Opening Belle (15 page)

The young Cuban driver wears a stiff button-down shirt and a black bow tie. I sit directly behind him in awkward silence because I can't think of anything to say to the back of someone's head. This is a moment that Bruce would embrace, letting conversation flow effortlessly from his mouth in his sincere quest to understand what makes the human race tick. As nice as that is, I'd bet anything that right now he's forgotten to pick Kevin up from a dinner playdate I had arranged and he's not answering my texts. I hate managing our home life long-distance and hate that I don't trust Bruce to get everything done. The driver pumps up the volume of a Beyoncé song and wordlessly lets me out of the van.

The dramatic lane to the house is paved with white, shell-like pebbles that crunch under my feet. Champagne-bearing waiters get the signal to stand tall and greet me. This is a grand entrance to pull off alone but my goal is the usual: get in early, talk to the people I need to impress before they have a few drinks, and catch the first van back. I heard that Henry has already gone back to New York and I'm glad to be rid of the distraction. How did I ever let that guy one-up me this morning and did I really sleep in the same bed as him last night? It's hard to recognize this new Henry who has personality swings that seem manic.

Everything about the house is white-on-white; plush white pillows lie atop deep white couches placed perfectly about the green lawn. Lush white flowers drip lazily out of trophy-like silver urns. I gratefully take a glass of champagne and wander to a precarious lookout to watch the perfectly orchestrated surf, bang and retreat, bang and retreat. My thoughts wander to Bruce, to our children, to the weird possibility that we may suddenly have extra money. Not this sort of white-on-white, third-home-on-the-Atlantic money, but breathing-room money: the type of money that takes one's eyes off survival mode, off getting-through-the-day mode. I wonder about the divorce rate among the rich. Is it higher because they can afford to split everything in two and still have a life? Or is it lower because they can purchase escapes, exotic trips, and lots of shrink time? The possibility of having more money is wondrous. A few home runs like CeeV-TV could change everything in our lives and take the pressure off me for a while.

I really miss Bruce right now. I take out my phone to call, to check that Kevin got picked up from his playdate, to see what Caregiver is concocting as a dinner, to make sure the dog walker came, and to see if Owen was able to nap after his hard night. Suddenly a large hand squeezes my hip from behind and stays there. Instinctively, I turn—ready to push one of the usual culprits away, but it's not a usual culprit. It's Tim Boylan, Henry's boss. He looks as shocked as I feel.

“Oh, sorry to grab you like that,” he mutters, self-consciously. “I was just happy to find you in this crowd.”

We both look out at a very uncrowded party and I think it odd to hear a universe master apologize. I say nothing.

“Isabelle McElroy, right?”

“Uhh, that's right.” I fake smile.

The Grand Papi of Cheetah's $35 billion hedge fund never, ever attends conferences like this one. I didn't know he was here and this throws me because Simon will be livid to not be having dinner with him, and B. Gruss II, our chairman, will want to meet him. How did I not know this? Why didn't Henry tell me?

I recover a little. “How are you, Tim?”

“Great, nice to see you. Sorry to show up on you like this, I wanted to hear your panel this morning so I just flew down for the day.”

“No problem. Actually it's great to see you here.”

And I mean this. He came because of my panel—did he really just say that?

“I heard the CeeV-TV news yesterday and saw how perfect and timely your panel was. I wasn't disappointed.”

“And so you stayed for this evening?”

Tim wrinkles his brow and tugs at his French cuffs, a very fancy look for this party.

“Well, I'm one of those types that shows up for cocktails and skips the dinner, if you know what I mean. Been in this business a long time,” he says thoughtfully. “But sometimes it's good to get out of the office and shake a few hands. Sitting in the ivory tower too long gives you hemorrhoids.”

“I thought that's why you hired Henry—for the hand shaking part, I mean.”

“Yesss,” he says carefully. “Finally admitted you know each other from college.”

“He told you?”

“Honey, I'm a researcher. Takes no detective to feel the energy at our lunch table that day. Wasn't sure what it was till I asked him.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I think we were both shocked and didn't want to start reminiscing in front of you. I mean, we dated a little.”

