Bond Girl (11 page)

“Yes, but we aren't required to use it.”

Please don't say it, please don't say it.

“I think we should use the new format. This one's antiquated. Keep the font and characteristics consistent from slide to slide using the two we just corrected as a guide. Then you'll just have to have the books copied and stuff them in their overnight packs.”

“I'll have to start over. I can't just cut and paste from this program to the new one.”

“That's why I'm not offering to pull up a chair and wait for you. I need these to go out tonight so don't waste time. Leave one on Chick's desk, so he gets it first thing on Monday. Also have a messenger deliver one to my house in Connecticut tonight so I can read it over the weekend. Thanks a lot for the help.”

“No problem,” I mumbled as they walked away. I kicked my shoes off under the desk, rolled up my sleeves, and prepared for a long night of tedious pitch book revisions.

I sent the pitch books to the printer at 5:30 and was informed it would take roughly two hours to complete the order. I sat alone on the desk reading our economist's weekly update, the trading floor lights dimming, trying to make productive use of the quiet time before the manual labor portion of my punishment began.

At 7:00 my cell phone rang.

“What's up, where are you?” Liv asked, music and laughter echoing in the background.

“Work. I hate my life. Will you come down here, stab a pencil in my eye, and put me out of my misery, please?”

“Why the hell are you still at work at seven o'clock?”

“I'm working on pitch books. I fucked up and Chick is punishing me. I'll talk to you when I get home.”

“You screwed up? What did you do?”

“It's a long and horrifying story. I'll tell you when I get home.”

“I'll wait up for you. How late do you think you'll be?”

“I'm not even sure. I'm going to be here for a while. I have to organize an entire mailing.”

“Your job sucks.”

“Yes, I'm aware. I have to go. The books should be finished soon, and it's going to take me a while to drag them all downstairs.”

“Okay, Hulk Hogan. See you later.”

Click.

I stifled tears, an oddity for me. I'm not a crier. Especially not in public, so the realization that my eyes were watering for the second time in two days surprised me. This job was all I ever wanted up until yesterday. Today, well, today all I wanted was to get the hell out of the building and go home. That's all.

P
ick up for Ciccone,” I said as I signed the log in the copy center at 7:30. Only a half hour after I talked to Liv—it felt like twelve.

“Yup,” the lady at the counter chirped as she pointed to a stack of at least a dozen boxes. “Those are all for you.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope, four hundred books. Do you have anyone coming to help you?”

“No.” I sighed. “No one is coming to help me.”

I looked down at my patent leather ankle strap heels. Once again, I was wearing the most inappropriate footwear. Fuck my life.

I grabbed the first box, grunting like a bodybuilder under the strain of the weight, and slowly began my descent to the mail room. When I arrived ten minutes and a pint of sweat later, I dropped the box on the floor next to the work table and returned for the second box. By the time I finished, an hour later, my arm and back muscles ached and my hair was glued to the back of my neck with sweat. 
Screw you, Chick,
I thought as I unceremoniously dropped the last box on the floor. 
I don't need to put up with this shit.

I constructed an envelope-stuffing assembly line on the long metal table in the middle of the room. At one end, I set up stacks of books, ten books per stack. Next to that, I laid out the express mail packs, all facing the same direction with the openings on the left so that the books could slide right in. Once the book was sealed in the pack, I smacked a self-adhering label on the package. The labels almost never went on straight, but last time I checked I wasn't getting any extra points for making the packages look pretty. I spent almost four hours in solitary mailroom confinement, finishing around 11:30. I had barely enough time to make the midnight deadline. I began to panic.

I called our main mail center in the basement to pick the packs up immediately, and I ran down to the floor to leave a copy on Chick's chair. As I made my way toward the elevator banks I heard giggling and singing coming from the conference room. Strange, since I would have sworn I was the only person left on the floor. Fergie's unmistakable voice punctuated the silence as she sang about her humps and lady lumps.
What the . . . ?

When I walked in the room, I was shocked at the scene taking place. Air mattresses covered the floor, and a half-dozen random drunk girls danced around while swigging wine from paper cups stolen from the coffee counter in the hallway. The girls didn't seem fazed by my intrusion, all except for the ringleader—Baby Gap—who was dancing on the table in white cotton pajamas and pink bunny slippers. Literally, pink bunny slippers.

“What are you doing?” I asked, completely horrified.

“Hi, Alex! I have some girlfriends visiting from out of town and my apartment is too small to fit everyone so we decided to get a room at Hotel Cromwell! Not a bad idea, huh?”

