FIVE #3
Cameron shrugged and walked with Steinberg to the back of the drinks line, where they were joined by—I should say she was joined by—two male partners who were suddenly extremely interested in striking up a conversation with the summer associates.
Before long, Cameron and Steinberg’s group of friends had joined them, too, forming a large gaggle in front of the bar.
All the summers were trying to schmooze the partners, but none succeeded like Cameron Alexander.
She looked almost queenly, wearing a beneficent smile and occasionally throwing her head back with laughter, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be standing around barefoot with the Corporate Tax partners, chatting animatedly about the latest summer action flick, while wearing a white string bikini and gesturing with your mojito for emphasis.
I was, if I’m being honest, jealous. Of course I was—but not of the way Cameron looked in her white string bikini.
Instead, I was jealous of her confidence and her utter unself-consciousness.
What would it be like, I marveled, to go through life so utterly unwary?
So wholly certain of your belonging to a place that it was never necessary to consider how your next move would be perceived?
Making partner at Parsons Valentine felt like a big final exam to which a select few held the answer key. While the rest of us schmucks had to study.
But you’re getting there, too, Ingrid! I quickly reminded myself.
Hadn’t Tim Hollister just personally congratulated me on the great work I’d been doing?
Hadn’t Marty Adler called me Slugger? Today was not the day for a pity party.
I decided to treat myself to a celebratory margarita or two.
I stood up and walked over to join the drinks line.
Just before dusk, having passed a pleasant afternoon of schmoozing and socializing, watching a little tennis and strolling around the grounds, I made my way over to the clubhouse to get ready for dinner.
I slipped into the dress I’d brought—a slim white linen sheath with a simple scalloped neckline—along with a pair of strappy alligator slingbacks.
I brushed my hair into place, stepped back, and surveyed the effect in the mirror.
Elegant, yet effortless. This was what we were expected to channel all the time.
If only it were as easy as Cameron Alexander made it look.
I had a pleasant buzz as I crossed the lawns to the area where dinner would be served.
The tent looked lovely, like an oasis. It was a perfect summer evening, the sun had just dipped below the treeline, and the first stars would soon be visible in the night sky.
Across the lawn, the stone path near the clubhouse had been lit up with hundreds of tiny tea lights, and the tent itself was adorned with little paper lanterns. Everything felt cozy and festive.
This had been the best firm-outing day I could remember from my eight years at Parsons Valentine. With the buzz from the tequila, and the high from Tim’s compliment, I was the happiest, most relaxed I’d been in a very long time.
Under the canopy, the dinner was set up like a stylish wedding reception—twenty round tables set with china and crystal, floral centerpieces glowing in the candlelight.
Elegant ivory name cards directed us to our seats.
I was pleased to see that Murph and I were assigned to the same table.
In fact, it was a good table overall, with Corporate partners Harold Rubinstein and Gavin Dunlop; Pamela Karnow, a nobullshit, fortysomething partner in Litigation whom I admired; two senior Litigation associates I’d never worked with; and three random summer associates.
Gavin and the three summers were already at the table, discussing the Broadway show the firm had taken them to the previous evening.
Then Murph appeared, freshly showered and shaved after his tennis game.
His dark blond hair was still damp, and he’d put on a clean white dress shirt and freshly pressed khakis.
He looked handsome, and I thought about telling him so.
I sat down between Murph and Gavin Dunlop. Since Gavin was in the Securities group I’d never worked with him, but Tyler had, and thought he was a good guy—a little stodgy, perhaps (Gavin wore bow ties and seersucker without irony), but a straight shooter.
“Hey, Ingrid,” Gavin greeted me. Then he introduced me to the three summers.
I scanned the name cards arranged in front of their plates. Caleb Sweeney, UNC–Chapel Hill. Nate McArdle, Duke. Andrea Carr, Yale.
Caleb and Nate seemed to know each other well already—I guessed they’d bonded over the North Carolina thing.
Nate McArdle had an athletic build and a good tan, and was handsome in an unoriginal way.
Caleb Sweeney looked like a nice kid, earnest and scrubbed.
I noticed with a sympathetic pang that his hair was neatly parted on the side, unironically, while most other guys were wearing that mussed-up, nopart style.
