Bond Girl (26 page)

“Read them!” Liv barked. So, I did.

SMS from Patrick, William:

I know you're there, stop screening me

SMS from Patrick, William:

Did you just prank call me?

Shit.

Liv ripped the phone from my hand and tossed it into the pitcher in the middle of the table.

“What are you doing?” I screamed. “Why did you do that? That phone was expensive!” Not only had she ruined my phone but she had ruined our drinks as well. I wasn't sure which was worse.

“I'm sorry, but I can't stand listening to this anymore. Screw him! You're getting a new phone number.”

“I think she could have kept the phone and just changed the number, Liv,” Annie said as she tried to fish my phone out of the lime-green liquid with a fork.

“Well, I . . . I hadn't thought of that. But it doesn't matter. New phone, new number, new start.”

“That I will drink to!” Patty did a tequila shot. Just in case she wasn't drunk enough.

Before I could say anything, from behind me an oddly familiar voice said, “I thought that was you.” I turned around to find Matt Matthews, my friendly neighborhood bartender, smiling broadly.

“Well, hello there,” I said cheerfully as I excused myself from the table. “I almost didn't recognize you with your arms covered.”

“And I almost didn't recognize you without the bloody leg.”

He smiled again, revealing a dimple in his cheek that I hadn't noticed before. I could feel the girls' stares boring into my back.
Who is this?
they no doubt wanted to know.

“Things any better than the last time I saw you?” he asked.

I shrugged, noncommittally.

“Come on, I gave you free wine once upon a time. You owe me.”

I couldn't help but smile. He had me there. “Turns out the fiancée is the office slut.”

“You have an office slut?”

“We do. And she is now engaged to my ex-not-boyfriend.”

“Sounds like it was a nice miss. Are you still working in finance?”

“Yep.”

“Did you ever check out pastry school?”

“That's a long story.”

“You seem to have a lot of long stories.”

“More than you know.”

I liked Matt. He seemed honest, forthright, uncomplicated (in a good way). I remembered what Will said to me once about enjoying the simple things in life.
When did my life get so complicated?

“I'm going to start as a chef at a new place in the West Village in a few weeks. I'd love it if you'd stop by sometime and check it out.”

Did he just ask me on a date?
 No, definitely not. A date has a specified place and time. And besides, he was asking me to drop by his place of work. Nevertheless, I felt an oddly familiar twang in my stomach. Nerves?

“Congrats! I'd love to come. If you cook anywhere near as well as you pour cocktails, you'll be amazing.”

He removed his phone from the breast pocket of his shirt. “What's your number?”

I programmed my office number in his phone, and he dropped it back in his pocket. “It was great seeing you, Alex. Enjoy the rest of your night. I'll call you.”

“Great. I look forward to it.” I meant it. The girls barely waited until he was out of earshot before they started shouting questions at me.

“Who was that?” Liv asked as they stared at me with raised eyebrows. I told them what I knew, which wasn't a lot.

“He seems nice,” Annie said. “See, there
are
nice guys out there. We just met one
.”

He did seem nice, didn't he?

I turned and saw Matt chatting with a bunch of guys in jeans; laughing, drinking Coronas, not talking about money, or finance, or themselves. They looked truly happy and relaxed. Two things I hadn't been in far too long. Somewhere along the way, I had got caught up in the glamour of the industry and forgot how to have fun swigging eight-dollar beers instead of two-hundred-dollar bottles of wine. I envied him. He caught me glancing over and smiled. I gave him a small wave good-bye as we grabbed our bags and wobbled out of the bar, marveling at how one small conversation with a virtual stranger could be responsible for a complete shift in my mental state.

When I climbed into bed later that night, my mind was clear. I had great friends. I had a good job. I didn't need a guy dragging me down. For the first night in a while, I didn't drift off to sleep thinking about Will and his fiancée.

I didn't think about him at all.

I was back.

I wish I could say the same for the market.

Seventeen

Financial Armageddon

I
yawned as I stood against the wall, away from the clutter of people buzzing in between the rows of chairs facing the podium. Every year, Cromwell gave target presentations on elite college campuses, sending alumni to help recruit fresh meat. Mid-May was late in the year to be giving the presentation to the rising juniors and seniors, but considering what was going on at work, we couldn't get away from the office before then. Chick sent me to UVA to trick some new kids into joining the business, despite the fact that the entire financial system was about to collapse. I didn't care. I was just happy to be out of Will's orbit.

“Long week, huh? Don't worry, at least tomorrow's Friday,” Laurie, the HR co-coordinator said. I nodded, my eyes closed, and I stifled yet another yawn.

“I'm exhausted. How long is this presentation again?”

“The film's only about ten minutes but then we have an hour reserved for cocktails and I'm sure some eager beavers will linger so we probably won't be out of here for at least an hour and a half.”

“I'll be a zombie when I get back to the office.”

“I hear you,” she said as she checked her watch and determined it was time to start her presentation. “Here.” She handed me a familiar-looking laminated name tag.

Christ.

