Never Enough (6 page)

FROM THE MOMENT ROB WENT TO WORK FOR GOLDMAN
Sachs in 1996, his eyes were on a single prize: making partner. No other position on Wall Street offered anything approaching either the cash or cachet of a Goldman Sachs partnership. A PMD (partner managing director) could count on an annual bonus of $10 million or more, adjusted for inflation, until retirement. He (or she, although almost 90 percent of Goldman partners were male) was also eligible to invest in Goldman ventures that were closed not only to the public, but to the firm’s non-PMD executives. In addition, a PMD could buy Goldman stock at a 25 percent discount.

That was the cash part. As for cachet, becoming a Goldman Sachs partner was the equivalent—in the closed-end world of investment banking—of becoming a made man in the Mafia. Suddenly, you could get whatever table you wanted at the New York restaurant of your choice—the firm would handle your reservation. And to assure that you got to keep as many of your millions as the tax code allowed—and to save you time that could be better spent working on a new deal for Goldman—the firm took care of your tax returns. Plus, you were guaranteed the envy, if not necessarily the admiration, of your erstwhile peers.

Goldman, which employed more than twenty thousand people worldwide, named new partners—about a hundred of them—once every two years. Rob had been too new to the firm to be considered in 1998, but after kicking sand in the faces of the boys from Morgan Stanley, Deutsche Bank, Credit Suisse, UBS, JP Morgan, and others for the two years that followed, he fancied his chances for 2000.

Unfortunately, some of the silky-smooth senior managers in the Hong Kong office perceived his aggressiveness as abrasiveness. Yes, one had to be greedy, that was a given. But one should not appear to be. Whereas at most investment banks the bottom line was all that counted, at Goldman attention was still paid to appearances. One was expected to keep one’s naked avarice cloaked, or at least coated with a genteel veneer.

Also, one was expected not to cut into line. Hierarchy was to be respected. It was fine to let the competitive juices flow when one was trying to beat the competition, but open combativeness was to be checked at the office door. Rob paid less attention than he should have to the maxim “At Goldman we never say ‘I.’”

He also—unwisely—tried to elbow his way past a PMD who had been instrumental in bringing him to Hong Kong. Without the PMD’s support, Rob had no chance of making partner. It became clear to him—and to Goldman—that his future lay elsewhere. Once again, his head was available to be hunted. In short order it was: this time on behalf of Merrill Lynch.

Merrill had been slow to make an Asian footprint and was in a hurry to catch up. His new firm didn’t have the Goldman Sachs aura, but it offered what Rob coveted most: limitless opportunity. Between Mumbai and Manila there remained many blank spaces on Merrill’s map of distressed-debt opportunity. Rob would be given the mandate of filling them in. Taking his top assistant, David Noh, with him, he jumped ship virtually overnight. The new century would bring with it new horizons. And at Merrill Lynch, Rob would be able to say “I.”

Nancy was the only possible downside. She’d had her fill of Hong Kong. Rob had told her it would be for three years and the three years were almost up. “I’ve been looking online at houses in Westport,” she told him in the early spring of 2000. “There’s not much for five million, but there are a couple in the seven to eight range that might be worth checking out.”

“I don’t think so,” Rob said.

“Why not? Don’t you want to live in Connecticut?”

“Plans have changed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m leaving Goldman. I’ve received a terrific offer from Merrill Lynch. They’re going to make me Asia-Pacific managing director of Global Principal Investments. I’ll be in charge of everything except Japan. The money is going to be unbelievable.”

“Are you telling me you’re staying in Hong Kong?”

“
We
are. Probably for another three years.”

“No, Rob.
You
are. I can’t take any more of Hong Kong. I’ll take the children and leave.”

“I won’t let you do that. You have to stay here.”

