Читать книгу Bond Girl - Erin Duffy - Страница 9

THE FIRST WEEK of October, I celebrated a very important occasion with Annie and Liv at a sushi restaurant downtown named, ironically, Bond Street. I had passed all my exams. It was a Friday night and we were all in good moods, so we hit the downstairs lounge of the restaurant and threw back martinis, sushi, and Bloody Marys made with wasabi until two in the morning. It was a good thing we all had apartments to go home to or I have no doubt Liv and I would have fallen asleep on the train and ended up missing our stop on Metro North. Chick didn’t register much when I proudly handed him the printouts proving my passing grades on all three exams. I don’t know what I expected him to say. Maybe “Good job, Alex.” Or, even, “Take the day off, Alex.” But he didn’t. He glanced at the paper, gave me a fist bump, and went into a meeting. I tried not to let it bother me.

I THOUGHT MAYBE I’d get my own desk after I passed my exams, but November arrived and I was still stuck in the folding chair. Someone had written “Girlie” on the back of it with a Wite-Out pen, so I never had any trouble finding my seat. I wish I knew whom to thank for that.

Every few days I’d move my chair along the row to sit in between two new salespeople. It was impossible to remember the names of my coworkers, because everyone had multiple aliases and was called by various combinations of first, surname, and/or nickname at any given point in time. I didn’t know how I was ever going to keep them all straight. There were multiple Johns, Joes, Bobs, and Peters plus those who went by Murph, Sully, or Fitzie, and their names may or may not have also started with John or Joe or Bob or Peter. Then there were the guys with nicknames that replaced whatever their first names were, usually because of personal quirks or idiosyncrasies. There was “Loaf,” named for his horrendously thick head of hair that looked like a loaf of bread; and there were “Tank,” “Moose,” and “Pigpen.” There was a guy called “Mangia” because he ate a lot, and one called “Two-Bite” because he didn’t. There was “Shrek,” “Barney Rubble,” and one tall guy with an unusually long neck called “Dino” after the brontosaurus on The Flint-stones. There was “Chewie,” a hairy guy they compared to Chewbacca, and “Wet Baby Possum,” the guy who sat in the back row who had arguably the worst hair I had ever seen. (Someone had once quipped that it looked like a wet baby possum crawled on his head and died there, and it stuck.) They all wore khakis, various patterned blue shirts, brown belts, and their egos on their sleeves. They laughed loudly and made fun of one another, and I found it virtually impossible to tell them apart. Just addressing someone was a panic-inducing event, because I learned the hard way calling someone Barney because you think that’s his real name and not an insulting nickname assigned to him because he looked like Barney Rubble wasn’t a good idea. At least Jarrett was pretty mad about it.

Every female on the floor had a name that the men used to reference her, and it was never her real name. Of course, there were only forty or so women, excluding the administrative assistants, among four hundred men, but still, that was a lot of code names to remember. There was “Magda,” so called because she had clearly spent too much time in the sun when she was younger, and “Pepper,” a Brazilian girl with an olive complexion. There was “Busted Britney Spears,” named for her resemblance to the pop star if you looked at her after consuming ten beers, and “Raggedy Ann,” a redhead who looked disheveled more often than not. Darth Vader’s assistant, Hannah, was qualified to do absolutely nothing, and the guys ripped on her mercilessly. The men in my group called her “Baby Gap” because they figured that was where she bought her shirts. Her wiry frame was thin enough to get lost behind a parking meter if not for the fact that she had an enormous set of fake boobs of which she was clearly proud. And then there was the other woman in my group, the one I had thought would be a friend of mine because we women should stick together. The desk at the end of the front row was occupied by Kate Katz, otherwise known as “Cruella,” “The Puppy Skinner,” and/or “The Black Widow.”

