Liam answers with weak details that support Henry but nobody’s even listening. They hear the words low offer, they think it’s cheap, and they want to be buyers. Henry is leading the investors in this room to bid up his position in CeeV-TV and will move the public stock of Google higher too. Henry already owns both.
Some people leave the room to call their trading desks, some start sending trading orders on their BlackBerry. I now also know the reason Henry was so late to the conference discussion this morning: he was setting up his sell orders. Most likely he’ll be selling to the very people who just left the room to go buy his stock, locking in his giant gains in both CeeV-TV and Google. Henry’s position will be down to zero by the end of the day. He is ahead of everyone. Henry looks brilliant, and even though it was my idea, everyone will remember it as Henry’s. My panel is breaking up, and I never got my moment to shine. I waited too long, and Henry, once again, has won.
CHAPTER 17
Pump and Dump
I BUMP ALONG in a pimped-out van going to King’s winter vacation house. Each of these conferences is strategically located near one of our executives’ second or third home in Anguilla, Provence, Jackson Hole, or any place where they line the driveways with money. One evening’s entertainment will be watching an aging rock star perform for rich people in some depressing way—that was last night thanks to Hootie and the Blowfish, which my dinner with Gibbs had me miss—while the second evening includes dinner at the high-ranking investment fund/host’s house. That is tonight. King’s third home is located on South Ocean Boulevard in Palm Beach, where he will keep us all outside looking in on a breathtakingly beautiful February evening.
Gone are the days when I avoided being the first guest at a party. I’m so rushed to get everything done that self-consciousness isn’t a luxury I have. I need to cross commitments off my list at a mind-spinning rate of efficiency, so here I sit in an empty van, the first van to leave the hotel, in an effort to get to the party, speak to whom I need to speak to, and leave.
The young Cuban driver wears a stiff button-down shirt and a black bow tie. I sit directly behind him in awkward silence because I can’t think of anything to say to the back of someone’s head. This is a moment that Bruce would embrace, letting conversation flow effortlessly from his mouth in his sincere quest to understand what makes the human race tick. As nice as that is, I’d bet anything that right now he’s forgotten to pick Kevin up from a dinner playdate I had arranged and he’s not answering my texts. I hate managing our home life long-distance and hate that I don’t trust Bruce to get everything done. The driver pumps up the volume of a Beyoncé song and wordlessly lets me out of the van.
The dramatic lane to the house is paved with white, shell-like pebbles that crunch under my feet. Champagne-bearing waiters get the signal to stand tall and greet me. This is a grand entrance to pull off alone but my goal is the usual: get in early, talk to the people I need to impress before they have a few drinks, and catch the first van back. I heard that Henry has already gone back to New York and I’m glad to be rid of the distraction. How did I ever let that guy one-up me this morning and did I really sleep in the same bed as him last night? It’s hard to recognize this new Henry who has personality swings that seem manic.
Everything about the house is white-on-white; plush white pillows lie atop deep white couches placed perfectly about the green lawn. Lush white flowers drip lazily out of trophy-like silver urns. I gratefully take a glass of champagne and wander to a precarious lookout to watch the perfectly orchestrated surf, bang and retreat, bang and retreat. My thoughts wander to Bruce, to our children, to the weird possibility that we may suddenly have extra money. Not this sort of white-on-white, third-home-on-the-Atlantic money, but breathing-room money: the type of money that takes one’s eyes off survival mode, off getting-through-the-day mode. I wonder about the divorce rate among the rich. Is it higher because they can afford to split everything in two and still have a life? Or is it lower because they can purchase escapes, exotic trips, and lots of shrink time? The possibility of having more money is wondrous. A few home runs like CeeV-TV could change everything in our lives and take the pressure off me for a while.
I really miss Bruce right now. I take out my phone to call, to check that Kevin got picked up from his playdate, to see what Caregiver is concocting as a dinner, to make sure the dog walker came, and to see if Owen was able to nap after his hard night. Suddenly a large hand squeezes my hip from behind and stays there. Instinctively, I turn—ready to push one of the usual culprits away, but it’s not a usual culprit. It’s Tim Boylan, Henry’s boss. He looks as shocked as I feel.
“Oh, sorry to grab you like that,” he mutters, self-consciously. “I was just happy to find you in this crowd.”
We both look out at a very uncrowded party and I think it odd to hear a universe master apologize. I say nothing.
“Isabelle McElroy, right?”