ELEVEN
I pulled the fresh pages off the printer and walked them back into my office, closing the door.
I’d been working balls-out—so to speak—on the SunCorp acquisition, and everything was clicking.
For weeks, I’d been practically living in the office, making sure we stuck to Lassiter’s accelerated timetable.
Now we were ready to send a last round of the term sheet and pre-close documents over to Binney’s lawyers at Stratton and Thornwell—right on schedule.
I just needed Adler’s final okay and then I’d pitch them over to the other side.
Next week, Ted Lassiter would be coming into the office, and Adler and I would walk him through the pre-close documents in person.
I’d been up for thirty-four hours straight.
My silk tank was clammy and stuck to my back.
I was sure I must stink, but I felt terrific.
There was nothing like getting a document out to the other side late on a Friday afternoon.
This bought me a free weekend and a blessedly quiet week ahead, although it ruined the same weekend and upcoming week for our counterpart lawyers at the opposing firm.
I felt kind of sorry for the unsuspecting sap over at Stratton and Thornwell who was no doubt getting ready to call it a week.
I imagined him lazily surfing the Internet in these golden late Friday afternoon hours, on his cell phone to a wife or girlfriend, negotiating where to have dinner and what movie to see.
I knew exactly what would happen tonight and how it would all go down—the phone on his desk ringing just as he was walking out the door, the guy glancing at his caller ID, seeing the partner’s name flash across the screen, his heart sinking, his weekend dreams dashed, the wife or girlfriend throwing a fit. Fuuuuck.
“Just got the revised draft in from Parsons Valentine. Would you stop by my office, please? I’d be very grateful if you could review it over the weekend and get your preliminary markup to me by Monday.”
It was vaguely ridiculous, this I’d be very grateful aspect of the partner-associate relationship. I always preferred it when people spoke their subtext. And the law firm subtext for I’d be very grateful was You will lose your job unless.
The cruel beauty of this system was that the other guy’s loss was my gain.
Now I actually had a whole weekend off, to do with what I pleased.
Even better, Murph and I were planning to spend the entire weekend together.
I didn’t really think of Murph as my boyfriend yet, but I certainly did think of him. All the time.
I picked up the phone and dialed Justin Keating’s extension. I needed him to stick around until Marty Adler had had a chance to approve the pre-close documents and help me send the distribution to the client and the lawyers on the other side.
Justin picked up the phone at the end of the fifth ring. No, please, don’t trouble yourself, Justin, no need to rush.
“Yeah?”
“Justin, can you come to my office, please?”
He sighed. “Yeah.” And hung up.
In another minute he was standing just outside my door.
I cleared my throat. “Okay, listen,” I said briskly. “I’m going to head up to Adler’s office and make sure he signs off on this. Then I’m going to need you to help me proofread the revised docs one last time and send them to the other side.”
“Um, it’s Friday night. Isn’t that, like, what a secretary’s for?”
“Um,” I said, “it’s actually, like, your job to assist me on any aspect of this deal that might require your help.”
Justin’s lips parted in a small O of surprise. He looked at me for a long moment. Then he rolled his eyes. “Fine. You know where to find me.” He slouched off down the hall.
My phone rang. It was Adler.
I grabbed up the receiver before the first ring had finished. “Hi, Marty.”
“Ingrid!” said Adler. He chuckled. “Should have known I’d find you on the first ring. Hard at work, as always.”
Good of you to notice.
“Were you still going to show me the SunCorp docs tonight? I thought I’d call to check, since I’ll be heading out pretty soon. My wife and I have opera tickets.”
Of course you do.
“Yes, actually, I was just on my way up when you called. I’ll be there in a second. If you could take a look and make sure all looks good to you, then Justin and I will be sure to get this out to Stratton tonight.”
Marty Adler paused.
“Justin? You mean the Keating kid?” he said. “Don’t tell me you asked him to stay late on a Friday just to send out some FedEx for you.”
I frowned at the receiver. “Well, yes, Marty, actually I did ask him to help proof the documents with me before they go out,” I said slowly. “Didn’t you tell me to show him the ropes?”
“Hell, I meant be nice to the kid, not make him work all hours of the night. Couldn’t you have gotten some random floater secretary or paralegal instead? Give Justin a break?”