Before I met Cruella, Drew and a few of the Bobs and Joes told me her story. She had been in the Business for twenty-five years. She was very smart, very driven, and very tough. In her younger days she was the cause of many a broken marriage, before finally settling down and having children in her late thirties. Her husband was a wildly successful equity trader who worked at another firm, so she wasn’t in this business for the money anymore. From what the group could gather, the only reason that she worked from 6:30 A.M. until 6:00 P.M., traveling to and from Westchester on either end, was because she hated her husband and kids or, more likely, they hated her. Once upon a time I was sure she’d been beautiful, but she had suffered under the strain of the Business and its endless demands. Her middle-aged metabolism and sedentary lifestyle resulted in excess padding in her hips and thighs, no matter how many hours she may have logged with her personal trainer. But she appeared harmless, so I found it very hard to believe that the stories I heard were true.

“Wassup, sugar?” Reese asked, as he playfully kicked the legs of my chair. “Do you want to come hang with me today?”

“Thanks, Reese, but I was actually thinking of sitting with Kate today. You know, girl bonding.”

“Are you insane? Have you not been paying attention? Don’t do it.” Reese pretended to shudder with fear.

“Listen to the man, Girlie. She’s evil. Stay as far away from her as possible,” Drew interjected.

“I’ve been here for four months now. I’m not as clueless as I used to be. I think it will be fine. Besides, Chick told me to sit with everyone. That includes Kate.”

“Suit yourself, sugar. If you want to ignore my advice, you go right ahead. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Reese said as he folded his arms across his chest.

“You’re going to be sorry,” Drew sang as I made my way down the row.

I unfolded my chair next to her without an ounce of fear. “Excuse me, Kate? I was wondering if I could sit with you this morning,” I said in my most cheerful voice.

This was the closest I had ever been to her, and for the first time I noticed she had a diamond on her left hand that the Rangers could use as a practice rink. She wore very little makeup, and the dark blue circles under her eyes made her look older than her fifty years. It was like she had given up. For a second, I felt bad for her. Maybe she was overwhelmed with the pressure of balancing a successful career with a husband and children; or maybe she was exhausted from too much stress and too little sleep. She turned her chair to face me slowly, staring at my outstretched hand while hers remained tightly clasped in her lap.

Then she spoke. “I’m sorry, what was it about me sitting down here ignoring you that signaled you to come over and whine in my ear?”

Or maybe she was the true incarnation of evil and was too busy breaking kids’ crayons in half to care about what she looked like. I waited for her to laugh and say she was kidding. She didn’t.

“Let me tell you something, little girl. I don’t get paid the money I do to educate the youth of America. If I wanted to educate the youth of America, I would have been a fucking nursery school teacher. Now, since you have been here for all of what, two days?”—correcting her didn’t seem like a good idea—“I suggest you learn a few things before you attempt to talk to me again and waste my time with what I’m sure are questions that my twelve-year-old could answer. That being said, maybe the cluster fuck over there”—she waved her hand dismissively at Drew and Reese, who pretended they weren’t listening to our conversation—“could have done you some good by actually giving you something to read, instead of trying to look down your shirt all day. Oh, and maybe I should be more specific. I mean read something that doesn’t have big color pictures of Tom Cruise or shiny tubes of lip gloss. Those types of books actually exist and could probably help you since it is blatantly obvious you don’t know the first fucking thing about the bond business.”

She spun around and opened the bottom drawer of a large file cabinet positioned behind her desk, and one by one removed a massive collection of hardcover books and photocopied packets. She shoved them at me, piling them up in my arms one after the other until I could barely see over the top of the stack.

“Let’s start with the basics. Inside the Yield Curve, Mortgage Bond Basics, Modeling the Swap Curve, The Treasury Bond Basis, The Fabozzi Fixed Income Handbook, The Handbook of Economic Indicators, Understanding Option Market Volatility. Read all of these. And when you’re done, you can come back to me, and maybe I’ll talk to you. From the looks of you, that should probably take you a good eight to ten years, so let’s plan to chat again then. And do yourself a favor. If you want to work here, if you want to graduate off your pathetic little chair and into a big girl’s desk, then other than these books, you shouldn’t so much as glance at any other publication of any kind unless it’s thrown at your front door every morning by a kid on a bicycle.” (Again, probably not the best time to point out that I lived on the twelfth floor of an apartment building.) “Now, go bother someone else. I’ve reached my painful-conversations-with-idiots quota for the day.”

