Chapter 3
I FORCE MYSELF TO SIT BACK IN MY CHAIR and breathe like the professional I imagine myself to be. The concern on Hardwin’s face is tinged with something else, something hopeful. Maybe if I too become erratic, he can justify proceeding on his own, bypassing me entirely.
I stare down at the document in front of me.
How dare she.
I haven’t spoken to Betsey since she did her first broadcast interview a week ago.
There wasn’t a hint of trouble in the video segment, but a day later, while in Cincinnati, she got into a shouting match with a financial advisor.
Even that could be explained away. But then she never showed for her main-stage presentation at the Impact Conference. I’ve left a dozen messages.
But the train wreck was yesterday, Sunday, when she was fired. Now this. And how did she even get in the building?
“Is Betsey here? I thought we asked her to come in this afternoon and sign the separation agreement.” My voice is not as shaky as I feared.
The law associate, still in the doorway, bumps into the office. His lips curl as if he wants to add shade to the edges of his gossip.
Hardwin’s massive hand slices through the air like a dorsal fin through the surf.
He is done with these theatrics. Erratic aggression and office trashings don’t happen at this global financial institution with over one hundred and fifty years of prosperity and integrity.
I parrot from the elegant Garman Straub brass plaque on his desk.
“Thank you,” Hardwin booms, expressing anything but gratitude.
As the young man retreats, the door clicks shut. He will spread his news, and all the teams will soon be in a lather.
“She was here. Her badge was still active. I take responsibility. Apparently, she had more to say to you.” Hardwin’s arm is still suspended in the air as if he’s planted his flag.
To his left, a sepia-hued image of him hangs on the wall.
He’s barreling across the Harvard turf with a football tucked in his elbow.
His other arm extends out like a battering ram.
His hands and what they signal are legendary.
This space is his kingdom.
My office is my refuge.
Even with the guidance of executive coaches, I’ve struggled to establish a personal brand, which is the hallmark of other Wall Street darlings.
They have a voice and a style that attracts followers, like short sellers to a bear market.
Much to the exasperation of my hired guns, I’m not a lone-wolf portfolio manager.
Every day, we make investment decisions within the funds to achieve our clients’ investment goals.
From stock selection to tax-efficient trading, we do it as a team.
I’ve never felt comfortable owning any trademark, especially my own.
But my office has been my sanctuary. I knew the moment I stepped foot into the glass-walled space how I’d redesign the layout and choose fabrics to breathe peace and creativity into the sterility. I curated a place for high-performing teams.
Betsey has landed her shot.
“Blue, or would you prefer black ink?” Hardwin cocks his round head at me. He has likely watched the anger on my face settle into conviction. In these last moments, my mask has slipped.
Even without a mirror, I can see myself in Hardwin’s relieved reflection.
Above high cheekbones, my light-brown eyes, fringed by thick dark lashes, are shining with constrained fury.
In grade school, clever playground chants immortalized the size of my mouth.
It’s now my strongest feature. I release all the tension in my face and plant a look of serenity.
I’ve come to learn—even a hint of a smile on my full lips can be contagious.
“This is all so unnecessary.” But as I say the words, I break contact with his heavily lined gray eyes and pick up the pen.
I scrawl Meredith Hansel on the crisp, uncompromising line.
Assured I’ll get a copy of the restraining order when it’s filed, I head to my office—recently turned last straw—and try to ignore the guilt flowing like acid through my veins.
Behind me, the click of heels on the marble hall slows to a skid. “Good morning, Meredith. You got another request.”
I glance over my shoulder and a zap of nerve pain radiates up my neck.
I dig my fingers into my trapezius muscle.
Over the past year, my local members-only Pilates studio has seen nothing of me, but they’ve been faithful to exercise my on-file credit card every month.
I whisper a silent plea to my neglected joints.
If they can get me through the next two days, time for self-care lies ahead.
Alyssa hands me a printed email. Her large eyes, the color of well-lit jade, blink behind her black-rimmed glasses. She’s beautiful in a way guaranteed by perfect bone structure, but she takes pains to conceal it. She’s a discerning young woman who’s likely borne the weight of being too pretty.
