The Boys' Club

by Erica Katz

  I had the overwhelming urge to trace his scars with my finger, but instead pressed my knees tighter together and took a long sip of wine.

  “So,” Peter said, and cleared his throat, indicating that the social portion of the evening was concluding. “The real issue with valuing a private company is that there is no market value for the equity. And the financials tend to be messier, and not as robust. So, you need to find the right metrics or comparable companies to base valuation off . . .”

  I listened intently, in awe of his depth of knowledge, and trying to catch every word.

  “And when it was suggested that our operating margins were . . . Eat!” he commanded, gesturing to the calamari that had appeared in front of us. I took a glistening golden ring and popped it into my mouth absentmindedly, still focused on his commentary on our valuation analysis. I wished I had a notebook to write everything down, but instead I tried to clear a path in my head for his words.

  “Use sauce!” He shoved the dish toward me, and I complied. “Anyway, they were way off when they said the operating margins . . .”

  When he had finished his explanation, I excused myself to the ladies’ room and slipped down off my stool.

  “Restroom is that way.” Peter pointed over my right shoulder. “Enjoy those lips!”

  I felt my cheeks flush. Do I have something on my mouth? I wiped at my face. Did I wipe my lips with my napkin in a sexual way? Do I need to apologize?

  I fell through the door to the bathroom and leaned my head back on the closed door with my eyes shut. I opened them and laughed out loud in relief.

  Directly in front of me in the ladies’ room was a red leather lounging couch shaped like an enormous pair of lips. I ran the water until it was ice cold and wet a paper towel. I slipped it under my hair and over the nape of my neck, shutting my eyes as I impatiently waited for my body to cool down.

  When I exited the bathroom, Dominic was sitting at an empty table with a stack of bills and receipts and his notebook, one hand holding a pencil and the other buried in his hair. He looked up at me over his half-glasses, which rested low on the bridge of his nose.

  “Thank you for staying open for us,” I said as I passed. “It’s my first time here. Everything was delicious.”

  “So glad you enjoyed.” He looked at me curiously for a moment and then added, “He’s one of the best.”

  I nodded in implicit agreement as I turned and walked back to our seats.

  “Shall we?” Peter asked, taking his coat.

  I stared at him.

  “What?”

  “Do you own this place?”

  He snorted, surprised. “No. No. Not at all.” He paused and then coughed, looking embarrassed. “I’m an investor. Did Dom tell you that?” I shook my head. “Well, why did you think that?”

  “We’re here after closing, and we’re leaving without paying a bill. When I thanked Dom for staying open for us, he looked at me the way I look at Matt when he thanks me for pulling an all-nighter. Like it’s not really a choice.”

  Peter put a finger to his nose and pointed it at me. “Sharp girl.”

  I laughed up at him as I slipped my arms into my coat and braced myself for the cold night air.

  Q.After you met Gary, what was your impression of him?

  A.That he was powerful. And that he didn’t seem to notice me at all.

  Q.How did that make you feel?

  A.Not great. But motivated to work for his acknowledgment, I suppose.

  Q.Did it make you dislike him?

  A.No, I wouldn’t say the initial encounter made me dislike him especially. I would say that all my encounters with him after that made me dislike him.

  Q.I was asking about your first encounter. Please focus your responses on the questions asked. Now, I’d like to ask how this dislike came to manifest itself—what exactly did Gary do to cause you to seek vengeance against him?

  [objection] [stricken from record]

  Q.Where did this dislike come from, if not from the first encounter?

  A.If you had let me simply elaborate rather than explaining I should only answer within the scope of the question, I’d have gotten to that.

  Chapter 9

  I glanced at the time in the lower right-hand corner of my computer screen.

  3:07 AM

  I tried Jordan. No answer. I hung up the phone and rubbed my eyes with my fists.

