The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund by Jill Kargman Page A

horrified grimace. “Oh, well, fuck that, she’s ruined, man. Doing her would be like throwing a hot dog down a hallway.”
    I was ill.
    Tim laughed at the visual, but I was insulted and disgusted. No doubt I was clearly a “hallway,” too.
    â€œIt . . . isn’t really like that,” I countered defensively.
    â€œWhatever. That poor, scarred dude. Seal. Three kids through there? No matter how well he’s hung, that’s like putting a Tic Tac in a whale.”
    This would have been a moment, on behalf of not only the stunning Heidi Klum but all “ruined” mothers everywhere, when I would have very much liked to take the sterling tray of snacks and bash his cheekboney face to a bloody pulp.
    Next, he started dumping on their “friend” Sly Fisher’s plane.
    â€œIt’s so lame, we went to Lester Hamm’s private island—got some serious poontang down there, holy smokes—but the jet is so old now, maybe his returns aren’t what he says.”
    He went on and on about this and that model of private jet, essentially counting everyone’s money, which my mother always said was something one should never do. By the time he finished his incessant spiel, I could pretty much figure out the hierarchy of flying in his elitist eyes:
    â€œWHEELS UP” HIERARCHY, ACCORDING TO MARK

    My only way out was to pull the ejector seat.
    â€œOh, sweetie, look at the time! Our reservation at Nello is in five minutes, so we should probably go.”
    Tim looked down at his, yes, Rolex. “Oh, yeah, Mark, care to join?”
    Huh?
    â€œNah, I’m hooking up with some guys from ThunderPoint Capital downtown at this new restaurant, Midas.” Phew.
    â€œNext time, man—”
    I was furious with Tim for even offering to include Mark in our date-night dinner, so we walked around the corner to Madison in silence as I thought about how much I actively loathed Mark Webb. He was everything I detested: devoid of values, voraciously materialistic, and loathsome to all thinking women. He was a huge partyer, a male slut type. But not all hedge fund guys were like that. I’d studied the scene up close, and Kiki and I had decided that there was a link between the style of the guy and the type of hedge fund he worked in.
    For example, at quantitative-style funds, where mathematical formulas and computer software helped determine investments, at the helm was a nice, power-nerd type, who loved his wife and kids and didn’t care about “the scene.” Contrastingly, both the “global macro” type firms (who put their wedding rings in their pockets on Boondoggles) and the equity hedge funds (preppy white-shoe types, including scattered “Tiger cubs” from the once all-powerful Tiger Management) were way more life-in-the-fast-lane: jets, cars, wine, women, and song—the works.
    Mark was the worst. And he was one of Tim’s best friends on earth. Granted, their relationship wasn’t close to what I had with Kiki: It was more about bonding through partying. Many of Tim’s friendships were just about having fun or showing off and spending money on boy toys and adventures.
    The excesses of the cultural moment made everything seem ripe for the picking; the money made everyone around me feel like they had a complete carte blanche of moral elasticity, and like their AmEx Black cards, the sky was the limit as to what they could pull off. Or should I say the lowest rung of Hell’s circles was the limit—there was no sin they couldn’t get away with. New York was a bacchanal of the rich and obnoxious, a Falstaffian brew of hedonism and material excess: no boundaries, no breaks—just high octane, high speed, all the time. I knew the economic law of gravity held that what goes up would inevitably come down—for every boom there would be bust—that’s why it’s called a business cycle. But on the horizon, despite