My arms were starting to ache under the strain of the library she had just thrown into them. I had hoped that Cruella would take me under her wing, guide me through the testosterone maze that we both worked in. She had been in the Business forever, so obviously she had to be tough, but she was way more than tough; she was wicked. I caught myself wondering if maybe once upon a time she had been like me, ignorant, unsure of how to act like a lady when you spent your days surrounded by men. What if she had been, and the years on the trading floor had hardened her into something else, something vicious, vile, and well, scary? What if that was what happened to all women after a few years in this environment? Maybe that was what needed to happen to you if you were going to have a successful career on the Street. I made a silent promise to quit before I’d allow myself to follow in her angry, unattractive footsteps. I carried my library back to Drew’s desk, Cruella’s insults still ringing in my ears.

“I tried to warn you,” Drew said as he removed the top half of the stack from my hands.

“Does the offer to sit with you today still stand, Reese? I’m not above begging,” I asked him while he sat on the edge of Drew’s desk clicking his stapler so that staples flew randomly all over the carpet.

“Sure, Girlie. Don’t worry,” Reese said as he wrapped his arm protectively around my shoulders. “Stick with me and you’ll be just fine. Buckle your seat belt, baby. Today I’ll teach you how to work the phones.”

ON WEDNESDAY THE FOLLOWING WEEK Chick pointed at me early in the morning and said, “Girlie, you need to update these models for us. We need the new currents on the sheet, and remove any bonds that rolled out of the basket this cycle. I want them to be cleaner. Also, work in the forward drops for the swap curve. I want to see the three-month, six-month, and one-year forward rates as well as the spot rates. Why don’t we have that?”

“I don’t know, Chick,” I replied honestly. If only because I had no idea what he was talking about. “I’ll get to work on them. When do you want them by?”

“Tomorrow. I’m leaving for a golf tourney. Reese taught you how to use the phones, right?”

“Yeah. I know how to work them,” I said. Which was true. I originally thought Reese’s offer to give me a phone tutorial was a complete waste of time. I was a girl, for God’s sake. I was well versed in phones and all their functions. Until I realized that the phone system at Cromwell was slightly more advanced than the cordless phone I’d had in my room in high school. The Cromwell phone system was more complicated than anything I had ever seen. It had various types of lines: inside-only; outside-only; direct-to-client; desk-to-desk (New York office and our desks in other cities in the United States and overseas). A few phone lines were labeled with abbreviations I didn’t understand and that Reese told me not to “worry” about; I never touched those. They scared me. I had stayed late after my coaching session with Reese, calling my mom and Liv and seeing if I could, in fact, mute them, disconnect them, place them on hold, conference them, or transfer them to each other without accidentally hanging up on one of them. It took me two hours to get it right. Don’t tell anyone that.

“Good. Sit at my desk while I’m gone. I left the models up on my screen so you can work on them from my desk. Touch my e-mail and I’ll kill you, but the team will need help with the phones. There are a lot of people out today for some reason and without me they’ll need an extra set of hands. Pick up the outside lights only. No client directs. Capiche?”

“Sure, Chick. No problem.”

“Good. See you in the morning.”

I slid into Chick’s chair, closed down his e-mail, and looked at the models on his monitor. He wanted them fixed by tomorrow. Wonderful. I prayed that the day would be quiet and I’d be able to spend all twelve hours working on the models. I still didn’t understand all the market jargon and my Excel skills sucked, so figuring out how to fix these formulas was going to be painful.

The morning was fairly quiet, and the rest of the team had no problem fielding occasional phone calls while I worked on Chick’s models. I spent hours working on the sheet, dissecting each formula symbol by symbol, and I was beginning to make progress. Then, somewhere around 3:00 P.M., things went crazy.

Hit ringing line, I mentally instructed myself. The night I had stayed late at work calling my friends and family suddenly seemed worthwhile. I wish they had taught a class on it at UVA. I’d have felt a lot more confident.

“Cromwell, this is Alex.”

“Alex, my car isn’t here. I’m waiting outside the clubhouse with my clubs and my car isn’t here. I look like a goddamn caddy. You ordered me a car, right?”

