Bond Girl (7 page)

Hit ringing line,
I mentally instructed myself. The night I had stayed late at work calling my friends and family suddenly seemed worthwhile. I wish they had taught a class on it at UVA. I'd have felt a lot more confident.

“Cromwell, this is Alex.”

“Alex, my car isn't here. I'm waiting outside the clubhouse with my clubs and my car isn't here. I look like a goddamn caddy. You ordered me a car, right?”

Oh shit. “
Hey, Chick, yeah, I did. I'll call the car company right now and find out where it is. Give me one second, okay?”

“Grrrr,” he grunted. I think that was a yes.
Press hold, press left headset, dial number on the Post-it stuck to the side of Chick's keyboard.

“Hi, yes, I'm calling to check on a town car I ordered for a pickup at Baltusrol Country Club, confirmation number 8625 . . . Uh-huh, okay, ten minutes? How bad is the traffic though, because this is my boss and he has a very low tolerance for employees who lie to him. So if ten minutes is really twenty minutes, I need you to tell me. Okay, fine, ten minutes. Yes. Thanks.”
Clear line, hit right headset, hit line
. “Hi, boss, I just spoke to them. They said there's some traffic, but the car will be there in ten minutes.”

“Fine.”

Click.
Chick hung up. Another light flashed.
Hit ringing line.
“Cromwell, this is Alex.”

“Oh Christ, it's you,” an all-too-familiar voice said, agonized that she had the misfortune of speaking to me.

“Hi, Kate, can I help you with something?”

“You can try, although your being successful is a low probability event.”

I energetically gave the receiver the finger. “I need a reservation at Le Bernardin tonight for four people at 6:30. I'm going into a customer meeting in Midtown. Get me the reservation and e-mail my BlackBerry.”

Le Bernardin? That's one of the most popular restaurants in the city. The freaking mayor can't get in there with three hours' notice.
“Kate, I'll call, but I don't know if . . .”
Click.
Kate hung up.

I grabbed the
Zagat's
restaurant guide out of Chick's top drawer and looked up the number for the most popular restaurant in town.

Hit light, dial number.
“Hi, I'm calling from Cromwell. I was wondering if it would be possible to get a reservation for tonight for four people at 6:30?”

The hostess laughed rudely. “I'm sorry, we are fully booked for the next four months. If you like, I can get you in at five thirty or ten o'clock on December twenty-ninth.”

“I know, but this is for Kate Katz, who I doubt you know, but I assure you she is a very important person at Cromwell Pierce.” (Read: psycho hose bitch.) “Is there anything you can do?”

“I'm sorry, no. Please hold.”

Click.
The hostess hung up. Le Bernardin must have the same phone system as Cromwell.

The phone rang again.
Hit flashing light.
“Alex, this is Cromwell.”
Wait no, that's not right.
“I mean, Cromwell this . . .”

“My car still isn't here, Alex!” Chick yelled before I could finish clarifying that my name wasn't Cromwell and I didn't work at a firm named Alex. I checked my watch. It had only been five minutes, not ten.

“Okay, boss, umm, sorry. Hold, I'll call them back right now.”
Clear line, hit left headset . . . oh shit
.
I was supposed to hit hold in there somewhere.

I accidentally hung up on Chick. I'm dead. Another line rang.

“HELP ON THE LIGHTS!” I screamed in panic the way ER doctors yell for crash carts. Drew threw on his headset and picked up the phone.

I called back the car company. “Hi, I just called looking for a car. Confirmation number 8625? I really need to know where this car is. Okay, it's pulling in now? Great, thanks.”

I dialed Chick's cell phone. “Yeah. It's here, see you back at the office.”
Click.
He hung up.

“Alex,” Drew yelled from down the row. Cruella says she doesn't want to go to Le Bernardin anymore. She wants a reservation at Per Se instead. Same time, same number of people. I hope you know what she's talking about.”