  Even before my deal with Peter had closed, I was staffed on a new deal, Project Duke, for National Bank with Matt and Jordan that would close on an accelerated timeline. The days leading up to Project Duke’s closing were a mess of greasy hair and stacks upon stacks of paper teetering like the tower at the penultimate move of a Jenga game on my desk. I had closed the blackout curtain to my office because I found that the rise and fall of the sun messed with my brain, signaling that I should be going to bed when work commanded otherwise. I had no idea whether I was supposed to send the term sheet I had spent the last three hours on out myself, or whether Jordan wanted to review it again.

  I tried Jordan again. No answer. Why wasn’t he answering? I knew he was there. His firm instant messenger light was still green. Maybe he just went to take a nap. I could use one myself.

  I looked at the other names on my instant messenger. The circle next to Derrick’s name was green too. I dialed his extension.

  Derrick picked up halfway through the first ring. “I was just about to call you!”

  “I’m dying. I’m so tired.”

  “Come down to my office! I have coke!” he sang.

  I paused, providing him with a beat to see if he was kidding. “Pass. I was more thinking a walk around the block to wake myself up.”

  “Uh, pass. I can’t take a real break. I have to get something out.”

  “Okay, talk soon.” I aimed for cheery, but heard the worry deepen my voice.

  “Yes. Soon. Call you tomorrow,” Derrick assured me.

  I slumped forward, resting my cheek on my desk, where it met the cold, smooth wood, and slid my palms under my face. I was exhausted, anxious, and uncomfortable, and I couldn’t stop wondering if I should pop into Derrick’s office to ask him how he was doing. Instead, I stumbled out of my door and down the hallway to the “restoration room.” The thought of collapsing onto the cool leather cot and snuggling up under one of the fleece blankets was so delicious that I was almost salivating, but when I reached the door I saw the red “Occupied” indicator in the half-moon above the lock. I wilted in disappointment; the idea of traveling to another floor to lie down felt so burdensome that I nearly collapsed. But I was only a first-year associate, and I felt certain that whoever was sleeping in the room needed it more than I did. He or she had probably been tired for the better part of a decade, whereas I only had a few months of late nights under my belt.

  I leaned sideways into the door until it touched my ear, only to be greeted by the sound of male and female grunts and moans coming from within. I slammed my fist on the door. I might have been willing to forgo horizontal, comfortable sleep for somebody who needed it more than I did, but not just so two associates could get laid.

  “I’ll be back in twenty! I need sleep!” I announced through the door, feeling slightly out of line, but emboldened by the thought that my colleagues wouldn’t want to be found out and would make themselves scarce before I returned.

  When I returned, the room smelled of Clorox and the linens looked fresh, but I changed them and wiped everything down again anyway, then fell asleep immediately, jerking my eyes open at the hum of a vacuum outside the door the next morning.

  I looked at my phone to see that Jordan had responded to emails while I was sleeping, sent the term sheet out himself when I hadn’t done it within an hour of him telling me to, and instructed me to sleep a few hours and call him as soon as I woke up. I dialed his number.

  “I just want to make sure nothing can hold up closing,” he said without so much as a hello. “It cannot slip past today because then we need to wait
for all the funds to transfer until Monday. Disaster. Have you confirmed with the real estate team that they’ve filed . . .” I could hear the stress in his voice as he rattled off the laundry list of administrative details I needed to take care of.

  A preview of a new email from Carmen popped up in the lower right-hand corner of my screen as I struggled to write down everything Jordan was saying, and I glanced briefly at it.

  I signed you in. Saving you a seat in the back.

  “Shit,” I whispered to myself as I continued to write. When Jordan finished, I cleared my throat. “So . . . I completely forgot we have the mandatory monthly business development training right now, and—”

  “Skip it,” he said tersely.

  “Matt is doing the training, and . . .” I knew I wouldn’t need to say more. Supporting Matt in any and every capacity trumped anything and everything else.

  “Oh. Okay. Yeah. Go. I got you covered for the next hour. You’ve done all this anyway, I’m just paranoid the day a deal closes. But be on email. If this deal doesn’t sign by this afternoon, I’m jumping out of my fucking window.”

  “Why do you think our windows don’t open, genius?” I asked dryly, the auto-generated response he had come to expect from me during Project Hat Trick.