Oh shit. “Hey, Chick, yeah, I did. I’ll call the car company right now and find out where it is. Give me one second, okay?”

“Grrrr,” he grunted. I think that was a yes. Press hold, press left headset, dial number on the Post-it stuck to the side of Chick’s keyboard.

“Hi, yes, I’m calling to check on a town car I ordered for a pickup at Baltusrol Country Club, confirmation number 8625 … Uh-huh, okay, ten minutes? How bad is the traffic though, because this is my boss and he has a very low tolerance for employees who lie to him. So if ten minutes is really twenty minutes, I need you to tell me. Okay, fine, ten minutes. Yes. Thanks.” Clear line, hit right headset, hit line. “Hi, boss, I just spoke to them. They said there’s some traffic, but the car will be there in ten minutes.”

“Fine.”

Click. Chick hung up. Another light flashed. Hit ringing line. “Cromwell, this is Alex.”

“Oh Christ, it’s you,” an all-too-familiar voice said, agonized that she had the misfortune of speaking to me.

“Hi, Kate, can I help you with something?”

“You can try, although your being successful is a low probability event.”

I energetically gave the receiver the finger. “I need a reservation at Le Bernardin tonight for four people at 6:30. I’m going into a customer meeting in Midtown. Get me the reservation and e-mail my BlackBerry.”

Le Bernardin? That’s one of the most popular restaurants in the city. The freaking mayor can’t get in there with three hours’ notice. “Kate, I’ll call, but I don’t know if …” Click. Kate hung up.

I grabbed the Zagat’s restaurant guide out of Chick’s top drawer and looked up the number for the most popular restaurant in town.

Hit light, dial number. “Hi, I’m calling from Cromwell. I was wondering if it would be possible to get a reservation for tonight for four people at 6:30?”

The hostess laughed rudely. “I’m sorry, we are fully booked for the next four months. If you like, I can get you in at five thirty or ten o’clock on December twenty-ninth.”

“I know, but this is for Kate Katz, who I doubt you know, but I assure you she is a very important person at Cromwell Pierce.” (Read: psycho hose bitch.) “Is there anything you can do?”

“I’m sorry, no. Please hold.”

Click. The hostess hung up. Le Bernardin must have the same phone system as Cromwell.

The phone rang again. Hit flashing light. “Alex, this is Cromwell.” Wait no, that’s not right. “I mean, Cromwell this …”

“My car still isn’t here, Alex!” Chick yelled before I could finish clarifying that my name wasn’t Cromwell and I didn’t work at a firm named Alex. I checked my watch. It had only been five minutes, not ten.

“Okay, boss, umm, sorry. Hold, I’ll call them back right now.” Clear line, hit left headset … oh shit. I was supposed to hit hold in there somewhere.

I accidentally hung up on Chick. I’m dead. Another line rang.

“HELP ON THE LIGHTS!” I screamed in panic the way ER doctors yell for crash carts. Drew threw on his headset and picked up the phone.

I called back the car company. “Hi, I just called looking for a car. Confirmation number 8625? I really need to know where this car is. Okay, it’s pulling in now? Great, thanks.”

I dialed Chick’s cell phone. “Yeah. It’s here, see you back at the office.” Click. He hung up.

“Alex,” Drew yelled from down the row. Cruella says she doesn’t want to go to Le Bernardin anymore. She wants a reservation at Per Se instead. Same time, same number of people. I hope you know what she’s talking about.”

I looked in the drawer for the Zagat’s again, but it wasn’t there. I rummaged through papers on Chick’s desk looking for the little red restaurant bible, but I couldn’t find it. My heart was beating so quickly I feared it might pop out of my chest. I stood, and the wayward book fell off my lap onto the floor. I found the number for Per Se. Hit light, dial number. “Hi, yes, I’d like to make a reservation for tonight at 6:30 for four people, and if you love me you will tell me that’s possible. Yes, I know you don’t know me, but you’re talking to someone who is hanging on to her sanity by a thread and if you tell me there are no reservations, I might go postal … you can? Oh thank God, you are a nice, nice man, thank you. Yes. Katz, 6:30, four people. God bless you.” Click. I hung up. It felt nice to be on the other end of the disconnect for once.

