Faith could grow impatient and angry, as she had been described, but most of the time she was easygoing and generous, particularly to her assistant Iffat and the rest of the support staff. Greer had already seen her speak kindly to the old custodian who emptied her trash, even though he had accidentally thrown away a diploma from a college in Minnesota that had given her an honorary degree.
Faith was one of those people, Greer had started to see, who was seductive to almost everyone. Seduction was a power move to Faith, and maybe even a compulsion, but it seemed to happen effortlessly, and was in the service of a greater good. She wasn’t a firebrand or a visionary; her talent was different. She could sift and distill ideas and present them in a way that made other people want to hear them. She was special. But still, apparently no one knew much about Faith’s private life. Even her backstory. There had been plenty of interviews, but she remained a combination of warmth and mystery—and perhaps she liked it that way. To keep people from the particulars of your life kept you from being seen as one thing or another, and so it was possible you could be thought of as anything, or even as everything.
They all wanted to know her; Greer sensed this as a secret, quietly present, all-office wish. Greer knew that Faith had been widowed long ago and had a grown son, but that was about it. Did she have a boyfriend? What a ludicrous word to use when describing her. She was far beyond boyfriends; she would tower over them, dwarf them. And she had mentioned that she had a weekend house; what did it look like? Was it gabled? And what were gables? And what about her apartment on Riverside Drive? Only her assistant Iffat had ever been there, and as if knowing Faith wouldn’t want her to say anything about it, Iffat hadn’t ever described it to anyone.
When Faith approached Greer’s cubicle the afternoon after the tense meeting and said, “Hey, stop by today, okay?” Greer became anxious, worrying that she had made a mistake and was going to be called out on it. It was awful to displease Faith, and wonderful to please her; the equation was absolute, as Professor Malick might’ve said. No one ever forgot the way it felt to be on the receiving end of Faith Frank’s pleasure or displeasure. But Faith was smiling now. When Greer came into her office, she brought with her the letter from Zee tucked into a folder. She’d dutifully carried it to work since Monday, waiting for a good time to give it to her. At first, though, it had seemed too soon, and too nervy to assume that she could try to have a friend hired. But Zee was waiting to hear what happened, so maybe this would be an okay time to try.
In Faith’s enormous office they sat on either end of the long white couch. The light was slanting in, falling on Faith’s cheek and revealing the faintest, nearly invisible layer of down that could only be seen from this exact angle, not that Greer would ever tell anyone she’d seen it. Faith leaned forward with her good, distinctive smell—Cherchez was the name of the scent, Greer had overheard her say to Marcella, who was herself so stylish that she would soon no doubt be marinated in Cherchez too.
“Tell me your impressions about what we’re doing here,” Faith said. “Be honest. Don’t worry about my ego. I’m curious how it seems to you so far. The grand new venture. Is it actually grand?”
“At this point, maybe it’s a baby grand.”
Faith smiled at her, and it wasn’t even funny! But it was in the neighborhood of funny, and Greer followed it up immediately by offering a variety of suggestions, all very different, so that Faith couldn’t hate all of them. She had a suggestion about switching the order of two of the proposed events at the first summit, which was to be in March, on the theme of power.
Without changing her tone Greer lightly moved to another idea. “And I was thinking maybe we could look at some of the newer feminist blogs and see what they’re up to.” As soon as she said it, she thought about how the writers there sometimes took swipes at Faith: “The author of The Female Persuasion tries to persuade us that being in bed with ShraderCapital is perfectly fine. Corporate feminism much, Faith Frank?”
Faith just nodded at Greer. “Sure, we can have a look,” she said. “You know, though, I was brought in to do the things I know how to do.”
Greer, like all the other people Faith hired, knew there was a difference between working for Faith and working for a radical organization. But they all loved being led by this strong, appealing, dignified, older feminist; and they loved what she stood for.
When the conversation was almost over, everything had gone so well that Greer didn’t want to ruin it with the clumsy intrusion of Zee’s letter. So she still chose not to mention it. Soon she would bring it up, she told herself; soon. But walking back down the hall, feeling almost jaunty now—jig territory—Greer understood that she really didn’t want to give Zee’s letter to Faith. She didn’t want to share Faith with Zee. She was still trying to figure out her place here at Loci—where she fit, where she didn’t. Of course, she would certainly give the letter to Faith tomorrow, but she would do it only out of obligation.
By Friday afternoon, Greer hadn’t yet found the right time to give the letter to Faith. She realized now that she wasn’t going to give her the letter after all. At around five thirty, still at her desk, Greer was surprised to hear voices gathering in the distance. “Get your jacket, Boxman,” someone called. It was Ben. Men often seemed to call women by their last names when they were flirting.
“That’s Boxwoman to you, Prochnauer,” said Marcella, playing along.
“Did someone reserve a table?” asked a voice that was familiar but not quite placeable, and then Greer recognized it as belonging to Kim Russo, the COO’s assistant from up on 27; they’d met briefly when Greer got the ShraderCapital tour earlier in the week.
“I did,” said Bonnie Dempster, distinctly. “The back one, in case we’re too loud.”
“Oh, we’re definitely too loud,” said someone else. Evelyn, maybe. “They have the best dirty martinis. Olive juice.”
“All of Jews what?” said Ben. “All of Jews are . . . circumcised?”
“No, actually they are not,” said Tad. “And I happen to know.”
“She said ‘olive juice,’” Marcella said, and then there was unstoppered group laughter, and the elevator arrived with its pointed ping and the voices faded as the whole group was swept downstairs together. They were going to a bar, and Greer had not been invited. Suddenly she lost the easy pleasure of sitting there working late. She had already gotten used to the idea that she wasn’t going to be invited into certain meetings, but Tad wasn’t either, and Faith had made it clear it wasn’t personal. Yet Tad was with the rest of them now, and no one had invited Greer to come along.