THIRTEEN
Cocktails began at six, the seated dinner at seven.
The Diversity Dinner could not be happening at a less convenient time.
SunCorp and Binney were supposed to sign in a few short days, and we were still far apart on a handful of issues.
But Marty Adler had already impressed upon me that my attendance at tonight’s event was not optional. Neither was the black-tie attire.
I had decided on one of my tried-and-true Corporate Function Cocktail Dresses—shimmery and black with spaghetti straps, so no one at the firm could accuse me of not looking festive, but with a demure matching wrap that also made it work appropriate.
I closed the door to my office and changed in there, not wanting to run into anyone in the ladies’ room down the hall.
Harold Rubinstein had sent around an e-mail to the firm’s delegation to tonight’s event—Marty Adler, Tim Hollister, the other partners on the Diversity Committee, Dr. Rossi, and me—telling us all to meet at five forty-five at thirtieth-floor Reception.
At five forty exactly, I poked my head out my office door and looked around. Margo and the other secretaries in her cluster had already left for the night. The hall was quiet.
Even though it was not uncommon to see an attorney racing through the halls of the firm in a tuxedo, late to some client reception or a Bar Association awards dinner, I felt exposed and wary as I grabbed my beaded clutch purse and slipped into the hallway.
I walked as quickly and quietly as possible, heading for the internal stairs instead of the elevators, which would be in heavy use at this time of the evening.
Rounding the corner by the men’s room, I collided with Murph. “Hey, hey,” he laughed, disentangling himself from me. He looked effortlessly adorable, as usual. He’d slightly loosened his tie around his collar, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing his tanned, muscular forearms.
“Hey, stranger,” I said in a low voice, not wanting anyone to overhear us.
Murph looked me up and down admiringly. “What’s all this?” He grabbed my hand, put his other arm around my waist, and twirled me around in a sort of bastardized mambo. I spun down the hall with him a few tentative steps, laughing, but also keeping an eye out in case someone was coming.
When we stopped he let out a low whistle. “You clean up nice. Hot date? Should I be jealous?”
“Sadly, no. I’ve got that Diversity Dinner thing tonight, remember? I can’t wait to get this over with.”
“What Diversity Dinner?” he asked.
“You know,” I said, “that networking thing at the Rainbow Room. Marty Adler practically put a gun to my head.”
A funny look flickered across Murph’s face. “No, I don’t know, Yung. What networking thing at the Rainbow Room?”
“Oh, come on, Murph,” I said, lightly hitting him on the arm. But I was starting to feel uneasy. “I know I mentioned this to you.” Why was he making this into a thing?
Invitations had been mailed weeks earlier to the firm’s clients, selected alumni, and political and academic luminaries from around the city and up and down the East Coast. Now I tried to recall the fancy corporate rhetoric that had been printed on them.
“The firm’s calling it ‘A Celebration of Diversity in the Profession: Breaking Barriers, Bridging Gaps,’ ” I said, trying to sound breezy.
“This is how it’ll go down. We all go have white wine and shrimp cocktail, the partners swagger around the Rainbow Room, shake some hands, slap some backs.
They show off their fancy new hired-gun consultant, make a few speeches about ‘leveraging diversity’ and ‘celebrating difference,’ and ask why we can’t all just be friends.
Then everyone goes home with their corporate goodie bag and forgets about it for another year. You know the drill.”
“Ohhh, I see. So this is all still a result of that whole ‘Partner’s Paradise’ thing.” Murph was no longer smiling. “We’re still talking about that.” He folded his arms tightly across his chest. “So, who all’s going to be there tonight?” He was eyeing me closely.
Resentment rose in my throat. It wasn’t like any of this was my idea. Yet I was feeling defensive, and there was no reason on earth why I should. Hate the game, not the players. I hadn’t created this world; I was just trying to play by its rules.
“Well,” I said, “I think it’ll be Adler, Rubinstein, and Hollister from Corporate, maybe a couple of others, and Pam Karnow, Sid Cantrell, and I think Mitch Lawrence from Litigation, and from Tax—”
“Adler? Rubinstein? Cantrell? Pretty heavy hitters,” Murph observed. He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to one side. “Not a bad chance to get in some prime schmoozing time for yourself.” His tone was sharp.
I jerked back as if he’d hit me. This was bullshit. Especially coming from Murph. Just how long had he been organizing his private little drinking outings with the senior partners?
“Well, Murph, you know what? I don’t suppose it’s any better schmoozing time than when you go out for beers with Marty Adler after every softball game.
