SEVENTEEN
I sat there in the calm morning stillness of my office, arms folded neatly on my desk.
I felt so tired. So very tired, and incredibly sad.
Directly across from me, as if accusing me of something, was the wall of polished cherry bookcases that housed all of the deal books and closing sets for every transaction I had ever worked on during my career here at Parsons Valentine.
There was my prized collection of deal toys—a glittering menagerie of polished silver and glass figurines and trophies and cubes and globes.
There was the tiny bronze soccer ball from the acquisition of a large sporting goods retailer, the first deal I’d ever closed at the firm.
It was nestled next to a gleaming model jet plane—a souvenir of the merger of two commercial airlines I’d successfully handled the year before.
On the shelf below that stood a small framed snapshot of me and Rachel at the housewarming party we’d thrown in our first New York apartment, and another photograph of me with my parents the day I’d been sworn in to the New York Bar, almost nine years ago.
My mother, father, and I were standing on the sidewalk outside the First Appellate Department building, down by Madison Square Park.
I remembered that day as one of the happiest of my life.
“We’re so proud of you,” my parents had kept saying, snapping photo after photo.
“Attorney-at-law!” “Our daughter, Esquire!”
Alone that night, after I’d dropped my parents off at their hotel, I’d tried the words out in my mouth.
Ingrid S. Yung, Esquire. I remember savoring it on my tongue.
The corporate world—and the world in general—had seemed wide open to me then, full of hope and possibility.
You bright young women can accomplish anything you set out to accomplish!
Rachel and I had both been told this all our lives.
And we had believed it.
We had fallen for it completely.
I heard a light knock, and Margo poked her head in my office. She looked happy. “Mr. Adler’s secretary just called. He wants to see you in his office. He said it’s very important.”
She leaned in my doorway, beaming. The reason Margo was beaming was that she had done the math and knew the news would be good. Early that morning, she had run into Hunter’s secretary in the pantry. That was how we had learned that Hunter Russell had officially been voted into the partnership.
And Murph had not.
According to Hunter’s secretary, after being called into Marty Adler’s office at nine fifteen that morning, Murph had gone home sick for the rest of the day.
I would have thought I would be happier to hear this news. Avenged, or validated, or something. Murph had gotten exactly what he deserved. They’d taken Hunter over him. And Hunter would, of course, be infinitely easier for me to deal with at our future partnership meetings.
I knew I should have been jubilant on this morning, of all mornings. I should have been dancing a jig on my office floor, but I only felt tired and numb.
After all that Murph and I had gone through and all of the cruel and hurtful things he had spat at me last night, unbelievably, I still felt sorry for him.
Regardless of how things had ended up between us, it was hard to forget that for eight long years he had been one of my only buddies at the firm.
Ironically, it had been Murph who had often made me feel most included, like I belonged.
Now, not only had I lost a boyfriend, I had lost a friend, too. Or at least the pretense of one.
Murph had worked hard. He was a smart lawyer, too. We’d both assumed for many years that Murph had it in the bag. I knew exactly how disappointed he must feel.
I wasn’t happy that Murph was miserable.
The truth was, I was sad that his theory had been right.
I knew he had a point. And this bothered me.
It did. Because I’d rather make it on my own merit.
If it had been any other year except this one, the year they had all the Diversity Initiative efforts, there would have been no question.
But now, since all this was happening when it was happening, I felt that my much-celebrated partnership announcement would be forever sullied.
People would always wonder. Well, hadn’t that Jeff Murphy kind of had a point?
Wasn’t Ingrid lucky that the firm was paying attention to diversity when it did?
“Shall I tell Mr. Adler you’ll be right up?” Margo hinted.
I nodded. “Sure. Moment of truth, right?” I gave her a small smile.
“I’ll tell him.” She went back to her desk, closing the door to give me a little privacy.
I stood up, walked over to my wardrobe, and checked myself in the mirror.
From looking at me, you wouldn’t know that I was a woman who’d just broken up with her boyfriend, stumbled home to her apartment in the wee hours of the morning, and was operating on three hours of sleep.
My makeup was tasteful and perfect. Every hair was in place. I looked, well, fucking impeccable.
