Bond Girl (22 page)

“Okay, thanks for the advice,” she said as we made our way down to the lobby.

As soon as we had cleared the turnstiles in the lobby Patty said, “Can I ask you something? Off the record?”

“Sure.”

She looked behind her to make sure no one was near enough to hear our conversation. “There's a cute guy in the back row, what's his name?”

My blood ran cold. “His name's Will,” I said curtly.

“He's really cute. Is he single?”

“Technically.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we're sort of seeing each other, but we don't advertise it, so please don't say anything to anyone, or I'll have no choice but to make your life miserable.”

Her cheeks flushed and she stammered, clearly afraid that she'd just alienated the only person who had bothered to get to know her. “I'm soooo sorry,” she assured me. “I won't say anything, I promise. Wow, that must make work a lot more fun, huh?” She elbowed me, which made me smile. I had a female friend at work. Cool.

“You'd think so, but it doesn't exactly work that way.” I sighed. “Not a word to anyone, capiche?”

“Capiche.” We headed back to the floor talking about normal girlie things: where she got her sweater (J. Crew), if I knew of any good wine bars on the east side (Fig & Olive, across the street from Bloomingdales), where you can get the best eyebrow wax for under twenty bucks (nowhere that cheap on the island of Manhattan, assuming you want to have eyebrows left when you're finished). When we got back to the desk, she grabbed her chair and set it up right next to Chick, ignoring the advice I had just given her. It's as if I taught her nothing.

“Where the fuck did you and Alex go? When I said to get me a Gatorade, I meant from the hallway, not from Midtown,” he growled.

“I'm sorry, I hope I didn't miss anything,” she said, apologetically.

I had just taken my seat when Chick whistled to get the group's attention. “Guys!” He clapped his hands together the way most people do to their dogs when they want them to stop digging in the backyard. “I'm hungry, who's hungry?” The group whistled and cheered—as per usual, everyone was hungry. Nothing new there.

“Hands up if you want cheesesteaks for lunch. Leave 'em up so I can count them.” Hands shot up everywhere, as everyone resumed their conversations and went back to conducting business as usual. Chick counted the hands in sales before he turned his attention to the trading desk. While the traders didn't report to Chick, he liked to buy lunch for them, because a happy trading desk would be more likely to go easy on salespeople when they screwed up (say for example, when they lost ninety-three grand).

“So, Patty, where are you from?” Chick asked, already knowing the answer.

“Philadelphia,” Patty replied, without missing a beat.

“I assume you've eaten your fair share of cheesesteaks over the years?”

“Absolutely! There's nothing better than a Philly cheesesteak.”

“What's your favorite cheesesteak place in Philly?” he asked.

“Well, the two best places are Pat's and Geno's. They're across the street from each other. I like Geno's better, but they're both great.”

Slowly, Chick reached into his jacket and removed a set of keys that he tossed onto Patty's lap. “Then let's do that. We'll decide which we like better. I'm ordering one hundred cheesesteaks, fifty from Pat's and fifty from Geno's. You know how to get to Philly, I assume, since you lived there your whole life? Go get them.”

Patty didn't move, but I could see the skin on the back of her neck turn bright red. “I don't understand, you . . . you want me to drive to Philadelphia and pick up one hundred cheesesteaks?”

“Yes. And make sure you get a cooler or something down there so that they stay warm.” Chick pointed to the clock on the wall, revealing a massively wrinkled shirt sleeve that was missing a cuff link. “It's eight thirty. Leave now and you should be back here no later than one. My Benz is in the garage downstairs. The gas tank is full, and I expect it to be full when I get it back. Make sure you use premium. Go. Now.” Patty didn't move. Chick, used to his orders being followed immediately, barked, “Why are you still here?”

“You . . . you want me to drive your Mercedes?” she stammered.

“Yes.”

“To Philadelphia?”

“Yes,” he muttered. A little more brusque this time.

Oh Jesus, Patty, stop talking and just go.

“To pick up cheesesteaks, and then come back?”

Chick looked at Reese, “Did we hire Rain Man? Are you confused, Reese? I thought my directions were pretty clear.”

“One hundred cheesesteaks. You had me at hello,” Reese agreed.

“See, Patty? This isn't difficult. How are we going to trust you to handle hundreds of millions of dollars if you can't grasp the concept of a round trip to Pennsylvania?”

“No,” she insisted. “I can go now. I'll call in on the way back.”