I threw my headset on the desk and rubbed my throbbing temples. The phone rang.

I screamed as I mentally gave myself the proper instructions to pick up the phones on the NASA-worthy phone board for the hundredth time in the last hour. Hit right headset, hit ringing light. “Cromwell, this is Alex … No, Susan, I’m sorry he’s still not back but I promise you I’ll give him the message. No, I actually have no idea if he has his cell phone on him but he’s at a meeting so it’s probably off anyway. Is it an emergency? Okay, good. Then I promise as soon as he returns to the office I’ll have him call home. Okay, no problem.” Click.

“What’s up, Alex?” Will asked as he plopped himself down in an empty chair and wheeled over next to me.

“Seriously, why does that guy Chip’s wife call thirty times a day? I have answered at least seven phone calls from her in the last two hours. What part of ‘I will tell him you called’ does she not understand?”

Riiiiing. Chip’s line rang again.

“It can’t be her again. It just can’t be.”

“Here,” Will said as he picked up my phone receiver. “You want help? You got it.” He hit the ringing light. “Hello? Sure, hold one second, please.” He dialed a number, pressed transfer, and hung up.

“Did you just hang up on Susan?”

“I didn’t hang up her. I transferred her, umm, elsewhere,” he said, his eyes glinting mischievously.

“Where?”

“The Chinese place down the block.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding. Please tell me you didn’t just transfer her to Szechuan Panda.”

“Yup.”

“How is that helping?”

“I bet she doesn’t call back again! I subtly told her that she was being an annoying pain in the ass. I just solved your problem. Well, one of them at least.”

I giggled. “I appreciate the help; you’re a good friend.” Friend? Was that presumptuous? Nice going, Alex. Way to make yourself look like an idiot.

Riiiiing. “OHMIGOD!” Hit ringing line.

A muffled voice in a strange accent on the other end of the line said, “Yeah, is this Fung Yoo dwy cleana? You mess up my shirt! My suede shirt, you ruined my shirt! You gonna pay for this!”

“What?” I asked in desperation. “Wait, sir, hold on, you have the wrong number; this isn’t a dry cleaner. This is a trading floor.”

“You stupid beetch, you ruin my suede shirt. You replace it. It cost five hundred dolla!”

“Sir, please, you have the wrong number!” I tried in vain to make him understand that his ruined suede shirt (who wears suede shirts?) was not my problem. I turned to my left to see if someone else could pick up the phone to help and found Drew, Will, and Marchetti listening in on the line from the end of the row, laughing with their phones on mute. I turned the other way and discovered Reese, standing in the corner with his headset, looking straight at me. “You stupid beetch, Girlie-san, you ruin my shirt! You pay me five hundred dolla!” They erupted into laughter as I dropped the phone on my desk. Prank called by your own teammates. Normal? Not so much.

“I’m done!” I said, laughing. “You guys want to screw with me? Fine, I’m waving the white flag, you win! Score is immature idiots, one; Alex, zero.” I waved my arm back and forth, pretending to surrender to the enemy. “I can’t answer another phone or I think my head will explode. What is going on here today? It’s crazy!”

Marchetti came over and rubbed my tired shoulders, “It’s okay, Girlie. Just trying to loosen you up a bit. You looked stressed. Relax. Are you coming out with us tonight?”

“Sorry, guys, I can’t. I have to finish these sheets for Chick. Have fun, though.”

“Okay. Good luck, Girlie,” they said in unison.

When the phones finally stopped ringing, I turned my attention back to the spreadsheet and tried not to worry about what would happen if I didn’t finish it.

I WAS EXHAUSTED AND FRUSTRATED by the end of the day. I still couldn’t understand concepts that I was sure I should get by now, and I lived in fear every day that Chick would call me over for one of his infamous pop quizzes. I couldn’t even handle ordering him a fucking car. How was I supposed to learn the markets when I couldn’t master basic technology? I had a splitting headache and was dreaming of a hot shower and sweats when I got home at 8:00. When I entered my building, the doorman stopped me to deliver an envelope that had been dropped off earlier. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded in thirds.

