The Partner Track: A Novel (8 page)

The one called Steinberg was back with a large tropical drink served in a hollowed-out pineapple. “Hey,” he yelled to one of the girls. “Why aren’t you in the pool yet?”

This particular girl—the prettiest girl in the group—was a tall, willowy blonde with high cheekbones, fair skin, and a faint spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her hair was swept back into an unfussy chignon and secured with a tiny tortoiseshell pin. She was wearing a chic black cover-up; the white spaghetti straps of a swimsuit top were visibly knotted together behind her neck.

I knew her name—Cameron Alexander—because Murph and Hunter had pointed her out in the Summer Associate Directory, also known among the male attorneys at the firm as The Menu. Cameron had been to Exeter and was a double-Harvard—both college and law school—and, according to her firm bio, did some modeling in her spare time. Runway, not catalog. Rumor had it she was also dating a client, the manager of an exclusive hedge fund the firm represented.

“Come on, Cameron,” said the one called Steinberg. “You said you’d be going in.”

“I don’t see anyone stopping
you
from swimming, Jason,” Cameron said with a toss of her head. “Why does it always have to be follow-the-leader with you?”

This seemed to shut Steinberg up for a moment. The other men in the group sniggered.

Good for you, Cameron,
I thought.

“Hey, Ingrid, mind if I join you?”

I looked up. It was Tim Hollister, a youngish Corporate partner in our Emerging Markets group. A glint was coming off of his Clark Kent glasses where the sunlight hit them just so.

“Of course not,” I said, sitting up and pushing my sunglasses up onto the crown of my head. “Pull up a chair.”

I liked Tim. He’d been in the associate class three years above me and Murph, and seemed a little surprised to have woken up one day to discover himself occupying a huge corner office. Even after he’d made partner, Tim still managed to seem like one of us. He was the type of young partner who rarely asked associates to work on weekends if he wasn’t also coming in himself. Once, I’d even stood behind him in line in the Jury Box and heard him greet the cashier by name.

Tim swung the nearest deck chair around, parked it next to mine, and sat down, stretching out his long legs. He opened the bottled water he was holding and took a swallow.

“No tropical slushy for you today, Tim?” I asked, inclining my head toward Jason Steinberg and his hollowed-out pineapple.

He looked over and grinned. “Wow. It’s only ten fifty. I try to wait til at least noon.” Then he looked at me and said, “This is always such a
long
day, you know?”

I nodded, and felt grateful to him for having said it.

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment. I slid my huge Audrey Hepburn–style sunglasses back on my face and studied Tim Hollister in profile. Rumor had it that he actually had a Ph.D. in political theory in addition to his law degree, which made him rather noteworthy to the women at the firm. Tim had salt-and-pepper hair and kind gray eyes. He was the type of guy whose appeal, I guessed, was obvious to most but not all. Intelligent women might disagree as to whether or not he was handsome.

As I was busy thinking all this, he opened his mouth and said to me, “So, Ingrid, the buzz is that you’ve impressed the hell out of the SunCorp CEO.”

I nearly fell out of my chair. Tim Hollister and I didn’t know each other very well. We barely talked. The fact that this had made its way to him was news.

I tried not to sound giddy. “I’m surprised you heard about that, Tim. But thanks,” I said, and meant it.

“Are you kidding?” Tim looked genuinely happy for me. “There are no secrets around this place, believe me. Marty Adler’s been crowing about you all week. Just wanted to say I think it’s really well deserved. And the timing couldn’t be better for you, obviously.”

I felt my face flush with pleasure. I was trying to think of something both witty and sincere to say back, but Tim had already turned away and was looking toward the entrance to the pool. Gavin Dunlop, another young Corporate partner, was gesturing impatiently at Tim, pointing at his watch and making exaggerated swinging motions with his arms.

Tim stood. “Gotta run. Eleven o’clock tee time. I’ll see you around.”

“See you. And thanks. I really appreciate what you said.”

“Anytime.” He raised both arms and made a graceful free throw with his empty water bottle. I watched it arc smoothly into a nearby bin. Then Tim jogged over toward Gavin Dunlop, and the two of them headed up the grassy slope toward the clubhouse.

