“Oh, a bunch of secretaries looking for a big payday?” Simon rolls his eyes. “Yes. I’ve heard of them.”
“You do realize we operate in a similar culture at Feagin and that it’s a matter of time until we get slapped with something like that.” I’m careful to put myself on the “we” side of things, as if his decision is bad for everyone.
Simon doesn’t say a thing for a moment before softening his tone, “Those other ladies look up to you. Be a role model for them. Fighting me on this will only come back to hurt you someday.”
I think I have just been threatened but I’m not sure. I begin softly, “Who will be Marcus’s partner? What about King, doesn’t he need a partner?”
“I believe we’re here to discuss your bonus,” Simon retorts, and waves his hand, indicating the discussion is over, and if I want to get paid I need to get my head back in the game. So I do. But I really don’t.
Several hours later I’m doing math at my desk. Simon has paid me for the past year. Every bonus dollar, so carefully recorded in my nightly Excel spreadsheet, will be handed to me in the form of a check a few weeks from now. It’s a number just under three million dollars. I will take that check to my bank and hand it to the teller, who could never fathom such a sum. She will wonder if I won the lottery or have a rich husband and I’ll feel embarrassed by what is probably a warped sense of what I need or don’t need in my bank account. I think all this comes from growing up without ever having anything new or undamaged or having sandwiches wrapped in newspaper instead of being able to buy the school lunch or even Ziploc bags. Or maybe it’s because I never know how much Bruce will spend or if he’ll ever work again. I don’t know exactly why I think we need so much but I do. It’s not to buy a yacht or a new house, it’s to feel safe with a partner who brings no money to the table.
By the end of the day, three women were partnered with three young men. Simon couldn’t use the same excuse he used for me when it came to partnering up the other women. The other two, Amy and Violette, have no kids or husband or anything else Simon could claim would prevent them from bringing in money. Of course Ballsbridge had his opinion about this.
“Girlfriend,” he had said, “you’re all fertile lassies. Simon doesn’t want some bumper crop of equities markets pushing ever higher while he’s caught with sowers and reapers who aren’t available to harvest the goods. If the reason they’re unavailable is because they’ve been having unprotected sex, he ends up looking like a moron. Can’t blame the guy, you gals need backup.”
“Boyfriend,” I sigh to him, as I know he’s only half joking, “I’ve been proving I can do the mom/banker/sales thing for a while. The others have no kids. And what’s the difference between any woman and you? What’s to stop you from just walking out the door one day? What would happen to your accounts? Nobody knows your accounts, so why don’t you have a partner?”
“Honey, what I lack are two ovaries. You ladies are a pain in the ass to him. He doesn’t want to depend on you. It’s that simple.” Marcus tweaks my cheek. “You’re so damn cute and you’re rich. Why worry so much about the things that don’t really matter?”
When he says this, the image I have of Brigid crying at the door this morning with red, swollen eyes comes into my head.
If I hurry back home, I can grab both our bathing suits and take her out of school. The two of us can swim at the indoor pool on the roof of the Mandarin Hotel, order boxed bento lunches, wear thick robes, and act like we’re visiting from Texas. We can try out fake accents and play Marco Polo and splash anyone who dares to come near us. Without telling anyone where I’m headed, I set my lines to voice mail, rise from my desk, and walk out.
CHAPTER 22
Inside Information
THE NEXT WEEK my business slows when Henry takes his family to an island in the Caribbean called Necker. I find myself looking at Internet photos of what appears to be heaven, and learn that guests have to rent the entire island to stay there. I thought it would be a relief to have him off the island of Manhattan, but instead I’m a woman who surfs photos of someone else’s vacation. Maybe that’s what Bruce, the kids, and I need, some over-the-top vacation with sparkling sunshine, hiking trails, beach beds, and blended drinks.
Ballsbridge is onto my plan of a sexy getaway when he spies what’s on my screen.
“That is not a place to take the kids,” he says helpfully while hovering behind my chair, “and it’s always a welcoming sign when they tell you to inquire about pricing. Isn’t the rule that if you have to ask, you can’t afford?”