Opening Belle (39 page)

“She wants the fight,” said Amanda. “She hasn't figured out the only truly successful women on Wall Street are at the small firms, where we can hold on to control.”

“It's the Slaughter Rule,” I said, referring to the most emailed story of 2012. Anne-Marie Slaughter wrote an article for the
Atlantic
, talking about why women still can't have it all, that they have to make compromises the men in their lives don't have to make. When she mentioned that having control of your own schedule was the only way to make it work, it suddenly made sense to me. Of course my not knowing how each day would unfold was the basis of so much anxiety. And when you start every day in some anxious state, you spread it like a toxic odor. Everyone in your zone can smell it—your spouse, your kids, the cabdriver getting you to the meeting too late. Who would want to be around that?

By the time that story was printed, I was long gone, already running this firm and still wondering about the Feagin Dixon days, wondering what happened to me and who, for those years, was that unrecognizable woman I had become, changing so many things I believed in, all to pursue some belief that I was getting my family ahead. I never did end up with that fat pot of money that was going to allow me to retire young, but life now isn't nearly as difficult. We don't worry about money and I also don't think I need a magical number in any savings account. We don't splurge much, but we also don't worry much, and living at the corner of No Splurge and No Worry is fine.

I'm looking through the glass walls into our boardroom, where Amy, in her seventh month of pregnancy, is leading a meeting with two marketing guys who'll be representing our firm overseas and raising some capital for us. Elizabeth is in there too. She coded some of the trading screens for us and they're spectacular even without the ability to front-run a trade. We use her as our consultant and she will soon join us permanently. She's still dating the guy from that brunch restaurant, the one she hadn't actually met at the time. He does have a name. It's Matt.

Clarisse is divorced now and has tried her hand at some other large New York firms. She has never gotten back to the director level at any major bank. Alice came back to work in our New York office and so did Kathryn Peterson. I rarely see Kathryn, as she mostly works from home, but that's what she needs. She continues to be exceptional at what she does. She invests our fixed-income money the old-fashioned way: she looks for value and yield and she buys and holds the bonds. I imagine her sitting cross-legged on her wooden floor, surrounded by candles, and knowing she is centered lets me know she's also doing the best job she's capable of. It's just how she works.

When I called Kathryn, trying to hire her, I told her secretary I was trying to reach Ms. Metis. The secretary told me nobody with that name worked there.

“Then can you please ask Kathryn where she's gone?” I asked.

Kathryn came on the phone quickly.

“How long have you known?” she asked, the closest to rattled I'd ever heard her.

“Since our walk,” I said.

“What walk?”

“Our walk to your apartment when you said something about tribal knowledge. I knew I had read that term only once before, in one of the Metis memos.”

Kathryn was silent.

“You were brilliant,” I reassured her. “Very gutsy.”

“I was brilliant.” She laughed. She actually laughed. “That club thing wasn't for me, but you ladies sure did have a point.”

“We did have a point,” I agreed.

“Did you hear about Stone?” she asked.

“Stone? I mean, yeah, he got fired, but so did most people.”

“Stone is Bob Dennis's grandson, you know, the CEO and owner of Monaghan Multimedia, the guy who gave Feagin millions in banking fees each year. That kid's gonna inherit a cool billion. No wonder he wasn't too motivated on your accounts. He was hired as a favor and knew it and anyway, Belle, he actually called yesterday.”

“Stone called you?”

“Yeah, he wanted your phone number. Think he's looking to give a chunk of his fortune for you to manage.”

“The little f-worder,” I marvel. “How did I not figure that one out?” For a second I think of how it'd be great to get a billion dollars under management at Arbella Financial, and then I reconsider.

“I don't want his fortune. I don't ever want to talk to him again. I'm listening more to my instincts these days, Kath. Some money costs too much.”

She laughed again. “Isn't that the truth.”

As for the leftover people from the younger crowd, most, like New Guy, went to start-ups, while people like Monty and King retired early. I see Naked Girl on Taxi TV, advertising a gym in New Jersey that she undoubtedly used her Marcus settlement money to launch. Her body appears to only have gotten better.

I'm not in touch with Henry. He is CEO of Cheetah and is often on television, providing pithy quotes and market insights. When Henry is on the television, the room becomes a corral of insults.

“Could your lips be any thinner?”

“Maybe you could adjust your hair one more time.”

“How about those mortgages you shoved back in Feagin's face?”

And when I hear that, I make people shut up before we sound like we're back in the barnyard we formerly worked in. I used to wonder what happened to the apartment Henry imagined being ours, but now do not.

I still think about why I didn't pursue the lawsuit. The case was open-and-shut and the money was there for the taking. Sometimes, like a tired old lady, reliving her glory years, I raise the subject to whoever will listen. It's an ongoing joke. Last night I did it while Bruce drove our minivan to the beach for what he pleasantly called our “broken family workout.” A shining, souped-up Land Rover cut in front of him and peeled through a red light, the driver's aggression palpable.

“Damn, I shoulda sued,” I said, referring to the hotness of the car and the absurdity of the driver. “I could have been as cool as that guy if I drove a car like that.”

