The Jinx (4 page)

“How's Abigail?” I asked, striving for a casual tone.

“She's great. A real firecracker. Hiring her was one of the best decisions I've made in a long time. She's been instrumental in going after this new business.”

“I'm glad,” I said, trying to sound like I was. But I would have been a lot more glad if I didn't know what Abigail looked like. Or if she'd been a man. Or gay. Or, at the very least, only brilliant and not beautiful.

“Anyhow, enough work talk. I brought you something.”

“A present?” I spun around to face him, thoughts of Peter's brilliant, beautiful, model-material colleague nearly forgotten. “Where? What is it?” I loved gifts. Especially surprise gifts.

“Don't get too excited. Just a little something from the airport.” He unzipped his suitcase and began rummaging through it, extracting a paper bag. He handed it to me.

I shook it. “Hmm. It doesn't rattle.”

“Good. It's not supposed to.”

I opened the bag and withdrew an oversize bar of Ghirardelli chocolate. “Yum.” Peter had known me long enough to recognize that I considered chocolate to be one of the four major food groups, along with caffeine and alcohol. I always forgot what the fourth one was. “Should we eat it now or later?”

“I'm thinking later,” he said, a gleam in his eye. He had hold of the dangling end of my bathrobe's belt and was pulling me toward the bedroom.

It occurred to me that perhaps I should be annoyed that Peter's gift hadn't shown much forethought, but instead had been picked up at the newsstand on his way to catch the plane. But he quickly put any such peevish thoughts right out of my head.

I
was sleeping like the proverbial baby, sweetly tangled in Peter's arms, when he gently untangled himself and got out of bed.

“Where are you going?” I asked, still half asleep.

“Shh. I didn't mean to wake you.”

“Then come back.”

“I can't. I have to meet Abigail before the conference starts. We need to go over the pitch we're making one more time.”

“But it's dark out.” There was only the faintest glimmer of murky light coming through the windows.

“It's nearly seven. I'm supposed to meet her at the convention center at eight.”

“She won't mind if you're late.”

“Yes, she will. And I will, too, if we don't get this client signed up. The company we're pitching is hot.”

“But how can you even be effective if you're sleepy?”

“I can't be sleepy when I'm this stressed.”

“You're stressed?” Peter? My calm, unflappable, good-smelling Peter was stressed?

“A little. Nothing to worry about.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead.

“I know an excellent way to relieve stress,” I offered, holding out my arms.

“I'm sure you do.” But he was already out of reach. “I'm just going to jump into the shower.”

I leaned back against the pillows. “Don't hurt yourself.”

“Funny.”

“You can't expect great wit in the middle of the night.”

“It's not the middle of the night,” he protested, then thought better of trying to argue with me before I'd had any caffeine. “Never mind. Go back to sleep.” I heard the bathroom door shut behind him and the sound of the shower running.

I rolled over, trying to recover the nice dream-state I'd been in, but it was no use. I was awake, and there was no going back. I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, bending down to pick up the bathrobe I'd discarded the night before. I wrapped it around me, tying the belt tightly around my waist, and ran my hands through my hair to restore some semblance of order. Perhaps I should call room service for breakfast, I thought. At least I could make sure Peter was well fortified for his stressful day.

Then I had a better idea.

I knocked on the bathroom door but received no answer, so I pushed it open. Peter was in the shower, whistling an unrecognizable tune. I let my robe slip to the floor, pulled the shower curtain aside and stepped in behind him.

Between the running water and his whistling, Peter hadn't heard me come in. When I reached around him he gave a shout of surprise.

“Jesus Christ! Are you trying to give me a coronary?” His hair was lathered with shampoo, standing up in a sudsy Mohawk.

“That would be counterproductive,” I said. “Your hair looks cute like that. May I have the soap?”

He laughed. “Allow me.”

 

The shower took longer than Peter had expected, so he was racing around the room, frantically getting dressed, when his cell phone rang. “Peter Forrest,” he answered, holding the phone with one hand while he awkwardly tried to buckle his belt with the other. “Oh, hi, Abigail.” He listened for a moment. “You're kidding.” He listened some more. “I knew they'd be all over this. Listen, I'm out the door right now. I'll be there in twenty minutes. See you soon.”

