I’m the bipolar twin of the meek person sitting in chapel this morning. The dopamine hit of the stock market going my way is a powerful drug. When Cheetah trades out of the stock, which they probably will do in the next few days, and if they were to trade all of it through me, I’ll bring to the firm ten times $.06 per share, or $600,000. I’ll give 90 percent of that to the firm and the remaining $60,000 will be split between King and me. I’m having a really, really good day, so I call our caregiver the name she likes to be called, and ask her to get those chicken fingers on the table early, bath early, bed. I love the post-big-trade nights with my husband. He becomes the man I married, carefree, optimistic, and juiced on ideas for us. He oozes wife-support and love, which makes his odd spending habits bother me less and makes me feel we will be okay.
It’s 9:30 a.m. and the market opens. Marcus has tuned the television on his desk to Barney, and the purple dinosaur now sings about someone loving someone and being in a happy family. He thinks Barney’s groovy mood brings him good luck, so he tunes in to the show at every opening bell. He holds his hand out to me, inquiring whether I’d like to share his dance (that eavesdropper—I’m sure he heard me recommending EBS and then bought some for his own account). I allow myself to be whipped from my seat and he pulls our cheeks together to whisper, “Did my first CMO trade.”
As in a collateralized mortgage obligation. As in those risky things backed by subprime mortgages that are starting to tank? “Wow, Michael, Barney’s quite the life coach . . . making you all confident like that.”
Amy glares at us over her shoulder. “We are not flirting,” I say to her. Michael spins me back to my seat. “This is what happy looks like, Amy. Try it sometime,” he says.
Amy says nothing, reaches across our desks, and without looking at me, or pausing her phone conversation, squeezes my hand. I take that to mean congratulations, but no, instead she adheres a sticky note to my screen and turns away.
“GCC to meet for lunch next Thursday: Details to follow 12:30. Agenda: discuss Naked Girl.”
I read it and think how odd it will look if we all go to lunch together and can’t she give it a rest, ever? I guess we’ll shuffle out individually, pretending to meet different clients but still making people curious. She has slightly dimmed my buzz. I watch her crumple the evidence and toss it in a garbage can.
Maybe she sold her EBS stock too soon.
CHAPTER 10
Ex-Dividend
THE WOMEN’S RESTROOM is a veritable crime scene today since it’s wafting cigarette smoke like a 1989 nightclub. Most people don’t leave the building during the day so noontime finds a pack of women herded into the ladies’ room, many sucking on cigarettes in deep, needy gulps. Our nonsmoking bathroom is fogged in.
I have some compassion for the nicotine-addicted, especially since our chairman-emeritus imperiously lights up wherever and whenever. B. Gruss II smokes cigars while on the Dais of the Dicks, and in the comfort of his own office is known to enjoy a broader range of medicine cabinet supplies. Compared to him, people needing a nicotine fix seem pretty benign.
In the hazy mirror I catch sight of my perfectly tailored suit, and my hair that I dried by sticking my wet head out of the taxi window this morning. Miraculously, it has all fallen into place. There aren’t many moments like this, so I toss up some gratefulness to the universe, quiet thanks for all my stars aligning. Today I’m all woman because today is my lunch with Tim Boylan, a guy known for never having lunch with anyone.
The ladies in the bathroom take note of the more polished, less sleep-deprived me. A showy sales assistant named Tiffany Antinori, the one the others refer to as Naked Girl, walks in wearing red platform shoes with a skintight catsuit. She looks fabulous and out of place, and lets out a low whistle when she sees me. Can she tell that I’ve been trying hard to locate my inner babe again?
“New boyfriend?” she inquires.
“Maybe.”
“Ewwwwwww,” says Amanda, layering on mascara and not even looking in my direction. For some reason she does a full makeover at the halfway point of each day—“Fresh face, fresh ideas,” is how she describes this.
Clarisse Evenson, the only other woman at my managing director level, enters like the high school principal, killing the buzz of the place. She is tall and birdlike and even flaps her skinny arms when she gets excited. She and I have different ideas about how to manage employees. I go for the friendly-mentor angle, while she seeks to be headmistress. Cigarette butts are flushed down the toilet and conversation vanishes when she enters the bathroom.
“This smoke is unacceptable,” Clarisse snaps, waving the cloud from her face. “Disgusting. Filthy. Illegal. Why there is no MD bathroom for women, I cannot understand.” She is referring to the fact that men of managing director stature or higher have a private bathroom, while all the women of the firm share.
“Really, Clarisse?” I say. “Who would be in a female MD bathroom besides you and me?”
“Exactly,” she says, and slides the lock on her stall shut.
Tiffany smiles at herself in the mirror. She turns and makes some deep hip-sashay on her way out the door. I note that she didn’t actually accomplish anything while in the bathroom, just glanced at herself and left.
“Seriously,” says Amy, “why are you so together today?”