Opening Belle (9 page)

“Or Anthrax didn't happen if you're vaccinated?” I respond carefully.

“That's right. Just ask the two million service people in the U.S. military that have gotten the shot and don't have Anthrax,” he answers. “They're great customers!” He burps.

Gross. “Yes, but I already know that, and EBS investors know that, so what's the news?” I ask, still unsure why the stock stopped trading.

“They pre-announced earnings. They can hardly keep up with demand. This thing is cheap with a low price-to-earnings ratio, only five times earnings. It's gonna rocket today and I know shit about it.”

“Anthrax vaccines aren't the big story, King,” I say, now so relieved I could possibly even hug his lecherous self. “It's got to be the immunoglobulin they make. That's what will send the stock higher.”

“Whoa,” King says, grabbing my waistband. “Don't move. All these losers need to hear about whatever it was you just said.”

“Gentlemen!” King announces on the hoot 'n' holler. “Belle Cassidy is getting on right now to tell you boneheads about blabba blobbulinz.” And he hands the mic to me. I've already read enough on his computer screen now to piece the story together. Emergent Biosolutions got great news about upcoming clinical trials for their new drugs. The stock is about to trade up and I just made my client a wheelbarrow full of money. But before I have a moment to digest that, I'm put on the spot to talk about it in front of over one hundred people.

The trading floor quiets, but not for one second do I turn red or falter or say
um
, because that would be expected. I clear my throat, raise the mic to my mouth, and pull King's hand from my clothing.

“Trading halted this morning on a New York Stock Exchange stock that isn't on our coverage list,” I begin, and see King positioning himself as a buyer, typing bids to send out into the universe, “but it looks like we will be making a market in it today. It's called Emergent Biosolutions, symbol EBS. King is trading it today and it's going higher.” I look at King's screens. “In fact, it looks like it's up ten dollars on the open, a thirty percent rise. They make an Anthrax vaccine that's in high demand but they also anticipate groundbreaking discoveries in their immunoglobulin research. Immunos assist the body's own immune system to deal with disease. It's the future of cancer therapies if you ask me.”

“Who asked you?” someone shouts, but it's a friendly shout and everyone's either making notes or already calling a client.

“Their research pipeline looks pretty full with immune therapies so really, it's exciting stuff. Looking at the chart, it's got an ascending triangle pattern with increased volume. There's over thirty million shares trading. Go sell some of them.”

I smugly hand the mic back to King, who grins. “This is why I'm in love with you. What other banana on this floor can spit stats out like that?”

“All I know is that Cheetah's going to get a double on this one.”

“And when they're ready to take their profit, you send them right to the King to sell, okay?” he says while making some weird grab for me.

“I wanna kiss your sweet ass right now, Cassidy.”

“It's McElroy,” I say, “I changed my name almost three years ago. Behave yourself before you end up needing an Anthrax vaccine.”

“Was that a threat? You hot, hot gurrll,” he pants, and makes another grab for me, but I am gone. Back to my side, my set, my safety zone.

Traders are my partners on these client accounts and we are assigned to each other. While I work with research analysts to get ideas, talk to the clients, wine, dine, travel, and grovel, when the clients finally do decide to either buy or sell a stock, we need a trader. The guy who smacks gum and slaps male and female ass all day in some primate version of high five, who continually belches in post-lunch competitions, who feels powerful enough to publicly humiliate professional women as a hobby. He must also watch screens all day, stay in touch with the stocks our clients care about, and punch numbers into a machine without making errors. For this he is handsomely rewarded with one-half of my commissions. When an investment goes sour, he's never remembered. The salesperson, that would be me, takes the heat, and merciless berating. From my point of view, it's a good deal to be a trader and yet very few women are. The few we have are corralled together into what is called Estrogen Row. One older woman, for reasons nobody remembers, sits totally isolated at a desk the traders refer to as Menopause Manor. But back to EBS.

I get to call a happy client today. Things are looking up not only because of the money Cheetah has made, but because bonus time is looking sweeter and sweeter. I send a quick email to Bruce letting him know his wife is having a great day. While some men find the idea of their partner making a pile of money intimidating, my idealistic yet logical husband gets wildly turned on in the few hours before he starts remembering how toxic he believes money is.

