by Erica Katz
“You’re Alex Vogel?” The driver eyed me cautiously in his rearview mirror as he pulled away.
My heart sank. Did all our company drivers talk to one another? Had Peter’s driver told everybody about the night at the Pierre? “Yup,” I said and nodded, making brief eye contact. As we drove on, I noticed him looking back at me every couple of minutes. I attempted to move closer to the window and out of his view, but the mirror seemed to follow me.
“You’re a girl.”
Relax, I told myself. He’s not going to do anything to you. Klasko has his name, and his employee ID, and they know you’re in the car. “Yup,” I said again, staring out the window. I took my phone out and unlocked it, ready to use it in case of emergency. My legs shook wildly. Was this my punishment for cheating? I had only ten blocks to go. I began to pray.
“Look, I’m just saying, as a woman you gotta check yourself.”
“Excuse me?” I allowed my eyes to meet his.
“I didn’t know you was a woman. That’s just . . . I got daughters. And I would. I think you need to look in the mirror and check yourself.”
“I think you have me confused—”
“I can’t wait to tell everybody back at dispatch that you’re a woman. Pinky is going to FREAK out. He hates that diner run.”
My mind raced. I had absolutely no idea what the man was talking about, but he seemed angry, and I didn’t think it would help my case to ask any questions. I unfocused my gaze, willing the car ride to be over, and when he finally pulled up in front of my building, I exited and slammed the door without saying another word to him. I guess if that was my punishment, I thought, it wasn’t so bad.
Chapter 17
Sam and I spent a cozy Christmas Eve with my parents in Connecticut before driving to New Jersey to spend Christmas Day with his. My parents weren’t religious and cared more that we spent time with them than which day we chose. We took a midnight drive on Christmas Eve to Sam’s parents’ house and slept in Sam’s childhood bedroom, which still had his old wooden desk with etched pen carvings on its surface and high school textbooks between ceramic baseball bookends. I woke up on Christmas morning with a kink in my neck from his extra-firm twin-size mattress but couldn’t complain—he’d slept on the floor beside me rather than taking the couch in the living room.
I had insisted that Sam and I skip Christmas presents to one another that year, and we’d agreed to plan a vacation for the spring instead. I knew Sam was in no position to spend, and I had no time to shop for anything but children’s gifts online. We watched his niece and nephew tear into their presents while sipping our coffee, then sat down to an elaborate brunch his mother prepared, all while still in pajamas. I peeled myself off the couch after a family viewing of It’s a Wonderful Life and White Christmas and called a car to take me back to the city before they started Miracle on 34th Street. Sam’s parents handed me a large bag of Tupperware filled with leftovers, and offered sympathetic pouts for the fact that I had to work. I encouraged Sam to stay there, but he insisted on coming back to the city with me, and I appreciated the gesture more than I’d appreciated anything he’d done in a while. We were seemingly back on the track of a normal, happy couplehood.
On the first Monday morning after Christmas, the bright chill brought with it a sense of calm. It was now clear to me that my Christmas gift to myself and everyone I loved was a self-imposed moratorium on Peter and all the partying I’d been doing. I imagined that my behavior was an addiction of sorts, and that withdrawal symptoms would subside after a few days. The universe had stopped me from doing what I couldn’t quite seem to end myself. I headed into a sleepy office with a sense of peace I hadn’t felt in weeks and logged on to my computer.
From: Jordan Sellar
To: Alexandra Vogel
Cc: Matt Jaskel
Subject: We’re staffing you on a cool deal.
Matt and I are away through the 1st so can you man the emails? Came in through Didier he’s in town working so you’ll be fine.
From: Alexandra Vogel
To: Jordan Sellar
Cc: Matt Jaskel
Subject: Re: We’re staffing you on a cool deal.
Great! I got this. Enjoy vacation!
