Bond Girl (12 page)

“You know, after dinner we could go to the Gansevoort for a drink. I have a room there,” he said.

Or maybe he was just an asshole. Plain and simple.

Rick reached over and began to rub my right shoulder with one of his huge paws. I took another step backward and looked around for Chick or Will. Chick was in the middle of the group, telling a story about a golf outing. He was swinging an imaginary club, and everyone around him was laughing. Will was nowhere to be seen. Swell. There clearly wasn't anyone coming to my rescue, and I wasn't going to risk my job again by doing something stupid. Like Reese said, Sales 101 was pretending to like people you didn't. I could do that. Easy.

“Thank you, but I have to be in early tomorrow so I'm going home after dinner.” It was the only diplomatic thing I could think of to say. Before he could respond, Chick ushered us to our table. As the guys all sat down I realized the only empty seat at the table was in between Chick and Rick.

Fucking fabulous.

Chick waved down the closest waitress, an amazingly tall girl with a long blond ponytail and lips that could stand to see a little less of the collagen needle. “Okay, let's make sure we get at least two orders of the sea bass, a few orders of lettuce cups, three orders of edamame dumplings, three orders of the duck, two seared tuna filets, a side of the scallop fried rice, some ribs, and three or four of your steaks, medium rare. If we want more after that, I'll let you know. Also bring me three large bottles of your best cold sake. Thanks, doll.”

The men raised their glasses and toasted to nothing in particular, unless they were just toasting themselves. No one spoke to me for the duration of the dinner; all anyone did was tell the person sitting next to him how great he was, how much money he was up on the year, and lament the collective incompetence of their assistants. The conversation moved at a rapid pace, and I felt like I was watching a tennis match; my head turning from side to side as if on a swivel. I couldn't remember anyone's name. Not that it mattered.

Guy Number One:
“I'm thinking of buying a beach house in Southampton. Property values are coming down and I found this great fixer-upper for three million. It isn't on the ocean, but it's close enough.”

Guy Number Two:
“What's the point of buying a house in the Hamptons if you aren't even on the water? You don't have enough cash to buy a proper piece of real estate?”

Guy Number One:
“Fuck off, I don't see you throwing down cash to buy anything. What happened? Did you spend all your money on porn again?”

Guy Number Two:
“No, your wife stopped charging me for the live shows.”

Guy Number Three:
“What about you, Will? Any good stories for us lame married guys? What does a good-looking guy with some cash in the bank do to keep himself busy in New York these days?”

Chick:
“Good-looking? How many sakes have you had, man?”

Will:
“I have to keep that to myself. I wouldn't want to make you all jealous.”

Rick:
“Will, my friend, my advice for you is stay single. Being married is for the fucking birds. The women, they keep themselves up until you sign the marriage certificate, and then they let themselves go to hell. It's brutal. If I could do it all over again, I never would have pulled the trigger.”

Me:
Ummm, hi, my name is Alex, and in case it escaped your attention, I'm female, and I'm sitting at the table. Oh, and I'm not deaf. Although I'm beginning to wish I was.

Guy Number Four:
“Tell me about it. I'm really starting to hate my wife.”

Me:
Guys? Anyone? Hi, lady at the table. Right here, see me?

Rick:
“So why don't you find yourself an extracurricular activity? We all should try to be a little more well rounded if you ask me.”

Suddenly I felt Rick's hand on my leg, causing me to jump and rattle the small cups filled with sake littering the table. I moved over to the edge of my chair, as far away from Rick and as close to Chick as I could possibly get without jumping in his lap. Chick moved his chair slightly to the right without question, so that I had room to slide my own away from Rick's tentacles. I wondered if maybe he knew what his buddy was doing.

Will:
“Let's change the topic. I don't think Alex is too interested in this conversation.”

Me:
Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Chick:
“Nate, have you been to Pebble Beach this year?”

Guy Number Five:
“I was out there last month. The greens were smooth as a bikini wax.”

