by Erica Katz
I attempted to control the pain I was feeling by picturing myself floating on a cloud, conjuring the instructions from the one time in college I had tried meditating, but my mind raced with the sense that I’d somehow deserved the punishment, spliced with the actual feeling of my dress being pushed up and their hands all over me. I was unable to make sense of my thoughts or quell the anxiety numbing my limbs, but I did arrive at one conclusion: If I didn’t talk about it and I didn’t let it affect me, then it didn’t happen. What did actually happen, anyway? Attempted assault? What was the punishment for that? A slap on the wrist? This was Gary Kaplan. Nobody would believe me. And he would destroy my career, and maybe even my family. I would just continue to live my life, and not let him affect me. That way, I would win.
Part VI
Postbreakup Matters
The “cleanup” and adjustments made after a deal or breakup in order to ensure that each party to the transaction can successfully function.
Q.To be clear, you engaged in consensual sexual congress with Peter Dunn. And you did not consent to the alleged sexual advances made by Gary Kaplan.
A.Correct. You must realize that consenting to one man is not consenting to every man.
Q.There is no implication that it is. It’s a yes or no question. Is it correct that you consented to sexual relations with Peter Dunn but not with Gary Kaplan?
A.Yes. It is.
Q.Did you benefit financially based on your claims of alleged sexual assault against Gary Kaplan?
A.No.
Q.You did not benefit monetarily, either directly or indirectly, from your accusations against Gary Kaplan?
Chapter 22
I walked into the office the Monday morning after the Stag River gala and stared at the blinking red light on my phone. I’d listened to and deleted all my messages from coworkers and clients, so I knew what I would hear if I listened to the last voice mail, the one I had left myself that night. The air around my head hummed, and I shoved my index fingers into my ears and shook hard in a futile attempt to dispel the ringing. Though I hadn’t been thinking clearly when I’d lied about having the flu, it actually was the perfect excuse because I knew how ill I looked—my sunken cheeks had a greenish hue, and my hair was matted to my head from the constant beads of sweat bubbling up through my scalp.
I covered the blinking red light with a napkin and dove into my emails. Throwing myself into work distracted me from the mess that was my personal life, sucking all emotion out of me and leaving behind a calculating shell of a human. I spent the next hour tending to my Stag River messages, though none directly from Gary, and responded clearly and professionally. Starting at ten, I was in meetings all day, including three with Peter where I successfully avoided making eye contact with him even once. When I returned to my office at the end of the day, Anna was looking up at me expectantly from her cubicle. “I have Jordan for you.”
I nodded and closed the door to my office behind me. “Hi,” I said into the receiver.
His voice was warm. “How’re you feeling?”
“Better. Yeah, better,” I told him. In reality, I felt almost nothing but a nagging angst at my fingertips—making me type faster, speak more quickly, walk more swiftly.
“I’m getting a drink with some guys across the street. Are you still knocked out from the flu?”
“I need a drink tonight more than anybody has ever needed a drink.”
“Is that a yes?” Jordan laughed. “Meet us there at seven.”
I sat back in my chair and bit at a fingernail. For the moment, I had no unread emails and nothing pressing on my to-do list, and my brain drifted back to The Incident. I shook my head to steady myself and dialed the first three digits of Carmen’s extension but couldn’t press the last one. I leaned back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling, willing my hand to stop trembling. I shook it out, hung up, and dialed her full extension.
“Hey lady!” Carmen chirped. “What’s cookin’?” I could hear impatience in her tone.
“Hey . . .” I had called her to make small talk, just to cancel the noise in my head, but hearing her voice, I realized how badly I needed to tell her about the gala. Whatever was going on between us at work, I had no doubt whatsoever she’d stand beside me as a loyal friend.
“Al, so sorry. Gotta take this. Call you right back.” Carmen clicked onto her other line.
I cradled my head in my hands and heard a knock on the door. I took a moment to gather myself before speaking. “Come in!”