Laurie scurried off to the podium and quieted the frenzied room full of eager undergraduates. I took my seat in the front row with the three other Cromwell UVA alumni, all of us impeccably groomed, wearing expensive suits, and sitting perfectly straight, a shining example of what the students could one day hope to become if they were lucky enough to work at our firm.

What they didn't know couldn't hurt them. Yet.

Laurie leaned into the microphone, “Hello! Welcome to the Cromwell Pierce presentation. We have a brief film overview of life at Cromwell, and after that there will be cocktails and you'll have a chance to ask some UVA graduates what life at Cromwell has been like for them. Please direct your attention to the screen.”

Oh good . . . Movie night.
Maybe I'd catch a glimpse of Chick in one of the shots.

I stared at the screen as it flashed our firm name and logo in bold letters. I realized that some analyst somewhere probably spent two weeks in the office trying to figure out which shade of yellow to use on the letters, and that analyst would be happy to know that absolutely no one noticed or cared. Pictures of good-looking, well-built, smiling young professionals flashed on the screen as they shook hands with each other, transacted in a calm and friendly manner with traders who no doubt said “please” and “thank you” and sat in convivial circles discussing one another's ideas and opinions in an open forum. There were slides showing energetic, ethnically diverse employees sitting at polished tables in gleaming conference rooms with stunning views, displayed through windows flooded with sunlight. There were scenes of meetings in boardrooms, stretch limousines, and dinners at expensive restaurants with white tablecloths and roaring fireplaces.

It was one step removed from Nazi war propaganda.

Where were the sake bombs?

Where were the people screaming obscenities?

Where was this alleged “trading floor” with the shiny clutter-free desks and carpeting unstained by Marchetti's vending machine vomit?

And who the hell were the people in the film?

Those people didn't work at Cromwell. They were actors. Someone clearly was smart enough to realize that if they filmed an actual trading floor, the college kids would run screaming for the exits.

At least our marketing department earned their paychecks; I'll give them that.

When the first part of the brainwashing session was completed, Laurie returned to the podium and smiled proudly at the masses. “That,” she said, “was just a brief glimpse into the life you could have as one of the lucky few selected to join the Cromwell family. At this time, you're invited to join us for cocktails and meet some of your former schoolmates. Use them as a resource. They're here to help!”

I moved quickly toward the exit, wanting to get a drink before the seniors descended on the alcohol like pigeons on New York City sidewalks. I unexpectedly caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bartender. Alex Garrett, back on campus, drinking a glass of wine.

Wearing a pin-striped suit, a silk blouse, and a name tag.

What did you do to yourself?
I asked my reflection in horror.

She didn't have an answer.

When I turned from the bar, students immediately accosted me. They stared at my name tag and extended their hands.

“Hi, Ms. Garrett.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Garrett.”

“Can I ask you a few questions, Ms. Garrett?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

A guy with a bright red tie that was entirely too large for his geeky thin frame fired first. “What do you think are some of the most important qualities one must possess to succeed on Wall Street?”

The ability to throw your pride out the window and become a human doormat
was the first response that came to mind.

I couldn't say that.

I turned my attention to a small blond girl with a perky demeanor and a southern accent.

“Do you find it difficult being a woman on the desk?”

Difficult? Nah . . . I've had no problem in discovering that I hooked up with an engaged coworker. And now that I think about it, I
enjoyed being called ugly after witnessing a blatant act
of adultery, and I've had absolutely no problem with being the target of
a psycho client stalker. All in a day's work.
You should try it, Blondie. I'm sure they'd just loooooove you.

I shouldn't say that.

“What drove you to the Business originally? Why did you choose Cromwell over other firms?” asked a guy whom I could tell immediately was a future Will-in-training by the fact that he oozed cockiness for no apparent reason.

The ignorance of youth. I chose Cromwell because I didn't have to wear a suit. Choosing by any other criterion is a waste. They're all the same.

Probably shouldn't say that, either. “I chose Cromwell because of the diversity of opportunities it offered and, of course, for its sterling reputation.”

“So you'd recommend applying for a job in finance?”

“Absolutely.”

Liar.

“Have you ever struggled with your decision to go to Wall Street?”

“Never.”

Liar, liar, days-of-the-week panties on fire.

“And you're really happy with your career path and your life at the firm?”

“Couldn't be happier.”

Shameless. Pathological. Liar.

I had never been more ashamed of myself in my life. I excused myself and walked over toward the window and stared out at the students strolling across campus, blissfully unaware of how much their lives would change once they joined the working world. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt for lying to the kids who were expecting me to give them straight answers, to serve as an example, to help them navigate their way into their professional lives.

And I lied to their faces.

I overheard a group of students talking nervously about the interviews they had endured earlier in the day.

“He asked me which end I squeezed the toothpaste from,” a bright-eyed brunette announced as she regaled her friends with the details of her interview. “What do you think he wanted me to say? What's the right answer?”

“He probably wanted you to say that you squeeze from the bottom to make sure you get every last bit out. You know, finance people want to know that you don't waste anything.”