“Yes, well, Henry is off to a pretty good start,” he mutters. “Have you seen him tonight?”

“I think he said he was going home early because, you know, he misses his three kids,” I say ironically.

“Oh.” Tim looks confused. “Well, really, Ms. McElroy, I want you to know that I do remember my manners. The reason I'm here tonight is to personally thank you for probably the two best ideas in our portfolio, this CeeV and EBS. If this thing works out, you'll have made our year. Let me know when you want to come work for me!” He laughs.

“Oh, I'm pretty happy where I am now,” I lie. “Anyway, I thought you would've sold your position by now.”

“Henry wanted to but I said to hold on to that stock 'cause this here is a big idea. You know that time we had lunch at the Four Seasons, I wasn't sure you had it in you. Love when the ladies prove me wrong. Anyway, keep Cheetah up to speed with any information you have on those two stocks, do you hear?”

“I hear,” I say, standing tall.

“Doing anything in mortgages?” he asks.

I'm a little surprised that Cheetah is yet another hedge fund on the mortgage bandwagon. “I don't totally understand those MBS, CDO, acronym-laden things, so I'm staying with the basics for now. Henry must be a big help there. Isn't that what he was doing at Goldman?”

Tim smiles. “That's why people trust you, Isabelle. Everyone else would just say yes and pretend they knew something just to get my business. I want you to know that I like your honesty. I also want you to know that Henry may be my hand shaker, but he had no business taking your moment from you in that room this morning.”

I know exactly what he means but act like I don't. “What do you mean by that?”

“You put that panel together, you were letting the story unfold naturally, letting your clients get to understanding this idea in a macro way. You were about to ask the question, the one that makes a yawn of a conference into a memorable one, the one that lets people remember it was your idea in the first place. Instead Henry beat you to the punch. Damn kid ended that panel early. It was not his place to do that.”

“I'm used to men stealing my thunder,” I say.

“Well it damn well cheeses me.”

“Go easy on Henry,” I say. “And he'll make you lots of money.”

“There you go being honest again.” We both laugh.

“You know that CeeV investment was the first time I took such a gamble with Henry. I mean, he's a new kid who seemed to be pushing it because you were pushing it. He keeps telling me you've got one sharp brain and that you're the one to watch. So far it looks like that boy knows what he's talking about. I'll be damned”—he gazes past my shoulder thoughtfully—“how'd you come up with that idea?”

“Honestly, my husband was telling me how great their content pipeline is and that he likes their software. It's user friendly so it has appeal to everyone, which encourages the uploading of even more content. It's like YouTube, only he thinks it's better. The earnings potential of a huge video pipeline supplied at no cost is nothing to sneeze at. You can't beat it when your content is fresh, made specifically for you, and provided for free. You stream it, and advertisers salivate to touch the viewers you're able to reach.”

“I'm getting it now too,” he says, while nodding his head. Tim is truly listening to me, respecting me, treating me differently than he did at the Four Seasons. “Say, what's that you said your husband does?”

Here it comes. “I didn't say, but he's in visual communications.”

“What in the hell is that? Sounds girly.”

“Not girly. He does all the lights and tech stuff for a conference like the one we're at. He produces video clips for corporations, sometimes builds out the platforms to hang lights from. He does lots of different things,” I ramble, rewriting Bruce's nonemployment status into something that once was.

“Good Lord, woman. That's a little wimpy, you have to admit.”

There it is: the ugly little fact that people on Wall Street tend to think that any job not commanding multiple millions is not worth having. Someone curing pancreatic cancer? Ah, that's nice. Teaching at a girls' school in Rwanda? Sweet. Get a real job.

“Well, it might not be a dream job for him, but he got a little sidetracked. Our kids came along pretty quickly and my job was just more lucrative.”

“Oh, sure, no, I don't mean to be patronizing, you just seem more likely to be with a captain-of-industry type. I understand why you're not home with those babies. You have too much to offer the world.”