“Why? I don't care where the fuck you are. As long as you don't end up in Ohio, there's no reason for you to call on the way back. Just get back here by one. And if you fuck up my car, I'll make sure you spend the next year grinding coffee with Jashim in the hallway. Got it?”

Patty ran off the floor, knocking her chair over in the process. The clanging noise made Chick wince in pain.

“Girlie, look up the numbers for these cheesesteak joints and order lunch. Tell them pickup will be in about an hour and a half.”

“Sure, boss.”

After I ordered the sandwiches, I called one of my clients, a hedge fund in Massachusetts. The client wanted me to run some scenario analyses for a trade he was looking at. He wanted me to show how a bond would perform if the market rallied fifty basis points, and what would happen if the market sold off fifty basis points. What would the cash flows look like; how would the bond's duration change? I was deep in thought for well over an hour, but my concentration was broken when my personal line rang. It was a private line that I gave to friends and family, and the receptionist at Bliss for when she needed to confirm my facial appointments. I answered the phone the same way I always do, “Cromwell.”

“Alex?” It was Patty.

“What's wrong?” I hissed in a whisper so that no one would overhear me. “Please tell me the car's okay.”

“The car's fine, but the second batch of sandwiches isn't ready! They said they need another twenty minutes and if I have to wait here twenty minutes, I won't get back on time. What do I do?”

There was only one thing to do. “Well, then you're going to have to make up the time on the way home. Drive at least eighty-five on the turnpike. If you floor it, you should make it back on time.”

“You're seriously telling me to drive Chick's car at eighty-five miles per hour? What if I get pulled over?”

“If given the choice between having to face an angry Chick or an angry state trooper, I'd take the trooper every time. Tell the cheesesteak guys to light a fire under it. How hard is it to throw some Cheese Whiz on a steak anyway?”

“A lot of love goes into these, Alex.”

“It's a
sandwich
. Tell them to hurry up, and wear your seat belt on the way back.”

I hung up on her. Great. If she ended up wrapped around a telephone pole, I was going to feel somewhat responsible.

I turned around to see what Will and the rest of the guys in the back row were up to. They were playing one of their favorite games, the one where they randomly threw pennies on the floor and counted how many one of the salesmen picked up when he walked by. The guy made a ton of money, but was one of the cheapest people on the planet. Will and the guys he sat with got a huge kick out of watching the salesman stop and shove pennies into his pocket, seemingly unconcerned with why they were on the floor to begin with.

Nice to know that the back row was working as hard as I was.

I spun my chair forward and continued with my spreadsheet. I used to hate running Excel models for Chick, but for some reason, when you're running them for your own clients, they aren't nearly as painful. I felt pretty confident in the figures, and was getting ready to call the client back with my findings, when the phone rang again. I liked Patty, but she was quickly getting on my nerves. I grabbed the receiver. “What now?” I said.

“Chick lets you answer the phone like that? A pretty young thing like you really should be nicer to people.”

Shit
. I recognized the voice.

“I'm sorry, I was expecting someone else. How are you, Rick?”

He chuckled. “I guess I'm not the only client calling you on an outside line to say hello. I'm a little disappointed you don't know who I am, and even more disappointed that you haven't returned any of my text messages.”

I felt my body tense. “Can I help you with something?”

“How're you doing?”

“Fine, thanks. How are you?” Not that I cared.

“I'm good. Better now that I'm talking to you.”

I laughed nervously and tried to get him off the phone as fast as possible. “Can I get Chick for you?”

“I didn't call to talk to Chick. This isn't Chick's line, is it?”

“No, it isn't. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping you'd join me for a drink tonight at the Bull and Bear. I thought it'd be a good chance for us to spend some time together.”

What in the hell is wrong with this guy?

“Oh, thanks, but I can't make it tonight. I'm going to be working late.”

“All work and no play makes Alex a dull girl and Rick a very unhappy boy.”

Ick.

“I'm sorry, I really can't. Maybe another night.”
Fuck.
I shouldn't have said that.

“Another night it is. I'm holding you to that, Alex. You don't want to disappoint one of Chick's best clients, do you? That wouldn't bode well for your career.”

I laughed again. He was kidding, right? That was a joke. An amazingly unfunny, sick, and twisted joke. “It was nice talking with you, Rick.”

“You, too. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” With that, he hung up.

I returned my focus to my spreadsheet, and the clients who didn't make me feel like a corporate concubine.