Peter opened the door, which let out a slow creak, and closed it behind him. I noticed that his usually smooth jawline was covered in stubble. It suited him—of course it did. I suddenly felt angry that everything was so easy for him. That I had been so easy for him.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing to a seat. I gave him a short nod.
“Are you avoiding me?” he asked, sounding uncharacteristically apprehensive. “I mean, I know you’re avoiding me. I know you’re mad about the gala.”
I swallowed. “I’m not mad. Or avoiding you. I’ve responded to all your emails, haven’t I?” He cocked his head to one side, indicating that he’d noticed that my responses had become short. And cold. No exclamation points or witty replies, no smiley faces or open-ended questions regarding anything other than deal terms. Granted, we had never been overtly flirtatious via email, but my tone toward him had undoubtedly shifted.
I stared at him, realizing that I blamed him for what had happened to me.
“I’m just confused because I thought we had a nice weekend together . . . I’d feel terrible if I did something to . . .”
“You didn’t,” I said. “But what we had, whatever that was, is over. I want to continue working on your deals. But we can only work together. No more . . . anything,” I finished, and exhaled. Saying those words was much easier than I had thought it would be.
Peter met my gaze with a half smile and nodded a few times, slowly at first and then faster. “Fair enough,” he said. Then we both froze as we heard a mechanical click from somewhere in my desk, a slight rustling, and the undeniable shift of the energy in the air. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“I’m still on the line,” Carmen said, her voice coming from the black grid, and then we heard the click as she hung up.
I dropped my head into my hands. “Shit.”
“Was that—” Peter began.
“Please,” I said, without looking up.
I heard him shut my door as I said “Shit” over and over to myself, head still in my hands. I finally swallowed down the bile that had made its way to the back of my throat, sat up, and dialed Carmen’s extension. I heard her pick up the receiver, but the line went immediately dead. I tried again. Same thing.
Three more times. The same result. She had to be so disgusted with me—thinking this was how I’d gotten an edge over her in M&A.
“Fuck!” I yelled into the ether. Within thirty seconds, Anna poked her head in.
“Not now,” I snapped at her. She darted back out and closed the door quickly, leaving me alone in a space that seemed to be closing in on me as my thoughts of shame ballooned out.
When I arrived at the bar, I was surprised to see Kevin sitting next to Jordan at a high-top table, two empty beers in front of them. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” I said in between hungry sips of my drink, eager to wash away the day I just had.
“Jealous?” Kevin said with a wink. I rolled my eyes and ordered a round of tequila shots. I barely paid attention to what they were saying as I focused on drinking enough to dull my racing thoughts and emotions. I replayed the conversation with Peter that Carmen had overheard over and over in my mind as Kevin and Jordan laughed about some story they heard from the Litigation team. I ordered another round of shots, ignoring Kevin’s curious glance, and watched as the bartender slowly poured our shots and the waitress took an eternity to bring them over. I threw mine back before the guys did, without a “Cheers.”
“A
nother!” I demanded, slamming my shot glass down.
Jordan shook his head and laughed. “I think you’ve had quite enough, Skip.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I said, and sneered. “I’m not some, like, little woman.” I couldn’t come up with a better word.
Jordan held up his hands. “Fine, fine—have as much as you want.”
As much as I hated to admit Jordan was right, I was drunk. Really drunk. I hadn’t eaten a substantial meal in days, and between the shots and the drinks, I was four or five deep. And for the first time in my life, I was an angry drunk.
“Cigarette?” Jordan cocked his head to the side.
“I don’t smoke. It’s disgusting.”
“Then just stand outside with me,” he said curtly, pulling me by the arm. I ripped it out of his grip and spun around with my finger pointed at him, but I saw so much concern and kindness in his expression that I dropped my arm back to my side and turned toward the door. “We’ll be back in two minutes,” I heard him say to Kevin.
The fresh spring air forced my pores open, sobering me up for a moment. “I’ll have one too,” I said, as though I was doing him a favor.
