Bond Girl (10 page)

“Alex, wait. That guy is a huge loser; don't let him upset you. Do you really care what he thinks?”

“I can't believe he said that! I was under the assumption that grown men didn't belittle women half their age for kicks. I also was under the impression that grown men didn't hook up with colleagues in public bathrooms. What the hell is going on here?”

Drew leaned against the car next to me and buried his hands in his pants pockets. “Not everyone is like that. Unfortunately, the ones who are don't try to hide it. For every asshole there are a million good guys. It's just that the assholes get noticed.”

“This just went from one of the best nights of my life to one of the worst in about ten minutes. I just want to go home.”

Drew caught the attention of a cabdriver who had just come out of a coffee shop across Ninth Avenue. He held the door open as I climbed in the backseat.

“Merry Christmas, Alex. Get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow will be better. I promise.”

The cab pulled away from the curb and headed toward the West Side Highway. 
I had a managing director call me ugly, and in return I called him a fat fuck. Yeah, well, tomorrow certainly couldn't be much worse.

Six

Hotel Cromwell

I
got up extra early to go to work so that I could just get it over with. I dreaded going in like no other day I could remember. I logged into my computer and found a new e-mail.

MSG FROM PATRICK, WILLIAM:

A—

What the hell happened last night? I saw you jet out of the bar. Are you okay? There was a lot of chatter about you mouthing off to someone.

I was trying to figure out how to respond to Will's e-mail when I was interrupted by a very angry Chick pulling me out of my chair by my hair. “My office. Now” was all he said before walking away. This was not a good sign. He only used his office to welcome new employees, give year-end reviews, fire people, and talk in private. You only got called to Chick's office if what was about to happen wasn't appropriate for everyone on the trading floor to hear.

I scanned the room to see if anyone had noticed that I was in trouble, but the team appeared focused on their morning tasks. Everyone except Will, who shrugged sympathetically.

When I entered Chick's office, a room I hadn't set foot in since my first day at the firm, I found him standing with his back to the door, staring out the window. I closed the door quietly behind me and sat down in the wooden chair facing his desk. I sat there for a solid three minutes before he even spoke, and when he did, he kept his back to me.

“What the hell did I tell you?”

Chick had told me a lot of things over the last six months. I had no idea which of those things he wanted me to repeat back to him, and I figured not saying anything was better than getting the answer wrong. I stayed silent.

“I said,” Chick began, his voice continuing to escalate. I stole a glance at the panes of glass surrounding his door and wondered if they were soundproof. From the looks on the faces of the secretaries sitting in their cubicles outside, they were not. “What the hell did I tell you? When you got here, I told you that you should just quit on your first day if you couldn't handle working mostly with men. What possessed you, Alex, what in God's name possessed you to call Tim Collins a fat fuck? Who the hell do you think you are? Timmy Collins brings in fifty million a year for this firm. How much do you bring in, Alex, huh? Tell me. How much revenue have you produced for this group since you got here?”

“Nothing, Chick. I don't have any clients,” I whispered, my voice so soft it was almost inaudible.

“Exactly, thank you. He produces fifty million a year and you're lucky I let you answer phones, but for some reason, some reason I will never,
ever,
understand, you thought it would be okay to call one of the highest producers on the entire fixed-income floor a fat fuck. Does that make sense to you? I hired you because you were supposed to be a smart girl, Alex, not a crazy fucking feminist with something to prove. The only person you have to prove anything to is me. And the only thing you have proven to me after last night is that you clearly don't care about your career. I just gave you twenty grand to show our appreciation and this is how you say thank you? Did my positive reinforcement go to your head? Make you think that everything I told you on your first day was no longer applicable?”

“No, Chick, no! I'm sorry. I just lost it. I shouldn't have. I spoke without thinking. What can I do to fix this?”

“To start, you're going to apologize to Timmy for disrespecting him and for forgetting that he's senior to you in every way possible. You hear me? You'll do it in person the second you leave this office, or I'll make sure that you don't pick up a phone here for the rest of your very short career. Capiche?”

Surely he was kidding. “You want me to do it in person? At his desk, in front of everyone?”

“That's what ‘in person' means, Alex, yes.”

