad. “It’snot very becoming, is it?”

“Becoming?Jesus.”Ilook up at the ceiling. “Canwe get on with whatever this meeting’s about?Ididn’t get up early to have my private life scrutinized.”

“Thisiswhat the meeting’s about,”Jorgesays, as he leans forward and rests his chin on his clasped hands.

“What?”

Everypair of eyes around the table looks at me.

“Thisemergency board meeting is aboutme?”Ipoke myself in the chest. “I’mthe emergency?”