“Have you completely lost your mind? You can't have a slumber party in the office. Where did you get this stuff?” I eyed the bottles of vodka and wine lined up on the floor.

“I keep it in the file cabinet behind Keith's desk.”

“You turned the file cabinet into a wet bar?”

“Uh-huh, but I also keep some personal items in there. A hair dryer, a corkscrew, snacks, a change of clothes, and a dock for my iPod!”

“Hannah, you can't sleep here. What if someone sees you?”

“It's Friday. No one else is here.”

“I'm here. I'm actually still working.”

“Well, then you should join us!”

“No. In fact, don't tell anyone I saw this. Don't tell anyone I was here. Don't tell anyone you know me.”

“Sure, Alex. No problem! You're more than welcome to help yourself to a drink, though. And if you want to stay, I have an extra toothbrush in the cabinet.”

I left the room without saying a word and heard her turn her attention back to the other drunk bimbos. “Who wants to play flip cup, ladies?”

I stormed down to the lobby, wondering if Baby Gap would be able to keep her job if she bought her clothes at stores that catered to adults. I stopped in the car dispatcher's office, then dragged my weary, aching, carpal-tunnel-racked body outside to a black car, collapsed in the backseat, and sobbed from exhaustion. Eleven forty-five on a Friday meant I was allowed to take a car home for free, compliments of Cromwell.

Wasn't that nice of them.

Seven

Sake Bombs

I
f I were allowed to take vacation, I would have taken the following week off. But I was still too new, so I was forced to go back to work and suffer through the dead markets between Christmas and New Year. I managed to make it home for dinner on Christmas Eve with my family, but had to head back to the city the following night so that I could be at work on the twenty-sixth.

I was happy to see the year end on the calendar change. January meant the start of a lucrative new trading year, and everyone else was energized from their time away from the office. I was thoroughly exhausted, but determined to work even harder to regain Chick's respect. I ran all his models—complicated spreadsheets containing every bond and derivative we traded. They tracked trades his clients had put on so that he could monitor their performance and could advise them as to when they should book profits or cut losses. I stayed late to update spreadsheets and read every packet and book Cruella had given me. I wasn't going to let T.C. derail my career, and I certainly wasn't going to let him make me doubt my ability to do the job. I was tough, and there was no way I'd allow anyone to break me.

“Girlie, whatever plans you have tonight, cancel them,” Chick ordered one bitterly cold Thursday in the middle of January.

“Okay, Chick, what do you need?” It was Thursday and I was really hoping he wasn't going to make me stay late doing something mindless. I had a happy hour to get to.

Chick tilted his head to the side and looked at me for a moment, as if trying to determine if he really wanted to say what he was about to say. “I finally heard the real story about what happened at the Christmas party.”

I gulped. Please, not this again. “Yeah, I meant what I said, Chick. I'm really sorry about that whole thing.”

“We've already gone over that, and you were wrong to say what you did. From what I hear though, he was also way out of line.”

I was speechless. It sounded like Chick was apologizing.

“We're taking clients out for dinner tonight at Buddha Bar. You're coming with us. You'll be meeting a lot of very important guys. Make sure you brush your hair before we go. Don't fuck it up. Capiche?”

“Wow, that means a lot, Chick. Thanks!”

I hadn't been asked to join Chick on a night out since I started at Cromwell. The guys were constantly entertaining and indulged their clients with courtside tickets to the Knicks, seats behind home plate at the Yankees, and center ice tickets for the Rangers. They had front-row seats to the best concerts in town and often were out of the office playing golf in the Hamptons, California, and even Ireland. There were fishing trips in the Caribbean, box seats at football games, and dinner at some of the trendiest restaurants in town. I couldn't believe I was finally invited to join him. I felt recharged and reenergized, vindicated even. With one small gesture, Chick had restored my confidence.

“One more thing, Girlie slave.”

Oh God, here comes the catch. I had to sit next to T.C. and make nice? What?

He handed me two tickets. “I was supposed to go to U2 this weekend, but one of my kids is sick so we can't make it. You take them.”

U2 tickets? I was afraid he was messing with me. I stood there and stared at him, waiting for him to snatch them away and laugh at me for being gullible, yet again.

“What's the matter? Don't you like U2?”

“Are you kidding!” I said. “I love U2! You're really giving these to me?”

“Yup. Floor seats. Tell Bono I said hi.”

“I really don't know how to thank you.”

“Have a good time.”

“Oh, I will!” Liv was going to die when I told her we would be rocking out with Bono and the Edge at Madison Square Garden this weekend.

