Bond Girl (8 page)

“What does?”

“Working out. We eat a lot in the office, and especially for girls it's absurdly easy to put on weight.”

“Proud Mary” blared from the jukebox. I like loud music, so normally it wouldn't have bothered me. But maybe it was time to ask the bartender to turn the volume down, because it sounded like Will had just called me fat, which clearly would be crazy. I mean, what guy invites a girl out for drinks and then tells her she's fat? Especially when said girl is a size 4. OK, fine, sometimes I'm a size 6. But I have two dresses from Diane von Furstenberg and a pair of pants from J. Crew that are a size 4. I wear those a lot.

“What?” I asked quizzically.

“Nothing! It happens to all of us when we start. It's impossible to work on the desk and not gain a little weight so I'm just saying you should try to keep exercising whenever you can. That's all.”

I suddenly lost interest in my light beer. I wanted to leave the bar, go home, and do sit-ups. I put my glass down.

“Don't go getting all sensitive on me. You look great. I didn't mean to upset you. Forget I said anything.”

I figured I had two options: I could be THAT girl, the girl who made an issue of every little thing and ruined a good time on purpose, or I could forget about it, move on, and be breezy. I thought it best to be breezy, drink my beer, and then tomorrow eat nothing but Saltines and strap myself to the treadmill until I threw up.

There was an awkward pause before he said, “I'm sorry if I just put my foot in my mouth. I didn't mean anything by it, honestly. Forgive me?”

“Yes, thank you.” I conceded.

“Tell me a little about yourself. All I know so far is that you're really good at carrying pizzas.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Let's start with the basics. Siblings?”

“One younger sister, Cat. She's been seeing the same guy since high school and will probably be engaged soon. We don't have much in common.”

“You aren't dating anyone?”

“No. What about you?”
Please say no.

“No one worth mentioning.” I felt my stomach flip-flop again. Was having drinks with Will breaking Chick's rule about interoffice dating? No. This wasn't a date. It was more like team bonding. “How did you end up at Cromwell?” he asked.

“It's kind of the family business. My dad's an i-banker. I used to visit him at work when I was little and I thought it was the most unbelievable place in the world. All the energy, all the people, all the noise. All I ever wanted to do was work in the Business.”

“And now here you are, Cromwell analyst extraordinaire.”

“My mom isn't as psyched about it though. She didn't really want one of her daughters in the ‘snake pit,' as she calls it.”

“She sounds like a smart lady. I don't blame her. I wouldn't want my sister or daughter working on a trading floor. Don't get me wrong; I'm glad you're here because you seem like fun and you're nice to look at, but still I can understand where your mom's coming from. Sometimes the stuff that goes on, the things you must hear, aren't really appropriate. For lack of a better word.”

I feigned outrage. “I'm something to look at? Bring in a poster and hang it up on the wall in front of your computer if you want something to look at.”

“I could, but it would get boring. You don't bore me.”

“Gee, thanks for the compliment.”

Awkward silence lasted for a few seconds, but it felt like an hour. “What about you? What's your story?”

“I'm an only child. I grew up in northern Virginia, and I went to UPenn for undergrad. I've been with Chick for four years now. I'm a VP, I'm a Capricorn, and I live on the Upper West Side.” Before I could ask him another question he continued. “Enough about me, though.” He slowly reached into his pocket and handed me a wad of singles. “Should we play some songs on the jukebox? You can tell a lot about someone from their music choices, you know.”

“So if I play Celine Dion or the Backstreet Boys, you're going to make a run for it?”

“You bet. There'll be a giant Will-shaped hole in the wall.”

“That's a lot of pressure.”

“You go put some tunes on. I'll get us another round of beers.”

He elbowed my side to nudge me toward the jukebox. I was giddy. This was not good. I'd only met this guy a few months ago, and we had only interacted briefly in the office. I barely knew him, and I was already a smitten kitten.

I returned as the bartender slid two more Blue Moons in front of us. We chatted easily and, before I knew it, it was midnight, and we were both pretty buzzed. I still wasn't sure exactly what we were doing, but I knew I was a happy girl. We stepped outside and walked south, toward my apartment. The air was cooler, and I wished I had brought a coat with me instead of banking on the unseasonably warm temperatures continuing once the sun went down. It was freaking November. Who goes out without a coat? I crossed my arms in front of my chest and shivered.