“Problem?” I asked.

“Hamilton Tech trying to outmaneuver us. Nothing we can't handle. Abigail just saw Smitty Hamilton having breakfast with the head of the company we're trying to—I mean, that we're pitching.”

“Don't worry. I'm sure they'd much rather hire you than anyone named Smitty.”

“I hope so.” Peter pulled a dark green V-necked sweater over his head.

I reached up to smooth his damp hair, and he gave me a quick peck on the lips. “I've got to get going.” He picked up his overcoat and briefcase. “I'll see you later?” he asked.

“Definitely,” I said, wrapping my arms around him for a hug.

He returned the hug but let go way too soon. “I need more affection,” I said. “That was completely insufficient to sustain me for a whole day.” He sighed and hugged me again, tightly, but I kept holding on after he let go.

“Rachel,” he said, trying to extricate himself. “Really. I'm not that great.”

I laughed and relinquished my grasp. “Go get 'em, Sparky.”

So much for a romantic hotel-room morning and leisurely breakfast.

 

I dried my hair and put on the black suit I'd packed for Tom Barnett's memorial service. I wasn't due at my recruiting meeting until half past eight, so I took a Diet Coke from the minibar and called into voice mail to clear out any messages that had accumulated.

It had been only nine hours since I had last dialed in—hours when normal people were asleep—but I already had five new messages. Four were from colleagues in our Asian offices. The last message made my heart sink. It was time-stamped 2:00 a.m., never a good sign. It was from Gabrielle LeFavre.

“Ms. Benjamin,” she began, her voice betraying her Southern roots. “This is Gabrielle LeFavre, a student at Harvard Business School. Sara Grenthaler may have mentioned my name to you. I had my first round of interviews with Winslow, Brown, and I'm concerned that I was not able to convey the full extent of my capabilities, or my commitment to a career in investment banking. I know that it's very unusual to reconsider the results of an interview, but I strongly believe that if you would allow me to try again, I could convince you that I would be a valuable asset to your firm.” She left her contact information.

I hung up the phone, annoyed. Between the time Gabrielle had left her message and the precision with which she'd spoken, it sounded as if she'd spent hours carefully scripting what she'd say. Turning people down was one of the things I disliked most about recruiting. There were always a couple of candidates who wouldn't take no for an answer and would besiege the recruiting team with phone calls, letters and, in a few instances, gifts. Dealing with these cases was always uncomfortable, and the fact that Gabrielle lived with Sara made the situation even more so. I would have to talk to this woman sooner or later, and I was not looking forward to it.

I took another Diet Coke from the minibar. Something told me that I would need even more than the recommended daily allowance of caffeine to get me through the day, what with a memorial service and the inevitable unpleasantness of my recruiting duties to look forward to. I popped open the can and crossed to the window to check out the weather, wishing it was evening already and time to meet Peter for dinner.

The morning light showed the view off in a way that I hadn't been able to appreciate the previous night. The sky was gray, in keeping with the forecasts, which called for lots of snow. Still, the air was clear, and across the river I could see the familiar red bricks of the business school campus to the south and Soldiers Field Stadium to the west, nestled in the slush-spotted green of the athletic fields. In the foreground, a traffic jam was taking place on Memorial Drive. Its source appeared to be a flock of police cars parked at the junction of the drive and JFK Street, at the foot of the bridge.

I pressed my nose against the glass for a closer look.

There was a crowd surrounding the Weld Boathouse, home to several of Harvard's crew teams. A bright stripe of yellow crime-scene tape held back onlookers, while uniformed policemen clustered in front of the building.

