The Underwriting (17 page)

The girl finally stopped with a gasp and a whimper and Tara slowly opened the stall door, taking a breath to collect herself. She washed her hands in the sink. Could she really go back out there? What was she going to say?

She looked at the closed stall door and called softly, “Are you okay?”

The door opened and Lauren Wiley emerged. “Fine,” the girl said, unemotionally, avoiding Tara's eyes as she approached the sink.

Lauren rubbed soap deeply into her skin and rinsed her mouth, patting the corners of her lips dry. She kept her posture perfect as she opened her gold clutch and put a round mint on her tongue.

“What?” Lauren snapped, noticing Tara not moving.

“Nothing.” Tara shook her head. “I just don't want to go back out there,” she admitted. “Not that it isn't a lovely event,” she added, remembering Lauren's position.

“You don't have to lie,” Lauren said, turning back to the mirror and smoothing gloss across her lips. “It's awful. The art is weird and the company is dull.”

“Well, I'm sure your mother would have been proud,” Tara tried, checking her own reflection one last time.

“My mother can go fuck herself,” Lauren said, testing the words like it was the first time she'd ever said them out loud. “Sorry,” she added, “I don't mean that.”

Tara didn't say anything.

“It's just—” Lauren started, neither of them sure why she was confiding in Tara, “I worked really hard on this.” The girl laughed, looking up at the ceiling to blink the tears away. “And I know it wasn't hard like what she does, but it was hard for me, and I”—she shook her head—“I'm just never going to be enough.”

Tara didn't know what to say.

The girl rolled her eyes at herself and leaned forward, using a finger to carefully nudge the tears back into her eyes so they wouldn't mess up her eyeliner. “Please don't say anything.”

Tara shook her head. “I won't.”

Tara left Lauren in the bathroom and went slowly back to the table, her legs heavy. That—what Lauren felt and felt like she couldn't show—was what Rick Frier didn't understand.

She saw her empty seat and changed her mind, heading for the coat check instead.

—

T
HE
X
ANAX
HAD
STARTED
to kick in by the time she got home, and she climbed the stairs to her apartment methodically. She plugged in her BlackBerry but didn't look at it, not ready to find an e-mail firing her for what she'd done. She took off her shoes and stepped out of the dress, placing it carefully back on the hanger. She wiped her eye makeup off, washed her face, took out her contacts, and rubbed under-eye cream on her lids and cold cream on her face. She unpinned her hair and brushed it carefully. She drank two glasses of water and took three milk thistle tablets and an Advil, and set her alarm for five a.m., giving her six hours to rest before everything changed.

TARA

T
HURSDAY
, M
ARCH
27; N
EW
Y
ORK
, N
EW
Y
ORK

“L.Cecil CEO Derek Strauss appears before Congress today to answer allegations of trading violations at the global investment bank in regards to . . .”

Tara hit the snooze button as memories from last night seeped into her consciousness: Rick Frier's fat face and her own stupid voice piercing the reverie of her Xanax-assisted sleep.

“Fuck.”

She reached for her BlackBerry, which sat charging next to her iPhone, which sat charging next to her iPod, which sat charging next to her vibrator, which she left charging in the open because no one ever came in here anyway.

She scrolled through the new messages, looking for a note from HR saying she was fired, but not finding it. It was five a.m., though, so that didn't mean anything.

She got to the Printing House gym at five thirty, right as the doors were opening, and took the elevator to the top floor. She climbed on a treadmill that faced the window, looking out over the Hudson River to the glimmering lights of New Jersey still asleep.

She pressed the button to start the machine's belt, her legs reluctantly waking as the blood started to flow.

She couldn't drink, she realized: that was the problem. Alcohol was a depressant, and it made her think too much—or rather, think too much about the wrong things. Why had she kept accepting wine from Callum? He was clearly mocking her—the drunk nerd on his right getting wasted as the picture-perfect Russian model sat on his left eating lettuce.

She sped up the treadmill and watched the distance meter climb as the music reverberated in her ears and her chest started to burn with the effort. The pain felt good.

Maybe Rick Frier had been right: the kind of pressure millennials felt
wasn't
that important. Lauren's rich-girl problems were nothing compared to the rest of the world—who cared if she had an eating disorder, or felt unaccepted by her mother?

She pressed the speed up again, and again, to make the point stick.

And Kelly Jacobson
should
have known better than to do what she did. Tara had only tried drugs twice in college, and had always been responsible about it, only taking a little with people who knew what to do if something went wrong.