I call back Tim Boylan, and he offers to buy me lunch. He wants to bring along his new chief investment officer, a guy he just hired. We agree to do it the following week.

“What made you so sure about this Emergent company McElroy?” Tim asks me.

“One of my college housemates is now a doctor. She had me read about immunotherapeutics and it just made sense to me. She loved what she saw. They have a manageable research budget, are profitable, and have a stock that was trading softly. It didn't seem that risky, you know?”

“You're so modest,” he says.

“I'm so lucky,” I say, and really mean it.

I'm the bipolar twin of the meek person sitting in chapel this morning. The dopamine hit of the stock market going my way is a powerful drug. When Cheetah trades out of the stock, which they probably will do in the next few days, and if they were to trade all of it through me, I'll bring to the firm ten times $.06 per share, or $600,000. I'll give 90 percent of that to the firm and the remaining $60,000 will be split between King and me. I'm having a really, really good day, so I call our caregiver the name she likes to be called, and ask her to get those chicken fingers on the table early, bath early, bed. I love the post-big-trade nights with my husband. He becomes the man I married, carefree, optimistic, and juiced on ideas for us. He oozes wife-support and love, which makes his odd spending habits bother me less and makes me feel we will be okay.

It's 9:30 a.m. and the market opens. Marcus has tuned the television on his desk to
Barney
, and the purple dinosaur now sings about someone loving someone and being in a happy family. He thinks Barney's groovy mood brings him good luck, so he tunes in to the show at every opening bell. He holds his hand out to me, inquiring whether I'd like to share his dance (that eavesdropper—I'm sure he heard me recommending EBS and then bought some for his own account). I allow myself to be whipped from my seat and he pulls our cheeks together to whisper, “Did my first CMO trade.”

As in a collateralized mortgage obligation. As in those risky things backed by subprime mortgages that are starting to tank? “Wow, Michael, Barney's quite the life coach . . . making you all confident like that.”

Amy glares at us over her shoulder. “We are not flirting,” I say to her. Michael spins me back to my seat. “This is what happy looks like, Amy. Try it sometime,” he says.

Amy says nothing, reaches across our desks, and without looking at me, or pausing her phone conversation, squeezes my hand. I take that to mean congratulations, but no, instead she adheres a sticky note to my screen and turns away.

“GCC to meet for lunch next Thursday: Details to follow 12:30. Agenda: discuss Naked Girl.”

I read it and think how odd it will look if we all go to lunch together and can't she give it a rest, ever? I guess we'll shuffle out individually, pretending to meet different clients but still making people curious. She has slightly dimmed my buzz. I watch her crumple the evidence and toss it in a garbage can.

Maybe she sold her EBS stock too soon.

T
HE WOMEN'S RESTROOM
is a veritable crime scene today since it's wafting cigarette smoke like a 1989 nightclub. Most people don't leave the building during the day so noontime finds a pack of women herded into the ladies' room, many sucking on cigarettes in deep, needy gulps. Our nonsmoking bathroom is fogged in.

I have some compassion for the nicotine-addicted, especially since our chairman-emeritus imperiously lights up wherever and whenever. B. Gruss II smokes cigars while on the Dais of the Dicks, and in the comfort of his own office is known to enjoy a broader range of medicine cabinet supplies. Compared to him, people needing a nicotine fix seem pretty benign.

In the hazy mirror I catch sight of my perfectly tailored suit, and my hair that I dried by sticking my wet head out of the taxi window this morning. Miraculously, it has all fallen into place. There aren't many moments like this, so I toss up some gratefulness to the universe, quiet thanks for all my stars aligning. Today I'm all woman because today is my lunch with Tim Boylan, a guy known for never having lunch with anyone.

The ladies in the bathroom take note of the more polished, less sleep-deprived me. A showy sales assistant named Tiffany Antinori, the one the others refer to as Naked Girl, walks in wearing red platform shoes with a skintight catsuit. She looks fabulous and out of place, and lets out a low whistle when she sees me. Can she tell that I've been trying hard to locate my inner babe again?