“You know our response.” My inbox bulges with messages identical to this one. All ask for the same favor—to squeeze one more body onto the narrow balcony of the NYSE.
“But it’s the CEO of our index provider.”
Another worthy invite. In fact, the entire lineup over at our index is outstanding.
They supply the low-cost backbone of popular stocks for our funds.
Leaving us time to manage a list of disruptive companies that win.
They are kind of like the designer of the perfect black dress, but it’s our accessories that make the statement. And their CEO is clever and engaging.
I swallow against the tightness. “Alyssa, I can’t manufacture space.”
She lowers her gaze to the floor. “But I thought—”
I internally groan. “You’re right.” The distraction of this morning has me in a brain fog.
She’s already determined that we have one more spot on the balcony for the bell ringing.
By market close, my freshly fired sales manager will not be allowed within a hundred yards of the New York Stock Exchange.
Most folks on my team would’ve taken at least a moment of satisfaction in signaling my mistake, but Alyssa almost appears embarrassed for me.
Somehow this feels much worse. “Please extend the invite—Wait. No, don’t. ”
She glances up. No sign of puzzlement. Perhaps she assumes I will redeem myself, or at least wants me to believe in her confidence. Alyssa is good at managing up. So was Betsey. The loss of her leadership and ingenuity on my sales team is almost inconceivable. How can I even begin to replace her?
A burning sensation rips across the back of my eyes. I did this. I knew Betsey was trying to tell me something at the NYSE before her interview. She practically begged me to listen. Instead, I baited her to go off on her own and find evidence. But of what?
I shake my head. I missed the pivot.
I can continue to scold myself but, right now, I’ve got a bell ringing to pull off.
There is one more ceremonial spot, one more string.
I feel like the pinata we bought for all the kids at Reid’s tenth birthday.
Ruthless little faces gathered beneath the colorful dangling ribbons, every yank made with an aspiration.
I mentally sift through the pile of favors I’ve already gathered.
Maybe it’s not one of my strings that ought to be pulled. I could ask Hardwin. He had a few ideas when we first brainstormed the list but robustly declined his spot. Tight, elevated spaces are not his places of comfort.
I slowly nod as a better idea occurs to me. “Ask Terrence who he’d like to extend the invitation to.”
Alyssa’s eyebrows rise to right above her rims at the mention of our chief compliance officer’s name.
I hand the email back to her. Terrence loves the legacy of the firm. He’s our unofficial historian and will appreciate the opportunity to rack up another favor. Maybe with someone who we’d all enjoy meeting. Terrence transacts in the currency of remarkable stories.
Alyssa nods. “Maintenance finished up in your office. Also, Candace stopped by. She wants to check in with you about protection.”
That word again. A growl grows in my chest. I swallow. “I’ll connect with her later. Thanks.” I don’t need a chaperone. I need to get back to work.
Alyssa turns toward Terrence’s office. I watch as heads crane from around screens to greet her. She’s not my chief of staff but she plays one most days. In the beginning, people underestimated her, then ignored her, and now, as lead analyst, she’s the one they observe to gauge the tone of the room.
I tug on my suit jacket and continue toward my wing.
With all that’s in me I hope that trashed was an overstatement. I open my door, and my attention immediately goes to my Oma’s Queen Anne sofa. Newly reupholstered in sand-colored crushed velvet, it lounges spryly undisturbed under my Matisse lithograph. I close my eyes and sigh.
The sofa could’ve been repaired, but its butchering would signify more than I want to contemplate. I glance in the large rolling trash bin by the door. Shards of glass blink up from the refuse. My eyes narrow as I scan the room.
The family picture from my desk is missing, but overall, the space looks the same. Do I want to know what the Maintenance team tackled?
I slide open my top drawer, the only one I keep unlocked.
In a cracked silver frame, our four goofy faces yuck it up in the wind off Penobscot Bay.
This makes no sense. I stand the mangled picture, missing its glass, on my blond oak desk.
Betsey had no reason to attack my office and shove me off the edge.