“You're cold. I was going to walk you home, but why don't you just get a cab here?”

I hadn't realized he was planning on walking me home. Good-looking
and
a gentleman—not a bad combination.

“Thanks for the beers, this was fun,” I said as I pushed a lock of hair behind my ear.

“It was. So I'll see you tomorrow.”

“I'll be there, bright and early.”

“You know, we should do this again soon.”

“I'd like that.”

“Great. It was nice hanging out with you tonight, Alex.”

“Yeah, you too.”

He closed the cab door behind me and turned to walk uptown.

Five

Bonus Season

I
don't care what anyone says: there's no place in the world better than New York City at Christmas. When we were little, my parents used to bring Cat and me to the city to see the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, the tree in Rockefeller Center, and the fantastic window displays on Fifth Avenue. Bundled up in our toggle coats, we'd walk from the tree at Forty-Ninth Street up to FAO Schwarz at Fifty-Eighth Street. Vendors peddled chestnuts and soft pretzels, and at night the Empire State Building was lit up in red and green. People like to say that Christmas is really a holiday for children but, as an adult, I still love it every bit as much as I did when I was a kid. I love the smells, the colors, even the crowds in the department stores. I love the garlands and wreaths and twinkling lights covering the trees that line the median down Park Avenue. December is a month of sensory overload in New York, and there's nothing like it anywhere else on earth.

That first year at Cromwell, I found it odd to work the entire month of December, with no winter break. I was wistful for the wonder of the season, but I was trapped in my Girlie chair. The firm tried to bring a bit of the holiday spirit indoors, sparing no expense in decorating the building. There was a giant tree in the lobby, and huge sparkling snowflakes dangled from the ceiling. Cromwell got an A for effort, but it still didn't come close to matching the spectacle of the real thing outside.

The mood on the trading floor was drastically different during the month of December than it had been since I arrived. December 31 marked not only the end of the calendar year, but also the end of our work year, which, for everyone on the Street, meant one very specific thing: Bonus Season, Wall Street's great unifier. When you work the way we work all year long, you do it with the assumption that the first week in January you'll receive a six- or seven-figure bonus check as a reward for the amount of business you generated over the course of the year. The numbers had been finalized by the beginning of the month, so any business done after the first of December was essentially meaningless. Ergo, we basically stopped working. There were holiday parties every night, and by the middle of the month I was exhausted, looked like I had been run over by Santa's sleigh
and
his eight reindeer, and I had gained a solid ten pounds.

One Friday, the fixed-income group threw a party for the whole floor. At 4:00
P.M.
kegs appeared and tables were adorned with cheese platters and antipasti. Waiters and waitresses passed hors d'oeuvres that men popped in their mouths like breath mints. Another night, Chick rented out an entire restaurant just for the government bond group, so we could have a year-end team bonding session over expensive bottles of wine and osso buco. The salesmen and traders had to take our most important clients for drinks to say thank you for another year of business, and those nights rarely ended before midnight. You weren't allowed to opt out of the parties; it was considered political suicide. I tried to turn down the invitation to one of the many fiestas held by upper management (which they inevitably didn't even bother to attend), and Chick told me in no uncertain terms that if I wasn't there, I shouldn't be surprised if my ID didn't work the following morning. I prayed for New Year's Eve to arrive so that the holiday bender would end and I could regenerate some of the liver cells I had damaged over the course of the month. I hadn't seen the inside of the gym in a month, my clothes were tight, my eyes were puffy, and I was only twenty-two. I didn't know how some of the older guys did it and didn't drop dead.

Trading floors are frigid iceboxes year-round. In the winter, they are almost unbearable. It's a matter of necessity since the computers give off so much heat. If the room is heated as well, there is a fairly good chance the systems would get too hot and explode. So the floor was always freezing, and most people kept fleece jackets and scarves at their desks for days that were unusually bitter.

One morning in late December, Drew rubbed the palms of his hands together to warm them up. “Christ, it's cold in here today. What would you give to be on a beach somewhere right now?”

“I'd be happy to be in a third world country right now if it were near the equator,” I said, the metal legs of my chair almost too cold to touch.