I wondered what could have happened. Some sort of crew team prank, perhaps, gone awry? One never knew what sort of hijinks rowers could get up to. I'd had the misfortune to date a rower my freshman year, and I'd never been so bored in my entire life. Our relationship consisted of lots of long, tortured conversations about his rowing, usually conducted over dining-hall meals with his teammates. I would watch in awe as they consumed enough food to feed small developing countries. I still vividly remembered my boyfriend commandeering an entire loaf of bread, loading it onto the toaster, slice by slice, then using up two sticks of butter, packet upon packet of sugar and a shaker-full of cinnamon to make cinnamon toast. He'd eaten it all in one sitting. And later that night he'd ordered in pizza. He was the only guy I'd ever gone out with who made my eating habits seem birdlike.

I pulled my attention from the view and my gluttonous ex-boyfriend and gathered my coat and purse. It was time to get going.

 

Winslow, Brown had set up its recruiting headquarters in a suite identical to my own but one floor down. I arrived a few minutes before the meeting was to start. Cecelia Esterhazy, the administrator from Human Resources, was already there, setting out name tags and schedules on a side table. While I was the titular head of the recruiting effort, most of the actual work fell to Cece, who had the unenviable job of liaising with the Career Services office, scheduling information sessions, reserving blocks of hotel rooms and cajoling unwilling bankers into showing up to interview eager students. Fortunately, she had an unflaggingly sunny disposition, and her fresh good looks ensured that most of my male colleagues were easily persuaded to do their part.

“Hi, Cece. How's it going?”

She gave me a look that managed to be both harried and good-natured at the same time. “The usual. Three interviewers have already canceled on me. But I overbooked, so everything should be okay.” While recruiting was vital to Winslow, Brown's future, it didn't generate fees, and fees were the lifeblood of the firm. It wasn't uncommon for bankers to decide at the last minute that whatever deals they were working on took precedence over a commitment to participate in recruiting.

“I'm sorry. I'm not making things any easier for you by cutting out this morning.”

“You, at least, have a valid excuse.” I'd told her about the memorial service earlier that week, and she'd been sympathetic.

“You're doing great,” I reassured her.

She rolled her eyes.

“Courage,” I said. She rewarded me with a smile.

Colleagues from Winslow, Brown began trooping in, descending upon the breakfast buffet like vultures, most of them simultaneously talking on their own voice-enabled Blackberries. I helped myself to a bagel and cream cheese and another Diet Coke and found an empty chair. We needed to wait for a quorum to get things started, so I used the downtime to scroll through the accumulated e-mails on my own Blackberry before pecking out a quick message to Peter, wishing him luck with his pitch. Scott Epson was among the last to arrive. Today he was wearing a tie that put yesterday's to shame—green silk dotted with little red golf tees. If he had been anyone else, I would have suspected sartorial irony.

When the room had filled, I cleared my throat and called the meeting to order. “I'd like to thank you all for being here. I know how busy everyone is, but we have an ambitious hiring goal this year, and your participation is very much appreciated.” I said a few more words by way of introduction, reminding everyone of the qualities Winslow, Brown deemed desirable in its prospective employees, and then turned the meeting over to Cecelia to explain how everything would work over the next two days.

I ate my bagel and listened while she smoothly ran through the day's logistics. “We need everyone back here at five o'clock for the roundup session. Please don't be late—we'll try to finish up as quickly as we possibly can.” With that, she began handing out name tags and schedules.

No sooner had she finished than the first students began trickling in for their interviews, neatly turned out in aspiring Wall Street wear. Cece efficiently matched them up with the pairs of bankers to which they'd been assigned and sent them off to the interview rooms. By ten past nine, she and I were the only ones left. I was relieved—Scott Epson hadn't seemed to notice that I wouldn't be interviewing that morning. If he had, I was sure he would waste no time in letting Stan know in some backhanded fashion that I was shirking my duties. My absence that morning could be easily explained, but I'd rather not have to explain it. The partners at Winslow, Brown had strange ideas regarding how one should prioritize one's various commitments. The memorial service for a client seemed to me to be an important event, but firm lore was sufficiently rife with stories of bankers being called back from hospital beds, bar mitzvahs, honeymoons and graveyards to make me hesitant to publicize the trade-off I was making.

I exchanged a few final words with Cece, thanking her and assuring her I'd be back by noon. Moments later I was in a cab bound for Trinity Church in Boston.