I slipped off the right sleeve of my ivory silk crepe jacket and peered at my arm. A purple and yellow octopus-shaped bruise was spreading across my shoulder where I’d smashed it against Murph’s front door.
How did things ever get so fucked up, I wondered.
I appraised the rest of my outfit—a slim black tank and ivory silk crepe trousers. I’d taken special care to avoid wearing a pencil skirt today. In fact, I wanted to throw out every single one I owned.
After tucking my hair behind my ears and taking one final look in the mirror, I walked past Margo—who flashed me a thumbs-up sign—and out into the hall.
I reached the marble elevator bank and waited.
When the doors in front of me opened, I entered the dark, gleaming, tomblike car—terrible if you were at all claustrophobic—pressed the button for the thirty-seventh floor, and leaned back against the wall.
The car made its smooth, swift ascent, and I stepped out.
I clicked across the marble tile floor, slid my keycard into the security pad, opened the glass doors, and began the long walk down the carpeted interior corridor to Marty Adler’s office.
I felt absolutely calm, almost queenly. I could sense every secretary and paralegal I passed eyeing me closely as I glided serenely by.
News—especially partnership news—spread like wildfire around this building.
They all knew exactly whose office I was headed to.
I consciously made myself hold my head a little higher and tried smiling a little.
I should try to look happy today, after all.
It felt like a long walk.
When I finally got to Adler’s corner office, Sharon smiled at me and said cheerfully, “Mr. Adler is expecting you. Go on in.” She gestured at his closed door.
This was a good sign. Wasn’t it? Secretaries knew everything around here. Sharon wouldn’t look so friendly and cheerful if she knew the news was bad; that would just be cruel. Right?
Okay, get a grip, I told myself. You are way overthinking this.
I thought about the fortune-cookie fortune that had come with my Chinese takeout order one recent late night at the firm. Confidence will lead you on. If there was one thing I knew, after all this time at Parsons Valentine, it was how to fake that.
I approached Adler’s closed door and knocked once, loudly.
“Come in,” he boomed.
I tilted my chin up, took a deep breath, fixed a neutral smile on my face, and entered Adler’s shadowy office. He hadn’t switched on the overhead lights. I closed the door behind me with a quiet click.
Marty Adler was sitting four or five yards away from me, in his familiar massive green leather chair.
“Good morning, Ingrid,” he said. His tone gave nothing away—he sounded neither regretful nor jubilant.
“Please. Have a seat.” He gestured to one of the two wing chairs in front of his desk, instead of to the sitting area over by his teak conference table.
This struck me as a bit odd. I’d always thought the other chairs in his office were much more comfortable.
And then I saw that Adler was looking somberly down at his hands.
“Ingrid,” he began, “this is one of the hardest conversations I’ve ever had to have.”
I blinked stupidly at Adler. Had I misheard? This was not the right way for him to preface this conversation, was it?
“I do wish I had better news for you.”
Oh my God, I thought. No, no, no no no. Something had gone insanely, sinisterly, incredibly wrong. This was me they were talking to. Ingrid Yung. Who had done everything they had ever asked of me, and more, much more, than they had any right to expect.
I opened my mouth but no sound came out.
He sighed. “I do want you to know that the partners thought long and hard about your candidacy, and that this was not a unanimous decision. You had—that is to say, you continue to have—a lot of support among the partners, a lot of strong enthusiasm for your candidacy, and we do think you are an extremely talented and hardworking lawyer . . .”
“But?” I said stupidly.
“But. We have decided not to invite you into the partnership. At least not this year, Ingrid. I’m sorry.”
For one insane, blissful second, I actually expected him to burst out with Just kidding! Of course you made partner! Welcome!
Because the truth was, I was shocked. I could not have been more shocked if Marty Adler had opened his mouth and blown a big pink bubble, or stripped down to his boxers, black socks, and wingtips, climbed up onto his big antique desk, and danced the polka.
Because this was unbelievable. This simply couldn’t be happening. I wanted to pinch myself awake.
“Marty, I—”
“Please understand. We do hope to consider your candidacy again next year.”