Within a day or two, though, something about the bustle of the city around me and being back in the office made me think about Peter constantly. I checked my phone incessantly to see if he’d emailed me, but his messages were always about work and work exclusively. I tried to occupy my brain by working from home with Sam, cooking dinner with Sam, seeing movies with Sam, and making love to Sam. Still, I was bored with Sam. On New Year’s Eve, we ordered in Chinese food and watched Trading Places. When we got into bed just after midnight, Sam turned to me and whispered, “This was my favorite New Year’s ever,” just before falling into a deep slumber, and I was struck by the terrifying thought that this would be every New Year’s Eve for the rest of my life. I got out of bed, brought my laptop into the living room, and stayed up till three doing all the busywork I had neglected since the Winter Ball.
Come the second day of January, Jordan emailed me that I was billing at the top of my class—fifty-five hours in the past week, and that was during the slowest time of the year. I could barely keep all my deals straight; I was on four active matters with slated closing dates within a month of one another. The office had buzzed back to life seemingly in an instant. Whatever sense of Zen my colleagues had found on their beach or mountain escapes instantly vaporized when they returned to the cold, wet New York winter. I still hadn’t heard anything from Peter that wasn’t about work. He’s only been back in the office one day, I reminded myself every time I refreshed my in-box.
I shuffled frantically through the binders and papers on my desk to find my ringing office phone, and grabbed the receiver just before the call went to voice mail.
“Hi!” I said, out of breath.
“Let’s do the call in my office. Matt is home for the night, but he’ll dial in,” Jordan said with no preamble. He and I had fallen back into our comfortable routine immediately, speaking at least ten times a day, and I kept taking care of his requests long before he ever thought to check in. I actually felt myself getting better and better at my job, having handled everything on various deals myself while my colleagues were on vacation.
“Yup,” I said and hung up.
I looked at the clock in the lower right-hand corner of my computer screen. It was just past ten. I touched my cell phone to bring it to life, and the screen filled with the calls and texts I had missed from my parents and Sam. I panicked momentarily that there was an emergency, but after glancing briefly over the emoticons and how-are-yous, I opted to open Spotify instead. But I couldn’t focus. My legs were shaking under my desk. I’d started to feel confined, almost suffocated, so I got up and made my way to the pantry, almost crashing into Nancy, who was exiting with a tea.
“Oh my god! I’m so sorry,” she said, meeting my eyes sheepishly, clearly embarrassed about more than our near collision. “So, so sorry.” I noted her sheer pink blouse with white tank. Nancy was dressing much better these days, apparently taking a note from those around her.
“No worries.” I brushed past her, and I could feel her watching me as I grabbed a soda from the fridge. She said some terrible things. You should call her out, make her feel even worse. No. Be the bigger person. “Glad you didn’t spill on yourself. That top is too cute to ruin,” I called over my shoulder.
I returned to my office, opened my soda, and bopped my head to my playlist as I checked the clock and opened Below the Belt, the site Carmen had introduced me to, to catch up on the latest gossip in BigLaw. I perused the headlines: “Inebriated Davis & Gilroy Associate Topples Display at MOMA Gala,” “Record-High Bonuses Rumored This Christmas,” “Is BigLaw Going the Way of the Dodo?”
I looked back at my clock. Only three minutes had passed since I had last checked it. I turned my music off and tried to breathe to steady the thudding in my chest. My offi
ce felt suddenly tiny, as though the walls were slowly closing in on me, and I suddenly needed to get out. I dialed Derrick’s extension, hoping he was free for a walk around the block.
No answer.
I texted him.
Alex: You around? Need a break.
Derrick: Litigation settled today so hopped on a flight to Vegas. Back tomorrow.
Who goes to Vegas for a night? I yanked at the collar of my shirt. Was this claustrophobia?
Was that even possible, given the view of the entirety of downtown Manhattan outside my window?
