The Suite Life (26 page)

The first six months of Isabella's life flew by as Alec continued to climb the ranks and spend more and more money. On the first of December we moved into our new three-bedroom, three-bathroom duplex apartment overlooking the Hudson River, which he deemed appropriate for his new status. The terrace was barren in midwinter but beautiful nevertheless under a blanket of snow. One thing I was really looking forward to was planting a few small trees in the spring.

I probably shouldn't have been shocked when, just a month after we moved in, Alec mentioned the next move he had in mind, to an apartment in the Luxe Regent, which was just being built. I wondered where we'd finally put down roots—aside, that is, from the summer house compound on the North Fork property that Alec had in fact bought using his shares in Transglobal (which would certainly skyrocket as soon as the company went public) as collateral. It hadn't taken him long to start putting in motion his plans for a helipad and the toy that went with it.

Alec went on slaying dragons and I went on making a life for me and my daughter, who was the center of attention at all DeMarco family gatherings. I was thankful Isabella had a
genuinely loving family and thankful, too, that I had these people as an anchor in my fast-paced and sometimes lonely life. The only thing I didn't have was someone with whom I could discuss my deep-seated and long-held belief in the subjective value of personal striving and self-worth as opposed to the objective value that was calibrated in terms of financial worth.

The women in Alec's circle, including those I worked with on the charity board, were pleasant and well-meaning but had no interest in delving beneath the surface pleasantries we exchanged. And whenever I tried to bring up these feelings with my in-laws, they would find some way to distract me or change the subject. So gradually I stopped trying to share what I felt and simply accepted them all for what they were and what they were able to provide for me and my baby.

One day, I hoped, when
The Blessed Bridge
was published, I'd be able to share my thoughts with the world. For now, I confided only in Isabella and in Hercules, both of whom I talked to when we were alone. They may not have been able to respond, but at least they didn't try to shut me up.

Alec and I ushered in the New Year following Isabella's birth high atop the north tower of the World Trade Center, home to some of the most powerful Wall Street firms and to Windows on the World, where we attended a black-tie ball, given by Barklay & Sons, a New York–based hedge fund. Alec, who easily held his own with Grigor Malchek and Senator Ross, spent the entire night with a self-satisfied smile plastered on his face. With our current and future homes in the immediate neighborhood, 107 stories below, our world was literally and figuratively at his feet. The celebration was lavish beyond description and symbolic of a world that was still so foreign to me, but I still clung to the hope that Alec was ever closer to making his dream come true and being happy with our family.

The future was also the topic of discussion when Monica,
Franco's loyal wife, asked me to lunch at Café Boulud the following week. She was already there when I arrived and could hardly wait for me to take my seat before she started to unburden herself. “Franco's away more than ever,” she began. “From our home . . . and from me when he is at home.”

“I can relate,” I said.
That's the most honest thing I've heard or said to anyone in months.
“It isn't easy supporting such ambitious, driven men.”

“I knew you'd understand.” She sighed. “It's really getting to me, Sam. Franco is never satisfied, always trying to keep up with Alec,” she said, and then she looked me in the eyes. “I'm not blameless, either. I've nagged him more than once to get me the kind of diamonds Alec gets for you.”

“It's not bad to want things, Monica.”

“Yeah, well, some people want the wrong things,” she said, her eyes filling with fire. “I found a black thong that wasn't mine in Franco's pants pocket last week.” I shivered, as the memory of finding someone else's lipstick in the back of Tony Kroon's car came rushing back. “Of course, he swore it was just the result of some boys' night out at a strip club,” she continued. “With Alec and his clients.”

Of course.

The pricey fashions and jewelry on and all around us, and the fancy china and food on the table in front of us, didn't seem to matter all that much to either of us in that moment. I tried to be as supportive and encouraging as I could.

“I'd love to hear more about your book, Sam,” she said as we started on dessert.

“Thank you, Monica,” I said, surprised. “I'm genuinely touched.”

“I've wanted to bring it up a couple of times when everyone got together, but it never seemed to be the right moment,” she said.
Join the club.

“It's pretty simple, really. I write about being who I am and chasing my dream.”

Gazing over my shoulder, Monica seemed to be lost in thought. After a minute, she began to speak. “That's just it,” she said, turning to me. “I don't know who I am, so I don't have any dreams. Sure, I've got a dream husband and dream house, but so does everyone else I know. There's nothing special about me.”

“I think talking about it is how a dream starts, and how it stays alive,” I said. “Every one of us is special, Monica. There are disfigured children in Asia who've been saved because of the foundation you belong to, and you've got two precious daughters to be proud of.”

“I don't think those things make me all that special, Sam,” she said, shaking her head.

“Well, you're special to me, and you've got a great life while you go about finding out who you are.”

Monica gazed away again. “I don't think I want to go on being just a mother in the Italian version of a family that minimizes the husband-and-wife part,” she said. “If you get my drift.”

“I hear you.” I frowned.

“I'm actually glad I haven't gotten pregnant again.” Monica sighed.

God works in strange ways.

It was a beautiful early summer day when Transglobal was to become the first specialty trading firm to go public. Needless to say, my husband was salivating at the thought of collecting his just reward for hand-to-hand combat, which had also included plenty of the kissing-up that he always cursed under his breath. Alec appeared to be a superior trader, more so than any of his counterparts on the Street. But he needed to be validated like the rest of us, and he should have taken credit for all the
ideas he gave away. For everyone on Wall Street it was all about money, all about who had the biggest cock and the biggest bank account. That was the real reason Alec was driven to take the risks others wouldn't and make the trades that would satisfy the toughest customer, the biggest scumbag client. This was a minefield, stocked with greedy men who were secretly running the world. Every political campaign in the country was somehow funded by Wall Street money. And my husband was part of that world. I'd always thought that the mafia ran things, but they were small potatoes compared to this kind of power.

