“No, she works with us,” I said, noting the concern on Annika’s face.
The stay-at-home wives can feel powerless about the vixens thrown into their husbands’ paths. I could see it in their faces when they came to visit the trading floor. They’d register the many men penned up together, the proximity with which we sat, and the late nights of entertaining. It was not the ideal equation for even the most solid relationships. While their husbands moved millions of dollars around the globe, these women were driving their late-model SUVs between school, soccer practice, and spin class. It made for a strange balance of power, especially for someone like Annika, who had worked in our world before she exchanged it for that of the suburban housewife. I think the decision still tortured her.
“Don’t worry, Annika, she supports the trading desk,” I said, referring to Tiffany. “She doesn’t work with your husband.”
“Does she have a boyfriend?” she asked hopefully.
“Uncertain. She gets a lot of calls from guys, but she seems to be relatively single.”
“She has situated herself well,” Annika said evenly, squinting into the departing sunlight. She turned toward me and shrugged. “So my husband works with a woman who is an eleven out of ten. I’m okay with that,” she said.
“I work with her too,” I said unhelpfully.
“But I shouldn’t worry because why?”
“Well, your husband’s a nice guy and you’re smarter than her, for one.”
“That’s two.”
“It was a compound thought.”
“It’s not Ryan I’m worried about.”
I knew what was coming next. Whenever I’m with the wives, they will eventually plug me for gossip. Their husbands don’t tell them who is hooking up with whom and I’ve never once shared my inside knowledge on infidelity, but I appear to be the most likely person to let the information leak.
“I mean, does she dress like that at work?”
“Not exactly like that.” We both looked over to fully appreciate Tiffany’s outfit once again.
“She’s fine,” I said. “Really, um, confident.”
Annika shook her head. “Well, I’m confident . . . was confident . . . whatever.”
“You were never that confident.” And again I nodded toward Tiffany, which made Annika laugh, which made me laugh, which led to her saying, “Why are we both here?”
By the end of that evening Tiffany had won for herself the unenviable title of Naked Girl, and by the next day’s opening bell this handle had stuck.
“Naked Girl on one!” kept reverberating behind my back.
That meant Tiffany should answer the first of her telephone lines, that there was a call for her. It wasn’t meant to be hurtful, this nickname of hers, and Tiffany seemed to relish it. To her it was a title worth having, recognition in this sea of bland.
Amanda and Alice continue to lobby the GCC for intervention concerning Tiffany. They feel she reaffirms everything the old-boy network thinks about women—that we improve the landscape on the trading floor, but that the real work, the mega-trades and deals, is to be handled by the men. They see her as bait for clients, a tantalizing young thing to have at a client dinner, while the big boys discuss real things. She can sip her wine and toss her long, ring-curled hair from left to right while smiling at their jokes and arranging for their car service to bring them home.
“Can we at least agree to file a complaint with human resources?” Alice asks, visibly annoyed at our circular conversation. “Just some vague thing about enforcing the dress code.”
“That’s just great. Women filing a complaint against other women,” Amy says. “Men love watching a catfight. No way.”
Amanda interrupts. “Maybe she deserves her own memo. Maybe she has no clue how to dress professionally.”
Something about Amanda using the word memo sparks a memory with me. “So it was you?” I ask. “You’re the memo writer!”
Amanda laughs. “The hell I am. I had almost forgotten that Metis memo, but really, I think it was terrific, so whichever one of you gals here is too fraidy cat to out yourself, just know that your handiwork is fine with me. You should also know that Amanda thinks that—hello?—Naked Girl deserves her own memo.”
I look around the table. Violette Hawes, quiet as ever, blushes, but there’s no way it’s her. Amy is looking around too, so I don’t think it’s her. Alice is too humorless to tap into the tone of that memo, but sometimes it’s the ones we least suspect. I stare at her until I realize that everyone else is staring at me.