“Um, actually I love those babies,” I say, “and I also love this business . . .” I trail off and sigh because I see that Simon has spotted us and is coming up the path in an explosion of energy. He is positively panting as he nears.

Sweat beads at the top of Simon's head as he advances. He's a guy who likes to be indoors in temperature-controlled equilibrium and the air tonight feels sultry. I take the lead before Simon can embarrass me. “Tim, you remember Simon, he heads equities at Feagin?”

I see a trace of annoyance cross Tim's face. I'm sure they've never really met before. “Yes, good to see you,” he says flatly. “Was just telling your girl here she's produced excellent work for us. Hope you can hang on to her.”

“Yes,” Simon says, “she's going to make this year really expensive for me.”

We all yuck in that uncomfortable way.

“Well,” Tim finishes, “time for me to catch my plane home. I really just wanted to thank you in person, Isabelle. Remember what I said about Henry stealing your thunder. That won't happen again.”

Clarisse has now joined our little party, anxious to be seen with both Boylan and Simon. It's a virtual power-fest, and she can sniff opportunity better than seagulls at a fry shop. Though Boylan is trying to leave, she won't let him pass her.

“Tim, I'm Clarisse Evenson, a senior saleswoman at Feagin. Please let me know if you ever need my help.”

She slips a card out of the cuff in her blouse with the ease of a magician. Her perfectly manicured nails press a bit as she places it into his hand, and I see a wave of disgust pass briefly over Tim's face. He reaches past Simon, past Clarisse, and grabs my shoulders, planting a big kiss on my cheek. He's making this a show on purpose.

“Like I was saying, brilliant work, Isabelle. Call me back in New York and let's have lunch again!”

He crunches away on the gravel path, putting his empty water glass on a waiter's tray with Clarisse's card, worthy of absorbing his water spot, beneath it; and we all watch him go. His trip down here was all for my benefit. My CeeV-TV idea made his fund millions, which will keep his investors happy. Tim knows that showing up here will keep me happy, and if I'm happy with him I'm likely to show him my next great idea before anyone else.

“How crass,” Clarisse sniffs. “He wasn't even registered to be here tonight.”

S
HE'S OF
average height but always seems tall in her delicate heels. Her ginger-red hair cascades in thick ringlets down to her elbows, and the perfume she wears smells nightclub-appropriate. For all of these reasons, the men on the floor consistently monitor Tiffany Antinori's every move. Maybe it's her fantastic, overchiseled arms, glistening like wet ice in a sleeveless silk shirt, or maybe it's something else.

Seeing Tiffany walk into work at 7:30 a.m. makes women in Armani Collezioni suits feel like librarians. Our clothes, in shades of drab and drabber, have little personality, while hers suggest something wild. One of the most popular bets to make is whether or not she's wearing underwear on a particular day, and while I don't tell anyone this, I often find myself picking what I think is the right answer. This means even
I'm
staring at her bottom. Tiffany is a distraction.

I'm not sure it's wrong for Tiffany to dress the way she does. Working as a sales assistant, supporting the salespeople and making sure that the money owed from a trade equals the money wired in to cover that trade, she rarely comes face-to-face with clients, so she doesn't really have to wear the corporate uniform. Her necklines plunge where mine rise and her clothes are form-fitting, and made of man-made fabrics that can be washed at home. She takes liberties with the dress code, a code vague enough that one could argue she is compliant. The Glass Ceiling Club resents that her clothing amps up the already overjuiced hormones, so when other women on the trading floor complain about her, we listen. It's hard to believe that one woman's clothing is a distraction worth having a meeting over, but here we are.

Since our first meeting at the Ear Inn, I haven't met with the Glass Ceiling Club. They've met while I've been traveling—the best excuse for poor attendance. A lunch to discuss dress codes seems harmless enough, so off I go.

Just before leaving the office I counted three different episodes of men having ridiculous excuses to visit Tiffany while other traders watched. She works with Marcus so sits diagonally across from my back. I get to hear it all:

“I need to take clients to a hot place tonight. Figured you know a good place.”