I could barely focus for the rest of the day. I decided to shoot Will an e-mail.

MSG FROM GARRETT, ALEX:

W—

Chick just asked me to go to Buddha Bar tonight. If you're out later, maybe we can try and grab a drink afterwards?

—

I wouldn't normally have asked a guy to call me, but considering I had given him my phone number three weeks ago and he still hadn't used it, what harm could it do? I stared at my e-mail for the next twenty minutes waiting for a response, but there wasn't one. I strained my neck to see if Will was at his desk. He was, throwing a tennis ball up in the air.

I spent the rest of the day working on Chick's spreadsheet. He had told me to make sure I finished by the end of the week, and I decided I'd try to finish it before we left as a sign of my appreciation. At 5:00 I went into the ladies' room and emptied my purse onto the counter. I ran a Kleenex underneath my eyes to remove the mascara that had migrated onto my skin, and I applied fresh lip gloss. I brushed my hair and took one last look at myself: I looked good, the stress of the Christmas season nowhere to be found on my face. As I turned to leave, Cruella entered and scanned my appearance.

“Well, don't we look pretty. I didn't realize that having your face fully painted makes it easier to sell bonds.”

I had had very little contact with Cruella since our initial encounter, but every time I did it usually involved her hurling some kind of insult at me. After the mess with T.C., I figured taking on the Puppy Skinner was a very bad idea, so I usually pretended I didn't get that she was making fun of me. “Chick is taking me with him to a client dinner tonight,” I said with a forced smile.

Cruella laughed. “Let me guess . . . Rick is going to be there. Why else would he bother dragging an analyst who knows nothing about the markets with him? It's not like you'll add anything to the conversation.”

I stood there speechless, unable to comprehend why she needed to be such a bitch. I stuttered, “I . . . well, I . . . he . . .”

Good job, Alex. Way to show her you're not a total moron.

“You know, I used to be like you. I used to think that everyone was nice to me because I was smart, because they
respected
me. I hope you wise up, little girl, for your own sake. I really do.” She disappeared into one of the stalls.

I used to be like you.

What if that were true?

I couldn't allow myself to worry about it, because the possibility that I was on a collision course with a bitter old woman was too much to bear. When I got back to my desk, I found Chick choosing one of the ten ties he left in the coat closet for client events. He whistled at me when I walked by, which made me smile. I had just sat down when Chick snapped his fingers, grabbed his blazer, and walked off the floor. I took one last look at my e-mail, but there was still no response from Will. I really wish Cromwell allowed analysts to have BlackBerrys so that I could check my e-mail during dinner. Oh well.
There will be other nights, 
I reminded myself as I followed Chick outside.
It's probably better this way. You need to focus on making a good impression.

When we got down to the valet, a dark sedan waited at the curb. The driver flashed the lights, and someone stuck his arm out of the front-seat window and waved. Chick opened the door for me. When I looked up to see who was sitting in the front seat, I almost choked. Will was talking to the driver about traffic and fiddling with the radio. He finally stopped on a one-hit wonder from the '80s. Then, he turned around to talk to Chick.

“Hey, Chicky, does this make you think of your college years or what? The eighties must have been a great time to be in college. Girls with big hair, guys with mullets. I bet you rocked a nice mullet, huh?”

“Bite me, Willy. You would have lasted ten minutes with us at Penn State. You wouldn't have been qualified to be our fucking water boy. I'm sure you were big man on campus at Wharton, but it's nowhere near the same thing.”

“I hear the ladies liked short guys back then.”

“I'm six fucking feet tall if I stand on my wallet. That's what the ladies like. Keep this up and I won't pay you enough to take your fat dates to the drive-through at McDonald's. Capiche?”

I was waiting for one of them to acknowledge the fact that I was in the car. Will hadn't even said hello. I knew he had read my e-mail because I had put a read receipt on it. (I admit, this is a little lame, but you can drive yourself crazy wondering if a message has been opened.) It had been two months since Will and I had drinks outside of work, and while we flirted in the office a fair amount—but not enough to register on Chick's radar—I was surprised that there had never been a follow-up. I was more surprised that now we were in the same car and he wasn't speaking to me at all. I didn't know what Will was trying to accomplish by ignoring me, but if it was to drive me insane, he was well on his way to succeeding.

Buddha Bar was dimly lit, the way that most hip restaurants in New York are: candles covered the tables and banquettes, and the walls were painted a deep ruby red. Everyone who worked there was thin, fit, and clad in black, undoubtedly just killing time before their big break. Like most restaurants in the Meatpacking District, the bar and the lounge were already crowded with other bankers, lawyers, and traders when we arrived, everyone drinking and trying to talk over one another.

