playfulness this afternoon...of course he was in shock. There was no way he’d be so cavalier if he’d fully accepted his situation. “It’s probably normal that you feel that way,” I said, gently. “It’ll be easier to deal with if you accept it in stages.”
I paused for a second, wanting to know more but not wanting to make him upset. “It’s a lot to take in all at once…but I’m curious…were you expecting anything like this? Had the SEC given you any indication about an investigation? Any sort of a warning?”
Walker sighed and rubbed his face. I could almost feel the stubble beneath his palm and I indulged in all sorts of inappropriate, but luckily invisible, clenching again. “Let’s finish eating, first. I have a lot to tell you.”
I nodded at him and went back to my burrito, which unfortunately had lost some of its charm due to the seriousness of the conversation. I pushed the chips around on my plate, fidgeting. “Nicole,” Walker said. “Finish your food. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not worried,” I lied. “You have the best lawyers money can buy.”
“Are you the best?” he asked. “And is it possible to actually buy you?” He managed to sound playful again, and also a little excited, which didn’t help at all with the clenching.
“I have very keen powers of observation,” I said, “and they tell me that I am, in fact, the best. Sadly, you can’t buy me. You may, however, pay my exorbitant legal fee. I’m worth every penny.”
“I love a woman who’s not afraid to brag. And earn money,” he said.
“Then we should get along just fine,” I said, wondering how he’d so seamlessly put me at ease. And then I realized it: I was being managed. Walker was the CEO of a billion-dollar company, and he was used to people doing what he wanted. He was an expert, and he was in control. He wanted me to like him, to be on his side.
He was an excellent manager. I’d forgotten all about the orange debacle of this morning, and all I cared about right now was liking him. And being on his side.
----
W e pulled his ridiculously expensive — and awfully fun — car into Back Bay, home of professional athletes, professional models, and probably some of the Proctor partners. I had no experience with the neighborhood, aside from a cheap Chinese restaurant on Commonwealth Ave that Mike and I used to go to sometimes. The gorgeous Victorian brownstones glowed in the early evening light; the on-street parking was jam-packed with the newest Audis, BMWs and Mercedes.
I sighed inwardly. Whenever I was in a ritzy neighborhood like this, it just made me feel bad. You’re ridiculous, I scolded myself. I was an attorney; I’d gone to a top law school; I worked for one of the most prestigious law firms in the city and I made well over one hundred thousand dollars a year.
Still, I knew I would never live in a neighborhood like this. Not ever, even if I made partner. Just like I knew there were some stores in Boston that I would never dare go into. I’d stood outside one recently, on Newbury Street, wanting to try on a dress I saw in the window. But as crazy as it was, I was worried I’d walk in and they’d think I was a shoplifter. It was ridiculous and I knew it — but when you grow up poor, you grow up class-conscious. At least I did. As a kid I was always aware of my cheap jacket, my mother’s crap station-wagon. And now that I was a grown woman, I was uncomfortably aware of the fact that most of my suits cost a fraction of what the other women at my office wore. Having grown up without expensive clothes, jewelry and handbags, I didn’t think of them as necessary. I liked them as much as anybody else, but they weren’t necessary . I seemed to be the only one at my office, and certainly the only one on Newbury Street, who seemed to feel that way.
Maybe most people in my office and on Newbury weren’t coming from where I came from. A walk-up in Somerville, one parent with a small income, one
I paused for a second, wanting to know more but not wanting to make him upset. “It’s a lot to take in all at once…but I’m curious…were you expecting anything like this? Had the SEC given you any indication about an investigation? Any sort of a warning?”
Walker sighed and rubbed his face. I could almost feel the stubble beneath his palm and I indulged in all sorts of inappropriate, but luckily invisible, clenching again. “Let’s finish eating, first. I have a lot to tell you.”
I nodded at him and went back to my burrito, which unfortunately had lost some of its charm due to the seriousness of the conversation. I pushed the chips around on my plate, fidgeting. “Nicole,” Walker said. “Finish your food. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not worried,” I lied. “You have the best lawyers money can buy.”
“Are you the best?” he asked. “And is it possible to actually buy you?” He managed to sound playful again, and also a little excited, which didn’t help at all with the clenching.
“I have very keen powers of observation,” I said, “and they tell me that I am, in fact, the best. Sadly, you can’t buy me. You may, however, pay my exorbitant legal fee. I’m worth every penny.”
“I love a woman who’s not afraid to brag. And earn money,” he said.
“Then we should get along just fine,” I said, wondering how he’d so seamlessly put me at ease. And then I realized it: I was being managed. Walker was the CEO of a billion-dollar company, and he was used to people doing what he wanted. He was an expert, and he was in control. He wanted me to like him, to be on his side.
He was an excellent manager. I’d forgotten all about the orange debacle of this morning, and all I cared about right now was liking him. And being on his side.
----
W e pulled his ridiculously expensive — and awfully fun — car into Back Bay, home of professional athletes, professional models, and probably some of the Proctor partners. I had no experience with the neighborhood, aside from a cheap Chinese restaurant on Commonwealth Ave that Mike and I used to go to sometimes. The gorgeous Victorian brownstones glowed in the early evening light; the on-street parking was jam-packed with the newest Audis, BMWs and Mercedes.
I sighed inwardly. Whenever I was in a ritzy neighborhood like this, it just made me feel bad. You’re ridiculous, I scolded myself. I was an attorney; I’d gone to a top law school; I worked for one of the most prestigious law firms in the city and I made well over one hundred thousand dollars a year.
Still, I knew I would never live in a neighborhood like this. Not ever, even if I made partner. Just like I knew there were some stores in Boston that I would never dare go into. I’d stood outside one recently, on Newbury Street, wanting to try on a dress I saw in the window. But as crazy as it was, I was worried I’d walk in and they’d think I was a shoplifter. It was ridiculous and I knew it — but when you grow up poor, you grow up class-conscious. At least I did. As a kid I was always aware of my cheap jacket, my mother’s crap station-wagon. And now that I was a grown woman, I was uncomfortably aware of the fact that most of my suits cost a fraction of what the other women at my office wore. Having grown up without expensive clothes, jewelry and handbags, I didn’t think of them as necessary. I liked them as much as anybody else, but they weren’t necessary . I seemed to be the only one at my office, and certainly the only one on Newbury Street, who seemed to feel that way.
Maybe most people in my office and on Newbury weren’t coming from where I came from. A walk-up in Somerville, one parent with a small income, one
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