A—

I have a dinner tonight at Smith & Wollensky’s. Meet me at Manchester’s afterwards for a beer? I’ll be there by 9:30.

—Will

I couldn’t believe that he had come to my apartment. I couldn’t believe Will knew where I lived. I couldn’t believe that Will remembered my name. I wasn’t sure if it was really sweet or stalkerish, but I decided not to worry about it. Suddenly, I caught a second wind. After a quick shower, a change of clothes, and a forty-minute battle with a blow-dryer, a hairbrush, and a straightening iron, I left my apartment and walked uptown.

Manchester’s was a small British pub on Second Avenue at Forty-Ninth Street. They had a good selection of beers on tap, but you usually couldn’t find two feet of clear space to enjoy them in.

When I entered, I found Will sitting at the end of the bar, next to a few rowdy European guys who were watching a soccer game. He was drinking a pint of beer and chatting with the bartender, who had three teeth and a Union Jack tattooed on his wrist. When Will saw me enter, he waved me over, and the soccer fans happily shifted down the bar to open up a seat for me.

“Glad you got my note. I was trying to decide how long I should wait before figuring that you weren’t coming.” He patted the wooden bar stool next to him, and I hopped up onto the seat.

“It’s only nine thirty-five, and you’re already planning your exit strategy?”

“I was going to give you until ten. I think a half hour is a perfectly respectable amount of time to wait.”

“I’d say forty-five minutes, since you had no way of knowing when I got your note.”

“Good point,” he said, flashing that Ultra Brite smile. My stomach did a somersault. That was never a good sign.

“Well, I’m glad you waited, for what it’s worth.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you proved your staying power so that I could finally hang out with you outside the office. I had to make sure you weren’t going anywhere before I asked.”

“What do you mean ‘proved my staying power’? It’s November. I’ve only been at Cromwell for five months. Hardly a record.”

“For a girl it’s not a small achievement. We had a girl on the desk last year. She seemed smart enough, but she quit after six weeks. Couldn’t hack it. I don’t bother getting to know new girls until I’m pretty sure they’re going to stick around. Otherwise it’s a waste of time.”

“I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“I hope not.”

I felt myself blush and decided to change the subject. “How was your dinner?”

“Good. I took out my biggest account and had to show them a good time, so we went to a cigar bar and then Smith and Wolly’s for some porterhouses and a few bottles of wine. The maître d’ has become a buddy of mine since I’m there so often, so he took good care of us.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said. Even though I was thinking that he sounded a bit like a stuck-up snob. The butterflies in my stomach calmed down.

“Look at you in your jeans. That’s not business casual attire.”

“This isn’t a business meeting.”

“True. You look nice.”

I blushed as the butterflies returned with a vengeance. “Hey, how did you know where I lived anyway?”

“I got your address off the group master list. Nancy, Chick’s secretary, will give you anything if you ask her nicely.”

“So you’re stalking me.”

“Stalking implies the attention is unwanted. You’re here, so clearly I’m not stalking.”

“Fair enough.” I smiled.

“So what were you planning on doing tonight if you hadn’t met me for a drink?”

“I was debating going for a run, but otherwise nothing.”

“Do you run a lot?”

“I do. I like it, it helps me relax. Truth be told, I used to run more often, but it’s been hard to find the time since I get stuck working late so much. I don’t know how anyone does this job and manages to stay in shape. When I do finally get to the gym, my lungs will probably explode.”

“Yeah, you should try to find the time when you can. It makes a big difference.”

“What does?”

“Working out. We eat a lot in the office, and especially for girls it’s absurdly easy to put on weight.”

“Proud Mary” blared from the jukebox. I like loud music, so normally it wouldn’t have bothered me. But maybe it was time to ask the bartender to turn the volume down, because it sounded like Will had just called me fat, which clearly would be crazy. I mean, what guy invites a girl out for drinks and then tells her she’s fat? Especially when said girl is a size 4. OK, fine, sometimes I’m a size 6. But I have two dresses from Diane von Furstenberg and a pair of pants from J. Crew that are a size 4. I wear those a lot.

“What?” I asked quizzically.

