WHY AM I the only one who thinks this Metis is ridiculous? It’s setting up a war. The few of us women who are close to the executive floor are going to be seen as the enemy. “I hate divisive tactics like this,” I tell the GCC over cold and seasonably inappropriate March margaritas in Grand Central Terminal. I spent the bulk of my day speaking to an MBA class from Dartmouth and a group of Boy Scouts from New Jersey and they left me feeling better about where the human race was headed. “Our old-boy culture may dissolve on its own without any help from Metis memos.”
Amy twists up her face. “Sometimes, Belle, I have no idea where your reasoning comes from.”
“It comes from her bank account,” says Violette. “I can’t blame her, though.”
“I love when you speak about me as if I’m not here. Hello? Aren’t women supposed to talk behind each other’s backs?”
“We don’t have time to be sneaky,” says Violette. “And we certainly don’t have time to be Metis.”
For whatever reason, the drink order seemed better as an idea than in reality, because nobody is drinking. The GCC, along with every other employee of Feagin, will be informed of their bonuses tomorrow, and the brittle feeling, the edginess of the moment, has us snapping at each other. The timing of the most recent Metis memo couldn’t have been worse.
I’m supposed to be touring business schools this spring, recruiting women for the firm by convincing them that I am the perfect trophy of a woman with the whole life package and presenting that as something attainable. The GCC wants me to be more transparent with prospective hires, even if it means embarrassing whichever banker gets sent on these missions with me.
“Look,” Amy says, as she re-spikes her hair into place. “When those kids really know what it’s like to pay a mortgage, to buy a car, to have kids, their tune will change. Something has to give if they want to make the money they’ll need in this town. Maybe Isabelle and the jocks should give more realistic presentations. Not the ‘work hard, wind up rich’ theme, but the ‘work hard, get rich, and be miserable’ theme.”
“How about the ‘golden handcuff’ theme?” asks Violette. “You know, where you start to hit six figures and then seven and then you think you’re incapable of doing anything else because nothing will ever seem as worthwhile because it pays a tiny fraction of what this job pays?”
“All I know is that today I spoke to young people who asked about ethical things I never even thought about at their age. Maybe future generations have stuff more figured out.” I rise from the table.
“Where are you going?” Amy asks, looking like she actually likes me.
“Look, I have three neglected kids and a stack of mortgage products to review for Cheetah tonight. I also have to rehearse for bonus day. This night could be endless, and sipping frosty beach drinks in a train station is not getting things done.”
“You don’t sell mortgages.”
“I know, but I’m tired of being stupid. I’m constantly asked about them, so it’s time I had some intelligent answers.”
The women look at me like I’m abandoning them and I have a weird déjà vu of leaving my children behind each morning.
I push on the brass-handled door of the restaurant and into the misty air of New York. I walk the many blocks toward home, both west and north, thinking again of Violette’s opinion that I need to tell the truth when pitching the firm. If I did, who would ever work at any top investment bank? Speaking the truth would make me look like a traitor.
In just a few hours it’ll be bonus day for the McElroys. I’ll be paid for the home runs of the year, the Emergent Biosolutions, the CeeV-TV. Bonus day means that the graph I keep on my computer, the one that represents the amount of money we need to live comfortably in some suburb, grows more black than red. We are getting so close to moving somewhere easier. I envision my children attending a decent public school, Bruce working at something he loves to do, once he finally figures out what that is, and me looking back at these years as being the price we paid to land in a deeply secure financial place.
My BlackBerry buzzes with a plunk of emails. I notice Henry’s in the mix and feel slightly enraged. I haven’t even gotten home and he’s probably looking for those mortgage securities recommendations. This will be a very long night.