On September 13 I sat with Kathryn to listen to Tim Geithner, the president of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York, make a televised announcement. Tim admitted we were looking at a possible emergency liquidation of Lehman assets. All the financial stocks traded off again, lower than I ever thought possible. On September 15, before the market opened, Dick Fuld told the world that Lehman Brothers was filing for bankruptcy protection. Chapter 11. The market dropped over five hundred points, the most since September 11, 2001. It dropped like the world had lost its floor and I filled sell orders like a concession stand attendant filling orders for French fries.
My daily visits to Kathryn become therapy sessions, knowing that as long as one of us doesn’t crack, we both are okay. On September 20, there are rumors now of Korean buyers willing to buy portions of the ailing banks, there are southern banks rumored to be stepping up too. The discount window is open from the Fed, meaning investment banks can now borrow money from the government. Feagin Dixon wouldn’t have fallen had we been allowed to do this but even with this change of law, nothing seems to calm the markets.
On September 29, the market is plunging and I visit Kathryn because she isn’t as rattled as the other people on my floor. She isn’t throwing phones or punching screens or swearing about horses’ backsides. She is staring at her screen and watching everything turn red, and the only thing turning green is the price of gold. Investors are running for anything safe, safer than stocks or bonds or the U.S. dollar, and that’s why only gold is trading up.
I notice Australian currencies swing higher and I smile and think of Henry and how he was buying everything Aussie six months ago. Henry is so sad and so rich.
Without looking at me Kathryn keeps typing and starts talking.
“I like you well enough, Isabelle,” she says. “And you know I’m not interested in being part of movements or change or anything like that and I’m sorry I didn’t help you and your friends out.”
I let out a short laugh. “Yes, well that didn’t go as planned,” I say. “You know those venture capital firms are the same; the technology start-ups are the same. Anywhere the culture is loose and lucrative, the same thing exists. Maybe our mistake was thinking Wall Street was unique when it comes to the advancement of women.” I can’t believe I’ve quoted the things Elizabeth said to me at brunch eight months ago.
She doesn’t seem to hear me. “And I like you well enough to not allow you to be made a fool of.”
“Kathryn. It’s not a problem. The guys don’t bother me and I’m done with thinking I’m going to be a partner here. I see things for what they are now. Don’t you worry about me.” I wink.
Kathryn lifts an eyebrow and turns back to her turret. “You see, that’s what’s so maddening to me. You’re too nice. You just don’t see people for who they are. People like you get taken advantage of.”
“I don’t feel taken advantage of, I just wanted a fair shake, but a lot of life is luck. Maybe at a different bank, things would have been different for me,” I say with no enthusiasm.
Kathryn seems glazed, like she isn’t even listening.
“You aren’t hearing me. This isn’t about Feagin Dixon, it’s about your husband, Bruce. He’s no good.”
I watch her expertly manicured, not pink, not beige, not white fingernails stop tapping on her keyboard. I watch as she takes one of those hands that the fingers are on and she places it on my thigh. I stare at the hand like it’s some repulsive insect.
“You have no right to speak of someone you don’t know like that,” I say crisply. She’s never even met Bruce.
Then she places both hands on either arm of my chair and swings me to look right at her. I don’t think I’ve ever made full-on eye contact with her. It’s unnerving.
“He cheats on you, does yoga with someone I know and has sex with her.”
When I look at her it’s as if some ugly reptile has attached itself to her tongue. Everything I thought about her was wrong. Kathryn is certifiable.
“You do not know my husband. He may not have a great job and maybe your yogi friend sees him at the gym, but he is not a cheater. And besides, I’m your only real friend. Bitch.”
She looks startled. I look startled. Whose words are coming out of my mouth?
Kathryn wants to try again.
“How do I put this? He’s into tantric. Some of my yoga associates practice this with a partner, and the extended sexual revelation is intense. He’s partnered with a friend of mine, someone he met at a baby playdate at your apartment. He spends money on her, little stuff—bicycles, hotel rooms, and private coaching. But I’m bothered by this for you because I wasn’t sure you knew and you seem like the kind of person who wants the full picture. You’re the one making the money. You’ve been all in at this place, and all in with your family. I just thought you should know.”
“Tantric what? Don’t you think if my husband were into anything beyond laundry and chicken nuggets I’d know about it? It’s not like he’s going to an office every day. He’s home.”
“Not at nine p.m. he’s not.”
“Because it’s a yoga relaxation class. It helps him sleep.”