Or maybe it’s more like when Jack Hanover invites you to the Century Club every year for the live satellite feed of the Amherst-Williams game, huh? Maybe it’s more like that.”
Murph stared at me.
“Yeah, I know about that,” I snapped. “Anyway, I’m late. Gotta go.” I pushed past him.
“Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, placing his hands on my bare shoulders where my evening wrap had slipped loose. His grip was surprisingly strong.
“Don’t be pissed, Yung,” he said, looking contrite, smiling at me, and I could see that the old Murph—my familiar kidding-around, paper-football, affectionate Murph—was back.
“I didn’t mean to make a big deal of this.
I just wanted to know where you were off to, looking so gorgeous, that’s all.
I’m sorry. I really am. Most of us weren’t invited to this thing, you know. ”
“Of course you weren’t,” I said, shrugging myself free. “That would spoil the whole illusion, wouldn’t it. Now if you’ll excuse me. I’m late.” I slid past him and hurried down the hall. I shook my head, trying to rid myself of the encounter. How had everything gotten so complicated?
On the carpeted landing between the twenty-ninth and thirtieth floors, I stopped and forced a practiced smile back on my face before hurrying up to Reception.
Marty Adler, Harold Rubinstein, and I shared a town car to the Rainbow Room. There was room for one more lawyer, but he would have had to sit in front, with the driver. Tsk. The firm ordered five cars to shuttle fourteen people the seven blocks to Rockefeller Center.
Rubinstein told our driver to let us off on Fifth Avenue, and we walked briskly the rest of the way to the entrance of 30 Rock.
As always, I had to take two or three strides for each one of Adler’s and Rubinstein’s, and I had to do it in three-and-a-half-inch heels while swerving in an awkward, drunken pattern to avoid the slots of the damn sidewalk grates, all the while keeping up a cheerful patter about which kindergartens had just accepted their grandchildren, and the Yankees’ latest trade, and what the word was on that new oyster bar in Union Square, and—oh, yeah, how the SunCorp deal was going.
“I spoke to Ted Lassiter two days ago,” Adler said, “and he tells me he’s very impressed with your work, and the way you’ve kept this deal on track and on time. Very impressed,” he repeated, beaming.
I darted a glance at Harold Rubinstein. He was beaming, too. “Keep up the great work, Ingrid,” he said. “Don’t think it’s going unnoticed.”
Eat your heart out, Murph.
We stopped in front of the Forty-ninth Street entrance.
“After you.” Adler waved me through the revolving doors, and we proceeded across the gleaming marble lobby.
A line had already formed at the elevator bank.
Distinguished-looking gray-haired men in tuxedos escorted well-preserved women in tasteful evening dresses, a few of them holding silver-and-blue invitations embossed with the firm’s logo.
“Arthur! Glad you could make it,” Adler said to a dashing man with graying temples and a pronounced chin. “Where’s Elizabeth? Don’t tell me she couldn’t be here tonight.”
The elevator doors opened, and Adler and the man he called Arthur entered the car. I followed along with the rest of the crowd, but Harold Rubinstein placed a hand on my elbow and gently steered me away to wait for the next elevator. When one opened, we wedged ourselves in.
The doors opened on sixty-five, and the crowd spilled out into the reception suite.
Harold Rubinstein hurried forward and tapped a debonair-looking older gentleman on the shoulder. “George. I thought that was you.” He smiled and held out his hand for the older man to shake. “Harold Rubinstein. Rick Fallon introduced us?”
“Oh, of course,” said George.
“It’s funny, I was just thinking I should give Rick a call,” Rubinstein said. “How’re things over at Time Warner these days? Didn’t I read last week about your plans to . . .”
The two of them went on ahead, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I hated the brownnosing aspect of these things.
Rubinstein seemed to have forgotten I was there, and that was just fine with me.
Taking my time, making sure to widen the distance between myself and Rubinstein, I walked into the Rainbow and Stars room, where an elaborate cocktail and hors d’oeuvre reception had been set up.
The firm’s staff was seated at a long table, greeting guests, checking names off on a printout listing the important friends and clients of the firm.
Because of our tuxedos and evening gowns, we had been spared the usual plastic name tags worn on cords around our necks.
Tonight we were supposed to be glamorous grown-ups at a ball, here of our own accord, enjoying ourselves.
“Hi there,” I said to Ann Trask, who was sitting at the end of the reception table.
“Hey, Ingrid.” She motioned me over. “C’mere a second.”
I edged closer to her. “What’s up?”