There were still twenty-three minutes before our status call. Antsy, I walked into the hallway, where a couple of still-lit offices and the hum of a vacuum from somewhere behind me were the only evidence of life in the building. My eye caught on the reflective sign hanging from the ceiling of a stick figure taking a flight of stairs, and it gave me an idea. I went back to my office, kicked off my heels, and laced up the nearly unused gym shoes I kept under my desk. I returned to the stairwell, opened the door, and breathed in the musk of dusty, industrial concrete, then hiked up my skirt and started to climb slowly, savoring the tightening in my calves and feeling my thighs start to burn from the rare physical exertion.
And then I heard a soft whimper, and stopped short. I couldn’t hear anything but silence for a moment, yet I felt another presence in the stairwell, and then I registered another faint feminine whine. I silently continued upward, wondering if I should offer comfort to a colleague who was clearly having a tough time, or just retreat and leave her in peace.
Then I heard a grunt.
A distinctly male grunt.
I instinctively covered my mouth and lowered myself to sit on a step. I glided slowly upward using both my hands and feet, craning my neck slightly, too curious not to look but terrified I’d spot somebody who I definitely did not want to see me. What if it was Mike Baccard? Or any partner? He’d never be able to look me in the eye again. My career would be over! But I couldn’t help myself. I crawled one step higher, and one body came into view, long blond hair on a head bobbing back and forth at the waist level of a man who was standing, his head thankfully just out of range, his white button-down untucked, his navy pinstripe jacket still on. His pants, I imagined, lay crumpled around his ankles. I watched for longer than I should have. I knew it was somehow depraved, but I couldn’t tear myself away. I craned my neck again, bringing the girl’s gossamer pink shirt further into view. Nancy!
I retreated back down the stairs as quietly as I could, but I dropped my phone on the concrete. A sound like china plates shattering on a restaurant floor echoed off the unforgiving surface. I stood frozen for a moment, and felt the two bodies above me tense. There was whispering. And then movement. I was certain they’d run away up the stairs, but I heard them thudding down them instead. I snapped into action, grabbing my phone and darting out of the door on the first landing I came to. I let the door close behind me, then leaned back against it for a moment, shutting my eyes. It occurred to me then that they needed to know who I was so that they could determine just how much trouble they would be in with the firm, if I was somebody who would talk. They might still be following me.
I sprinted to the elevator bank and pressed the down button frantically, then dove into the elevator. But before the doors could close all the way, Nancy appeared on the other side. We stared at each other, dumbfounded, as the steel doors sealed me in and shoved me downward. I looked up at the camera in the corner of the elevator. Lincoln must be getting quite the show tonight.
Jordan was going to find it absolutely hilarious that annoying, judgmental little Nancy was giving head in a dirty stairwell. As I walked to his office, I practiced how I’d begin the story, but when I arrived, Jordan looked stressed. He beckoned me in impatiently and immediately dialed the conference line. Hold music came on. I wiped the shit-eating grin from my face. Something must have gone south with the deal. Shit.
He opened his mouth to speak just as the voice on the line announced that the conference would begin.
Despite his seeming anxiety, the call was going according to script—which I’d learned was the absolute best-case scenario in the legal world. We had already signed up the deal, and everybody had agreed to the terms, but we had bifurcated closing, meaning that all that needed to happen was for the funds to transfer from the buyer’s account to the seller’s—save our $2 million worth of legal fees, of course. The closing call was scheduled for nine tomorrow morning, and with any luck, I could be home in bed by eleven a.m.
As we were wrapping up, the opposing counsel said he had one more thing to add. “Lastly, we need to disclose that there appears to have been a small breach by the buyer in the confidentiality agreement. The news of the asset purchase seems to have been announced at the annual shareholders meeting.”
I lifted my head up from my pad and turned wide-eyed to Jordan. I opened my mouth to whisper a question, and he silenced me with a quick shake of his head.
“Jordan?” the opposing counsel asked. “Did I lose you?”
“No,” he said.
“Look, Jordan, I don’t think there is actually any effect on the company, or—” He stopped himself. “It could have been an agreement only for the seller to sign to begin with. There was no reason for the buyer to remain hush-hush. But I will have all answers by nine a.m.”