We headed over to the bar and joined a rowdy group of men swigging beers and throwing back scotch. They ranged in age from thirty to forty and were all impeccably dressed and immaculately groomed. When they saw us coming, they called in unison,
Chiccckkk-eeeeeeeee,
holding their glasses in the air. Chick walked around shaking hands and patting backs, while a pretty blond bartender took his drink order. No one said a word to me, although from the way they were looking at me, I might as well have been a peanut in the elephant pit at the zoo. Within two minutes, Will and Chick were both holding scotches, and I was standing off in the corner ignored by both the group and the waitress. Finally, one of the older men acknowledged me. He wore a navy blazer and a white shirt with too many buttons open. Clearly, he thought he was quite the stud.

“Now, you're too gorgeous to have just followed Chick in off the street. I assume you're actually supposed to be here?”

I nodded and smiled.

“I'm Rick Kieriakis.” He smiled and extended his hand. Chick overheard him introduce himself. Until then, I was pretty sure he had completely forgotten I was there.

“Ah, sorry, Ricky. This is Alex Garrett, our analyst. She's been with the team for about six months now, and since you'll be talking to her I wanted you to meet in person.” Chick introduced everyone to me, rattling off their names like items on a shopping list. I shook all of their hands and tried very hard to remember who was who. There was Kevin, Brian, Sal, Nate, Skip, Petey, and Rick. They were loud, well dressed, and impressed (with themselves). You could go anywhere in New York City and easily pick out the group of Wall Streeters. One of the negative side effects of life on the trading floor was that you got so used to shouting you lost your “inside voice” entirely. For anyone who wasn't used to it, it could be pretty obnoxious. Even if you were used to it, it was still pretty obnoxious.

“So, you're new at Cromwell?” Rick asked. He picked a wayward navy thread off his crisp white shirt and adjusted a silver cuff link. More than a few women stared at him. His perfect posture, impeccably tailored jacket, and peacockish nature screamed all they needed to know:
I'm rich.

“Yes, I came right out of undergrad. I started in July. I'm sorry, Chick didn't mention where you worked.”

“Rude for a sales manager, don't you think?” He laughed. “I'm a portfolio manager at AKS.”

Shit.
AKS was one of the largest and most well-respected hedge funds on the Street. I was basically talking to a Bond God as far as salespeople were concerned. I immediately felt self-conscious, insecure, and completely out of my league. Chick could have warned me I was speaking to someone who most guys bow down to on a regular basis.
Fuck.

He must have sensed my fear and continued jovially. “You're on a good team,” he said with a smile. “There's no one better to work with and learn from than Chick. He's the best.”

“Yes, I'm very lucky. How long have you been at AKS?”
Good job, Alex. That's the best you can come up with? Just kill yourself now and get it over with.

“About fifteen years. I started my career on the floor of the Chicago Board of Trade more years ago than I care to admit. Then I went back to business school at University of Chicago. When I graduated, I moved to New York and worked at a hedge fund doing much of the same stuff you're doing. Then I went over to AKS to run my own portfolio. Enjoy your time now, Alex. Before you know it, you'll be forty and married with kids, living in the 'burbs like me.”

Since when is that a bad thing?
I wondered where his house was, and if it had a hammock.

“It sounds like quite the life!” I wanted to endear myself to Rick. I knew if I didn't impress Chick's clients, I'd never be invited to another dinner. I figured stroking his ego was a safe bet. Innocently, I added, “I hope I'm able to have the same kind of success you've had. Do you have any advice for a young person starting out in the industry? Chick's an amazing mentor, but I'd love to get a client's perspective.”

“Well, there are lots of ways to get to the top in this business. I guess it depends on how hard you want to work.”

Rick reached up and fondled the blue topaz pendant that dangled from a silver chain around my neck. My parents had given it to me for my twenty-first birthday. “Beautiful necklace. Beautiful girl.”

Ew
. “Thank you,” I replied, nervously. He released the pendant and ran his finger lightly along my clavicle, before returning his arm to his side. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I took a step back, to put a little more room in between us and cleared my throat. He was married and on his sixth scotch. Was it possible he didn't realize how creepy he was acting? Maybe he was just trying to be nice to the new girl? A lot of maybes raced through my mind as I tried to convince myself that I was here for a reason. That I wasn't just bait, and Cruella's comments weren't true.