  He snorted. “Keep it up, Skip, and I’m requesting Carmen on my next deal.”

  “You suck.” I hung up.

  I raised my chin toward the ceiling with my palm and felt the pleasant pop of a joint somewhere at the base of my skull. I stacked the six empty coffee cups on my desk into one another and threw them into the bin below my desk. I made my way slowly to the elevator and rubbed my finger under my eyes. I felt like a fraud. It was the first true all-nighter I had ever tried to pull, and I couldn’t even make it the whole night without passing out in the restoration room.

  I let my back rest against the wall of the elevator until the mechanical ding of the doors opening on the conference room on the forty-fifth floor yanked me from my half sleep. A woman with a binder was staring at me, and I gave a small, embarrassed laugh as I brushed by her. I opened the door to the conference room as quietly as possible and slipped inside. Fortunately Matt was speaking, and all eyes remained on him as I let the door ease closed behind me and made my way to the open seat next to Carmen, who looked up at me with concern on her face.

  “Skippy! Nice of you to grace us with your presence!” Matt called out.

  All fifty-two of my fellow first-years turned to look to me.

  I felt the blood rising up from my neck, but I could register that they were more envious of than disgusted by my rapport with the co-head of M&A.

  “Your deals don’t close themselves, boss,” I said with a two-finger salute, and slid into the seat next to Carmen, embracing my greasy hair and my wrinkled shirt as a badge of honor. Matt cackled before continuing with his due diligence training, clicking through slides.

  Carmen leaned in to me as if to tell me something, then recoiled. “Oh my god, Alex, you need to shower.” She blocked her nostrils with her fist. “No joke.”

  “I’m fully aware,” I whispered back. I took out my phone and continued to answer emails about Matt’s deal as he lectured the group on how the firm encourages a healthy work/life balance.

  As the presentation was wrapping up, I saw an email from Jordan, subject: “One Yard Line.” Everything was set, and we had a closing call at four o’clock.

  From: Alexandra Vogel

  To: Jordan Sellar

  Subject: Re: One Yard Line

  I’ll tell maintenance they don’t need to figure out how to open your window.

  Our closing call came and went that afternoon without my having to utter a single word—a reminder that no matter how hard I worked, I was still the lowest attorney on the totem pole, and another silent first-year could have easily stepped in for me. And then we were done. Closed. It was over. I spent the next six minutes making sure I hadn’t missed any urgent emails while I’d been under siege, then shut down my computer and leaned back in my chair. It was four fifteen on Friday afternoon. The sun was shining. I couldn’t wait to crawl into bed for the next forty-eight hours.

  “Anna,” I called toward my open door. She craned her neck up over her cubicle. “Can you order me a car home, please? I need to sleep immediately.” She furrowed her brow. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it!”

  She appeared in my doorway, looking apologetic. Just fucking DO it, I wanted to say. But instead I smiled. “What’s up?”

  “Last week you asked me to book dinner for four at the Nomad for tonight. Should I cancel that?”

  Fuck. My parents were coming into the city for dinner.

  They had insisted on taking me and Sam out to celebrate my deal closing. My lower lip quivered, and I shook my head.

  “Can you shut the door?” I asked softly, afraid speaking louder would scare the tears out of me, then remembered my manners and added, “Please?”

  Anna looked at me with pity and shut the door behind her, and the tears started—I was simply too tired to hold them in.

  I woke up with my face resting on my hands, flat out on my belly in the middle of my office floor. I stayed there for a moment before sitting up and wiping the drool from the side of my mouth with the back of my hand. I was really starting to understand why people did coke. I looked at my watch. Six thirty. I grabbed my cell phone and texted my parents and Sam all on the same thread.

