words with care.
“Perfect. We can go shopping. You can ditch after lunch tomorrow; there’s not much work anyway right now.”
“Well…”
“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. You could use a little fun. It’s why I made Banner put you on the list.”
“No, no. I’m looking forward to it.” I pushed out another false smile. “I haven’t gotten dressed up like that since the Sigma Nu formal, freshman year.”
She shuddered. “Yuck. We are
definitely
going shopping.”
“So who else is going?” I asked casually.
“Well, Banner, of course. Me. Two VPs. You. Then a few clients.”
“You should ask Charlie. He’s been working hard. He deserves a night out.”
She tilted her head at me and lifted her latte to her lips. “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully, “you’re right. He can be, like, your wing man.”
“Why would I need a wing man?”
“Come on, Kate. These things are full of rich guys.” She winked. “You can totally get laid.”
T HE GOLDEN WEATHER had beckoned all the runners out tonight, the regulars and the stragglers, but most had started earlier and began to drop off, one by one, as the sky grew purple and twilight wrapped around the horizon. Alicia had been right; the coffee did rev me up. I bounded up the hill toward the main drive and settled into an effortless pace, taking pleasure in the rhythm of my feet striking the pavement, in the feeling of grace that overtook me after the first half-mile or so, deep and meditative.
Of course, meditation was a dangerous thing for me these days. Inevitably I began to think of Julian, and it took effort to turn that around, to force my brain to pursue some piece of busywork: calculating how I was going to pay for business school next fall, for example, or how long my savings would last at various rates of cash burn. Tidy puzzles to solve.
I lasted longer than usual. I ran north, counterclockwise, and had gone around the far end of the park for the steady climb toward Ninety-sixthStreet before my mind began to slip its ropes and wander away. Desperately I tried to haul it back in, but it was no use. Julian’s face began to appear before me, that impossibly handsome face; his glowing eyes, his expressive smile. I thought of our e-mail exchange on Christmas Eve, so tender and funny and then so abruptly cold; that last Dear Kate, so exquisitely phrased, with its odd formality at the end, like he’d copied it from one of those old model-letter books. As if I could ever think of calling on him for help.
Hi, Julian. Kate here. Could you write me a recommendation for my summer internship? Thanks a
bunch!
It would have been easier, in a way, if something
had
happened; if there had been anything between us other than a few words, a few intense looks, a sense of dawning understanding. I could be angry with him then. I could wallow in self-righteous bitterness, label him a heartless bastard, throw a few darts at his photograph, and move on. It was infinitely more difficult to have no one to blame. He had behaved impeccably, really. After that graceful good-bye, he hadn’t tried to reach me again, not even after the ChemoDerma deal fell apart in February. Humiliating, of course, but better than having the agony drawn out with sporadic impersonal contact. All communication between the two firms had gone instead through Geoff Warwick and Banner.
I’d heard a rumor, a few days ago, that Southfield was winding down its remaining positions, cashing out, and even closing down. Rumors like that were running about Wall Street like frightened rabbits these days. A feeling had seeped into the air, the faint frisson of a market on the point of turning, if you listened to the whispers. Housing market, mortgage-backed securities, write-downs, bank capital ratios. Not stuff you really wanted to think about, but looming there in the background, hard to ignore completely.
Twilight had settled in by the time I crested the hill and began descending through the shadowed
“Perfect. We can go shopping. You can ditch after lunch tomorrow; there’s not much work anyway right now.”
“Well…”
“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. You could use a little fun. It’s why I made Banner put you on the list.”
“No, no. I’m looking forward to it.” I pushed out another false smile. “I haven’t gotten dressed up like that since the Sigma Nu formal, freshman year.”
She shuddered. “Yuck. We are
definitely
going shopping.”
“So who else is going?” I asked casually.
“Well, Banner, of course. Me. Two VPs. You. Then a few clients.”
“You should ask Charlie. He’s been working hard. He deserves a night out.”
She tilted her head at me and lifted her latte to her lips. “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully, “you’re right. He can be, like, your wing man.”
“Why would I need a wing man?”
“Come on, Kate. These things are full of rich guys.” She winked. “You can totally get laid.”
T HE GOLDEN WEATHER had beckoned all the runners out tonight, the regulars and the stragglers, but most had started earlier and began to drop off, one by one, as the sky grew purple and twilight wrapped around the horizon. Alicia had been right; the coffee did rev me up. I bounded up the hill toward the main drive and settled into an effortless pace, taking pleasure in the rhythm of my feet striking the pavement, in the feeling of grace that overtook me after the first half-mile or so, deep and meditative.
Of course, meditation was a dangerous thing for me these days. Inevitably I began to think of Julian, and it took effort to turn that around, to force my brain to pursue some piece of busywork: calculating how I was going to pay for business school next fall, for example, or how long my savings would last at various rates of cash burn. Tidy puzzles to solve.
I lasted longer than usual. I ran north, counterclockwise, and had gone around the far end of the park for the steady climb toward Ninety-sixthStreet before my mind began to slip its ropes and wander away. Desperately I tried to haul it back in, but it was no use. Julian’s face began to appear before me, that impossibly handsome face; his glowing eyes, his expressive smile. I thought of our e-mail exchange on Christmas Eve, so tender and funny and then so abruptly cold; that last Dear Kate, so exquisitely phrased, with its odd formality at the end, like he’d copied it from one of those old model-letter books. As if I could ever think of calling on him for help.
Hi, Julian. Kate here. Could you write me a recommendation for my summer internship? Thanks a
bunch!
It would have been easier, in a way, if something
had
happened; if there had been anything between us other than a few words, a few intense looks, a sense of dawning understanding. I could be angry with him then. I could wallow in self-righteous bitterness, label him a heartless bastard, throw a few darts at his photograph, and move on. It was infinitely more difficult to have no one to blame. He had behaved impeccably, really. After that graceful good-bye, he hadn’t tried to reach me again, not even after the ChemoDerma deal fell apart in February. Humiliating, of course, but better than having the agony drawn out with sporadic impersonal contact. All communication between the two firms had gone instead through Geoff Warwick and Banner.
I’d heard a rumor, a few days ago, that Southfield was winding down its remaining positions, cashing out, and even closing down. Rumors like that were running about Wall Street like frightened rabbits these days. A feeling had seeped into the air, the faint frisson of a market on the point of turning, if you listened to the whispers. Housing market, mortgage-backed securities, write-downs, bank capital ratios. Not stuff you really wanted to think about, but looming there in the background, hard to ignore completely.
Twilight had settled in by the time I crested the hill and began descending through the shadowed
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