I took in a long, deep breath and stretched out my arms and legs as far as they would reach, feeling the pleasant pull in each muscle, the sheer joy of being young and appreciated and good at what you did. I draped one arm lazily above my head and closed my eyes, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun and Tim’s words.
I think it’s really well deserved.

My eyes were still closed when suddenly I thought,
It’s really quiet. It’s too quiet.
A reverent hush had fallen over the pool deck. When I opened my eyes, I saw why.

Cameron Alexander had peeled off her cover-up and was sauntering toward the shallow end of the pool, wearing only a white string bikini. She moved with an unhurried grace, as if she were aware of so many eyes on her and really didn’t mind. Steinberg was obediently loping along behind her, still clasping the ridiculous pineapple beverage. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning.

For women lawyers at a firm outing, the swimsuit question presented a conundrum. Just what should a young career woman wear to what was essentially a pool party thrown by her employer? On the one hand—let’s be honest—law firms valued good looks and sex appeal as much as anyone. So if you were an attractive young woman, you didn’t exactly want to be the class prude, huddled poolside in a parka. On the other hand, showing too much skin wasn’t a good idea, either. Not if you ever expected to be taken seriously again. I watched the male attorneys on line at the bar surreptitiously smirk and nudge each other. People pretended to return to their momentarily abandoned conversations but continued to stare in her direction.

Unflustered, Cameron stood alone at the water’s edge. She raised one perfect, Pilates-toned leg and dipped a pointed toe into the water.

“Still pretty cold,” she announced, loud enough for all of us to hear. “I think I’ll wait a bit.”

Steinberg didn’t seem disappointed to hear this. His objective had been achieved.

“Fine with me,” he said, shaking his pineapple drink at her. “I’m out. Let’s go get something else to drink.”

Cameron shrugged and walked with Steinberg to the back of the drinks line, where they were joined by—I should say
she
was joined by—two male partners who were suddenly extremely interested in striking up a conversation with the summer associates. Before long, Cameron and Steinberg’s group of friends had joined them, too, forming a large gaggle in front of the bar.

All the summers were trying to schmooze the partners, but none succeeded like Cameron Alexander. She looked almost queenly, wearing a beneficent smile and occasionally throwing her head back with laughter, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be standing around barefoot with the Corporate Tax partners, chatting animatedly about the latest summer action flick, while wearing a white string bikini and gesturing with your mojito for emphasis.

I was, if I’m being honest, jealous. Of course I was—but not of the way Cameron looked in her white string bikini. Instead, I was jealous of her confidence and her utter
unself-consciousness.
What would it be like, I marveled, to go through life so utterly unwary? So wholly certain of your belonging to a place that it was never necessary to consider how your next move would be perceived?

Making partner at Parsons Valentine felt like a big final exam to which a select few held the answer key. While the rest of us schmucks had to study.

But you’re getting there, too, Ingrid!
I quickly reminded myself. Hadn’t Tim Hollister just personally congratulated me on the great work I’d been doing? Hadn’t Marty Adler called me Slugger? Today was not the day for a pity party. I decided to treat myself to a celebratory margarita or two. I stood up and walked over to join the drinks line.

*   *   *

Just before dusk, having passed a pleasant afternoon of schmoozing and socializing, watching a little tennis and strolling around the grounds, I made my way over to the clubhouse to get ready for dinner. I slipped into the dress I’d brought—a slim white linen sheath with a simple scalloped neckline—along with a pair of strappy alligator slingbacks. I brushed my hair into place, stepped back, and surveyed the effect in the mirror. Elegant, yet effortless. This was what we were expected to channel all the time. If only it were as easy as Cameron Alexander made it look.

I had a pleasant buzz as I crossed the lawns to the area where dinner would be served. The tent looked lovely, like an oasis. It was a perfect summer evening, the sun had just dipped below the treeline, and the first stars would soon be visible in the night sky. Across the lawn, the stone path near the clubhouse had been lit up with hundreds of tiny tea lights, and the tent itself was adorned with little paper lanterns. Everything felt cozy and festive.

This had been the best firm-outing day I could remember from my eight years at Parsons Valentine. With the buzz from the tequila, and the high from Tim’s compliment, I was the happiest, most relaxed I’d been in a very long time.