“Nothing! It happens to all of us when we start. It’s impossible to work on the desk and not gain a little weight so I’m just saying you should try to keep exercising whenever you can. That’s all.”

I suddenly lost interest in my light beer. I wanted to leave the bar, go home, and do sit-ups. I put my glass down.

“Don’t go getting all sensitive on me. You look great. I didn’t mean to upset you. Forget I said anything.”

I figured I had two options: I could be THAT girl, the girl who made an issue of every little thing and ruined a good time on purpose, or I could forget about it, move on, and be breezy. I thought it best to be breezy, drink my beer, and then tomorrow eat nothing but Saltines and strap myself to the treadmill until I threw up.

There was an awkward pause before he said, “I’m sorry if I just put my foot in my mouth. I didn’t mean anything by it, honestly. Forgive me?”

“Yes, thank you.” I conceded.

“Tell me a little about yourself. All I know so far is that you’re really good at carrying pizzas.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with the basics. Siblings?”

“One younger sister, Cat. She’s been seeing the same guy since high school and will probably be engaged soon. We don’t have much in common.”

“You aren’t dating anyone?”

“No. What about you?” Please say no.

“No one worth mentioning.” I felt my stomach flip-flop again. Was having drinks with Will breaking Chick’s rule about interoffice dating? No. This wasn’t a date. It was more like team bonding. “How did you end up at Cromwell?” he asked.

“It’s kind of the family business. My dad’s an i-banker. I used to visit him at work when I was little and I thought it was the most unbelievable place in the world. All the energy, all the people, all the noise. All I ever wanted to do was work in the Business.”

“And now here you are, Cromwell analyst extraordinaire.”

“My mom isn’t as psyched about it though. She didn’t really want one of her daughters in the ‘snake pit,’ as she calls it.”

“She sounds like a smart lady. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want my sister or daughter working on a trading floor. Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad you’re here because you seem like fun and you’re nice to look at, but still I can understand where your mom’s coming from. Sometimes the stuff that goes on, the things you must hear, aren’t really appropriate. For lack of a better word.”

I feigned outrage. “I’m something to look at? Bring in a poster and hang it up on the wall in front of your computer if you want something to look at.”

“I could, but it would get boring. You don’t bore me.”

“Gee, thanks for the compliment.”

Awkward silence lasted for a few seconds, but it felt like an hour. “What about you? What’s your story?”

“I’m an only child. I grew up in northern Virginia, and I went to UPenn for undergrad. I’ve been with Chick for four years now. I’m a VP, I’m a Capricorn, and I live on the Upper West Side.” Before I could ask him another question he continued. “Enough about me, though.” He slowly reached into his pocket and handed me a wad of singles. “Should we play some songs on the jukebox? You can tell a lot about someone from their music choices, you know.”

“So if I play Celine Dion or the Backstreet Boys, you’re going to make a run for it?”

“You bet. There’ll be a giant Will-shaped hole in the wall.”

“That’s a lot of pressure.”

“You go put some tunes on. I’ll get us another round of beers.”

He elbowed my side to nudge me toward the jukebox. I was giddy. This was not good. I’d only met this guy a few months ago, and we had only interacted briefly in the office. I barely knew him, and I was already a smitten kitten.

I returned as the bartender slid two more Blue Moons in front of us. We chatted easily and, before I knew it, it was midnight, and we were both pretty buzzed. I still wasn’t sure exactly what we were doing, but I knew I was a happy girl. We stepped outside and walked south, toward my apartment. The air was cooler, and I wished I had brought a coat with me instead of banking on the unseasonably warm temperatures continuing once the sun went down. It was freaking November. Who goes out without a coat? I crossed my arms in front of my chest and shivered.

“You’re cold. I was going to walk you home, but why don’t you just get a cab here?”

I hadn’t realized he was planning on walking me home. Good- looking and a gentleman—not a bad combination.

“Thanks for the beers, this was fun,” I said as I pushed a lock of hair behind my ear.

“It was. So I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there, bright and early.”

“You know, we should do this again soon.”

“I’d like that.”

“Great. It was nice hanging out with you tonight, Alex.”

“Yeah, you too.”

He closed the cab door behind me and turned to walk uptown.