“Lunch with the CEO of Cheetah,” I say, casually applying lipstick that has neither sand nor fingerprints stuck to it—it’s hard to find a lipstick that Brigid hasn’t tried out on her dolls. “And the new CIO too.” I do a sexy swivel of my own hips and Amy and I high-five.
“WHAT?” says Clarisse, in the middle of her business from behind her closed door.
Amy widens her eyes and puts her fingers to her lips to shush me. I cannot be contained.
“You’ve heard of Tim Boylan, CEO of Cheetah?” I ask innocently.
“Tim Boylan does not do lunch,” she snarls, and throws back the stall door to the sound of a swooshing toilet. “He does not travel nor socialize.”
Clarisse stands in front of me, stick arms folded across her chest. She is sputtering, “And why exactly wouldn’t you have invited the possible future head of sales to this?”
“Umm, because I have a current head of sales?” I answer carefully.
“Look, isn’t it obvious that Simon will be retiring soon? There’s nobody close to his talent level besides me.” Clarisse is flushed in the cheeks, fidgety, and upset. She gives every ounce of her soul to this job, so the thought of anyone beating her gets her agitated. I feel a little sorry for her. Hasn’t she noticed that no women are in those positions here and that our executive committee is 100 percent male?
Amy turns on the water again and in the mirror I see her eyes roll.
? ? ?
The Four Seasons Restaurant on East 52nd Street has waiters who dress better than the guys I work with. It’s a flower-filled power scene with tables set around what appears to be a small swimming pool. The place is so subliminally seductive that I got engaged here once; to Henry, not to Bruce.
We were having dinner to celebrate his graduation from Columbia Business School when suddenly, there was Henry on bended knee, with a blue box and the flash of jewelry catching the light just right. I had the surreal feeling of being snapped into a bear trap. I didn’t see it coming. Something about the fountains, the music, and the headiness of possibility made me tear up, melt down, and say “Yes” to spending the rest of my life with him. For one gigantic leap-of-faith moment, I ignored my list of things I wouldn’t do before thirty and started planning a wedding that ultimately never happened.
So why would I ever come back to this place? Because Tim had said to me, “Where would you like to have lunch?” and the one thing I’m certain of is that you don’t pass the ball of power away when it’s been handed to you. Choosing a location makes you important. The lamest answer would have been, “I dunno, where would you like to eat?” or, “I’ll call you back when I think of a place.” No, I had two seconds to give a solid answer, and it had to be a nontrendy restaurant with excellent service, so I blurted out, “Four Seasons?” Before I could recoil and say, “On second thought, how about . . .” Tim said, “My favorite. I’ll make the reservation.” Thus taking the ball of power back. Well played.
So here I sit beside the same pool I sat beside when my life was carefree. When Henry was a guy I was deeply in love with, when children seemed loud, messy, and not for me and the trajectory of my career seemed due north. That day was so very long ago.
I can see the entrance, and promptly at 12:30 p.m. Tim enters, cloaked in the presence of the self-made. He has an aura that causes people surrounding him to stand taller, to want to be nearer, to rub up against a piece of his magic. He stops at another table to shake hands with someone he knows. When he bends forward I catch sight of his new second-in-command, the guy who gave up mortgage trading at Goldman Sachs to manage large portfolios of rich people’s money at a hedge fund. The guy Tim is so excited to bring into the firm to analyze investment ideas with people like me, and to take on the burden of the daily decision making.
That guy is none other than Henry.
CHAPTER 11
How Not to Meet Your Husband, Part I
HIS FIRST WORDS to me in 1990 were: “Are these people your friends? No wonder you came looking for me.”
I was standing in line to register for freshman anthropology and was surrounded by some earnest, nerdy souls I didn’t know. Henry Wilkins had come from behind, lobbing lines at me directly from Pretty Woman, a Julia Roberts movie out that past summer. I didn’t miss a beat.
“You’re late,” I said, taking in all six feet four inches of him and the thick, dark hair he constantly adjusted. He was wearing a real alligator belt holding up khaki shorts on his slim, articulated frame. Guys like him didn’t exist in my Bronx neighborhood. No boy I grew up with would quote Richard Gere without making a gagging noise.
“You’re stunning,” he continued.
“You’re forgiven.” I smiled before turning my back. I was relieved it was my turn to step up to the registration table because I didn’t know how to keep my witty lines going. Quoting the one movie I had seen six times over the summer was not maintainable. What if he switched movies? He didn’t.
“When you’re not fidgeting, you’re very tall,” he continued.