“Here we go again,” Bruce said, looking adorably at me. He flirts with me constantly. It's like one-way flirting because I'm holding on to my resolve to not screw anything up by screwing. I love our days together, love that he cooks dinner, love that he's respecting me again while the respect I lost for him grows by the day.

We really should be sleeping together, I thought as I looked at his beautiful hands on the steering wheel, but not until we know we're never parting again. I couldn't put my kids through that one again. I couldn't get through that one again myself, and besides, there is something delicious about the wait.

“You know why I didn't sue?” I asked.

“I know why you didn't sue, you lunatic,” Bruce said.

“Tell me why,” I said. “ 'Cause I don't think we've talked about this enough.”

“You didn't sue because you didn't want to sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

Kevin leaned forward, putting his head between the front seats, always looking for some sort of action from his parents. He's fourteen now and thinks he's a kid detective.

“What's a non-discloser agreement?” he asked.

“Noniscloserweeeement,” says another little voice from the back, for no obvious reason. Owen still has an unusual way of speaking.

“A non-disclosure means you won't disclose, you won't tell any bad stories about someone or something. Usually you accept money to sign something like that,” I said to Kevin, “and then you have to keep your promise and not tell any bad stories.”

“And your mom,” said Bruce. “Your mom didn't want to sign something like that.”

“Because Mom wanted to tell the story?” Kevin asked, looking very much like he just figured something out.

“Yes, Kevin,” I said. “Because I want to tell the story.”

N
umerous times this manuscript was set aside and each time Steve Klinsky encouraged me to reopen the file. For hounding me with your love, all the way to the finish line, I'm very grateful.

To my mother, Kathleen Sherry, who could never have a conversation without asking, “How's that book coming along?” Dementia was a deadline that gave no extension and I truly regret not finishing this in time for you. Ditto for my father, James Sherry, who raised his girls on the north side of strong.

I thank William Klinsky and Hugh Boylan, who love to talk shop with me, and to Aunt Alice, who has spent her life dropping everything to pick up others, including small children and despairing adults. There's nobody like you.

To the women in my life with strong backbones, work ethic, and indefatigable humor: there has never been a problem we couldn't solve by walking or swimming it out. I include Nancy Hébert, Amy Goodfriend, Adele Malpass, Michele Lindsay, Cathy Price, Lisa Arnold, Vicky Elanowitz, Roxann Couloucoundis, Susan Dunne, Denise Hurley, Sara Hawes, Brenda Earl, Maryann Marston, Cynthia Remec, Kim White, Jane Pollock, Laurie Mandelbaum, Elizabeth McElroy, Colleen Surlis, Patricia Meehan, Hilary Polk, Shari Gluckman, Jill Lloyd, Monique Dana, Kathy Sherry, Laura Freeman, Katie Shah, Maebh Brennan, Amber Turner, Kim Griffiths, Jennifer Hatch, and Jeanine Oburchay. Elements of you are within these pages. Thank you for allowing me in.

To the more open-minded bosses and coworkers I've had who wondered aloud about keeping working mothers on track: Mitch Jennings, Ricky Greenfield, Jolyne Caruso, Ace Greenberg, Jay Mandelbaum, Chris Lenzo, and Larry Kudlow.

I'm so proud to be with Simon & Schuster and thrilled to have the direction of my editor, Trish Todd, who with her sharp pencil and natural storytelling ability always had me feeling encouraged. For the editorial assistance of Kaitlin Olson and the fabulous production assistance of Ciara Robinson—thank you! To my agent, Melanie Jackson, who gave me the thrill of my life when she said, “Send me that manuscript.” I thank you for your time and insight. Thanks to David Vise for encouraging me to make that phone call, and to Sandy Climan for his Hollywood insights. Another shout-out to Reese Witherspoon and Bruna Papandrea and the crew at Pacific Standard. Thank you for taking an early chance on me. You're all fabulous women who can somehow raise a family and move the world at the same time and I loved seeing toys in your office.

To the original Glass Ceiling Clubbers from Morgan Stanley, Goldman Sachs, and Bear Stearns: Your names are tucked away here and your secrets are safe, but your stories helped this book take flight.

To Rich Hogan, whose knowledge of derivative financial devices and work-life balance is astounding: I thank you for the tutorials on both.

I'm grateful for the help of Aripcy and Kevin Salazar, whose support made work possible. I thank Nicole Milazzo for being upbeat and beyond helpful about this project. Your insights as a decades-younger woman were invaluable and you always make me laugh.

For patient reading and suggestions I thank Matthew Klam and the Southampton Writers Conference. I'm also grateful to my earliest readers, including Carron Sherry, Lily Hogan, Kiera Klinsky, and especially Elizabeth Dennis, who thinks this is the story of her life, which it is not.

ROXANN COULOUCOUNDIS

After twelve years at an investment bank,
Maureen Sherry
, a managing director, switched gears to earn her MFA, and then to write mysteries for middle school audiences (including
Walls Within Walls
). For many years she has tutored at inner-city schools. She is an active board member for several charities dedicated to public school transformation, and is passionate about educating women about money and working for environmental sustainability. Her biggest project to date is raising, together with her husband, four children and their assorted pets, which never feels like a job at all. She lives in New York City.

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