  So excited for tonight! Meet you at the Nomad at 8! ☺

  I checked my work email. Only sixteen messages, none of them pressing, and a nice thank-you from Matt to me and Jordan. I responded quickly, then grabbed my bag, popped two Advil, ushered them down my throat with a dry gulp, and walked out the door. I headed straight to the Equinox by my office, stripped immediately upon entering the locker room, wrapped myself in a towel, and pushed myself into the thick fog of the steam room, relieved to see I was alone. My pores surrendered with little resistance, anxious for release. I could taste the sour stress in my sweat. It was all leaving me—dripping deliciously down my spine. I rubbed my shoulders, letting my fingers drift over my now-slimy skin. I let my towel drop. I touched my breasts, and I thought of Peter Dunn. I thought of the way his belt buckle sat on his completely flat abdomen, the way his skin was always clean shaven.

  I opened my eyes and wrapped myself in the towel again, pulling my legs up on the tile bench to sit cross-legged and forcing myself to focus on my breath. I made my way to the shower and took my work clothes into the stall, where I turned the knob as hot as it would go and let the wrinkles in the silk rise to meet the steam. I scrubbed at myself vigorously, as though I could exfoliate away the exhaustion.

  I walked into the Nomad right at eight to find my characteristically early parents speaking to the maître d’.

  “Hi guys!” I announced loudly. They spun around. My mom held a bouquet of white roses.

  “My little Bunny!” my mom squeaked. I placed my head in between the two of them and fell into their joint embrace.

  “You look wonderful! Too thin, but wonderful! Is this what you wear to work? Stunning,” she said, nodding approvingly.

  “You do look great,” my dad said.

  “I showered at the gym and came right here. It’s been a rough month. Hopefully it’ll be a little slower now.”

  “These are for you,” my mother said, thrusting the roses at me.

  “Why?” I asked cautiously.

  “Because you’ve been working so hard, and we’re so proud,” my mother said, and I made desperate eye contact with the maître d’, who beamed back at me.

  “We’re under Vogel,” I called over my father’s shoulder to him. I turned back to my parents. “They’re gorgeous. Thanks, guys. Do you have any Advil?” My mother dug in her purse and handed me two pills, which I swallowed without water.

  Just as the maître d’ beckoned us to follow him, Sam arrived.

  “Perfect timing!” my mother said, pulling him close. My father shook his
hand. I went to give him a real kiss, but he pecked my cheek gruffly. My brain spiraled, praying his awkward greeting was because my parents were present and not because he was angry at me.

  As my father ordered the wine and we listened patiently to the specials, I noticed that Sam seemed to be purposefully ignoring me. He hadn’t shaved for dinner. He didn’t turn to me when the waiter listed a black truffle risotto addition to the menu, even though he knew I would want it. My mind raced. I didn’t know what I had done or forgotten to do, but I felt utterly defeated. A fugitive tear escaped my duct; I quickly excused myself to the restroom, knowing more would follow once the seal was broken.

  I put my palms on the cool porcelain sides of the sink and inhaled deeply. I’d read once that the inner wrists were a temperature control center for the body, so I pushed up my sleeves and ran cold water over my hands, waiting.

  “Hi there.”

  I stared into the mirror to see Gary Kaplan standing next to me, smiling at my reflection in the mirror. I turned to my left so I wasn’t looking at him in the mirror, to confirm I wasn’t hallucinating. I blinked twice. He was still there, beside me, in the ladies’ room, at the Nomad Hotel.

  “Hi!” I forced the word as my mind searched for something clever to say about the continued scaling of the private equity market. Or maybe I should ask him about his family? Or talk about the food? He had said it was the only restaurant he came to downtown.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” A toothy grin spread his lips wide, but his gaze remained steady. I felt fairly certain he didn’t recognize me from the way he was taking in my body, but I needed to extricate myself from the situation politely on the off chance he could place me the next time he saw me in the office. All I needed was to be blacklisted from deals with our biggest client in my first year at the firm.

  I turned back to the mirror to see a dark-haired, especially tanned, incredibly toned woman, probably in her late twenties, exit the bathroom stall, pulling her tight, nude Hervé Leger dress down just far enough to cover things that shouldn’t be uncovered in public. I exhaled, grateful to have somebody else there to defuse the situation, but she sidled up to Gary and threw an arm over his shoulder, nuzzling into his neck.