Me:
And here we are again.

I kept trying to get Will's attention from across the table, but it was as if he was purposefully avoiding eye contact. Why a guy thinks the best way to show a girl he's interested is to ignore her in public I will never understand. The Board of Education should consider adding a class to the junior high curriculum on reasons
not
to do this. It would save women all over the world millions of dollars in therapy.

Two hours later, I was the only relatively sober person at a table full of belligerently drunk men doing sake bombs. They poised their shot glasses of sake on top of chopsticks balanced on the rim of a large glass of Sapporo. All at once, they yelled “Sake bomb!” and banged their fists on the table, knocking the sake into the beer before chugging the whole thing. As soon as the sake bottles were empty, the waitress would suddenly appear with another three. Plate after empty plate was cleared, only to be replaced by another. When our waitress finally delivered the check, Chick handed her his American Express card without even looking at the bill. While the men finished up their sake, Chick handed me a bunch of tickets for the coat check.

“Grab the coats, Girlie.” It was the only time he spoke to me directly during the entire dinner.

“Sure, I'll meet you up there.” Why I, the one girl in the group, was responsible for retrieving ten overcoats I wasn't sure, but this night had stopped going the way I wanted it to a few hours ago. I handed the supermodel/coat check girl the stubs and was surprised when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“So you're the coat collector, too, huh?” Will had followed me out to the hallway.

“Yes, well, I don't like to brag but coat carrying is just another one of my many talents.”

“What are some of the other ones?” Will had a goofy, hammered grin on his face. It may have been the only reason I was getting this attention, but, at this point, I really didn't care. After this dinner, the bar for making me happy was pretty low.

“That's not information that I give out to just anyone. You have to earn it.”

“And how does a guy go about doing that?”

“You're smart. I have faith in your ability to figure it out.” I wanted to ask him why he had ignored my e-mail, but before I had a chance, the rest of the group appeared. There was a large black limousine parked at the curb, and Chick walked right up to it and opened the back door.

“Everyone in, the party is continuing at an undisclosed location. Except you, A-Bone; you need to get a cab. The night ends here for you.” I realized exactly why I wasn't invited to join the guys. Strip clubs were off-limits for client outings, and the only way they could get away with going to one was if there were no women in tow. My guess was that was where they were headed. I was just as happy to go straight home. The last time I saw a bunch of scantily clad chicks dancing on tables was my last week of college. Trust me, that was memory enough to last me a lifetime.

Everyone else piled into the car, nodding politely in my direction. Rick took my hand and kissed it before getting in.

“Pleasure to meet you, Alex. I hope I'll be seeing more of you in the future.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” I said politely. He then pulled a piece of paper from his jacket and placed it in my palm, closing my hand tightly around it.

Chick approached me and smiled. “Good night, Girlie; see you tomorrow.”

Will waited for Chick to get into the limo before turning back to me.

“Are you going to be okay getting a cab?” I could hear the group in the car yelling at him to hurry up.

“I'll be fine. Another one of my talents is hailing cabs late at night on deserted city streets. Have fun.” As I walked away I pulled out my phone and pretended to call someone. Maybe I had plans, too. Before I even made it to the corner a cab pulled up—a smelly, yellow gift from God. I unfolded Rick's note and used the light from my cell phone to read it. On the back of a $3,800 restaurant receipt, he'd written,
For a good time call Rick. 516-555-4827.
I crumpled it up and threw it out the window. Before I could put my phone back in my bag, it beeped. Christ. What now?

SMS from Patrick, Will:

Let me know that you get home okay. It was good seeing you tonight.

It had been the world's most disappointing business dinner, and I'd been hit on by a married man and ignored for the better part of three hours. Still, when I climbed under my comforter later that night, I couldn't help but smile.

Will had texted me.

I responded.

SMS from Garrett, Alex:

Thanks for checking. I got home fine. Have fun tonight.