Tara watched the treadmill hit her normal six miles, but she didn't stop, pressing the speed up again and stretching her legs long as her pulse pounded.

The fact was, the world was a competitive place. If Lauren couldn't learn to get over her issues, she wasn't going to make it; and if girls like Kelly couldn't figure out how to party responsibly, they weren't going to make it, either. It wasn't anybody's fault, it was just reality—a modern version of Darwin's survival of the fittest.

But Tara had made it through the tests of her early twenties, and now she had a place in the world. Now there were new tests, and to survive she had to stay competitive, stay focused, work harder. Tara pressed the speed up again, fueled by the thought. She watched the distance click to six and a half miles. She looked down and noticed her shoelace untied.
Don't stop
, she told herself, punching the speed up again.
Push it to seven. Almost there.

Until last night, Tara had been a real competitor: the deal was going great, senior management was recognizing her talent, important people like Callum Rees were seeking out her company. She'd been doing well because she'd been keeping her head down, making her path without getting in anyone's way. She looked at the distance meter . . . 6.8 . . . 6.9 . . . the shoelace caught and Tara lurched forward, catching herself on the handrails as she jumped to the sides of the whirring belt. Her chest heaved as she watched the distance meter hit seven miles, still measuring the belt without her on it. She felt a surge of disappointment, as though it was a sign that she'd lost.

Who was she kidding? She wasn't in the race anymore: Rick Frier had been the test she couldn't pass.

Don't be ridiculous
. She stopped the belt.
Signs are for children.

Tara checked her BlackBerry on her way to the locker room: still nothing from HR. She showered and went downstairs, where one of L.Cecil's black cars waited for her.

Tara's phone rang and her heart jumped, anticipating a call from the office telling her not to bother coming in. She saw the screen, though, and rolled her eyes.

“You're up early,” she told her mother as she answered the phone.

“Have you booked your ticket yet?” her mother asked without pleasantries.

“No, I haven't booked my ticket yet, Mom,” Tara said.

“But prices are going to—”

“It actually doesn't make that much of a difference when you book,” Tara cut her off. Her mother got on an airplane once every two years and still thought you had to go to a travel agent to book a flight. “And I don't know where I'm going to be flying from yet.”

“I would just feel a lot better if you had the ticket,” her mother said firmly.

“What are you afraid of, Mom?” Tara asked, exasperated. “It's my sister's wedding. I'm going to be there.”

“I just—”

“I've got to go, Mom,” she said. “I love you,” she added before hanging up the phone. It's not that she didn't appreciate her mother's concern, but her family didn't understand Tara's life at all, and right now Tara had a hard time culling the patience to translate it into a values system they could understand.

She pulled out her BlackBerry and got to work on the e-mails. She responded to Neha's question about the syndicate list. Why could the girl not get it right? It was like Neha was intentionally defying her.

She opened an e-mail from Nick asking where they were having dinner the night they were in London for the road show. Why could he not just look at the schedule she'd sent? And did he not have more important things to think about right now, as CFO of an almost-public company?
Shoreditch House
, she responded.

She replied to an e-mail from a Charlie Jacobson at the Associated Press asking if they could meet.
Regulations prevent me from speaking directly to the press; please contact our Investor Relations department if you have questions.
Shouldn't someone from the AP know better?

Her chest clenched when she saw a new message with Catherine Wiley's name.

FROM:
Catherine Wiley

SUBJECT:
[none]

Are you in yet?

Her blood froze. This was it.

TO:
Catherine Wiley

SUBJECT:
Re: [none]

Good morning—Ten blocks away. Is everything okay?

She glared at the red light, willing it to start flashing with a response.

FROM:
Catherine Wiley

SUBJECT:
Re: [none]

Pls come to my office when you get in.

It was real: she was actually going to be fired. She felt a heat behind her eyeballs and swallowed hard to push it away.

“She's waiting,” Catherine's assistant said without looking up when Tara arrived.

“Good morning,” Tara said carefully as she entered the office.

Catherine turned to face her, the sun rising in the floor-to-ceiling window behind her desk.

“Good morning, Tara,” the president said, her voice giving no indication of what was coming. “It's nice to finally meet you.”

“And you,” Tara said, shaking the woman's hand and praying hers wasn't noticeably clammy.