I looked in the drawer for the
Zagat's
again, but it wasn't there. I rummaged through papers on Chick's desk looking for the little red restaurant bible, but I couldn't find it. My heart was beating so quickly I feared it might pop out of my chest. I stood, and the wayward book fell off my lap onto the floor. I found the number for Per Se.
Hit light, dial number
. “Hi, yes, I'd like to make a reservation for tonight at 6:30 for four people, and if you love me you will tell me that's possible. Yes, I know you don't know me, but you're talking to someone who is hanging on to her sanity by a thread and if you tell me there are no reservations, I might go postal . . . you can? Oh thank God, you are a nice, nice man, thank you. Yes. Katz, 6:30, four people. God bless you.”
Click.
I hung up. It felt nice to be on the other end of the disconnect for once.

I threw my headset on the desk and rubbed my throbbing temples. The phone rang.

I screamed as I mentally gave myself the proper instructions to pick up the phones on the NASA-worthy phone board for the hundredth time in the last hour.
Hit right headset, hit ringing light.
“Cromwell, this is Alex . . . No, Susan, I'm sorry he's still not back but I promise you I'll give him the message. No, I actually have no idea if he has his cell phone on him but he's at a meeting so it's probably off anyway. Is it an emergency? Okay, good. Then I promise as soon as he returns to the office I'll have him call home. Okay, no problem.”
Click.

“What's up, Alex?” Will asked as he plopped himself down in an empty chair and wheeled over next to me.

“Seriously, why does that guy Chip's wife call thirty times a day? I have answered at least seven phone calls from her in the last two hours. What part of ‘I will tell him you called' does she not understand?”

Riiiiing
. Chip's line rang again.

“It can't be her again. It just can't be.”

“Here,” Will said as he picked up my phone receiver. “You want help? You got it.” He hit the ringing light. “Hello? Sure, hold one second, please.” He dialed a number, pressed transfer, and hung up.

“Did you just hang up on Susan?”

“I didn't hang up her. I transferred her, umm, elsewhere,” he said, his eyes glinting mischievously.

“Where?”

“The Chinese place down the block.”

“Please tell me you're kidding. Please tell me you didn't just transfer her to Szechuan Panda.”

“Yup.”

“How is that helping?”

“I bet she doesn't call back again! I subtly told her that she was being an annoying pain in the ass. I just solved your problem. Well, one of them at least.”

I giggled. “I appreciate the help; you're a good friend.”
Friend? Was that presumptuous? Nice going, Alex. Way to make yourself look like an idiot.

Riiiiing
. “OHMIGOD!”
Hit ringing line.

A muffled voice in a strange accent on the other end of the line said, “Yeah, is this Fung Yoo dwy cleana? You mess up my shirt! My suede shirt, you ruined my shirt! You gonna pay for this!”

“What?” I asked in desperation. “Wait, sir, hold on, you have the wrong number; this isn't a dry cleaner. This is a trading floor.”

“You stupid beetch, you ruin my suede shirt. You replace it. It cost five hundred dolla!”

“Sir, please, you have the wrong number!” I tried in vain to make him understand that his ruined suede shirt (who wears suede shirts?) was not my problem. I turned to my left to see if someone else could pick up the phone to help and found Drew, Will, and Marchetti listening in on the line from the end of the row, laughing with their phones on mute. I turned the other way and discovered Reese, standing in the corner with his headset, looking straight at me. “You stupid beetch, Girlie-san, you ruin my shirt! You pay me five hundred dolla!” They erupted into laughter as I dropped the phone on my desk. Prank called by your own teammates. Normal? Not so much.

“I'm done!” I said, laughing. “You guys want to screw with me? Fine, I'm waving the white flag, you win! Score is immature idiots, one; Alex, zero.” I waved my arm back and forth, pretending to surrender to the enemy. “I can't answer another phone or I think my head will explode. What is going on here today? It's crazy!”

Marchetti came over and rubbed my tired shoulders, “It's okay, Girlie. Just trying to loosen you up a bit. You looked stressed. Relax. Are you coming out with us tonight?”

“Sorry, guys, I can't. I have to finish these sheets for Chick. Have fun, though.”

“Okay. Good luck, Girlie,” they said in unison.