Jordan shook his head. “I quit months ago. I don’t have any on me.” He folded his arms over his chest and stared at me. “What the fuck is going on with you, Skip?”
As I shook my head, the tears came almost immediately. “I feel like I’m coming apart,” I coughed out, gasping for air.
“Shit,” Jordan said. He took a step toward me and then retreated, not knowing how close to get. I thought for a moment of telling Jordan about Gary assaulting me, about my relationship with Peter, about Carmen finding out—maybe he’d be the one who could help me out of the mess I had made. But if somebody else knew everything that had happened, it would suddenly become real.
“How could you sleep with Carmen?” I said instead. “I won’t cover for you the way I did with Nancy, you know.”
His jaw dropped open. “Huh?”
“I know you guys are having a thing.”
“You’ve lost your mind, Skip. Seriously, you’re insane. I’ve never laid a finger on Carmen.” He spoke slowly, as though I were holding hostages. “That’s Peter’s job,” he said.
Everything stopped.
“Who?” My knees grew weak, and I bent slightly to rest my hands on my thighs.
“Peter! Shit!” Jordan said.
“Peter Peter? Peter Dunn?” I asked. I leaned backward against the wall, no longer trusting my legs. Carmen knows I slept with Peter, I thought. And Peter’s the guy Carmen has been seeing? This was not good. Not good.
“Yes, Peter Dunn! How did you not know that? Everybody knows. Carmen is pretty obvious about it,” he said with a smirk.
“Oh my god. This day is actually so much worse than I thought it was. And it was really fucking bad to begin with. My life is completely going to shit!” I yelled, stomping my foot in frustration.
“That’s a bit dramatic, Skip. But yeah, he’s fucking Carmen. And Peggy in recruiting. And Sarah in accounting. I mean, the man can’t keep it in his pants.”
I struggled to take a deep breath, with only minimal success.
“Did you really not know this?” Jordan said. “I actually feel like we’ve spoken about it.” I shook my head, and my heart banged against my ribs. “Shit. Skip? Are you okay?” Jordan’s hand was on my back. “You’re freaking out. I mean, this doesn’t even really involve you. You need to chill.” As he spoke, he dug into his breast pocket, and I heard the rattling maraca of pills.
I watched his lips moving, and in a crystal-clear moment, I saw it: my cheating with a serial adulterer, my assault by a rich scumbag, my entire existence in corporate America, was just so . . . typical. I realized what I had always feared to be true, since the moment my world records were shattered. I wasn’t special at all, I was just like every other pathetic person I knew. I bent down and puked between my shoes.
* * *
I stared at my bite marks in the pizza crust, taking one last small nibble at the corner, as we sat on a bench. I wiped the grease from my chin with the back of my hand and threw the rest of my slice into the trash, then leaned my head on Jordan’s shoulder, which felt solid and warm against my cheek.
“I can’t do this job anymore,” I muttered into the foggy air.
“You’re really fucking stressed. And you don’t sleep. And you drank too much tonight. You can do this. You’re so talented,” he said calmly.
Images flew through my mind—Carmen’s sideways glances during that presentation, the ones I’d thought were directed at Jordan; the locked restoration room door; her questions about where I was going with Peter; and finally, the conversation she’d overheard—until, like a gift, the Xanax Jordan had given me kicked in.
“Kevin. We left Kevin,” I realized aloud.
“Kevin is fine. Let’s get you home, Skip. It’s Sam’s turn to deal with you,” he said, laughing. I burst into tears again at the mention of Sam’s name, but allowed him to hail me a cab to take me home.
Chapter 23
“Sloppy,” Peter muttered under his breath, and I cringed. In the forty-five minutes it took him to read the acquisition agreement I’d drafted, I sat in his office and alternated between watching him and reading my emails on my phone. He didn’t say a single word to me as he took a pen to my draft with short, tight, angry marks.
I winced as I watched the red lines slash through the words I’d chosen carefully, and thought of how Carmen wouldn’t return my phone calls. I watched Peter gnaw at his lower lip, and I wondered momentarily whether he was so angry because Carmen had stopped sleeping with him as well. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to care—about anything, really. Except my deals.