The fiercest battle for control they’d ever had ensued. It involved many ugly scenes and threats of divorce. In the end, Rob won, but at a cost. Andrew and Hayley had bought a multimillion-dollar house high up on Stratton Mountain, while Rob and Nancy remained stuck in a condo in the village at the base of the ski lift. Nancy said she’d stay in Hong Kong, but in return Rob would buy a $2-million Stratton home and give Nancy a million dollars for renovation. She got the project started during a long summer vacation in Vermont. She told friends she’d never forgive Rob for keeping her in Hong Kong against her will, but she gloated that she’d made him pay $3 million for her acquiescence. And she proudly said she’d make the home a work of art: something that Andrew and Hayley would have to envy.

They went to Phuket for a week’s vacation at Christmastime. Ira and his wife flew out to join them. All of them had been there before. The beaches were fabulous. But Phuket was not the place to go if you were trying to kid yourself about your body.

Fully clothed—and considering the clothes she bought, not surprisingly—Nancy still made heads swivel. But she had not gotten her body back in the shape she wanted, although it had been more than a year since she’d given birth to Ethan. She blamed this on her self-diagnosed postpartum depression.

Ira could see she wasn’t happy. She complained incessantly about Hong Kong. She exchanged sharp words with Rob as never before. When she fell silent, she seemed morose. As a veteran of two divorces, Ira was quick to pick up bad marital vibes. He couldn’t ask Nancy directly how she was feeling. That would have crossed her line in the sand. Instead, “as one ex-restaurateur to another,” he reminded her there was no such thing as a free lunch.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that if you care so much about the lifestyle Rob’s money buys you, you should suck it up and stick it out for the next three years.” These were bold words to speak to Nancy. Ira quickly sought to soften them. “But maybe it’s not worth it. Maybe it’s too much to handle. You always have the option of getting out.” Instead of jumping down his throat and telling him to mind his own business, as Ira had expected she would do, Nancy simply lapsed into silence.

Ira found Rob much more voluble and, except when he was carping at Nancy, more congenial than ever before. Rob told Ira he’d named him—not his own father or brother—as executor of his will. “It only seems logical,” he said, “since everything I have would go to Nancy.” Ira was grateful for Rob’s trust.

Otherwise, the talk focused on business, in particular about how well Rob was doing at Merrill Lynch. Smoking a Cuban cigar at poolside, Rob told Ira that his income was growing exponentially. He was doing more deals and bigger deals than he’d ever done at Goldman Sachs, even at the height of the crisis.

But he was dissatisfied. No matter how much money an investment banker made—and bonuses of $25 million a year were not unheard of—there would always be an upper limit. And there would always be someone, somewhere, making more. But not if you ran your own hedge fund, Rob said. He was fascinated by the “two and twenty” approach to compensation, whereby the fund manager received, as a management fee, 2 percent of all money invested and 20 percent of the annual profit.

As his cigar smoke spiraled toward the clear blue sky, Rob tossed out examples. If he started with $100 million from investors—and he knew he could start with more than that—he’d receive only $2 million in management fees (plus expenses, of course, and his expenses would be strictly five-star), but there was no limit to what 20 percent of the profits could be. Given his expertise and his energy, Rob could foresee returns of at least 50 percent per year. Say he had $500 million in the fund; his management fee would be $10 million and at 50 percent profit for a year, he’d earn $50 million. That would be $60 million per year, which was approaching the level of real money. And he knew he could do even better than that.

“But when does it stop, Rob?” Ira asked. “When do you realize you’ve got enough?”

Rob laughed.

“You are kidding, aren’t you? There’s no such thing as enough.”

IN HIS BOOK
HONG KONG WATCHING,
LONGTIME RESIDENT
George Adams notes that the surest sign an expat wife is not adapting is if she finds herself “teaching part-time at an international school…for the purpose of having something to do.”

Nancy began to fill her days by volunteering at the Hong Kong International School. She didn’t teach, but—feeling a surge of energy by the spring of 2002—she became active, almost hyperactive, in school affairs. She more or less appointed herself school photographer and, despite trampling a few toes in the process, she became director of fund-raising for school events.