Alec assured me that I would never want for anything ever again, that no harm would ever come to me and we would always be rich. But silently I wondered if the loss of our time together was worth whatever monstrous increase in wealth was coming our way, particularly since, in my opinion, we already had enough to last us through at least a dozen lifetimes. After all, I was a girl who had spent long stretches surviving on toast for dinner
without the butter
.

The Wall Street buzz on that day was all about Transglobal, and about the new partner, Alec DeMarco, who had been asked to ring the opening bell. The entire family was present and I was at his side with Isabella in my arms when the moment arrived. Alec did the deed, champagne was poured, and he preened as I had never seen him do before. Even Grigor Malchek seemed to be under his spell. When Alec was asked where the guys were that he used to hang out with, he simply replied, “I'm just too busy celebrating my greatness, that's all.”

I secretly flinched in the midst of all the joy I felt for Alec because he showed no sense of humility whatsoever. Don't get me wrong, he had worked hard and deserved his reward, but he'd caught a couple of breaks along the way, too, and there were a lot of other people who had a hand in his success. It would have been nice to see him acknowledge someone or something
other than himself that morning. Commitment before ego, he'd always say.

I had to admit, however, that all the fawning his parents and sister did over Alec made it easy for him to lose himself in the celebration on the floor of the exchange, and afterward at the Hudson River Club. As off-the-charts as that celebratory blowout was, Alec no doubt thought it an inadequate acknowledgment of the score he had just made. For him, a castle high in the Alps would have been a more fitting venue than a mere restaurant.

As for me, I had no idea if any venue could deliver appropriate recognition of his partnership and the two million shares in his personal trading account that opened at fifty-five dollars per share. I'll admit, too, that I was intoxicated by the hundred-plus millions he had, on paper. But what meant even more to me than that crazy sum was that a different kind of Brooklyn boy had made a different kind of mark on the world, and that I was a different kind of Brooklyn girl who intended to put my mark on my daughter and make her proud of her mother.

Alec spent more money over the next month than he'd earned the previous year, and by the time Isabella's third birthday party came around, Franco had completely given up trying to compete with a brother who now owned an executive-model Sikorsky helicopter—the “Rolls-Royce of the sky,” Alec called it—to go along with his North Fork compound and who now had his eye on a huge villa in Italy for the entire family. Not even the Barnum & Bailey clowns or strolling minstrels who provided the entertainment for the birthday party Caryn had arranged for Isabella at the Boathouse in Central Park could erase the scowl from Franco's face. He seemed resigned to just go along for the ride Alec was on. For my part, I was thankful that Alec had managed to inject some magic into at least one of his primary relationships.

In terms of his business relationships, there were new deals
in the works with his friend, the Greek Emmanuel Stavros. These brothers were also huge venture capitalists, never mind everything else they owned. I was surprised to learn that at least one of those holdings might have something to do with me, but I couldn't pry any specifics from my husband, who was playing his cards close to his custom-tailored vest. I allowed myself to think it somehow involved
The Blessed Bridge
and felt a rush of hope.

Of course Emmanuel and his family were at Isabella's party, and I was surprised to see how his down-to-earth wife mothered their toddler son, who laughed with joy as he clung to her skirt, and the way she spoke with quiet confidence to everyone regardless of rank. To me she seemed the picture of self-assurance and contentment, and I wondered if she and Emmanuel had managed to find for themselves what was missing from my relationship with my husband.

Alec's increased obsession with luxury showed no signs of slowing down, especially during his two-month-early fortieth-birthday blowout. He flew his immediate family to Los Cabos, Mexico, on a private jet and chartered a Boeing 757 for fifty of his closest friends. It was to be four days of sun and fun, and Alec made sure the festivities started off right by finding a way to take chocolates out of wrappers and replace them with medical marijuana lozenges for all on the plane to enjoy. He also filled up empty protein shake packages with more marijuana and hash to be consumed during our stay.

The four-day event included yachting, drinking the finest tequilas, and indulging in the best foods and fish Baja had to offer. The culmination was a beach party with fire pits that burned into the wee hours of the morning. It truly was the ultimate dream birthday for the ultimate King of Wall Street, who oversaw every detail, including his-and-hers custom-monogrammed bathrobes in every room, and of course footed the entire bill. I was nervous about the cost but went with the flow.

The King also received the dream gift of a lifetime from a dear friend who played for the Yankees: a 1998 World Series ring set with diamonds and designed by the great DiMaggio himself. I mean, what could get better than that? Of course, I later found out that we'd almost lost the Yankee when he fell head first into the hot tub after way too many mushrooms and weed. Luckily, Alec's brother, the good doctor, rescued him—and us—from what could have been a tragedy, not to mention some serious trouble.

All in all, Mexico made Isabella's party look like an afternoon tea.

The festivities were interrupted, however, when the birthday boy had to fly back on the eve of his actual birthday dinner to be on the floor of the exchange for the opening of a huge IPO he'd won over all his competitors, including Ted Ross. Of course he made a big deal of it, so when his friends offered him a jet so long as he paid for the fuel—which in and of itself was a hefty chunk of change—Alec went for it. It cost eighty-five grand to fly Alec back on a G5 that reportedly belonged to Paul McCartney so that he could open the new listing at the nine-thirty opening bell the next morning.