I took a deep, calming breath. Marty Adler was getting on my last nerve.
It was lovely that he was so concerned about ruining Justin Keating’s weekend when I was the one who’d been up for thirty-four hours straight, who’d been working late nights all week and all day Sundays and ordering greasy takeout at 3:00 A.M. to sit here in my office, exhausted and haggard and bleary-eyed, to review draft after draft marked up with endless comments and questions from seller’s counsel at Stratton, and Mark Traynor at SunCorp, and even Ted Lassiter himself.
I was the one single-handedly bringing this deal in for an on-time close.
Not Marty Adler, and certainly not Justin.
I couldn’t help thinking about the countless times, as a junior associate, that I’d been forced to wait around til midnight or one on a random weeknight only to have the partner or senior associate call—as an afterthought—from home to say, “Sorry, I thought someone else had already let you know. You can go home. We won’t be sending anything out tonight after all.
” So many weekend mornings, I’d been called in at 8:00 A.M. just to fetch things or correct typos for the clients and senior partners—Casual Saturday, went the office joke—and I’d never heard anyone complain on my behalf.
“Marty,” I said evenly, “just so you know, I never ask anyone to come in or work overtime if I don’t really need their help.
Since this draft’s gone through so many revisions, I thought I could use the extra pair of eyes before it went out.
I’m not sure you realize, but I’ve been here since eight in the morning—”
“Well—”
“Yesterday morning,” I said.
This shut Adler up for a moment. “I see.” Then he said, “Look, Ingrid, I know you’ve been working flat out on this SunCorp deal.
And your efforts certainly aren’t going unnoticed.
My point is, let’s not make a habit of these late nights for Justin Keating.
It would be best for all concerned not to let him start hating his job quite so soon. ”
“Of course.”
“Thanks. I knew you’d understand. See you up here in a minute.”
I put the phone down harder than I’d meant to.
I opened up my wardrobe to the side with the mirror and peered into it.
I looked like a woman unhinged. I reached up and shook my hair out from the messy ponytail it had been in since about ten o’clock last night.
The elastic left a funny indentation so that, now loose over my shoulders, my hair bore an odd and unintentionally angular shape, sticking up on one side.
Not a flattering look. I thought about putting my hair back in a ponytail, but that made me look about twelve, so I just left it loose and tried to smooth down the flyaway ends with my hands.
I sighed. I looked exhausted. I was exhausted.
My complexion was sallow and washed out, and my mascara—last applied at home the morning of the previous day—had created a lovely raccoon effect that would not budge.
I hadn’t even had time to go shower in the fortieth-floor R&R suite, and besides, I didn’t have a fresh change of clothes.
Well, it couldn’t be helped. I’d promised Marty Adler that I would bring this deal in for an on-time close, and that was exactly what I was going to do.
I did what I could, reapplying lipstick, retucking my crumpled tank as neatly as possible into my pencil skirt, trying to smooth out the wrinkles bunched across my lap, and slipping on the black silk suit jacket I’d abandoned the night before when I’d gotten down to work.
I gathered up my copy of the revised term sheet and took the elevators up to the thirty-seventh floor.
Adler stood from behind his massive desk and looked me over a beat longer than usual. I knew he was taking in my disheveled appearance. I felt self-conscious—but also annoyed. I’ve been up for thirty-four hours straight. What do you want from me?
He gestured with his glasses toward his teak conference table.
We sat down, and I handed the redlined term sheet to him.
He pulled a silver fountain pen from his shirt pocket, uncapped it, and began to review the document.
His lips moved as he read. I’d never noticed this before, and felt slightly embarrassed for him.
I never knew where to look when people were evaluating your work right in front of you.
It seemed rude, somehow, to watch them read.
I looked discreetly out the window. Outside the sky was turning pink and purple over the spires of Manhattan.
When I looked back at Adler, he was underlining things and scribbling little notes in the margin. That he had notes to scribble at all made me nervous. I hoped I hadn’t missed anything. I’d been very careful.
He took off his reading glasses and handed the draft back to me. “Looks good, Ingrid. I just marked a couple of tiny nits.”