A half hour later as the clock struck 1:00, Chick shook his head in disapproval. “Where the fuck is Patty?” he asked, as he banged his fist on his desk. “How long has she been gone?” Just then, Patty appeared, dragging a large blue-and-white cooler behind her.

“I'm back,” she proudly exclaimed. “Everything's fine.”

Chick opened the cooler, releasing the tantalizing odor of grilled onions and synthetic cheese into the air. “Everything isn't fine if the sandwiches are cold. Are they cold, Patty?”

“No, Chick, they're still warm. I promise.”

“Good. Now sit, Patty.” In ten seconds flat the cooler was empty. I didn't eat one. I felt my ass expand just smelling them.

“Why is it so hard to get good cheesesteaks in New York?” Reese asked as he examined his sandwich. “New York has the best of everything, but for some reason, we can't master the cheesesteak. Why is that?”

“Who knows? If the only thing New York can't master is the cheesesteak, I'm okay with that,” Drew answered, tossing his wrapper in the trash.

“Good job, Patty,” Chick said as he downed his tenth Advil of the day. “Next time you have to go get us sammies from Philly, you only have to go to one spot. You're right: Geno's
is
better.”

Patty whispered in my ear, “Is it always like this? Am I going to be crossing state lines for lunch on a regular basis?”

“Anything's possible,” I answered, nonchalantly.

“Christ. I don't think I really understood what I was signing up for when I took this job.”

“There's no way you could have.”

I gave Will a quick wave as I walked out at the end of the day, well aware of the fact that I had left an e-mail from him unopened in my in-box. I decided I was going to play hard to get. Or at least, not really,
really
easy to get. At least not today.

Fourteen

Buyer of That Babe in Size

P
atty seemed to be adjusting to folding chair life about as well as could be expected. I let her leave her purse under my desk so she didn't have to worry about anyone stuffing it with corn muffins or programming pictures in her iPhone. I figured since she had replaced me as Chick's Excel bitch it was the least I could do to thank her. By March we had become good friends, and I didn't realize how badly I missed having a girlfriend at work until she arrived. It was like we had known each other forever, our bond suggesting a friendship much longer than two months. But trading desks have a way of moving everything at an unusually fast pace: your concept of time, your friendships, your life span. To name a few.

Patty was smart, thank God, which meant she was capable of taking over for me as Chick's financial slave and needed only minimal guidance. This made me happy. It left me more time to pursue way more interesting endeavors.

MSG FROM PATRICK, WILLIAM:

You busy this week?

MSG FROM GARRETT, ALEX: 

I'll have to check my schedule. I'm a very busy girl these days.

MSG FROM PATRICK, WILLIAM:

See if you are free on Thursday. I have a reservation at Nobu at 8:00. I'd hate to have to bring Marchetti. I'll go broke paying to feed him.

MSG FROM GARRETT, ALEX:

I'll try to clear some time. Maybe two hours or so.

MSG FROM PATRICK, WILLIAM:

You'll clear the whole night and you know it . . . and if you won't, I'll just pour sake down your throat until you change your mind.

Fair point.

Nobu was one of the hottest reservations in town. The restaurant was small and elegant, with tightly packed tables. The noise level ranged from average to crazy loud, depending on the clientele on any given night. It was popular among celebrities and models, because it was one of the few restaurants in Manhattan where they'd actually allow themselves to eat the food—raw fish being figure-friendly and all. It was also popular with the members of the New York Social Register who hoped to end up on “Page Six,” and with Wall Streeters who carried corporate cards. I didn't know how Will managed to get a reservation, and frankly I didn't care. I had been dying to go.

I decided to wear jeans, a gray Vince T-shirt with a boat neck and long sleeves, and a pair of black pointy-toe stilettos that looked really hot but hurt like a bitch. Sometimes, you just had to suffer to be beautiful. And beautiful, I would have been. I paid over $100 for a blowout at the John Barrett salon after work. My long hair was shiny and bouncy, shampoo-commercial quality hair. But nothing will ruin a great hair day faster than a nor'easter. Ten minutes after I arrived home to change, it started to monsoon. An instant after stepping out on the sidewalk to hail a cab, I looked like a Chia Pet.

When I entered the restaurant, Will was already there. He stood and gave me a sloppy kiss hello. He was still wearing his work clothes and he was definitely buzzed. My guess was that he'd never gone home and instead had passed the time before dinner slugging beers with his friends at one of the bars near the office. Maybe guys don't think about their appearance much, and don't get me wrong, I didn't want a boyfriend who was vain and spent more time looking in the mirror than I did, but it did make me feel silly that I was having a panic attack because my hair was frizzing and he hadn't even bothered to change his shirt. Will was already drinking a beer, but after examining the cocktail menu, I decided on a martini.

