Chapter 5
PHIL PRESSES ANOTHER GLASS of champagne at me.
My hand is remarkably steady. Following the initial escalation as we left the balcony, no sign of Betsey was found.
Because of security questions, I missed the opportunity to autograph the wall and instead listened from the bottom of the stairs to the muted whispers between Dave and Terrence.
They probably speculated that my overwrought brain imagined the unhinged woman. Security is tight at NYSE.
It’s inconceivable no one else saw her, but they’re not questioning my report. Instead, teams are checking the admission list and the cameras. It’s not lost on me that she was standing in the exact spot where we spoke one week ago.
I assume she’s long gone.
Thankfully, the guys keep any musings to themselves, and Candace assures us no one who is not on the list will step foot into the reception room.
I’m conflicted. As much as I don’t want to derail our long-awaited celebration, I’d like to wrestle Betsey to the ground. Has she completely lost her mind?
It’s barely 4:30. I shouldn’t even sip at the flute sparkling between my fingers.
Two glasses of bubbly or wine over dinner are no problem.
During the day, half a glass starts to make everything slightly warm and fuzzy.
Apparently, it also gives me a tendency to exaggerate my own might.
Given the time Betsey spends in her kickboxing gym, wrestling her to the ground seems unlikely.
And although I grate at any indication that I’m overwrought, I am operating on only a couple hours of sleep.
Again. As well as a definite lack of strength training.
“Did you see Lucas from Meymack is here?” Phil leans in and stage-whispers.
“I invited him.” A confidence straightens my spine as I hear the solid ease of my words.
“Of course you did.” Phil chuckles. “Enjoy this, Meredith, but don’t rest too long. I want you back planning our next headline.” He strides away.
I pivot and deposit my glass onto a bussing tray and ask for some water.
Concealing a deep breath, I glance up at the incredible stained glass ceiling.
Like a gold and crystal crown embracing the gilded room, it’s been covered for a century, since a bomb scare in 1920.
I pause and then catch a snippet of our fund promotional video on one of the discreetly fitted LED screens between two of the baroque columns.
I’ve seen the media clip countless times, but it raises a trembling inside me to see the inspiring testimonies heralded inside this gorgeous NYSE boardroom.
My stomach shyly grumbles. I notice a charcuterie along the wall. Perhaps I can nab a canapé or a cheese and cracker. They must have something that won’t leave little flakes all over my buff wool suit.
I take a swallow from my iced tumbler and head across the room.
Dave approaches with his garnished Bloody Mary held high. “Nice party.” He stops short of clinking my water glass as he scowls at my humble liquid. Day drinking is always a group sport.
“Thank you. Glad you could make it.” I try to slip around him, but he nonchalantly shifts his weight, blocking my breakaway. He then glances around the room as if he didn’t notice.
Dave always has thoughts, whether about topless flight attendants or creative sales strategies. He’s always prepared to fill the space between other people’s sentences. But he’s also talented, runs a successful sales team, and never lets anyone forget how valuable he is.
“Yeah, well, I had enough time to block my calendar. What, like, sixteen months since we launched the funds?” Dave gulps his drink. Droplets of tomato juice pepper his trim mustache above his thin pale lips.
He either doesn’t realize I know his invitation was procured this morning by Terrence or doesn’t care. He made his excuse to skip this reception until the spot on the balcony opened. The lure of television cameras was not to be missed.
As head of sales, Dave could have pushed in on the balcony a month ago when he first saw the proposed list without his name, but instead he feigned disinterest. He likely assumed the bell ringing was going to be a B-list event.
We worked hard to assemble strong supporters of the funds as well as those we’d like to bring on board.
Most importantly, instead of requesting a bell ringing when we launched, we waited until we had success to celebrate.
I’m still surprised Terrence used his invite on Dave.
Does he need Dave’s support on a project, for a vote? Or perhaps Terrence also plays the long game. I file the alliance away.
Dave is only here because Betsey is not.
Unease at seeing her earlier still sits in my gut.
How dare she show up today after causing such a scene at my home and office?
While I scan the room and spy Candace still stalking the perimeter, Dave drones on about how bell ringings have become almost commonplace.
As if all that I’ve planned is not unique or good enough.
Besides, in his world, truth need not be true—it can merely be a confidently created narrative dispersed through the mill.
I nod. “Excuse me, Dave, I see someone I invited. Enjoy yourself.”
Dave snatches my arm.
I clamp my lips down on my gasp.
Each of his fingers presses through my autumn-weight wool suit and into my scrawny bicep.
A heat builds through me. This time I will make a scene. He knows better than to touch me. We are likely being watched, which harms us both—predator and prey.
Abruptly, he releases me as he steps closer. “Don’t get too big for your britches, Meredith. You are only a portfolio manager.”
I slowly raise my eyes to his, every muscle in my face taut with what I hope conveys irritation, but I suspect also appears as distress.
I despise the part of me that still looks to this man for validation.
My words hang between us as I spout them.
“I’m a portfolio manager who has raised a billion dollars in just over a year with funds which now trade on three of the four major wirehouse platforms. A portfolio manager who leads a winning team. ”
“Your team? Where are they?” he hisses, but he doesn’t need to search the room.
The heat in my chest turns to ice. I loathe this man.
From the beginning, Dave was the vocal challenger to inviting anyone but my second-in-command, even to this reception, where we have more capacity.
In fact, his opposition has been keen from the moment my idea for the funds was floated.