“New boyfriend?” she inquires.

“Maybe.”

“Ewwwwwww,” says Amanda, layering on mascara and not even looking in my direction. For some reason she does a full makeover at the halfway point of each day—“Fresh face, fresh ideas,” is how she describes this.

Clarisse Evenson, the only other woman at my managing director level, enters like the high school principal, killing the buzz of the place. She is tall and birdlike and even flaps her skinny arms when she gets excited. She and I have different ideas about how to manage employees. I go for the friendly-mentor angle, while she seeks to be headmistress. Cigarette butts are flushed down the toilet and conversation vanishes when she enters the bathroom.

“This smoke is unacceptable,” Clarisse snaps, waving the cloud from her face. “Disgusting. Filthy. Illegal. Why there is no MD bathroom for women, I cannot understand.” She is referring to the fact that men of managing director stature or higher have a private bathroom, while all the women of the firm share.

“Really, Clarisse?” I say. “Who would be in a female MD bathroom besides you and me?”

“Exactly,” she says, and slides the lock on her stall shut.

Tiffany smiles at herself in the mirror. She turns and makes some deep hip-sashay on her way out the door. I note that she didn't actually accomplish anything while in the bathroom, just glanced at herself and left.

“Seriously,” says Amy, “why are you so together today?”

“Lunch with the CEO of Cheetah,” I say, casually applying lipstick that has neither sand nor fingerprints stuck to it—it's hard to find a lipstick that Brigid hasn't tried out on her dolls. “And the new CIO too.” I do a sexy swivel of my own hips and Amy and I high-five.

“WHAT?” says Clarisse, in the middle of her business from behind her closed door.

Amy widens her eyes and puts her fingers to her lips to shush me. I cannot be contained.

“You've heard of Tim Boylan, CEO of Cheetah?” I ask innocently.

“Tim Boylan does not do lunch,” she snarls, and throws back the stall door to the sound of a swooshing toilet. “He does not travel nor socialize.”

Clarisse stands in front of me, stick arms folded across her chest. She is sputtering, “And why exactly wouldn't you have invited the possible future head of sales to this?”

“Umm, because I have a
current
head of sales?” I answer carefully.

“Look, isn't it obvious that Simon will be retiring soon? There's nobody close to his talent level besides me.” Clarisse is flushed in the cheeks, fidgety, and upset. She gives every ounce of her soul to this job, so the thought of anyone beating her gets her agitated. I feel a little sorry for her. Hasn't she noticed that no women are in those positions here and that our executive committee is 100 percent male?

Amy turns on the water again and in the mirror I see her eyes roll.

•  •  •

The Four Seasons Restaurant on East 52nd Street has waiters who dress better than the guys I work with. It's a flower-filled power scene with tables set around what appears to be a small swimming pool. The place is so subliminally seductive that I got engaged here once; to Henry, not to Bruce.

We were having dinner to celebrate his graduation from Columbia Business School when suddenly, there was Henry on bended knee, with a blue box and the flash of jewelry catching the light just right. I had the surreal feeling of being snapped into a bear trap. I didn't see it coming. Something about the fountains, the music, and the headiness of possibility made me tear up, melt down, and say “Yes” to spending the rest of my life with him. For one gigantic leap-of-faith moment, I ignored my list of things I wouldn't do before thirty and started planning a wedding that ultimately never happened.

So why would I ever come back to this place? Because Tim had said to me, “Where would you like to have lunch?” and the one thing I'm certain of is that you don't pass the ball of power away when it's been handed to you. Choosing a location makes you important. The lamest answer would have been, “I dunno, where would you like to eat?” or, “I'll call you back when I think of a place.” No, I had two seconds to give a solid answer, and it had to be a nontrendy restaurant with excellent service, so I blurted out, “Four Seasons?” Before I could recoil and say, “On second thought, how about . . .” Tim said, “My favorite. I'll make the reservation.” Thus taking the ball of power back. Well played.