As soon as Riley quipped about our competitor’s data breach, I knew we were bobbing in hot water without a life jacket. The little red recording light on teh Zoom call was blinking with the judgment of a disapproving aunt, adn I watched as the faces of our would-be clients at Globex Corporation shifted from mild interest to outright mortification.

“So anyway,” Riley breezed on with the finesse of a bull in a china shop, “at least with us, your customer data won’t end up as Reddit’s hot topic of the day, right?”

The silence that followed was the sort ya could slice and serve on a platter. My laptop fan whirred into overdrive, as if trying to escape the forthcoming disaster. Clearly, my laptop and I were kindred spirits today.

Rewind to earlier that day, and you’d find me prepping for what was billed as a no-frills technical demo for Globex’s security gurus. Their CISO, a seemingly amiable soul named Anita, had after our initial chinwag asked for a deep dive into our encryption wizardry. Everything was teed up: the PowerPoint was slick, the demo environment was behaving, and I’d even had a pep talk with our lead cryptographer. This was supposed to be my moment in the spotlight, with Riley there to field any curveballs about partnerships or pricing.

But, no. Riley had apparently sprung from bed that morning and decided to channel their inner Loki.

“What my colleague meant to say,” I chimed in, voice about an octave too high, “is that we take the sanctity of security very seriously, which is why we’ve layered our defence mechanisms like a particularly robust onion.”

I shot Riley a look that I hoped screamed ‘shut it’ and ‘I’ll help you dig your own grave later’, in equal measure. They blinked, finally tuning into the Galaxy-sized gaffe, and nodded timidly.

Too little, too late. Anita unmuted, her voice cloaked in that diplomatic tone you use when you really want to throttle someone but have to settle for words. “I think it’s important to note,” she began, “that the incident you’re alluding to involved a former vendor, not our current one. Several of my team are actually alumni of that company, and the breach was down to a sophisticated state-level attack, not oversight.”

Cue my stomach attempting Olympic-level flips. Riley, in their infinite wisdom, had missed the memo detailing that trivial nugget – the memo I wrote after three cups of anxiety-laced coffee.

“Oh, absolutely,” I stammered, mentally preparing to throttle Riley, “and apologies for any confusion. Let’s use this as a springboard to dive into how we fend off such sophisticated threats, shall we?” I plastered on what I hoped was a convincing smile and launched into the demo, words pouring out as if speed could erase the last agonizing minutes.

Ten breathless minutes later, a Slack notification pinged from Riley:

Riley: Going well I think! They’re eating it up.

I could’ve throttled the message if it were physical. A quick glance at Anita confirmed she’d seen the notification too. Fabulous. Now they knew we were gossiping. Splendid.

I trudged on, showcasing our shiny encryption keys and audit trails, but the magic was gone. The room felt colder than a British summer, each question from them clipped, every answer from me desperate. The spark from our initial meeting had fizzled out faster than a cheap firework.

As soon as the call ended, Riley rang, their tone oddly chipper. “Bit rough, but we clawed it back, right? They had some solid tech queries.”

“Riley,” my voice was as flat as week-old cola, “did you skim over the part where I mentioned three of their team were from NetGuard?”

The ensuing silence was thick enough to chew.

“The very competitor you joked about?”

“Ah,” they said, the word stretched thin with dawning horror. “That might explain the frosty reception.”

“Might it indeed?” I paced, gesturing wildly to no one. “And did the ominous red recording light escape your notice? That was for their internal review, you know.”

Silence, again.

“So, that red light meant—”

“Yes, Riley. It meant exactly what you think it meant.”

The rest of the day was spent drafting an apology email so tactful it deserved its own knighthood, and I may or may not have Googled ‘how to erase Zoom recordings’ out of sheer desperation.

Anita’s reply the next morning was as chilly as expected: “Thanks for the demo. We’re looking at other options but will circle back if needed.”

Or, translated from corporate speak: “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

Later, Jordan found me staring into the abyss of my screen, pondering a career in alpaca farming — they’re blissfully unaware of Zoom and its many pitfalls.

“Caught wind of the Globex saga,” Jordan leaned on my desk with all the casualness of a cat who’s found a sunny spot. “Heard Riley’s take. Let’s hear yours.”

After my recount, which was less a tale and more a confession, Jordan nodded sagely. “The real hitch,” they mused, “wasn’t just the foot-in-mouth. It was forgetting your audience. Riley went for humour with a crowd that prizes precision; you went full tech-nerd post personal slight.”

I absorbed that, the sting of truth sharp but clarifying.

“So, what’s the play?” I asked.

“Simple,” Jordan straightened, business-like. “Craft the most factual, no-nonsense follow-up they’ve ever seen. Ditch the charm, pack it with precision. And pray their need for our tech trumps their memory of today.”

Three weeks later, Anita requested another demo – this time, Riley was conveniently double-booked thanks to Jordan’s tactical scheduling.

The moral? Always assume you’re on the record. And sometimes, redemption lies in embracing your blunders and rebuilding, one painstakingly accurate detail at a time.