Nancy didn’t serve on committees, she formed them. She didn’t work on a project, she directed the work. “Once she got rolling, she was unstoppable,” a friend said. “Sometimes it got a little scary.” She told school officials that the work she was doing entitled her to her own parking space. She got it. It made her feel appreciated.

Even from Hong Kong, Nancy directed the early phase of the Stratton renovation. She told Bryna O’Shea that she was going to make the house
her
house. Rob’s name would remain on the title, of course—it was the money he’d earned that paid for the house—but in every other way he’d never be more than a visitor. “It’s going to be all me,” she told Bryna. The house would be her revenge against Rob for having made her stay in Hong Kong. It would reflect
her
taste,
her
judgment,
her
personality. She told Bryna that whenever she was there and Rob was not she wouldn’t even hang his picture on the wall. He might control their relationship in Hong Kong, but Vermont would be another story.

Then the bills from Stratton subcontractors started to arrive at Parkview. Rob was shocked. To end an argument he might have said she could spend a million dollars on the renovation, but he had second thoughts once he began to see the actual costs. He told Nancy all estimates would have to be submitted to him for advance approval henceforth. Her response left him in no doubt about what “ballistic” meant.

Their fights about the cost of the renovation became the most furious they’d ever had. They soon went past the point of reasonable discussion. No decision was made without lengthy argument conducted with voices raised. Nancy was in a constant rage, sometimes suppressed, sometimes not. She felt Rob wanted only to thwart her. They had enough money to spend twice what she proposed. For a million dollars—or not much more—she could turn their home into a showplace that would make not only Andrew and Hayley, but also Bill sick with envy. So what was the problem? As always, it came down to control. She fought for it, but she was learning the hard way that the source of the money would always have ultimate control.

She started to smoke. It calmed her; it gave her a chance to be alone for a few minutes; it reminded her of her days of youth and freedom in New York. She knew how much Rob hated smoking, except when he had one of his big fat cigars in his mouth. He asked her to stop; she defied him. He told her that smoking made her smell so awful that he didn’t want to be near her, not even in bed. Nancy considered that a plus. Ever since Ethan had been born, she’d been recoiling from his touch.

As the time for their 2002 summer vacation approached, she told Rob she wanted to return to the United States a few weeks ahead of time. She said she wanted to supervise the renovation personally, but really, she needed to get away from him. Even though his travels reduced their time together to a minimum, it seemed too much. She felt she was suffocating, and not only from Hong Kong’s air pollution.

She flew to New York in early June with Connie and the children, but instead of going directly to Vermont, she installed them all at the Surrey, an elegant residential hotel on East Seventy-sixth Street between Central Park and Madison Avenue. Rob’s draconian attitude toward the renovation budget had left her seething. The surest way to get back at him was by spending. She was going to pillage the boutiques of upper Madison Avenue. By the time the credit card bills arrived in Hong Kong she’d be laughing up her designer sleeve in Vermont.

Her routine was simple. Connie would take care of the children all day while she shopped. Then Connie would put the children to bed while Nancy rested up for the next day’s spree. At first, she shopped by category. She might decide it was a perfume day. She could start at Bond No. 9, then go to L’Occitane and maybe, just for fun, Penhaligon’s, where besides the perfume she could pick up a sterling silver compact mirror. She’d always had a thing for eyeglass frames. She’d bought dozens over the years, but there was no harm in adding to her collection. That meant Alain Mikli, Oliver Peoples, Morgenthal Frederics, and Robert Marc. She could buy a few at each store and then see which ones Bryna liked best when she flew in from San Francisco for a visit. Getting more expensive, she could pick up a Rikiki shirt and a snap cardigan or two from agnès b. Then head for BCBG Max Azria—what fun that was!—then Davide Cenci, which had that marvelous lambs’ wool suit with the fur collar. Which was not to denigrate Gianfranco Ferré. She could devote loads of time—and money—to all the new shoe collections. Sonia Rykiel always had something outrageous. To go with a new pair, that embroidered tulle and cotton eyelet dress from Luca Luca would be perfect. For pure whimsy, what could beat a quilted leather cell phone case from Juicy Couture?