From what I know, things got heated with security, but her hard work was more responsible for our success than anyone else on my team.
If I’d just taken the time to follow up after the interview like I said I would.
Did she really feel like someone was working against us, or was she on the precipice of a breakdown, and I refused to see the signs?
I suck in my lips and attempt to let it go—the sentiment Hardwin gently barked as I left his office.
My eyes close against a rush of tears. As effective as I’ve been at shoving away my emotions, in this moment of solitude, I leak. I tip my nose to the ceiling and take a huge breath. It should be a day of celebration, and instead I’ve become untethered.
I sit at my desk and tell myself, in no uncertain terms, to get a grip.
Clicking my laptop into the docking station, I run my fingers through a long sequence of passcode digits.
I bypass my inbox. After today, it’ll all calm down.
I’ve got no more favors to bequeath. We can squeeze no more bodies, no matter how prominent, onto the balcony.
I switch tabs on my computer and briefly review the plans for tomorrow’s town hall.
I’ve sprung for the spicy salmon rolls from Hari and a mashed potato bar with slices of filet.
We call it a town hall, but it’s an office party.
No television cameras or New York Stock Exchange confetti for the teams of professionals who spent many, many nights at their desks making sure performance algorithms tracked the global markets.
Guilt pricks me.
Have I done enough to appreciate the analysts, lawyers, data scientists, marketers, and sales professionals who contributed to the success of our ETFs? Maybe we can get some of those wicked cookies everyone loves?
I pick up my cell phone.
An assault of missed calls from an unknown number peppers my screen.
Betsey hasn’t stopped. After Candace tracked me down yesterday, I followed her instructions and blocked Betsey’s contact.
I thought the warning coming from our head of security would be enough, but at around nine last night an unknown number began to call my phone.
This one is new. Last night when I spoke to Candace, I should’ve insisted on speaking to Betsey but now, after signing the order, there can be no contact.
I quickly swipe away from my phone’s home screen and raise our family calendar, noting it’s already late morning.
Shoot. Reid’s at his weeklong robotics camp and I forgot to say goodbye.
He tried to talk us out of making him go.
Not because he doesn’t love robotics, but because his best friend is spending his fall break on a camping trip out west. Our twelve-year-old takes time warming up to new people.
I open the tracking app. One of my favorite things, especially when I fiercely miss my people, is seeing all my dots where they’re meant to be.
I freeze.
Reid’s dot is in downtown Scarsdale, stacked on top of my husband’s. Why did Clint allow our son to talk him out of camp? Not only am I away too often, but Clint relies on me to be the heavy.
Bitterness coats the back of my throat as I press my husband’s contact.
Scratching noises and then I hear Clint’s voice. “Meredith?”
“Where’s Reid?” My voice catches.
“Uh, in his bedroom. What’s wrong?” Clint’s tone shifts, an urgency in his words.
“He’s supposed to be at camp. Why did you let him stay home? We discussed this before I left. I thought—”
“Slow down. What are you talking about? It’s ten o’clock in the morning, Mer.” A door slams. I start to speak, but Clint continues. “I take him in a few hours.”
My fingers wiggle my mouse and refresh my calendar. Camp check-in isn’t until 1 p.m. today. I sink back into my chair. “It’s been a day already. I started looking at Tuesday’s plans for the—anyway, I guess I got my timing screwed up.”
“And you needed to micromanage me from thirty miles away.” His voice is quiet but brutal.
I straighten. “I was concerned Reid wasn’t at camp. I’m not micromanaging.”
“Right, because you never make mistakes.”
My breath stutters. No, I certainly do make mistakes. “Maybe this is too much.” I slowly close the lid of my computer.
“You think?” He clears his throat. “Look, Meredith. For now, it is what it is. If we can’t solve it with a counselor, we’re not going to solve it on the phone.”
“You’re right.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Can I get back to putting away the unused hiking gear?” The emphasis on unused is unmistakable. I am not done paying for my choice yesterday.
“Sorry to interrupt.” I end the call and lower my damp face into my hands.
How do we protect our marriage from us?