‘You have umbrellas?’ I asked before I could stop myself. The water had soaked entirely through my shirt and I could feel my blanket-thick hair sticking to my neck in wet, cold clumps.
‘Sure do. Keep ’em right here for situations just like this. But I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in taking one of them, right?’
‘Right. I’m just fine.’ To think I’d almost begun warming up to him. Just then a livery cab drove by, and I had the brilliant idea to call UBS’s car service for a ride home.
‘Hi, this is Bette Robinson with account number six-three-three-eight. I need a car to pick me up at—’
‘All booked!’ barked back an angry-sounding female dispatcher.
‘No, I don’t think you understand. I have an account with your company and—’
Click.
I stood there soaking wet, anger boiling inside me.
‘No cars, huh? Tough,’ he said, clucking sympathetically without looking up from the book. I’d managed to skim Lady Chatterley’s Lover when I was twelve and had already gleaned as much about sex as possible from the combination of Forever, Wifey and What’s Happening to My Body? Book for Girls, but I didn’t remember anything about it. Perhaps that had to do with a poor memory, or maybe it was the fact that sex hadn’t even been a part of my consciousness for the last two years. Or maybe it was that the plots of my beloved romance novels crowded my thoughts at all times. Whatever it was, I couldn’t even recall something snide to say about it, never mind clever. ‘No cars.’ I sighed. ‘Just not my night.’
He took a few steps out in the rain and handed me a long executive’s umbrella, already unfurled, with the club’s logo emblazoned on both sides. ‘Take it. Walk to Eighth, and if you still can’t get a cab, talk to the doorman at Serena, Twenty-third between Seventh and Eighth. Tell him I sent you, and he’ll work it out.’
I considered walking right past him and getting on the subway, but the idea of riding around in a train car at one in the morning was hardly appealing. ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, refusing to meet what would surely be his gloating eyes. I took the umbrella and started walking east, feeling him watch me from behind.
Five minutes later, I was tucked in the backseat of a big yellow taxi, wet but finally warm.
I gave the driver my address and slumped back, exhausted. At this hour, cabs were good for two things and two things only: making out with someone on your way home from a good night out or catching up with multiple people in three-minute-or-less cell-phone conversations. Since neither was an option, I rested my wet hair on the patch of filthy vinyl where so many greasy, unwashed, oiled, lice-ridden, and generally unkempt heads had rested before mine, closed my eyes, and anticipated the sniffling, hysterical welcome I would soon receive from Millington. Who needed a man – or even a newly engaged best friend – when you had a dog?
The week following Penelope’s engagement party was nearly unbearable. It was my fault, of course: there are many ways to piss off your parents and rebel against your entire upbringing without enslaving yourself in the process, but I was clearly too stupid to find them. So instead I sat inside my shower-sized cubicle at UBS Warburg – as I had every day for the past fifty-six months – and death-gripped the phone, which was currently discolored by a layer of Maybelline Fresh Look foundation (in Tawny Blush) and a few splotches of L’Oreal Wet Shine lip gloss (in Rhinestone Pink). I wiped it off as best I could while pressing the receiver to my ear and rubbed my grubby fingers clean underneath the desk chair. I was being berated by a ‘minimum,’ someone who only invests the million-dollar minimum with my division and is therefore excruciatingly demanding and detail-oriented in a way that forty-million-dollar clients never are.
‘Mrs Kaufman, I truly understand your concern over the market’s slight decline, but let me assure you that we have everything under control. I realize your nephew the interior decorator thinks your portfolio is top-heavy with corporate bonds, but I assure you our traders are excellent, and always looking out for your best interests. I don’t know if a thirty-two percent annual gain is realistic in this economic environment, but I’ll have Aaron give you a call as soon as he gets back to his desk. Yes. Of course. Yes. Yes. Yes, I will absolutely have him call you the moment he returns from the meeting. Yes. Certainly. Of course. Yes. Naturally. Yes. A pleasure hearing from you, as always. All right, then. Bye-bye.’ I waited until I heard the click on her end and then slammed down the phone.
Nearly five years and I’d yet to utter the word no, as apparently you need to have at least seventy-two months’ experience before being qualified to go there. I went to send Aaron a quick email begging him to return Mrs Kaufman’s call so she would finally stop stalking me and was surprised to see that he was back at his desk, busily blast-emailing us his daily inspirational bullshit.
Good morning, folks. Let’s remember to show our clients our high energy levels! Our relationships with these good folks comprise our whole business – they appreciate our patience and consideration as much as our results-oriented portfolio handling. I’m pleased to announce a new weekly group meeting, one that I hope will allow us all to brainstorm ways we may better serve our clients. It will be held each Friday at 7 a.m. and will provide us with an opportunity to think outside the box. Breakfast is on me, folks, so bring yourselves and your thinking caps and remember, ‘Great discoveries and improvements invariably involve the cooperation of many minds.’ – Alexander Graham Bell.
I stared at the email so long my eyes began to glaze over. Were his insistence on using the word folks and his constant references to ‘thinking outside the box’ more or less annoying than his inclusion of the phrase thinking caps? Did he craft and send these emails just to add to the all-pervasive misery and hopelessness of my days? I pondered this for a few moments, desperate to think about anything other than the seven A.M. meeting announcement. I managed to move beyond it long enough to field another frantic call, this time from Mrs Kaufman’s nephew, that lasted a record fifty-seven minutes, ninety percent of which he spent accusing me of things that were entirely beyond my control while I said nothing or, occasionally, just to switch things up, agreed with him that I was, in fact, as dumb and useless as he claimed.
I hung up and resumed staring listlessly at the email. I wasn’t exactly sure how Mr Bell’s quote applied to my life or why I should care, but I did know if I planned to escape for lunch, now was my only chance. I’d abided by the no-leaving-for-lunch policy my first few years at UBS Warburg and dutifully ordered in each day, but lately Penelope and I had brazenly begun sneaking out for ten, twelve minutes a day to retrieve our own takeout and cram in as much whining and gossip as possible. An IM popped up on my screen.
P.Lo: Ready? Let’s do falafel. Meet at the 52nd Street cart in five?
I punched in the letter Y, hit Send, and draped my suit jacket over the back of my chair to indicate my presence. One of the managers glanced at me when I picked up my purse, so I filled my mug with steaming coffee as additional proof that I hadn’t left the premises and placed it in the middle of my desk. I mumbled something about the bathroom to my fellow cubicle dwellers, who were too busy transferring their own facial grime to their telephones to even notice, and walked confidently toward the hallway. Penelope worked in the real-estate division two floors above me and was already in the elevator, but like two well-trained CIA operatives, we didn’t so much as glance at each other. She let me exit first and circle the lobby for a minute while she ducked