“I'll have a lychee martini, please,” I said to the waiter.

Will was intrigued by my order. “Since when do you drink martinis?”

“I don't usually, but I wanted to try it. You can get sake anywhere. Any idea what a lychee is?”

He laughed. “Sorry, can't help you with that one. I'm sure it's good, though. Everything here is good.” He flashed a smile. “I'll take care of ordering. There are a few things that you have to try. The food's off the charts. You'll love it.”

“Great!” I chirped like a stupid teenager. “One caveat, though: I don't do fish eggs. Other than that, order whatever you want.” I flashed my most dazzling smile and batted my eyelashes shamelessly.

“Understood,” he said. “Seller of fish eggs, got it.” Wall Street people had a very annoying tendency to introduce market jargon into everyday life. If you liked something, you were a buyer. If you didn't like something, you were a seller. If you liked or disliked something a lot you just added “in size” on the end. Once a pretty girl walked by our table at the bar and Marchetti whistled as he announced, “Buyer of that babe in size.”

“Seller,” Reese had countered. “Fat ass.”

All the poor girl did was walk by the table and she immediately became an available-for-sale asset.

My phone beeped in my bag next to me, interrupting our conversation.

“Popular girl,” Will said.

“Well, obviously, I turned down quite a few guys to have dinner with you tonight.”

He smirked. I removed my phone from my bag to check my messages and immediately felt my good mood evaporate into the night air.

SMS from Kieriakis, Rick:

I miss you, do you miss me? Call me.

My frustration must have been obvious.

“What's wrong?”

“Rick.”

Will looked angry. “Is there something you're not telling me?”

“No. I just don't know why he won't leave me alone,” I said, honestly.

“You don't? I do.”

“You do?”

“There are three kinds of women on the Street.”

“This should be interesting.”

“The first is the group who will sleep with anyone to make more money or advance their careers. The second is the group who works twice as hard as the first group to advance their careers and make money, because they refuse to sleep their way up the ladder.”

“And the third?”

“The third is the group who can't handle being in one of the other two groups and quits. Rick doesn't know which group you're in, so he's testing you. Being a woman on the Street can be a disadvantage, no question, but there are some who use it to their advantage, too. Turn a negative into a positive if you will.”

“That's vile. I'd
never
do that.”

“I know that, but he doesn't. He probably thinks you're just another slut on the Street.”

Our waiter returned and set a cloudy pale pink cocktail down in front of me. There was a toothpick floating in it that would've held olives in a regular martini, but in the lychee martini, speared some sort of plump, fleshy-looking object. Note to self: next time, order beer. I hesitantly took a sip of the cocktail. It was strong and fruity. I had found my new favorite beverage.

“This is great!” I said. “Why don't I drink these all the time?”

“At eighteen dollars a pop, it's probably better if you don't.”

“This thing is eighteen dollars? Jesus, is there liquid gold in here?” Will smiled as he took the last sip of his beer and motioned to the waiter to bring another round.

“Better catch up,” he said. I looked at my martini glass, which was still full, and took a large gulp in order to finish it before my refill arrived. Will's eyes were glassy, and while I'd happily suck down another martini, there was no way I was going to be able to catch up to him, especially since he had been drinking for three hours while I was trying to decide between my dark-wash and my extra-dark-wash jeans. I finished the drink quickly. I would've sucked the lychee off the toothpick if I was sure that I was supposed to do that, but when in doubt, I figured it was better to let a sleeping lychee lie.

“Sorry, I should have checked the price before I ordered. I think this might be one of the most expensive drinks on the menu. Do you maybe want to order some wine after this?”

“Are you kidding? I make a ton of money, and I asked you to dinner. You can order whatever you want. Don't worry about the bill.” As if to prove his point, he flagged the waiter down again and ordered our food.

“We'll have an order of the yellowtail and jalapeno, an order of the rock shrimp tempura, an order of the miso cod, an order of the wagyu beef, and six pieces of sushi, whatever the chef thinks is best, but not, what was it again that you won't eat?”

Will pointed his right index finger at me and rolled it in a clockwise circle in midair while he tried to remember my request.

“No fish eggs, please,” I said.

Will handed the menus to the waiter and ran his hand through his hair. “Right. Whatever the lady wants. Or doesn't want.” The waiter smiled, then went back to the kitchen to place our ridiculously large order. Will suddenly produced a small bag from under his chair.