Catherine's hair was a perfectly coiffed brunette bob, and her skin had just enough lines to neither look her true age nor look like she was trying to hide it. She wore a Chanel suit that matched the one she was wearing on the “Power Women of Wall Street” cover of
Forbes
magazine that sat, framed, on the bookshelf beside her desk.

“Have a seat.” Catherine indicated the chair and jumped to the point. “I heard what happened at the Frick last night.”

Tara sat forward and started, “I can—”

“Lauren is very sick.” Catherine cut her off. “We've sent her to all the best doctors, but at some point a girl has to help herself.”

Tara paused, her mouth still open. “Lauren?” she asked. “You're talking about Lauren,” she clarified.

“Yes,” Catherine said. “My daughter.”

“Right.” Tara felt her blood pressure drop. “She did a really great—”

“I trust you haven't told anyone,” Catherine interrupted. “And won't.” She paused for effect. “I've got enough going on right now without being accused of being a bad mother because my daughter has a problem.”

“Of course,” Tara said. “I mean, of course I won't say anything. But I don't think you're a bad—”

“How is the Hook deal going?” Catherine changed the subject. Was she not going to mention Rick Frier?

“Oh.” Tara adjusted. “Well. We filed the S-1 yesterday and the preliminary conversations have been extremely positive. I think we're going to be able to beat our initial price target without sacrificing investor quality.”

“Good,” the woman said. “I'm sure I don't need to tell you how important it is that it go well, for the firm's sake and your own.”

“No,” Tara agreed, feeling the weight again, “you don't.”

“It's hard to find good women in this industry, but I've been told you have potential, and I hope to discover that's true.”

“Thank you,” she said, her heart in her throat. “I'll do everything I can to live up to that.”

“Good,” Catherine said. “Is there anything else?”

Tara felt her heart lift, like she'd been pardoned on the execution line. She was back in the race. “Do you have any advice?” she asked the woman.

Catherine paused, studying Tara's face, looking for what weakness the younger woman needed to correct. “Never stop improving,” she said. “You can always work harder, go faster, be more. There's no such thing as too much discipline.”

Tara nodded. Seven miles hadn't been so bad this morning—maybe she'd start doing that every day.

“How old are you?” Catherine asked.

“Twenty-eight.”

“Boyfriend?” Catherine glanced at Tara's left hand.

“No.”

“Don't get married until you're thirty-five,” Catherine said, “but freeze your eggs at thirty so it isn't a distraction. I'll have Leslie send you the information for a good clinic.”

“How old were you when you got married?”

“Twenty-five,” Catherine said, turning back to her computer.

“Thank you.” Tara started to stand, then stopped. She had to know. “Did John Lewis say anything about the event?”

“John Lewis is no longer with the firm,” Catherine said without turning from her monitor.

“What? Why?”

“Rick Frier moved all his accounts from the bank,” Catherine said. “When I heard about John's behavior I had no choice but to let him go.”

“Rick moved his accounts because of John?”

“Were you there when John went on his pro-Obama rampage?” Catherine turned, lifting a brow. “Callum called me late last night to tell me about it—he said it was quite a scene.”

“That must have been after I left,” Tara said carefully, hoping it was a possibility, and not Callum covering up for her at John Lewis's expense.

She walked to the door before she had time to think about it.

“Oh, and Tara?”

Tara turned back, her heart racing again.

“The next time you go to an event, wear something less . . . edgy,” Catherine said. “You've got enough working against you as a young woman without drawing extra opportunity for criticism.”

Tara's cheeks burned as she thought about the purple gown. Had Callum told Catherine what she'd been wearing, too? “Yes,” she said, nodding. “Yes, of course.”

She walked carefully, feeling her anxiety still pulsing through her veins.
Calm down. Stay focused
, she coached herself as the elevator doors opened and she got to work.

TODD

M
ONDAY
, A
PRIL
7; N
EW
Y
ORK
, N
EW
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ORK

Todd was in a great mood and nothing was going to ruin it.

He'd been pissed as hell when Tara got Catherine's invite to the Frick event, but after some careful consideration, he realized anger was unproductive. Catherine was only in her position because the firm needed women leaders—she wasn't where the real power sat, and neither were the stodgy old clients who attended bank-hosted events like the one at the Frick. Tara could have them.

The real power, Todd realized, was in guys like him—the young, smart, driven future leaders of Wall Street. Which is why he'd corralled his crew to skip out of work this afternoon and convene at a bar downtown to watch the NCAA tournament finals and have a networking event of their own.