Two minutes later it beeped again. I flipped it open with excitement, wondering what else Will had to say. Except, it wasn't from Will.

SMS from Kieriakis, Rick:

Miss you already, xo Rick.

How in God's name had he gotten my phone number?

Eight

Go-Go Gadget Undies

I
was beginning to miss the days of being deskless; at least then I hadn't been under any real pressure. By March, Chick had made me his personal Excel slave, and I spent grueling hours trying to figure out how to work the countless number of models the desk used. Chick liked things done quickly. Sadly, I still didn't have enough Excel experience to keep up. It was going to end up being another late night.

I clicked on a cell and examined the formula that appeared in the text bar across the top of my spreadsheet. There were countless formulas that, to the trained eye, probably weren't that difficult to understand, but to mine read like hieroglyphics. As the hours went by, the floor emptied, until I was the only one left. I lost track of time, my vision blurring from the glare of the monitor and the strain of trying to read all the numbers.

I heard a low whistle from behind me. “Whoa, what are you still doing here?” I looked up and focused my weary eyes on Will. He cocked his head to the side and tapped the face of his watch. “It's after nine.”

“Believe me, I know.” I sighed, completely exhausted. “Chick asked me to clean up the model, which really shouldn't be taking this long. I can't figure out what I'm doing wrong, and I'm about to go blind from staring at these numbers.”

I sank back into my chair and rubbed my aching shoulders, feeling my knotted muscles snap, crackle, and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies. I added scoliosis to the list of medical ailments this job had inflicted upon me, right next to cirrhosis and advanced coronary artery disease.

“What are you doing here?”

“I forgot my keys,” he replied as he opened the top drawer of his desk. “Thank God I noticed while I was still downstairs in the bar. If I had gotten all the way home without them, that would have sucked big time.”

“Totally,” I said, vaguely aware that I looked about as good as I felt.

“What's the problem?” Will asked as he pulled up Drew's chair.

“See here?” I pointed to the final column of numbers.

“Uh-huh.”

“This formula looks right to me, but for some reason it's not working. I can't leave until I fix it, which means I'm going to have to move in to the office.”

“Nah,” he said. “You've just been looking at it too long. You're missing the easy answer. Slide over.”

I gladly pushed my chair away from my desk and allowed him unfettered access to my keyboard. “All you have to do is subtract out the handles, multiply the decimal by thirty-two, and add the handle back in. Then control C to copy the formula, highlight the rest of the column, ALT E, S, F to paste the formulas over the remaining cells, and you're all set.”

Of course. Why didn't I think of that?

“I didn't realize you were such an Excel whiz.”

“I had your job once, too. There are a few tricks you don't forget.”

“Thanks. You just saved me hours of torture.”

“Good thing I forgot my keys, huh?”

“Yes. Next time Chick makes me stay here to finish something if you wouldn't mind leaving your wallet behind, I'd appreciate it.”

“I'll see what I can do. All right, what's up for tonight, now that I've saved you from moving in to the office?”

“Oh God, nothing. I guess I'll just go home and crash on the couch. Still better than being here. What about you?”

“I'm not against having a few cocktails. If you're interested, I was going to grab takeout on my way home. Do you want to come over and join me? I assume you haven't eaten yet?”

“Not unless you count the stale cookie I had two hours ago.”

“I don't.”

“Then nope!”

“I figured. Are you a chicken and broccoli or a kung pao chicken kinda girl?”

“Both,” I said as I readjusted my bag on my shoulder. “Throw in an egg roll and you've got yourself a deal.” We strolled out of the building together, chatting as if we'd done it a thousand times before. For some reason, it felt like we had.

Twenty minutes later, we entered his apartment on the Upper West Side. It was neat, well assembled, and unfussy. The progression of this relationship—not that that's what this was—was very odd. We went out once four months ago, and now I was having takeout in his apartment, and he didn't seem to think that veered at all from the normal course of dating. But what did I know? My last boyfriend was a frat boy who could barely find his way to class. Not really a fair comparison.

