few days, that it might be more prudent to hold off on any personal contact until after the ChemoDerma IPO. It’s nothing at all to do with you, on my honor; I only want to forestall the prospect of the ruddy SEC piling on my doorstep at the moment. I do hope you understand, and of course you need not consider yourself bound in any way in the meantime. Let me add, however, that if you should have need of me for any reason, you have only to call, whatever the hour. I shall always pray for your safety and happiness. Yours, Julian.
Me:
[later]
Julian, I was kind of thinking the same thing. Thanks for the heads-up. You phrased it very well. Take care. Kate.
5.
May 2008
I decided to head home early and go for a run in Central Park. Of course, around here, going home early meant something like eight o’clock, but the long hours were no longer something I resented about life at Sterling Bates. Busy was good.
“Hey, Kate. Free for coffee?” The voice, bright and cheerful like a ray of freaking sunshine, belonged to Alicia. She leaned over the wall of my cubicle, smiling down at me with her small mouth in its large round face. She was growing her hair out, and it hung listlessly in an in-between stage that suited her even less than the pixie cut.
“Actually, I was thinking of going running this evening,” I said, trying to sound as cheerful as she did. Rumors had swarmed around Sterling Bates all winter, and everyone was watching breathlessly for my inevitable breakdown. According to Charlie, people were convinced I’d had a one-night stand with Julian Laurence on Paul Banner’s orders, and then been turned out the next morning like a whore on the streets, never to hear from him again. Embellishments had evolved into the story over the months—apparently I’d gone in for an abortion in early February and submitted the charge on my expense sheet—but the basic theme hadn’t changed, and my only weapon against the gossip was a fierce and unrelenting good mood. Especially with Alicia.
It was the hardest thing I’d ever done.
“Have some coffee first,” she insisted. “It’ll rev you up.”
I bared my teeth in a smile. “Sure. Why not?”
A week after Christmas, I’d received an e-mail from Alicia, apologizing for her rude behavior and asking if we could start fresh. Strangely enough, she seemed to mean it. She’d taken me under her wing, bought me coffee, dragged me to lunch, even brought me out drinking with some of her witchy friends. I’d gone along with her—it was something to do, after all, something to keep my brain from looping back to its preoccupations—until it became an expected habit. I was almost growing to like her.
Going to Starbucks meant taking about ten steps outdoors, from the revolving-door entrance of Sterling Bates to the storefront next to it. On this particular afternoon, they were easy steps to make: it was beautiful outside, that brief period in Manhattan between the fitful bluster of spring and the sticky breathless heat of summer. The warmth of daytime still lingered around us; the sun had only just begun to disappear behind the towers to the west. I drew in the limpid air. The urge to run pulsed through my muscles. Spring fever.
“So has Banner talked to you about the gala thing at MoMA tomorrow night?” Alicia asked, taking a drink of her latte.
“Banner doesn’t talk to me much lately.”
“Oh yeah.” Her mouth twitched. “Well, I spoke to him about it this afternoon, and we agreed you should go.”
I wrapped my lips around my straw and drew in my Frappuccino before replying. “Hmm. What is it, exactly?”
“Just a fund-raiser for some big charity. Capital Markets always buys a table, and Banner has his jollies picking which of us should go.”
I fell silent. If memory served, last year’s gala had been the venue for Julian Laurence’s sole appearance in the gossip columns. “I’m not sure I have anything to wear,” I said, drawing out my
Me:
[later]
Julian, I was kind of thinking the same thing. Thanks for the heads-up. You phrased it very well. Take care. Kate.
5.
May 2008
I decided to head home early and go for a run in Central Park. Of course, around here, going home early meant something like eight o’clock, but the long hours were no longer something I resented about life at Sterling Bates. Busy was good.
“Hey, Kate. Free for coffee?” The voice, bright and cheerful like a ray of freaking sunshine, belonged to Alicia. She leaned over the wall of my cubicle, smiling down at me with her small mouth in its large round face. She was growing her hair out, and it hung listlessly in an in-between stage that suited her even less than the pixie cut.
“Actually, I was thinking of going running this evening,” I said, trying to sound as cheerful as she did. Rumors had swarmed around Sterling Bates all winter, and everyone was watching breathlessly for my inevitable breakdown. According to Charlie, people were convinced I’d had a one-night stand with Julian Laurence on Paul Banner’s orders, and then been turned out the next morning like a whore on the streets, never to hear from him again. Embellishments had evolved into the story over the months—apparently I’d gone in for an abortion in early February and submitted the charge on my expense sheet—but the basic theme hadn’t changed, and my only weapon against the gossip was a fierce and unrelenting good mood. Especially with Alicia.
It was the hardest thing I’d ever done.
“Have some coffee first,” she insisted. “It’ll rev you up.”
I bared my teeth in a smile. “Sure. Why not?”
A week after Christmas, I’d received an e-mail from Alicia, apologizing for her rude behavior and asking if we could start fresh. Strangely enough, she seemed to mean it. She’d taken me under her wing, bought me coffee, dragged me to lunch, even brought me out drinking with some of her witchy friends. I’d gone along with her—it was something to do, after all, something to keep my brain from looping back to its preoccupations—until it became an expected habit. I was almost growing to like her.
Going to Starbucks meant taking about ten steps outdoors, from the revolving-door entrance of Sterling Bates to the storefront next to it. On this particular afternoon, they were easy steps to make: it was beautiful outside, that brief period in Manhattan between the fitful bluster of spring and the sticky breathless heat of summer. The warmth of daytime still lingered around us; the sun had only just begun to disappear behind the towers to the west. I drew in the limpid air. The urge to run pulsed through my muscles. Spring fever.
“So has Banner talked to you about the gala thing at MoMA tomorrow night?” Alicia asked, taking a drink of her latte.
“Banner doesn’t talk to me much lately.”
“Oh yeah.” Her mouth twitched. “Well, I spoke to him about it this afternoon, and we agreed you should go.”
I wrapped my lips around my straw and drew in my Frappuccino before replying. “Hmm. What is it, exactly?”
“Just a fund-raiser for some big charity. Capital Markets always buys a table, and Banner has his jollies picking which of us should go.”
I fell silent. If memory served, last year’s gala had been the venue for Julian Laurence’s sole appearance in the gossip columns. “I’m not sure I have anything to wear,” I said, drawing out my
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