“I got you something. Open it.”

I removed a wad of green tissue paper from the bag and found a thin Burberry headband nestled in the middle. “You bought me a headband?”
Random.

“Yeah. You wear your hair down a lot, or in one of those messy ponytails. I thought you might like something nice to keep your hair off your face at work.”

I wasn't much of a Burberry headband kind of girl, but it was a nice gesture and I didn't want to be rude. “Thanks. It's sweet of you to think of me.”

“Put it on.”

I felt silly following instructions on how to wear my hair, but I put it on and smiled. I knew he gave it to me to be nice, but I couldn't help feeling like it was a slippery slope—who knew how long it would be before he told me what I should wear or who I could talk to. I had no interest in ending up in a corporate version of
Sleeping with the Enemy.

“What do you think?” I asked nervously as I ignored the warning bells going off in my brain. I reminded myself to stop watching so many movies.

“You look great.”

I was buzzed and strangely happy, with both the restaurant and the company. I was planning to talk to Will about something important, but I was distracted when the waiter delivered a plate of thinly sliced yellowtail with a sliver of jalapeño, swimming in soy and sprinkled with cilantro.

“You'll love this. Taste it.” Will picked up his chopsticks, which were resting on an elegant shiny black stone. After that, in rapid succession, we had fried shrimp, miso cod, the single best steak I have ever had in my life, and a few pieces of unidentifiable raw fish. I lost track of my drinks, too, because the waiter was constantly refreshing them if he noticed our glasses getting low. You really can't put a price on good service.

“Can I ask you a question?” I was finding it increasingly difficult to focus.

“Shoot,” he said, his eyes bloodshot and bleary.

“You never seem to be around when I call you on the weekends. It's not a big deal,” I quickly added. “I'm just wondering why you don't ever return my calls. I always answer when you call.”

“I don't know; sometimes I don't like phones. We're on them so much at work, on the weekends I like to just have peace and quiet, you know?”

I thought about it for a second. It seemed to make sense. We did spend an inordinate amount of time on the phone.

“I'll give you the phone thing. But how come you won't meet any of my friends? It's not like they don't know that we hang out, but I'm pretty sure they're beginning to wonder if you're an imaginary friend. Why don't we ever go out with other people? It's like you're embarrassed to be seen with me.” This was an exaggeration. I knew that wasn't the case, but the headband was making me say things I wouldn't usually say. I felt the need to stick up for myself to compensate for the plaid-fabric-wrapped vise clamped around my skull.

He chuckled under his breath. “We're in one of the most popular restaurants in the city. If I were embarrassed to be seen with you, we'd be in some hole-in-the-wall place in the East Village where no one would ever think to go. I think you're being a little crazy.”

“No, I'm not!” Having a guy think you're crazy is the kiss of death.

“I like spending time alone with you. Is that so bad?”

“No, but you could at least meet my friends. They're fun girls. You'd like them. ”

“How do you know that we won't hate one another? Girls are tough.”

“Well, you like me, don't you? They're just like me, so if you like me, you'll like them.”

“It's not that simple. Once I meet your friends, they'll feel like they have the right to voice their opinions about everything, including me. I've found it's better to not involve them at all.”

“Let me guess: your ex-girlfriend's friends couldn't stand you, and you blame them for your breakup.”

“I didn't say that,” he answered, perhaps a little too quickly.

“You didn't have to. Listen, they're a big part of my life, and if you want to be involved with me in any way other than as my e-mail pen pal, you're going to have to meet them. They don't bite, I promise. Well, Liv did once, but there were extenuating circumstances.”

He exhaled loudly and twirled his chopsticks nervously in his hands. “Fine. We'll figure out a night to all go out. I'll meet them if it's a big deal to you.” He reached for my hand as the waiter placed the check on the edge of the table.

“Great. I'm supposed to meet my friend Liv tomorrow. Why don't you have a drink with us? You don't have to stay long; just come and meet her. What do you say?” My foot was shaking back and forth under the table as I waited for his answer.

“The biter? You want me to meet the biter first?”

“Forget I said that. Long story.”

“I can't tomorrow. I have plans. We'll all go out soon, I promise.”

He let go of my hand to grab his wallet and fumbled with his cards as he struggled to remove his Amex, his lack of dexterity a pretty clear indication he was wasted. He threw his card on the bill and returned it to the waiter without even looking at the total.