I placed the plastic bag filled with greasy Chinese on the kitchen counter. “This place is great.”

“Yeah, this building used to be a warehouse or something, so it has higher ceilings and bigger windows than most places.” He set two plates on the coffee table in front of the TV and opened a bottle of wine he pulled from a small wine refrigerator in the hallway. I opened the cartons of food, the smell immediately reminding my brain that I was starving.

Will sat down next to me and served us both from the white cardboard containers.

“I didn't realize how hungry spreadsheets can make you. Thanks for inviting me over.”

“No problem. I don't miss those days, staying late and doing all the menial tasks for everyone. How are you liking it so far?”

“Well . . .” I hesitated, fully aware that Will and Chick were friends. “Are you asking on or off the record?”

“You're sitting on my couch,” he reminded me. “That makes this conversation entirely off the record.”

“It's not bad. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm still scared to death of Chick and Cruella and most of the other guys on the desk. I'm constantly afraid I'm going to mess up. Half the time I have no idea what I'm talking about, and it seems like I'm never going to learn enough to be a full salesperson. I've been on the desk for six months, and I still feel like a complete idiot. I just know what I know now, and it just seems so overwhelming when I think about all the things I don't know. Does that make sense?”

“Mmmm hmmm,” he grunted as he chewed the kung pao and washed it down with a sip of red. “This isn't a job that you can pick up overnight. There's a lot to learn, and if you're smart, which you are, you'll get there. You just have to be patient.”

“I just can't imagine being able to talk the markets the way you guys do. No matter how much I read, half the time I just sit there and think, how do they
know
that?”

“None of us had any idea what we were doing when we started. Trust me, you'll learn.”

“How long did it take you to feel like you had a grip on everything and weren't worried about embarrassing yourself every day?”

“Any day now,” he joked, as he threw the empty Chinese containers back in the plastic bag.

I stood and stretched as the food coma began to overtake my body. “Thanks for dinner, and for listening to me vent. I know you're right. It just sucks being low Girlie on the totem pole.”

“Hang in there.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Then listen to us! We might just know what we're talking about.” He leaned against the kitchen counter, fiddling with his watch band. “Do you want another drink?”

I checked my watch, it was 10:45, a little later than I liked to be out on a “school night,” but what the hell. I nodded. “Sure. One more can't hurt.”

T
he sun streamed through the window and I strained to see the time on my alarm clock: 8:29
A.M.
I exhaled deeply as I rolled over, buried my head under my pillows (which felt much firmer than normal), and reached back to pull my comforter up over my head. It felt scratchy, like Velcro.

Then I heard what no girl ever needs to hear the morning after she goes out for drinks with a coworker: his voice.

“You better get up. You're really late; Chick's going to kick your ass.”

OHHHHHHHMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEGAAAWWWWWWWDDDDD.

Before I even allowed myself to process where I was, I glanced at the clock again: 8:31. At least I didn't have to worry about living with this embarrassment. Chick was going to kill me.

“Shit!” I shot up in bed. “Why didn't your alarm go off?” I cried in panic as I scrambled to get up and collect my things, somewhat grateful that being late gave me an excuse to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible. “Chick's going to kill you, too, you know.”

“I wasn't expecting a houseguest.” He laughed as I ran around like a Tasmanian devil. “I told Chick I was going to be in late today. I have to meet a client for coffee at nine thirty, so I'm in the clear. You, on the other hand, might have to go into witness protection.” I grabbed my T-shirt, sweater, and pants from the floor in the corner of the room. Worst-case scenario, I'd be two and a half hours late for work. Best-case scenario, I'd be hit by a bus on the way there. “Are you acting like a lunatic because of me or because you're afraid of being late for work? I'd just like to know for the record what exactly is making you freak out. Oh, and don't steal my Giants jersey!”

I looked down at the jersey I was swimming in. At least I was clothed. I located a wayward sock balled up under the dresser and dashed toward the bathroom to get dressed, giving Will the finger as I left the room.