Under the canopy, the dinner was set up like a stylish wedding reception—twenty round tables set with china and crystal, floral centerpieces glowing in the candlelight. Elegant ivory name cards directed us to our seats. I was pleased to see that Murph and I were assigned to the same table. In fact, it was a good table overall, with Corporate partners Harold Rubinstein and Gavin Dunlop; Pamela Karnow, a no-bullshit, fortysomething partner in Litigation whom I admired; two senior Litigation associates I’d never worked with; and three random summer associates.

Gavin and the three summers were already at the table, discussing the Broadway show the firm had taken them to the previous evening. Then Murph appeared, freshly showered and shaved after his tennis game. His dark blond hair was still damp, and he’d put on a clean white dress shirt and freshly pressed khakis. He looked handsome, and I thought about telling him so.

I sat down between Murph and Gavin Dunlop. Since Gavin was in the Securities group I’d never worked with him, but Tyler had, and thought he was a good guy—a little stodgy, perhaps (Gavin wore bow ties and seersucker without irony), but a straight shooter.

“Hey, Ingrid,” Gavin greeted me. Then he introduced me to the three summers.

I scanned the name cards arranged in front of their plates.
Caleb Sweeney, UNC–Chapel Hill. Nate McArdle, Duke. Andrea Carr, Yale.

Caleb and Nate seemed to know each other well already—I guessed they’d bonded over the North Carolina thing. Nate McArdle had an athletic build and a good tan, and was handsome in an unoriginal way. Caleb Sweeney looked like a nice kid, earnest and scrubbed. I noticed with a sympathetic pang that his hair was neatly parted on the side, unironically, while most other guys were wearing that mussed-up, no-part style. Andrea Carr was a pretty, petite blonde wearing tortoiseshell glasses, a tasteful black dress, and a single strand of freshwater pearls at her throat.

Murph immediately introduced himself to Andrea, grinning his most dazzling grin. How predictable. I’d have to tease him about this later.

Andrea replied in a practiced voice that was faultlessly polite but utterly neutral. I knew that voice. I’d used it myself many times. “Hi, Jeff, it’s very nice to meet you.” No hair toss, no giggling, no flirtation whatsoever. This surprised and impressed me. Women were not usually this resistant to Murph’s charms. On a hunch, I snuck a glance at Andrea’s left hand. Sure enough, there it was: a gigantic engagement ring, winking at me in the candlelight.

After we were joined by Harold Rubinstein, Pamela Karnow, and the two senior associates from Litigation, the waiters came around to fill our wine goblets, and we all tucked into our salads.

I was still enjoying a pleasant buzz and a general, comfortable feeling of all being right with the world. The margaritas hadn’t quite worn off yet, and the red wine I was drinking was keeping the glow going.

The waiters came around to take our orders for either steak or salmon. Everyone got the steak except for Andrea Carr. When our entrées arrived, the steak was melt-in-your-mouth delicious—center-cut filet, cooked to rare perfection, served with the chef’s award-winning Béarnaise sauce. Appreciative murmurs were making their way around the table when, across from me, Caleb Sweeney raised his hand to flag down a retreating waiter. “Yes, sir?”

Harold Rubinstein, Gavin Dunlop, and Murph, who were busily arguing about the Yankees’ abysmal record this season, glanced over at Caleb.

“When you get a chance, could I get some A.1. sauce over here?” Caleb said.

“Excuse me?” asked the waiter.

Gavin Dunlop was staring at Caleb, his fork stilled halfway to his mouth.

“A.1. sauce. For my steak?” Caleb repeated, gesturing toward his plate.

“Sir,” began the waiter in a patient voice, “perhaps, if you don’t care for Béarnaise, we could offer you the black peppercorn sauce instead? The black peppercorn is also superb.”

Harold Rubinstein cleared his throat and waded in. “Yes, Caleb, I’d highly recommend that—I’ve had it myself, and it’s excellent.”

“No, I’d really just like some A.1.,” Caleb continued, oblivious.

Right then, though, in the split second after, you could see the corners of his mouth go slack, as the realization slowly dawned on him that somehow, without his even noticing it, something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. And it was too late to turn back. The peppercorn life raft had been thrown out and cruelly reeled back in.

The waiter sighed softly. “Very well. We’ll see what we can do.” He turned on his heel and walked away.