“Honestly, my husband was telling me how great their content pipeline is and that he likes their software. It’s user friendly so it has appeal to everyone, which encourages the uploading of even more content. It’s like YouTube, only he thinks it’s better. The earnings potential of a huge video pipeline supplied at no cost is nothing to sneeze at. You can’t beat it when your content is fresh, made specifically for you, and provided for free. You stream it, and advertisers salivate to touch the viewers you’re able to reach.”
“I’m getting it now too,” he says, while nodding his head. Tim is truly listening to me, respecting me, treating me differently than he did at the Four Seasons. “Say, what’s that you said your husband does?”
Here it comes. “I didn’t say, but he’s in visual communications.”
“What in the hell is that? Sounds girly.”
“Not girly. He does all the lights and tech stuff for a conference like the one we’re at. He produces video clips for corporations, sometimes builds out the platforms to hang lights from. He does lots of different things,” I ramble, rewriting Bruce’s nonemployment status into something that once was.
“Good Lord, woman. That’s a little wimpy, you have to admit.”
There it is: the ugly little fact that people on Wall Street tend to think that any job not commanding multiple millions is not worth having. Someone curing pancreatic cancer? Ah, that’s nice. Teaching at a girls’ school in Rwanda? Sweet. Get a real job.
“Well, it might not be a dream job for him, but he got a little sidetracked. Our kids came along pretty quickly and my job was just more lucrative.”
“Oh, sure, no, I don’t mean to be patronizing, you just seem more likely to be with a captain-of-industry type. I understand why you’re not home with those babies. You have too much to offer the world.”
“Um, actually I love those babies,” I say, “and I also love this business . . .” I trail off and sigh because I see that Simon has spotted us and is coming up the path in an explosion of energy. He is positively panting as he nears.
Sweat beads at the top of Simon’s head as he advances. He’s a guy who likes to be indoors in temperature-controlled equilibrium and the air tonight feels sultry. I take the lead before Simon can embarrass me. “Tim, you remember Simon, he heads equities at Feagin?”
I see a trace of annoyance cross Tim’s face. I’m sure they’ve never really met before. “Yes, good to see you,” he says flatly. “Was just telling your girl here she’s produced excellent work for us. Hope you can hang on to her.”
“Yes,” Simon says, “she’s going to make this year really expensive for me.”
We all yuck in that uncomfortable way.
“Well,” Tim finishes, “time for me to catch my plane home. I really just wanted to thank you in person, Isabelle. Remember what I said about Henry stealing your thunder. That won’t happen again.”
Clarisse has now joined our little party, anxious to be seen with both Boylan and Simon. It’s a virtual power-fest, and she can sniff opportunity better than seagulls at a fry shop. Though Boylan is trying to leave, she won’t let him pass her.
“Tim, I’m Clarisse Evenson, a senior saleswoman at Feagin. Please let me know if you ever need my help.”
She slips a card out of the cuff in her blouse with the ease of a magician. Her perfectly manicured nails press a bit as she places it into his hand, and I see a wave of disgust pass briefly over Tim’s face. He reaches past Simon, past Clarisse, and grabs my shoulders, planting a big kiss on my cheek. He’s making this a show on purpose.
“Like I was saying, brilliant work, Isabelle. Call me back in New York and let’s have lunch again!”
He crunches away on the gravel path, putting his empty water glass on a waiter’s tray with Clarisse’s card, worthy of absorbing his water spot, beneath it; and we all watch him go. His trip down here was all for my benefit. My CeeV-TV idea made his fund millions, which will keep his investors happy. Tim knows that showing up here will keep me happy, and if I’m happy with him I’m likely to show him my next great idea before anyone else.
“How crass,” Clarisse sniffs. “He wasn’t even registered to be here tonight.”
CHAPTER 18
Naked Girl
SHE’S OF average height but always seems tall in her delicate heels. Her ginger-red hair cascades in thick ringlets down to her elbows, and the perfume she wears smells nightclub-appropriate. For all of these reasons, the men on the floor consistently monitor Tiffany Antinori’s every move. Maybe it’s her fantastic, overchiseled arms, glistening like wet ice in a sleeveless silk shirt, or maybe it’s something else.