After a few days, she’d get bored with shopping by category and switch to shopping by location. She would choose one block per day, say the block between Seventy-second and Seventy-third streets, and buy something in every store on the block. That was the kind of challenge she enjoyed, plus it gave some structure to her days.

The intensity of the shopping experience would exhaust her. She would return to the Surrey at midday to nap, usually for two hours or more. She had an increasing need for time alone, periods of the day when she had no responsibilities. Sometimes she wanted to climb into bed and never come out. Even though Connie—dear, tireless Connie—mothered the children day and night, taking care of their every need and want, Nancy found their presence stressful.

For one thing, they had to be fed. Connie could shop for the basics—corn dogs, Pop-Tarts, frozen waffles, potato chips, ice cream, M&M’s—but she had never learned how to cook. The Surrey was a residential hotel and did not offer room service, but luckily the deli downstairs delivered. In the morning, Nancy would call down for breakfast and within fifteen minutes a boy would bring bacon and eggs, toast, apple juice, coffee, and pastries to the door. At lunchtime Connie could hail a taxi and take the kids to the nearest McDonald’s. And Nancy could order dinner—hot dogs and French fries—from the deli.

The children ate their meals in front of the TV set. Watching television was their major activity, to the point where the first word Ethan ever spoke was “remote.” Television kept them quiet, and it was important to keep them quiet, because if one of them blew, that might be it for the next few hours. Their tantrums didn’t wind down. When they got hysterical, they stayed that way. And anything could set them off. The potatoes were touching the meat. There wasn’t enough chocolate in the chocolate milk. The ice cream was too hard or too melty. The Coca-Cola didn’t fizz enough. Each of them had a personal flashpoint when it came to food hysteria.

Those were the mealtime hazards. There were others. Telling them to put on shoes and socks could trigger a bout. Running the bathwater could mean they wouldn’t stop screaming until midnight. And no one—not even Connie—ever tried to persuade them to brush their teeth. As for picking up their clothes or toys or their dirty dishes from in front of the TV set, it didn’t occur to Nancy to ask them or to model such behavior. She herself never picked up, and Min, the housekeeper, had not made the trip. Soon unspeakable messes clogged every room. Old friends from New York were appalled when they visited, but Nancy didn’t seem to notice, and she certainly didn’t seem to care.

Bryna O’Shea arrived from San Francisco to help with the shopping and to laugh about old times. Bryna had remained Nancy’s best friend by never opening the door that led to feelings. The friendship was warm but superficial. But Bryna was an astute woman of keen insight. She took in a lot more than she let on. The change in Nancy’s personality since Ethan’s birth worried her, even if she couldn’t mention it. She was also concerned about the change in Nancy’s attitude toward Rob. Nancy had gloried in talking about their physical passion for each other. She’d always spoken about Rob with affection. No longer. She now portrayed him as a coldhearted martinet. Bryna knew him at least as well as she knew Nancy, and the Rob Nancy described was not the Rob Bryna knew.

One evening she and Nancy went to the movies. They saw
Unfaithful
, featuring Diane Lane, Richard Gere, and Dominic Chianese. In
The New York Times,
Richard Holden wrote that the film was a graphic demonstration of how “sex, especially reckless adulterous sex, can rock people’s lives and have catastrophic consequences.”

Nancy identified with the Diane Lane character, a beautiful, affluent, and seemingly content suburban housewife who felt a void where passion should have been. Another man, whom she met by chance in New York City, filled the void to overflowing.

“
That’s
why people have affairs,” Nancy said.