I felt the need to explain what had happened. Chick knew me well enough to know that I wouldn't just curse out some guy for no reason. I wanted him to be on
my
side. “Chick, I think if you knew the whole story you would see that I wasn't really that out of line. He said . . .”

“Alex!” he screamed as he turned around to face me. I wished he had kept his back to me. “I don't care what he said to you. I don't care. You will apologize, because that's what I'm telling you to do. And if you want to work here, you will do as I say. I cannot believe I have already wasted ten minutes of my day dealing with this bullshit. That's all I have to say to you. You have five minutes to deliver the apology.” He pointed to the door and picked up his phone, so I lowered my head and left his office.

Of all the things I had been expecting, having to apologize to Tim Collins wasn't one of them. Maybe I had been out of line, but the thought of having to face him and say that I was
sorry
nauseated me. I asked someone to direct me to his desk, which was located on the far side of the trading floor. My heart pounded as I approached. He was eating a bagel with butter, sucking the grease off his fingers. When he saw me, he folded his hands across his chest. “Come to beg forgiveness so that Chick doesn't can your ass?”

I held my hands behind my back so he couldn't see my clenched fists. “Umm,” I stammered, “I came to say I'm sorry for speaking to you the way I did. I was out of line. I'd like to put it behind us and move forward.”

Swallowing your pride sucks.

He snorted and turned to the man sitting next to him, “Hear this, Sam?” he asked. “This is the skirt that called me a fat fuck last night, and now she wants to ‘move forward.' ”

“Cut her some slack, T.C. You're lucky she doesn't sue you for sexual harassment.”

“Oh please. I was just joking around. She's the one who took a harmless joke and turned it into a big deal.”

A joke? You can't be serious.

“Well, I didn't know you were kidding and I guess I was being overly sensitive. I owe you an apology.”

“Go,” he ordered. “Forget it. Do yourself a favor and loosen up though, or you won't last a year here.”

I returned to my desk, feeling like I needed to take a second shower. I was about to grab my notebook and get on with my day when I noticed a large Starbucks coffee sitting on top of it, the boxes on the side of the cup checked off for nonfat and mocha.

“Did you get me this?” I asked Drew, grateful for his silent sign of solidarity.

“No, I just got off a conference call.”

When I checked my e-mail, I found a second message from Will.

MSG FROM PATRICK, WILLIAM:

A—

You seem like you could use a boost this morning. I hope this cheers you up. I heard what happened. Collins is an asshole, don't worry about it.

P.S. If the coffee doesn't help, maybe a drink sometime will. What's your cell number?

—W

I spent ten minutes trying to think of the perfect response, struggling with how to thank him without sounding too eager or interested. Tone is often difficult to convey in an e-mail. Anyone who has had a cyber relationship knows that. I decided that, in this case, simple was definitely better.

MSG FROM GARRETT, ALEX:

W

I'd like that. 203–555–5820.

Perfect.

Drew rolled his chair over next to mine. “How bad was it?”

“On a scale of one to ten? A nine. Chick made me apologize. I had to walk over there and say I was
sorry,
like I was the one who did something wrong. I shouldn't have gone off on him like that, but give me a break.”

“ALEX!” Chick yelled as he returned to his station on the desk. I jumped up so fast I almost knocked over my chair.

Christ, what now?
“Yes, boss?” I asked, terrified.

“The capital markets guys are rolling out a new deal. They're putting together the marketing presentations—the pitch books—for clients. You're responsible for getting them done. Today. Go over to the capital markets desk and work with the bankers to get them in order. When they're done, send them up to the copy center for our standard order. It should take them a few hours to get them all copied and bound. When they're ready, pick up the books, take them to the mailroom, and pack them all for FedEx. You'll remember this the next time you decide to mouth off to someone.”

“Okay.”

“The last pickup is at midnight. I don't care if you drink Red Bull for the next seven hours in order to get them done, but they go out tonight. Capiche?”

I nodded. “Sure. No problem.”

I hurried over to the capital markets desk and introduced myself to a group of men standing around a bank of monitors at an empty computer station.

“Hi, I'm Alex. Chick told me to come down here and help you guys finish up the presentations.”