A blond-haired, surfer type better suited to Hollywood than to a life in finance seemed impressed with himself for breaking the cryptic code: “Yeah, they have a name for it on Wall Street. Leaving money on the table. That's when you don't keep every cent you can.”

“Ohhh, I bet you're right. That's sooooooooo what he wanted me to say! Shoot! Now I'm not going to get the job!”

Starfish Ted really needed to come up with new interview questions.

Fuck it.

I was no Starfish Ted.

I had made my decision a long time ago, but I wasn't comfortable with encouraging anyone else to come to the Street unless they really knew what they were in for. “Hey, guys, do you mind if I give it another whirl?” I said as I walked back over to them. The gaggle of students gathered round, and I began to tell them what no salesperson on the Street should ever tell recruits. The truth.

W
hen I got back to work the following morning, I walked into utter chaos. Summers tended to be a little slow on Wall Street, especially Fridays. People went on vacation, people left early to play golf, no one could seem to focus when the weather was so blissfully beautiful. Not this summer.

Just when you thought things couldn't possibly get worse, they did. Coming to work felt like being on an elevator in free fall. I reviewed the week's data. Confidence: down. Jobless claims: up. Manufacturing: down. Equity markets: down. Credit spreads: out. Treasury yields: down. It was financial Armageddon.

I glanced at my screen, every single number flashing red. Maybe the bankers I put that presentation together for when I was the new girl had been right. Red was definitely not a comforting color.

“Did they fire anyone today?” I asked Drew as he glanced at the headlines running across the newswires.

“Not today. I hear there's another round coming on Monday. Apparently they're going to whack a few guys in corporates.”

“Are they going to cut our group? What if I get fired?”

“You're not getting fired. Relax. Chick loves you. We aren't going to get paid a freaking dime, but we'll have jobs.”

“Don't joke like that, Drew. I count on that bonus.”

“No shit, we all do. But it's going to be bad this year, Al, really bad. If I were you, I'd put a serious halt on my spending. No more shoes. Bear markets can last a long time. You need to have money in savings.”

Great, and I'd blown a few hundred bucks on a fancy, new state-of-the-art phone that had powers I hadn't even yet begun to understand.

Chick walked into the middle of the group. Everyone stopped what they were doing, expecting bad news. It was the only kind of news we got lately.

“Okay, guys, listen up. I know things have been tough around here lately and morale isn't great, so we're going to have a team dinner next Thursday. And just in case anyone is wondering, your attendance is mandatory. I may or may not organize an after-party but I'll let you know about that later.” He looked tired and old. Not like the usual confident, arrogant boss I'd grown to love and respect. He looked
scared
.

We sat in uneasy silence for a few seconds. After Chick returned to his seat, I turned toward Drew. “Chick's been weird. What do you think is going on?” I asked, concerned.

“He's stressed out, Alex. I don't think we have any idea how bad it actually is, but you couldn't pay me enough to be in management right now.”

“What should we do?”

“Just keep your mouth shut and stay off the radar. The less people that notice you exist in times like this, the better.” Drew grabbed his backpack from under his desk. “I'm heading out. Have a good weekend.”

“You're leaving now? It's only four thirty! Not really the time to be leaving work early, Drew.” I grabbed the new economics report and a highlighter and began to read. I figured looking busy couldn't be a bad thing, even if it was all for show.

“It's Friday, and we got completely beat up this week. I'm leaving. Don't stay too late. The weeks are only going to get longer from here on out.”

I watched Drew leave and tried to reassure myself that he was right about us being safe. Our group was making money. In down markets, our group always made money. The only place people wanted to put their cash when the world was exploding was in Treasury debt. I shut down my system and practically ran off the floor at 5:01. I was a block away from the office when I heard Will's voice behind me.

“Alex, stop. You can't avoid me forever.”

“Wanna bet? I've managed so far.”

Good one, Alex.

“Please. Stop.” He had caught up to me, and unfortunately there weren't any cabs for me to hail.

Or push him in front of.

“I'm not interested in hearing anything you have to say to me, Will,” I said.

“I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

“You lied to my face. Forgive me if I'm not interested in listening to any more of your bullshit.”

“I didn't lie to you, I just . . . left some things out.”

“You told me you didn't want a girlfriend!” I wailed.

He put his hands in his pockets. “I fucked up. I get it. I fucked up, and I'm sorry. But I miss you. I miss talking to you and hanging out with you, and joking around with you . . . and there are some things I want to tell you, Alex. I don't want it to be like this.”

“Are you still engaged?” I asked as the familiar wave of nausea overcame me.

He looked down at his loafers and choked out a barely audible “Yes.”

I put both of my hands on his chest and pushed him as hard as I could, which really didn't have the effect I wanted since he was six inches taller than me. He took a step backward to put more room in between us, but I stepped closer and pushed him again. This time he grabbed my wrists.

“Stop.”

“Will, what do you want from me?” I asked on the brink of hysteria. “Here I am. What the hell do you want?”

He ran his hands through his hair and continued to stare at the dirty cement sidewalk. I finally realized why he wasn't answering: he didn't know the answer himself.