Jordan sat there without speaking.
“I know this could potentially unravel the deal, but it won’t,” the opposing counsel stammered, filling the silence.
Matt’s voice came through the phone. “That’s for our client to say, not yours, John.” Jordan and I breathed a sigh of relief. “And going forward, I’d appreciate you not waiting until the end of a call to tell us something that could kill the deal. It’s irrelevant whether the confidentiality agreement could have been one-sided. It is, in fact, reciprocal. We’ll get back to you once we confer with our client.” There was a beep, and the automated voice let us know Matt had left the conference, so we hung up, too.
“I have to call Didier and tell him what’s going on,” Jordan said. “But I need to know all scenarios. Call Taylor now and have them run valuations now and at nine in the morning based on market rumors affecting revenue by fifteen percent going forward. I need an answer by two a.m.” He glanced at his open door to dismiss me. “I’m going to circle back with Matt. It’s going to be a long night.”
I nodded, and was almost out the door when he spoke again.
“Alex.” I turned around to see him staring at me. “Did you see how I kept my mouth shut on that call?” I gave a hesitant nod. “It’s important to know when not to speak.”
I nodded again, more than slightly confused. Did I speak too much on client calls?
“Am I being clear?”
He had never taken this particular tone with me—condescending and formal—and it infuriated me. I looked from his white shirt to his navy pinstripe suit jacket. I felt my eyes widen despite my attempt to maintain a poker face. I felt my gaze drift down to his wedding ring as he clasped his hands together, and then I locked eyes with him and nodded. My heart sank as I realized that the possibility that he and Nancy had gotten together for the first time tonight was remote at best.
“I didn’t see any . . . yes. Clear.” I forced my rubbery legs out of his office, then returned to my desk and tried to figure out how I had missed what had been happening right in front of my face.
“Hello?” I heard Taylor from National’s voice through the receiver before realizing that I had called his cell.
“Hey. It’s Alex from Klasko. Did I wake you?”
“I wish. I’m actually still in the office. What’s up?”
“DuVont disclosed the asset sale at their shareholder meeting today,” I told him.
“Fuck. It’s always the ones you file as ‘closed’ in your brain.” He sounded calm enough, though, I noted with relief.
“Yeah, so we need to rerun the valuations by one a.m.” I gave myself an ho
ur cushion in case he was late getting me the projections. “Two scenarios . . .”
I slept in the office the next two nights, and we ended up closing the deal on Friday morning instead of Wednesday. The moment we did, there was a flurry of emails from National thanking our team for its diligence and efficiency in the face of complications, and I replied-all with a quick email telling them they were my favorite client before hopping in a Quality car home. As soon as I was in the car, I recalled my last bizarre encounter and stiffened. My eyes went to the rearview mirror, where I was relieved to see an unfamiliar face. He barely looked back at me as he started down Fifth Avenue.
* * *
I returned to the office on Monday after a weekend of sleep, having decided I’d reach out to Jordan first thing and smooth over any awkwardness, letting him know that as far as I was concerned, the incident never happened. Little did he know, I was in no position to judge. Before I could dial his number, though, he called me.
“Hey.” I tried to sound nonchalant, but overshot a bit.
“Hey, Alex.”
Why was he using my real name? He hadn’t called me anything but Skippy in months.
“Matt just got off the phone with the National crew. They are so happy with how the deal turned out and the job we did for them that they want to celebrate with a night out. Tonight is the only night they can do in the next few weeks. We’re going to take them for dinner at The Grill. So . . . yeah . . . you’re coming.”
“Okay!” I said, feeling the tension through the phone and wondering for a moment whether I should say something about the stairwell to try to dispel it before thinking better of the idea. “Sounds fun!”
“K, bye.” He hung up, and I winced at his abruptness.
I pulled up the collar of my shirt to just below my eyes, as if it could hide me from the awkwardness I felt, then popped my head back out and dialed his number.
“Hello?” He sounded confused.