The movie plays out with the husband learning of the affair and killing the lover. Then he must dispose of the body. First, he must carry it out of the apartment undetected. He rolls it up inside a carpet and carries the carpet away. He doesn’t get caught.

That summer at Stratton was even more contentious than usual. Bill had sold the original family house, so he and his lady friend had to stay either with Andrew and Hayley, which tended to be explosive, or in the condo that Rob and Nancy and the three children and Connie were living in as renovations continued on their house.

Andrew’s behavior was more erratic than ever. The others were convinced that cocaine and alcohol abuse were the causes. Hayley advanced the theory that Andrew suffered from bipolar disease and needed therapy and medication. Bill scoffed at this. He told Andrew to his face that he’d always been a worthless embarrassment to the family and told Hayley she’d made a mistake in marrying him, besides which she’d made a fool out of herself on MSNBC the previous week by recommending Bally’s and Six Flags, and that she should have worn more makeup. He also said she should have married Rob, so Rob wouldn’t have been stuck with a waitress for a wife. Rob defended Andrew and Nancy, causing Bill to turn on him. Nancy told Bill that no matter how many bedrooms they’d have in the new house there would never be one for him. Andrew told Rob he didn’t need his little brother sticking up for him, and he told Bill to go fuck himself because he’d already made $20 million from dealing in New Jersey real estate and now Hanrock—in which Bill had no part—was expanding into New York and Connecticut. Hayley blamed Bill for Andrew’s problems. Nancy told Hayley she’d overpaid for the new sofa, besides which the color clashed with the wallpaper. Andrew poured himself another drink and told them they were all pathetic and stormed upstairs. Bill poured himself another drink and took the family dog into the study and slammed the door shut. Bill’s lady friend told the others they should try harder to get along. Hayley told Nancy it was a shame her new diet wasn’t working. Rob slammed his fist on the table, then stood and stalked out to the porch. And that was only one dinner.

The Kissels—except for Jane and her husband, Richard, who was a prince of a fellow—seemed prisoners of their own masochistic dysfunction. Even living in Hong Kong, Rob and Nancy got swallowed up by it every summer and every Christmas vacation. For Christmas of 2002 they descended on the British Columbia ski resort at Whistler Mountain. It offered the highest lift-serviced vertical slopes in North America, and the two-bedroom deluxe suite at the Four Seasons was only $2,950 per night. Rob and Nancy brought the kids, but not Connie. When they arrived, Ethan was sick with aches, chills, and a fever.

Nancy said she’d stay with Ethan while the others skied. This annoyed Rob. He accused her of snubbing the rest of the family. The hotel could arrange for someone to stay with Ethan, he pointed out. Nancy said no. At least during the day, she was going to stay in the room with Ethan. Assuming the hotel could send someone up for a couple of hours in the evening, she’d join them for dinner.

For the next two nights, Nancy sat at the large dinner table and listened to the others bicker. She didn’t feel like talking to any of them. In particular, she didn’t feel like talking to Rob. Their mutual hostility was a new addition to the group vitriol. Since returning to Hong Kong from Vermont, they’d waged a pitched battle for control. Each felt there could be only one person directing the relationship and heading the family. Rob’s criticisms of Nancy’s reckless spending and increasing irresponsibility in regard to the children were matched by her attacks on him for being both physically and emotionally absent from her life and for ordering her around like a servant whenever she was in his presence.

On their third night at Whistler, Nancy left the table in the middle of dinner, saying she could not take any more acrimony. Rob went after her to tell her to come back. No one in the family knew what happened next between the two of them. Much later, Nancy would claim that Rob had hit her and had pushed her down a flight of stairs. But Nancy said a lot of things. At the time, she didn’t look like she’d been hit and pushed down a flight of stairs.

In any event, on that third night she went to the room and got Ethan and had a Four Seasons limousine take her to the Vancouver airport, and she flew back to Hong Kong with her son. That was a serious breach of Kissel protocol: you weren’t supposed to run away from a fight.