I was throwing myself into work, gladly letting it consume all of my energy and waking hours. I almost managed to convince myself I was doing okay—until I drank. Liquor allowed all the vile bodily fluids to escape from my face—hot tears and yellow mucus and bubbles of saliva—as soon as my defenses were slightly weakened. A few days after my less-than-stellar showing at drinks with Kevin and Jordan, I tried a few glasses of wine alone on my couch when I got home from work. Even before I was through with my first glass, I found myself wailing and shaking my shoulders, the way I only ever did when I was certain everything was crumbling around me, and when I was positive nobody was within earshot.
But sober, I convinced myself that I felt somewhat calm about my personal life and the state of chaos it was in. Weekdays in the office somehow felt very much normal, aside from the fact that Peter was reviewing my work with a much harsher eye.
When he finally looked up and handed me the document, it was entirely covered in red. “Turn these changes by COB,” he said without any trace of warmth.
I nodded and turned to leave. “When did you start doing M&A?” he asked, looking at me as though we barely knew one another.
“October.”
“Hmm,” he snorted, and turned back to his computer.
He was going to write me a bad review. He was going to kill my career. I was so screwed. Klasko was sadly the only place that felt like home, where I felt like the competent adult I’d been, pre-affair, pre-breakup, pre-Incident. I needed the tailored business clothes to hold me together, the sterile lobby to make me feel sane, the superficial pleasantries and mundane deal work to keep my mind off everything that had happened.
When I woke the next day, I inhaled in disgust. What was that smell? I looked under my bed for remnants of food, then looked at my gym shoes to see if I had stepped in poop, before burying my head in my chest and breathing in. I had actually thought it was impossible to recognize one’s own stench, but I could tell I smelled rotten, in a way that indicated sickness rather than bad hygiene. I forced myself into the bathroom, where I painstakingly removed my clothes, breathing harder with panic as every article of clothing dropped onto the tile floor. I looked at my sunken eyes and matted hair and forced myself into the shower, where
I remembered why I had been avoiding it. Being naked made the whole night rush in on me, the pulsing music in my ears, the anxiety in my veins. I mostly heard my own screams, my own struggle. My body didn’t feel like my own any longer. It felt like this unnecessary weakness following me around, and I didn’t want to exist in it. Snap out of it, I told myself. You’re fine. At the end of the day, nothing even happened. I scrubbed myself and toweled off as quickly as possible, then checked my email as I pulled on black pants and a silk blouse.
From: Carmen Greyson
To: Alexandra Vogel
Subject: Can we talk?
My office? Now? We really should talk . . .
From: Alexandra Vogel
To: Carmen Greyson
Subject: Re: Can we talk?
On my way in now. Will come straight to your office.
“Hey,” I said after knocking on Carmen’s doorframe forty minutes later. We looked at each other, both seeing a thinner, more hollowed-out version of our friend. I shut the door behind me and took a seat.
“So . . . ,” she started, and her lip immediately began to quiver. “I have something to tell you.” It was unnerving to watch her unwind, tears leaking out of her eyes and her hands shaking. “Peter Dunn and I also slept together.”
I tried my best to look surprised, but my effort was wasted; she could barely make eye contact.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
I gave her a moment before I responded. “Look, Carmen, I made a mistake with Peter too. It was brief, and now it’s over.”
She lifted her head and cocked it to the side, and I sensed that it had been more than a mistake for her. Of course, it had been more than that for me too.
“Alex, we have to go to management about this,” she said. “The M&A group has pitted us against one another from day one. They make us fight for work, for offices, for acceptance. And one of the most important partners in the group has been sleeping with both of us, and god knows who else. It’s a hostile work environment for women, and I, for one, will not stand for it. Let’s fight for an equal place along with the men on the M&A team.” Her words sounded rehearsed, as though she had run through them in the mirror.