If it’s not his idea, he’s not interested.
He opposed me utilizing his mutual-fund sales team, requiring me to build a small but mighty ETF sales group focused only on the new funds.
And they have hit it out of the park. The only reason they aren’t here is because guys like Dave insist on taking their places at high-profile events, like bell ringings, that according to him are growing as stale as low-coupon bonds.
“What do you want, Dave?” My tone is neutral. The long game unfurls itself before me. I’m not willing to let anything go sour today.
“What I want—Hey, Lucas, nice to see you,” Dave darts back. The head of Wealth Management at Meymack steps beside him. His financial advisors were early adopters of our funds. Since Meymack is arguably the largest broker-dealer on the street, their trendsetting has helped fuel the demand.
“Just the person I wanted to see.” Lucas disentangles himself from Dave’s enthusiastic shoulder slaps and reaches for my palm. “Meredith.” My name is almost a sigh on his lips.
I want to pull away. Intensely. I need a moment.
But I remain still.
A huge benign smile parts Lucas’s full lips. “Thanks for the invite. Phil said I owe you.”
“Glad you could make it.” My hand slips from his and hangs unnaturally inert against the wool of my skirt. I force myself not to wipe the dampness from my fingers.
“Of course. Folks can’t stop talking about your fund wizardry. And getting them on the Meymack platform in less than a year . . . You’re the woman to watch.”
I clamp down on a grimace and hope it looks enough like a grin.
Woman to watch. My mother would bristle at those words.
She wouldn’t let them go unexamined and certainly wouldn’t be smiling with anything but sarcasm.
Her voice echoes in my head. Would Dave be “the man to watch” if he’d come up with the innovation?
I brush aside my mother’s transplanted annoyance and appreciate the sentiment.
Lucas was one of the many executives who spoke up in support of getting our ETFs on the Meymack platform. It can take years.
His voice is persuasive.
“While I have you, wondering if we might set up some time to have your team come out to visit the Cherry Hill office. Maybe help them craft their customer presentations to be more engaging.” Lucas slides his phone out of an inner suit pocket.
Dave barks out a cough. “Cherry Hill—one of your largest branches. They haven’t been out to see them yet?” His concerned tone only barely masks his glee at discovering my team’s failure.
“Of course they have.” Lucas swats his long tapered fingers through the air as if dismissing a fly.
“Meredith, you might remember, last time you came out, they only assembled their senior staff. I’d like to get the entire office involved.
If you’re busy, I understand. I know you’ve got those training videos out there .
. .” Lucas’s upper lip curls as if he’s sucking on something sour.
“We’d be happy to come back out.” I bite the inside of my cheek and take a hungry glance at Dave’s reddening face.
The online lessons were Dave’s brainchild.
Betsey thought they were too simple and didn’t cover the type of questions our team was getting from the field.
The videos were highlighted on the website anyway.
I wipe the smugness from my face and have pulled out my phone to quote a few possible times when I notice three missed calls from Erika.
My stomach clenches.
I already exchanged congratulatory texts with her after the bell ringing.
She watched it with her AP Microeconomics class.
Erika is a typical teenager. She can have moments focused on others, even impulsive pride in her mother’s appearance on television, but she quickly ricochets back to herself.
Pretty sure these calls don’t have anything to do with me.
And Erika is allergic to actually speaking on a phone, always preferring her fingers flitting across the tiny letters on her screen.
I lift my face from my phone. This interruption is also my means of escape. “My team will get back to you on timing, Lucas. I need to return a call.”
“No rush. We can do this all by email.” Lucas’s words drip less enthusiasm.
Men like him are not used to being left in a conversation by others on lower rungs.
He turns to Dave and asks his take on the greens in Vegas for the upcoming Shriners Children’s Open—my prompt to slip away. Golf is not my game.
My phone pressed against my ear, I pretend to be already engaged as I shuffle through the crowd to the door. I wait until I push out into the hallway and find a small glass-doored nook, created for just the thing I need—a quiet place to phone my daughter.
“Mom.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“Hi, sweetheart. Is everything all right?”
“I, um . . . I, uh . . .” Soft sobbing fills my ear.
“Honey, it’s going to be okay. Tell me what’s wrong.
” I glance at my watch. Erika’s go-to response when things get messy is tears.
I want to be patient, but I have a roomful of people waiting.
I should’ve called Clint first. He could tell me what event she’d not been invited to, or which friend snubbed her in the hall.
All valid concerns. All concerns I would gladly commiserate through, but I need to fast-track the story today.
The sobbing is not abating. I can picture her tucked into a bathroom stall at the high school.
As a junior in good standing, no one seems to pay attention to her whereabouts, assuming she’s in class or where she needs to be.
I’ve questioned Clint on the wisdom of such freedom with anxiety rates so high.
“Erika, honey, how can I help?”
“You can’t,” she chokes out.
“Fair enough. Want to give me one word? One hint on what you’re upset about?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose as I wait for a response and then silently count to twenty, fighting my constant urge to fill the vacuum.
Our couple’s counselor has been working with both Clint and me on listening—not pretending to attend, only to then offer our perspective when the other takes a breath.
I add five more seconds to my countdown for good measure.
“Erika. How about one word? It will help if you say it. I don’t need details. We’ll share the weight.”
The sound of a distant door closing and then a big sniff come over the line.
I hold my breath. Just say something, sweetheart.
“Trapped.”