“We should apologize,” Amanda says. “It wasn’t some organized group decision to disband like that. It was just our frustration, realizing nothing will ever change here.”
“Except everything,” Marcus says, looking at the few people on the trading floor. He loves that we include him when we chat. “Not to sound like an obnoxious oaf, but is it possible that some careers are just not compatible with a balanced life?”
I’d been thinking the same thing and wondering if Kathryn Peterson was the only one who had this figured out all along. Still, I don’t believe it. Feagin would never have gone out of business if women were at the top. We just don’t have testosterone helping us along the path of decisions. We are happy with base hits and don’t need to swing for the fences if it’s too risky.
We toast Amy’s recent promotion to managing director at Manchester with some apple juice from the vending machine. I’m thrilled that she’s going to join me at director meetings and yet I’m surprised that she’s succeeded in doing this at such a tough time. With the meltdown of the stock market and everyone’s business being in the tank, no one is thinking about things like promotions. Any thoughts I used to have of being made partner are gone. If it didn’t happen after my stellar year of production last year, it would never happen, and while I’m happy for Amy, I’m also very curious. I think about her largest accounts and biggest trades and the minimum amount of revenue one has to bring in to move upward. I know Amy’s accounts and I can’t figure how she did it.
Amy asks me how Bruce’s work is going and I tell her that he’s primarily employed in childcare, yoga, and cycling, so we still need both my income and a nanny. I tell her Bruce and Caregiver make a good team and she leans forward, concerned.
“How good a team?” she asks, turning her lightly lined face toward me. Today she is wearing some short, funky dress, plunging at the neckline and ending mid-thigh, an expensive-looking vision that fell off a high-end fashion runway, not something I’d pick for a woman usually in tailored suits. I wonder if our change in fortune is making us all a little less inhibited.
“Not like that,” I sigh to her. “Bruce is not like the men we work with.”
“What does she look like?” she continues.
“Caregiver? Um, petite, dark, cute, sort of Hispanic-looking. She’s taking a break from college.”
“Hasn’t she been with you for years?”
“Yeah, um, three.”
“That’s quite a college break,” Amy says, not believing for a moment that a man can be left alone with a young woman without things heading below the waist. Her wandering spouse has scarred her. I still can’t make these women believe that Bruce just doesn’t stray. The women of the GCC don’t have men like my man and for a moment I have a twang of love for him even though nothing between us feels right.
“So, the dress?” I ask, nodding to the sexy thing she has going on today.
“Catching a Jitney,” she says, referring to the bus service that runs between New York City and the Hamptons. “No private car service out there for me. Spending five hundred dollars a weekend is something I don’t do anymore.”
“That dress was more than five hundred dollars.”
“Four hundred twenty dollars on sale. It’s like take a bus instead of a car service? Get a free dress.”
“But you’re a managing director!” Amanda said. “Why should you care if you buy your clothes on sale? Why not take the dress and the car service?”
“Not sure how long this market will last.” Amy smirked. “You seem to forget that I’m the last girl at this party and everything’s been picked over, but yeah, happy to be a managing director.”
I knew Amy had lost her Hamptons house in the divorce but she doesn’t seem too bothered. She’s just happy for some recognition.
“You bought a new house?” I ask her.
“Rental. Sort of,” she says. “Like a house share.”
“House share?” I ask, thinking of the boisterous party houses of our youth. “Aren’t you, like, thirty-five or something?”
“Yes, er, thirty-six. And most of my housemates are in their forties. So fun to be the young kid again. We’re having a party this weekend and you should come. No kids.” She smirks. “Kids, ewww.”
“Yeah. Maybe. I’ll just drop them on the beach and hope for the best,” I say sarcastically.
“She’ll never come,” Amanda says.
“It’s complicated for us,” I say, thinking of the logistics and also thinking it could be fun. “It’s hard to find a sitter in the Hamptons. Ours is not an easy gig, three young kids all whining at the same moment. There’s no employment line outside my door.”
I’m surprised again by my openness; I never speak of my domestic situation in front of colleagues.
“Please try,” Amy says, positively glowing at me. “I really want you to come.”