When the phones finally stopped ringing, I turned my attention back to the spreadsheet and tried not to worry about what would happen if I didn't finish it.

I
was exhausted and frustrated by the end of the day. I still couldn't understand concepts that I was sure I should get by now, and I lived in fear every day that Chick would call me over for one of his infamous pop quizzes. I couldn't even handle ordering him a fucking car. How was I supposed to learn the markets when I couldn't master basic technology? I had a splitting headache and was dreaming of a hot shower and sweats when I got home at 8:00. When I entered my building, the doorman stopped me to deliver an envelope that had been dropped off earlier. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded in thirds.

A—

I have a dinner tonight at Smith & Wollensky's. Meet me at Manchester's afterwards for a beer? I'll be there by 9:30.

—Will

I couldn't believe that he had come to my apartment. I couldn't believe Will knew where I lived. I couldn't believe that Will remembered my name. I wasn't sure if it was really sweet or stalkerish, but I decided not to worry about it. Suddenly, I caught a second wind. After a quick shower, a change of clothes, and a forty-minute battle with a blow-dryer, a hairbrush, and a straightening iron, I left my apartment and walked uptown.

Manchester's was a small British pub on Second Avenue at Forty-Ninth Street. They had a good selection of beers on tap, but you usually couldn't find two feet of clear space to enjoy them in.

When I entered, I found Will sitting at the end of the bar, next to a few rowdy European guys who were watching a soccer game. He was drinking a pint of beer and chatting with the bartender, who had three teeth and a Union Jack tattooed on his wrist. When Will saw me enter, he waved me over, and the soccer fans happily shifted down the bar to open up a seat for me.

“Glad you got my note. I was trying to decide how long I should wait before figuring that you weren't coming.” He patted the wooden bar stool next to him, and I hopped up onto the seat.

“It's only nine thirty-five, and you're already planning your exit strategy?”

“I was going to give you until ten. I think a half hour is a perfectly respectable amount of time to wait.”

“I'd say forty-five minutes, since you had no way of knowing when I got your note.”

“Good point,” he said, flashing that Ultra Brite smile. My stomach did a somersault. That was never a good sign.

“Well, I'm glad you waited, for what it's worth.”

“You're welcome. I'm glad you proved your staying power so that I could finally hang out with you outside the office. I had to make sure you weren't going anywhere before I asked.”

“What do you mean ‘proved my staying power'? It's November. I've only been at Cromwell for five months. Hardly a record.”

“For a girl it's not a small achievement. We had a girl on the desk last year. She seemed smart enough, but she quit after six weeks. Couldn't hack it. I don't bother getting to know new girls until I'm pretty sure they're going to stick around. Otherwise it's a waste of time.”

“I'm not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“I hope not.”

I felt myself blush and decided to change the subject. “How was your dinner?”

“Good. I took out my biggest account and had to show them a good time, so we went to a cigar bar and then Smith and Wolly's for some porterhouses and a few bottles of wine. The maître d' has become a buddy of mine since I'm there so often, so he took good care of us.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said. Even though I was thinking that he sounded a bit like a stuck-up snob. The butterflies in my stomach calmed down.

“Look at you in your jeans. That's not business casual attire.”

“This isn't a business meeting.”

“True. You look nice.”

I blushed as the butterflies returned with a vengeance. “Hey, how did you know where I lived anyway?”

“I got your address off the group master list. Nancy, Chick's secretary, will give you anything if you ask her nicely.”

“So you're stalking me.”

“Stalking implies the attention is unwanted. You're here, so clearly I'm not stalking.”

“Fair enough.” I smiled.

“So what were you planning on doing tonight if you hadn't met me for a drink?”

“I was debating going for a run, but otherwise nothing.”

“Do you run a lot?”

“I do. I like it, it helps me relax. Truth be told, I used to run more often, but it's been hard to find the time since I get stuck working late so much. I don't know how anyone does this job and manages to stay in shape. When I do finally get to the gym, my lungs will probably explode.”

“Yeah, you should try to find the time when you can. It makes a big difference.”