Chick returned from a meeting and shuddered as he removed his overcoat. “Well, A. Today's a big day for you. It's like Christmas came early.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Today, you get a desk.” He pointed at the desk next to Drew.

“That's Dave's desk.”

“Correction, it
was
Dave's desk. Now, it's yours.”

It was as if someone had given me a convertible, or a bag full of cash. It was the best Christmas present I could have hoped for. A desk of my very own. Good-bye, Girlie chair!

“Wow, Chick,” I said as I folded up my chair and leaned it against the wall, resisting the urge to throw it in the garbage can. “I never thought I'd be so happy to have computers. And drawers!”

“It's the little things I do to keep my employees happy.”

“What happened to Dave?”

“Dave's dead. I shot him this morning,” he replied flatly.

“
What?
” I asked, confused.

“It's a metaphor, you nitwit. Dead. Shot. Axed. Eighty-sixed. No more. He's gone, so now you get his desk. Use his notepads until you get your own. I'll have Nancy order them tomorrow.”

“Use his notepads?” I glanced at Dave's empty chair—my chair. And at the pictures of his kids still proudly displayed next to his headset. Chick seemed completely unfazed by the fact that he had just fired someone during the holiday season. Not exactly a shining example of Christmas spirit.

“Congrats, Alex. You're my new desk buddy,” Drew said, as he swept Dave's personal belongings into a box. “Do you have any particularly annoying habits I should know about before you take up residence three feet from me?”

“I don't think so.”

“Good to know. Welcome to the middle row, where the average temperature is thirty degrees and local time is now ten forty-five.”

“It's only ten forty-five?” Chick said. “You could freeze ice cream in here today, it's so cold. I can't have a team with frostbite.” He clapped his hands. “Everyone, Starbucks on me today, so give Alex your orders. Start with mine, Girlie-san. I want a venti hazelnut coffee, extra hot.”

My new desk was immediately swarmed by team members shouting drink orders. The problem with specialty coffee places like Starbucks is that no one drinks plain coffee anymore. The odds of my getting all the orders for chai teas, mochas, lattes, and machiatos correct were low. Reese also mentioned that he wanted an M&M cookie to go with his cappuccino.

Chick handed me a hundred-dollar bill. “Take someone with you so you don't drop them and end up with third-degree burns.” At least he realized that I wouldn't be able to balance dozens of hot beverages and a giant M&M cookie all by myself.

I hesitated a second before approaching Will, but then decided, what the hell.

“What's up, rookie?” Will asked as he closed his Internet application. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit to the back row?”

“Chick told me to nominate someone to help me carry the coffees. Since you were nice enough to come with me for the pizza pickup, I was hoping you'd be willing to help me again.”

“That was supposed to be a onetime thing,” he said with a smirk that made me weak in the knees.

“You don't have to. I can ask Drew if you're too busy.”

“I just want to be clear. You're sort of asking me on a date. Is that correct?” He raised a dark eyebrow, relishing the ability to embarrass me.

“A Starbucks date, yes,” I specified.

“Am I destined to be the sucker that helps you carry food for the rest of my life?”

“It appears so, yeah. What do you say?”

“Sure, I'll come with you. I need a mocha pronto, and I'm freezing to death up here.”

“You ordered a mocha?”

“With whip, yup.”

“That's kind of a girlie coffee isn't it?”

“Real men like mochas with whip!”

“If you say so,” I sang, unwilling to resist the urge to flirt.

“Let's go, before I change my mind and you have to make ten trips by yourself, smartass.”

When we arrived the line was out the door, as usual. “We're going to be here for a while.” I sighed. “If you need to get back to your desk, it's okay. I can make multiple trips.”

“Nah, I'll wait with you. It's dead up there today. I've been ordering Christmas presents online for the last three hours. It's good to get off the floor for a while.”

He gestured toward my cashmere turtleneck. “Black today? Better.” He nodded approvingly.

Better?
Had he been making mental notes on my clothing and my appearance this entire time? “Thanks,” I said brightly. “Khakis today? Way to think outside the box.”

“Well, unless you'd prefer plaid, I don't really have a lot of options. Is that what you girls do? Spend the day sizing up the guys on the floor?”