Andrea Carr was a pretty, petite blonde wearing tortoiseshell glasses, a tasteful black dress, and a single strand of freshwater pearls at her throat.
Murph immediately introduced himself to Andrea, grinning his most dazzling grin. How predictable. I’d have to tease him about this later.
Andrea replied in a practiced voice that was faultlessly polite but utterly neutral.
I knew that voice. I’d used it myself many times.
“Hi, Jeff, it’s very nice to meet you.” No hair toss, no giggling, no flirtation whatsoever.
This surprised and impressed me. Women were not usually this resistant to Murph’s charms. On a hunch, I snuck a glance at Andrea’s left hand.
Sure enough, there it was: a gigantic engagement ring, winking at me in the candlelight.
After we were joined by Harold Rubinstein, Pamela Karnow, and the two senior associates from Litigation, the waiters came around to fill our wine goblets, and we all tucked into our salads.
I was still enjoying a pleasant buzz and a general, comfortable feeling of all being right with the world. The margaritas hadn’t quite worn off yet, and the red wine I was drinking was keeping the glow going.
The waiters came around to take our orders for either steak or salmon.
Everyone got the steak except for Andrea Carr.
When our entrées arrived, the steak was melt-in-your-mouth delicious—center-cut filet, cooked to rare perfection, served with the chef’s award-winning Béarnaise sauce.
Appreciative murmurs were making their way around the table when, across from me, Caleb Sweeney raised his hand to flag down a retreating waiter. “Yes, sir?”
Harold Rubinstein, Gavin Dunlop, and Murph, who were busily arguing about the Yankees’ abysmal record this season, glanced over at Caleb.
“When you get a chance, could I get some A.1. sauce over here?” Caleb said.
“Excuse me?” asked the waiter.
Gavin Dunlop was staring at Caleb, his fork stilled halfway to his mouth.
“A.1. sauce. For my steak?” Caleb repeated, gesturing toward his plate.
“Sir,” began the waiter in a patient voice, “perhaps, if you don’t care for Béarnaise, we could offer you the black peppercorn sauce instead? The black peppercorn is also superb.”
Harold Rubinstein cleared his throat and waded in. “Yes, Caleb, I’d highly recommend that—I’ve had it myself, and it’s excellent.”
“No, I’d really just like some A.1.,” Caleb continued, oblivious.
Right then, though, in the split second after, you could see the corners of his mouth go slack, as the realization slowly dawned on him that somehow, without his even noticing it, something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.
And it was too late to turn back. The peppercorn life raft had been thrown out and cruelly reeled back in.
The waiter sighed softly. “Very well. We’ll see what we can do.” He turned on his heel and walked away.
Harold and Gavin exchanged a brief, pointed glance.
Andrea, Nate, and everyone else at the table pretended to concentrate on their dinners. For several moments the only sound was the delicate clinking of forks on china dinner plates.
My heart was breaking for Caleb Sweeney.
I realized that I was actually holding my breath.
I wanted to reach out, give him a hug, and march him out of that tent and back to the safety of the NYU Law dorm where he was living that summer.
I know, I wanted to tell him. It’s not fair, and it’s not easy.
But you’ll learn. You just practice until it looks natural, that’s all. Fake it til you make it.
After a few minutes our waiter bustled back to our table clutching something in a neatly folded white cloth. He made a big show of setting the single bottle of A-1 sauce down on our table with a flourish. Then he hurried away without a word.
Caleb Sweeney looked shell-shocked. He sat staring at that bottle of A.
1. sauce. I could see him actually turning over and over in his mind what he’d done, how he was going to recover from this later, how hard he’d have to work to make people forget.
That is, if he ended up getting an offer from the firm at all.
Murph was engaged in a lively conversation with Harold and Gavin about the Yankees’ pitching so far this season.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, they never should have traded DeSoto, but they’re making up for it with Sanchez.
Seriously, look out for him later this season .
. .” Still talking, without breaking stride, Murph reached out to the middle of the table, grabbed the A.
1. sauce, uncapped it—still making his point about the Yankees’ latest trade—and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, proceeded to pour a glob of the salty brown stuff onto his beautiful, perfect center-cut filet.