Henry knew I didn’t go to business school, first because I couldn’t afford it and then for fear I’d never get another job at my level. I happened to work in the place that cared more about performance than degrees. Our chairman wanted employees he called “poor, smart, and determined to get rich,” and when I was hired, that described me. Was he trying to embarrass me in front of his boss? Was this retribution for the thong episode? If he was looking for some white flag of surrender, he picked the wrong victim.
“I didn’t go to business school,” I said with artificial sweetener raising my voice. “I loved my job too much, and knew real life had already taught me more than anything that could be taught in B school.”
“Really?” said Henry, seemingly more engaged now that I was finally lobbing back. “I have to say, I’m a fan of formal training, though I do see your point. By the way, I can’t believe you’ve had three kids and are the primary breadwinner. How can you possibly juggle it all?”
That did it. If there’s one cliché statement that working mothers everywhere despise, it’s that one: the “I don’t know how you do it” thing. I never thought I could hate Henry Wilkins but I sure was coming close.
“Did I say I was the primary breadwinner? I don’t think I did. Also I think I’ve seen you at Fifth Avenue Preschool.”
Just then the man sitting behind Tim took that particular moment to put a hand out and say hello to him, so I added, “Or maybe it’s because we’ve screwed sixteen different ways to Sunday. Yes, maybe that’s why we seem to have met.” I lifted my linen napkin, dabbed at my lips, and smiled.
“Oh,” Henry said, clearing his throat and reddening. I had shut down the “her husband has no job” conversation. “Well, you’d be hard to miss in a crowd,” Henry said in some feeble attempt to regain his footing and because Tim had turned back to our table, “but when I’m at that school I’m so focused on my kids, I never notice the adults.”
Gag me. Men have no problem impressing their bosses with their family-man rap, while women never dare mention their families at work. “Yes, I’m sure you were just too focused,” I said.
Tim continued to look admiringly at his younger protégé, oblivious to the invisible conversation also going on at the table.
Henry came in for the kill. “Such great food. Not sure I’ve ever eaten here before.”
“I think you got engaged here once,” I semi-hissed loud enough for both men to hear and soft enough to sound confusing to Tim.
Henry started to cough and I swear I could see the water he was sipping come out his nose.
“You got engaged here?” Tim asked.
Henry would not want Tim to know he has led anything but the perfect life, and yes, a broken engagement in Henry’s world would be equivalent to failure. I watched him try to recover. It started with an odd snort.
“We talked about getting married here, but really we got engaged in St. Barths.”
Henry brilliantly made Tim think it was his wife we were talking about, and before Tim could ask how I possibly could have known about Henry’s personal life, Henry took the floor.
“I was watching those money market options trading down today, and didn’t really understand the fears the market has for them. They’re so safe. Why do you think that’s happening?” Henry was asking me about markets he knew far better than me but he also knew that conversing about drying-up credit markets was a subject infinitely more interesting to Tim than romance. I answered while staring icily at Henry. Had he become even more of a stuck-up wannabe WASP than I imagined? He never could lie and perform the way he is this afternoon. Is that what he’s learned from his socialite wife? His dad was a small-town postmaster who wanted to be a novelist. His mother sketched stuff and made casseroles. They were nice, real people. Henry wasn’t sprung from jerks. Where had he learned this?
? ? ?
“This is money for teasing men,” Henry had declared to me one day, as I proudly flashed a bonus check in front of him.
I had wanted to go out and celebrate because it was the first year my bonus hit seven figures. I was in my late twenties and had cleared a million dollars. Henry was still in business school, which made him go from being incredulous at my hours and pay to being downright nasty about it. Resembling the bitter wife left at home, Henry started acting like some portion of his manhood was being questioned by me. It was clear that Henry wanted to be the provider. The fact that I was outearning him made him nuts.
“It’s emasculating,” he said. “I wish you were a nurse or a teacher.”
“Let’s just be adults about this,” I implored. “I mean, you want to be successful but you don’t want me to be successful?”
“I want us both to be successful but I don’t want to be married to a man.”
“Making good money makes me a man?”