It’s easy for me to be happily settled at work when my kids are in school, but at noon, I imagine Brigid and Owen finishing preschool and I feel just a little bit worse. By 3 p.m., Kevin finishes big-kid school and my spirits sink lower. By 5 p.m., the sound of idle chitchat and banter in my workplace grates on my nerves. Conversations better have a point if they’re to include me. When I begin to wonder what frozen food product is finding its way into our microwave oven, I feel positively ornery. From that time forward I’m continually calculating, how many more minutes until I can leave? Can I possibly make it home for story time or will I miss it again? Do the people I work with realize how much time they waste?
This evening, the clocks on the floor have all clicked to 5:15 p.m., leaving only a few minutes before I break for the door and get home to my small people. I combine stacks of paper accumulated during the day. I flip on screen savers and congratulate myself on what will be a successful early exit. Better than that, tonight I plan on being Supermom—I’m hosting Owen’s playgroup.
Caregiver found a playgroup for me consisting of frazzled working mothers and their three-year-olds. A group of nannies that frequent the same playground in Central Park decided their bosses should get to know the kids their own children hang out with. In some sort of reverse-networking feat, babies who liked each other brought together their caregivers, who then brought together the moms. Tonight will be the fourth meeting of this group but the first one the McElroys have hosted and the first one I’ll actually attend. Bruce has gone to the last two.
“Playdates at night?” a disbelieving Ballsbridge inquires as he sees me readying for the exit.
“Part of the working mom’s guilt-reduction program.”
“We have Home Depot night,” he says. “I get home so late, the only place to bring my kids is home improvement centers. I run them up and down the aisles, we treasure-hunt for weird shit like posthole drills, lug nuts. You may want to try that instead of six p.m. playdates.”
“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Seriously, Home Depot. Now open on Lexington Avenue. Check it out sometime.”
This is what I love about Marcus. The guy makes a few million dollars each year and the high of his day is recreating at Home Depot. It’s hard to believe he is or was trysting his nights away with Naked Girl.
“Where’s Tiffany?” I ask. Naked Girl has missed a lot of work lately; it’s quieter without her cloud of excitement hovering behind me.
“Belle, I do not know and I do not care,” Marcus says in a way that makes me believe him.
“You can talk to me, Marcus,” I say, surprising even myself. I want him to know that I’m on his side, that I really do understand.
“She is a complicated em-ploy-ee, Belle. Let us leave it at that.” He smiles for the first time in what feels like forever and seems less jittery without her around. Maybe his marriage is safe for now.
As I stand to leave I notice gobs of dust bunnies clumped under my computer screens and they bother me. Before I can stop myself I pull some chemical cleaner from my drawer and am just finishing a quick wipe when Greene approaches the memo board. I freeze. Please, God, I think, nothing today. I just don’t want an interruption tonight. I don’t want anything to interfere with Owen’s playdate and my chance to meet his three-year-old entourage. I want to make some mom friends.
I mutter to Marcus, “Should I run?”
Marcus mimics Greene’s penmanship moves, trying to figure out what the guy is writing. Soon it’s legible: “Mandatory meeting at 5:30 p.m. Auditorium. 23mm share IPO.”
This means that we’ll be the bankers selling 23 million shares of stock to the public. The men on either side of me pull out their HP-13s, the calculator of choice, and multiply the share amount by the cents per share, ranging from $0.50 to $0.95. The sum of this is the commission, or roughly $10–$20 million that will be up for grabs between only two firms. The numbers are heady and the whole floor buzzes.
“Marcus, grab me a set of handouts,” I say as I head for the door. “I have to get my Goldfish snacks.”
“Belle Bottom, you can’t just skip it. It’d be one thing if you were out of town. Just dip in there for a minute, sweetheart. A little face time won’t hurt the McElroy bank account.”
“I have a partner. My partner can cover it for me.” I nod toward Stone.
Marcus and I both glance at Stone, who is now peering into the limited reflection a dark screen provides. Whatever he sees on his turned-off monitor he seems to like. He smiles at himself as he adjusts some stray hairs around his forehead.
“Really?” Marcus says, nodding toward Stone.
“Argh,” I say. “I’m giving this twenty minutes.”
I call Caregiver and ask her to cover the Goldfish and string cheese purchase, buying myself an additional fifteen minutes while I feel the guilt rise in my chest. Dirk Milazzo, one of the heads of investment banking and a swarthy, balding figure, paces in the front of the room. He’s talking too loud, moving too fast. He makes my heart race in a bad, anticipatory way.
“What’s up with him?” I ask Marcus. “Is he on speed? He’s making me nervous.”
Marcus muses, “Well, there’s that, but also the fact that he’s got some twentysomething girlfriend who is hotttt.”
“No way,” I retort, “he’s one of the happily marrieds. I met his fifty-something wife and she’s lovely.”