One of the guys, a salt-and-pepper-haired man, shook my hand enthusiastically and said, “Ah! Yes, great, Alex, thanks! We need the help. Our associate is out and we aren't that well versed in PowerPoint. I take it you know your way around the application?”

“Yeah, no problem.” I logged on to the empty computer and opened the file. You'd think that printing a few books would be simple, but when a group of high-strung bankers with type A personalities who are used to getting their way are forced to compromise on seemingly mindless decisions, it becomes exponentially more difficult.

“Let's see what we have here.”

Banker Number One leaned over my shoulder and stared intently at the screen. “What size is that font? It looks like it's for blind people. Make it smaller, Alex,” he instructed. I reduced the font from fourteen to twelve.

“Now it's too small,” another commented. “And why are we using squares and not rectangles for the cash flow chart? The slide is rectangular; the boxes should be rectangular.” Banker Number Two leaned over my shoulder and traced the square outline on the screen, just in case I needed a tutorial in basic shapes. He smelled of stale coffee, cigarettes, and Old Spice.

I put the mouse on the corner of the box and dragged it to the left, morphing the square into a rectangle and then recentered the text within the new form. “Better?” I asked, hopefully.

He scratched his head and looked pensively at the screen. Banker Number Three chimed in. “I don't like it. Why's it red? Red's bad luck. Red is associated with losses, with a down stock market. It's a negative color. We are trying to convince people to buy this deal. Having red in the presentation could send them subliminal messages. Change it.”

I changed the color from red to green, which made sense to me. If I followed his logic, then green should be a positive color, associated with gains, profit, and money. He shook his head again.

“What the fuck, Alex? This isn't a Christmas card. Make it gray.”

Gray, right. Obviously.

The first banker didn't like the way the boxes were aligned. They were too far apart, then too close together. The wording was wrong; it wasn't succinct enough. So I changed the banner sentence as the bankers volleyed back and forth between the words
can
and
will.

“The disclaimer at the bottom of the page should be italicized. Legal wants to make sure that it's clear and highly visible,” Banker Number Four commented.

“Italics look so—what's the word I'm looking for? Amateurish. Can't we bold it?”

Right, italics scream amateur hour, but bold somehow exemplifies professionalism. Does anyone even read these things?

Banker Number Two shook his head. “Bolding it makes it the focal point of the page. We can't let the disclaimer detract from the risk outline.”

“Hmmmm.” Banker Number Three nodded pensively. “I see what you mean.”

Are you guys kidding me?

“What about underscoring it, but using regular type?” Banker Number Five suggested to Banker Number One as he rubbed the five o'clock shadow on his chin. The sandpaper-like sound made me cringe.

“That's it! That's perfect. Great job.” They patted one another on the back in congratulations on their ability to propose such a staggering solution.

Underlining.

All of the times I thought about what my father did at work, I never pictured him obsessing over something as stupid as fonts and type color. I wondered if he was over at Sterling right now tormenting some poor analyst with such asinine and pointless work. I sincerely hoped not.

“Now, about these boxes . . .” Banker Number One mused.

Align it on the right, center justify it. Maybe it will look sexier with the boxes running down the center of the page? Make the boxes three-dimensional, shade them from light to dark, shade them from dark to light. The arrows aren't the same length, or thick enough, there are too many arrows, no, too few. The spacing is uneven, the page numbers are too prominent. Should we be using Times New Roman (classic and dependable) or Arial (modern and forward-thinking)?

And on and on and on.

Fifteen minutes later they had agreed on the first slide. I sat in my chair like a hunchback, every muscle in my back aching. I tried to arch my back in an effort to return my spinal column to its proper alignment, but that resulted in my chest jutting out like a porn star's. I noticed one of the guys raise an eyebrow in interest. I slouched again and resigned myself to a lonely future ringing church bells in a tower.

“Okay then,” I said, pretending not to notice their wandering eyes. “Should we move on to page two?” I glanced quickly at the bottom of my monitor. “Slide 2 of 46.”

Fabulous.

Hours went by and we weren't making much progress. I looked at my watch. Two thirty. No wonder bankers worked all night; these idiots obsessed over the smallest details.

“Don't we have a new pitch book format?” Banker Number One asked me. “One where the firm logo is on the top right and not the bottom left?”