There was no time to shower, not here, and certainly not at my apartment on the other side of town. And there was no time to pick up a change of clothes either. I splashed water on my face and changed back into my clothes from the day before. I threw my underwear in the bottom of my purse. Not showering I could handle, but I refused to wear the same undies two days in a row. When I was dressed, I went out to the living room and sat down on a large leather chair to zip up my boots.

“Are you okay?” Will asked sincerely.

“Physically, I'm fine. I'll have to get back to you on my mental state.”

“Good. I hate to mention this when you're so clearly on the brink of a nervous breakdown, but are you going to have to wear the same clothes to the office today?”

“Oddly enough, I didn't pack a change of clothes on the off chance I'd wake up on the Upper West Side two hours late this morning.”

“Fair point,” he replied. “You'd better get going. Hopefully when I get in I won't find you tied to a stake.”

“That's supposed to be funny? What if he fires me?”

“He won't fire you,” he assured me. “He'll enjoy torturing you too much to fire you.”

“Oh joy.”

“I'll call you on the desk when I'm on my way in.”

“Sure, yeah. Call me, I'll hold my breath,” I muttered.

But the door had already closed behind me.

I
need to get downtown to Wall Street as fast as humanly possible. Arriving in one piece is optional,” I instructed the cabbie as I slammed the door behind me. I grabbed my phone to make the gut-wrenching call to the office, but when I dialed the number I was greeted with a familiar two-toned beep.

The battery was dead. I had slept at Will's. My clothes smelled like stale wine. My hair was greasy and knotted. I looked like . . . well . . . like I had just rolled out of bed.

I was a dead woman.

I took the escalator stairs two at a time, all but threw my ID at the security guard, and launched my bag onto the conveyor belt from five feet away as I ran through the metal detector. I tapped my foot anxiously as I waited for my purse to clear the x-ray machine and watched in horror as the belt stopped, then reversed, so that security could get a better look at the contents of my bag.

“What's the problem? There's nothing in there!” I yelled at the security guards, who didn't seem to care that I was going to be tarred and feathered as soon as I hit the trading floor.

“Just a second, there's something . . .” He pointed at the computer screen with the back of a ballpoint pen. “That's curious . . . Miss, we need to search your bag.”

“It's the same freaking bag I put through the x-ray machine every morning!”

“Step aside, miss.” A security guard pushed me away from the machine as two men with firearms holstered at their waists carefully donned white latex gloves.

“GREAT!” I screamed. “This is just great. You guys choose today to think I'm a security threat?”

“Miss,” the guard, who was clearly losing patience, said, “step aside and let us search your bag. The sooner we clear this up, the faster you can get upstairs.”

I stood by helplessly as they removed my wallet, my dead cell phone, my travel makeup bag, my day planner, and a brush: the contents of my life displayed like evidence from a crime scene on a cold metal slab in the Cromwell Pierce lobby.

My heart stopped.

Please don't tell me they're . . .

They couldn't possibly . . .

They wouldn't in front of . . .

My undies.

No sooner had I realized what was about to happen than the x-ray operator carefully removed my underwear from my bag and held them up for the security team to see. I shifted my weight back and forth as two more heavily armed guards approached the conveyor belt to see up close what they probably hadn't seen in person in their entire lives: a woman's thong. After a solid twenty seconds of watching a SWAT team manhandle my unmentionables, I snapped.

“What the hell are you looking at? Do you think they're go-go gadget undies? I say the magic word and they transform into a hand grenade or an Uzi that I'm going to use to take out a bunch of businessmen?”

They relented, aware that they were on the brink of a sexual harassment suit. When I had collected everything, I shot them all the most evil look I could muster, shoved my nose in the air, and declared, “Bite me.”

I could handle humiliation at the hands of men who wrote my paychecks, but I drew the line at rent-a-cops who x-rayed briefcases for a living.