I laughed. “You wish! I assure you we don't, although there are only, what, forty of us on the entire floor? I don't really know any of the other
women
on the floor, so I have no idea what they do. But I doubt it.”

“You should,” he replied succinctly. “We do.”

We were now fourth in line so, provided no one in front of us was also ordering for an entire desk, we would be helped shortly. Just when things had gotten very interesting.

“You do what?” My voice cracked.

“Rate the girls. One to five.”

“Are you serious? Cromwell isn't a bar. Where do you guys get off?”

He smiled mischievously.

“You're telling me the guys I'm buying coffee for right now
rate
my looks?”

“Yeah, every day. You score better when your hair is down than you do when it's in a ponytail. Just FYI.”

“We work in an office, not on a catwalk.”
Right?

“Oh, calm down, you're always in the top three. It's a compliment. I wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise.”

“So I should be flattered?”

“Yes, I just paid you a very high compliment. It's a tough group.”

“You are all pigs, you know that?”

“I plead the Fifth.”

We reached the register, and I placed our order. Will and I packed up the coffees as they were placed on the counter and walked back to Cromwell in awkward silence. Once we reached the lobby elevators, Will baited me, obviously enjoying my discomfort.

“Do you want to know where you rank today? I'll tell you if you want. It's totally against the rules, but I will.”

“No. I don't want to know, because I don't care.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do. It's killing you, I can tell.” We were staring straight ahead, watching the floor numbers light up one by one. I didn't reply.

When we got back to the desk, the guys attacked us as usual, reading the side of the cups to find their orders. Despite the chaos I heard a familiar voice shout, “Girlie! You better not have forgotten my cookie, baby!”

I looked down the row and saw Reese standing up with his headset on, clapping his hands together and then holding them out like he was about to catch a football. I pulled out the waxed paper bag holding the two-pound cookie and threw it at him like a Frisbee. “Thanks, Girlie!” he said, as he took a huge bite. When all the drinks were claimed, I realized I'd forgotten to order one for myself. I hate my life.

Will threw the empty bags in the trash can behind me and noticed that I was coffeeless.

“Why didn't you get one? It's freezing in here!”

I pulled my Burberry scarf out of my purse and wrapped it around my neck. “I forgot. I was too worried about getting everyone else's orders right.”

“Wow, you're a mess.”

Will removed the lid from his drink and poured half of it into an empty coffee mug sitting on Drew's desk.

“Here,” he said as he handed me the steaming drink. “Bet my mocha with whip isn't sounding so prissy to you now, is it?”

I took a sip of the hot coffee and felt my feet begin to defrost. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm sorry I made fun of your coffee.”

“You're welcome.” He patted my back and strolled back to his seat. When he was a solid ten feet away, he called to me, “Hey, Al?”

“Yeah?” I turned my chair around to face him, and he held up two fingers and grinned.

I held up my middle finger and said, “That's where you rank today, buddy.” I wondered if I placed second to Baby Gap and her miniature shirts.

I heard him laugh. “Touché, Alex. Touché.”

T
he next day, Chick spun my new chair in a circle while I was sitting in it. “Listen, Girlie, just because you have a desk now doesn't mean you're relieved of delivery duties. You're still responsible for the pizzas and milkshake patrol, too.” He threw a wad of crisp twenty-dollar bills onto my desk. “We're getting lunch today from the sushi place across the street. I just ordered it. It'll be ready in twenty minutes. Go pick it up.”

“No problem, Chick. Thanks so much for the desk.”

“You're welcome. It's about time you had a real place to sit. Now, the real work begins.”

I glanced out the windows behind me and noticed it had started snowing hard. And the snow was sticking. I looked down at my new herringbone Manolos. Somehow, telling Chick I couldn't pick up lunch because I didn't want water marks to ruin my new shoes didn't seem like a good idea.

Shit.

Twenty minutes later, I stepped outside into the blustery cold. There were two cabs in the street, swerving back and forth, their tires unable to gain traction on the snow. I wrapped my large pink pashmina around the top of my head like a cashmere kerchief. The sushi place was only a few hundred yards away, but it took me almost ten minutes to get there. The wind chapped my face, and I had clumps of snow and ice trapped in my eyelashes. By the time I arrived, I was soaking wet, my cheeks were bright red and burning from the cold, and my nose was running like a leaky faucet.