Blossom in Winter

by Melanie Martins

  “Bye, Dad. Enjoy.”

  Chapter 9

  Manhattan, June 3, 2019

  Petra Van Gatt

  Monday comes sooner than I expected. It feels like the most stressful days always come faster than those I look forward to. Janine’s in my bedroom promptly at seven o’clock, but this morning I didn’t need her help to wake me up. My eyes were wide open a long time ago. Anxiety is the one to blame. I take a deep breath and leap out of bed, running to the shower. I know I’ll be the youngest of the interns, but as my father said, that’s no reason for me not to become the best among them. After showering, I decide to wear a white shirt, navy blazer, dark skinny jeans, and my usual beige flats, which match perfectly with anything. I wonder if I should tie up my hair. I think so, so I do a presentable ponytail.

  A different driver is waiting outside. He drives me down to the office near the One World Trade Center. Traffic is pretty intense this morning.

  I walk into the building—it’s one of those glittering skyscrapers made of marble and glass reflecting the sunlight that beams and bounces off the walls. It feels chilly. A receptionist is sitting behind a large counter, handing out cards to people as they arrive. “Good morning. You are?”

  “Hi. I’m Petra V…Williams. Petra Williams. I’m one of the new interns at Gatt-Dieren Capital.”

  “Very well. Do you have an ID?”

  “Here.” I hand him my new fake ID. Very authentic. Emma knows a Cuban somewhere near Tribeca who makes the best ones in town.

  “Thank you, Ms. Williams. Here is your card for the elevator, just on your right. Floor fifty-seven.”

  Floor fifty-seven welcomes me directly into a spacious, bright lobby—walls and floor fully marbled in white with a modern wooden reception desk in front. I can see my name, “Gatt-Dieren Capital Management Group,” written on the wall right behind it. I smile, quite proud.

  Seconds later, I’m greeted by a female secretary, looking fantastic in an expensive dark suit.

  “Hi, I’m Petra Williams, one of the new interns.”

  She quickly checks the name on her iPad.

  “Certainly, Ms. Williams. Andrew has already started the meeting. Kindly follow me.”

  We walk down a long hallway. I’ve never felt this anxious; my heart keeps pounding faster with every step. She opens a door and invites me into a large conference room with a big screen, a stage, and a desk at one end. There are at least sixty people seated theater-style, facing the stage. Everyone stares at me as I step inside. I swallow nervously.

  The secretary walks ahead of me and whispers to the man standing up by the stage. He looks to be in his thirties; has short brown hair; and sports a dark denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, white pants, and camel shoes. Quite casual. His beige blazer is hanging on the back of his chair. He looks at me and heads in my direction.

  “So, Petra Williams, you’re on the investment team, right?”

  “Right,” I smile timidly as he reads from his file.

  “Very well. You are late,” he rebukes, closing his dossier before checking me out from top to bottom.

  How am I late? It’s 9:04! I’m about to protest, but he’s already moved back to where he was standing before. Damn, such a snob! I decide to have a seat at the very back of the room. Far from where he can see me. I notice how everyone is wearing suits with ties—even the women are wearing suits. Crap. I should have worn pants instead of jeans.

  “Alright, everyone. As I was saying, I’m Andrew Sullivan, your supervising manager. I’ll be overseeing this internship stream, for all the teams. We have thirty folks on the investment floor, ten in compliance, ten in operations, and ten in marketing. Investment interns, you’ll be assigned to portfolio managers—each of them will supervise five of you. And since I myself am a portfolio manager, five of you will have the great privilege of joining my team.”

  The crowd laughs at his dry joke.

  Andrew looks down at the file, probably to read the names of his team. “Mr. Joseph Hampkins?” A young man raises his hand from the audience. “Welcome to the team, Joe.” They all clap, cheering for him. “Mr. Robert Lewis?” Another hand in the air. “Welcome, Rob.” Another quick cheer for Rob. “Ms. Rachel Philips?” The woman raises her hand. I notice she’s sitting just two rows from me. “Welcome, Rach.” Another wave of applause this time, even stronger. Does she already have friends in the room? “Mr. Johnny Ward?” Johnny is right in front. “Welcome, John.” And as expected, he also gets his fair share of noisy cheering. Suddenly, Andrew lifts his eyebrows. “Ms. Petra Williams?” Oh God, why me? I raise my hand like my colleagues, but to silence. He doesn’t seem very welcoming or enthusiastic either. He nods. “Welcome, Williams.”

  I sigh. What a nightmare.

  “Well, enough from me. Now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s with the greatest pleasure and honor I introduce you to Mr. Van Gatt, our dearest founder and chairman.” What? He’s here?

  Everyone stands up, instantly clapping, whistling, and cheering, while Dad gets up from his front-row seat.

  He shakes Andrew’s hand, thanks him for his warm introduction, takes the microphone, and waits for the crowd to sit again. Pfff, I bet I’ll hear about my arriving late when I get home.

  Williams. This is how Andrew will treat me from now on. Everyone has received friendly nicknames but me. There’s Joe for Joseph, Rob for Robert, Rach for Rachel, John for Johnny, but I got Williams. This is not the start I expected, to say the least.

  “What are you working on?” Andrew asks, stopping by my desk.

  His tone is sharp as a knife and irritating, but I decide to answer politely. “I’m gathering data on emerging artists in contemporary art and comparing their performance to similar ones.”

  “Artists?” He frowns. “Right… Not sure if you know, Williams, but you’re on my team. And my team is researching oil, not artists. So you better stop what you’re doing and get focused on energy markets.”

  “I’m sorry? I thought it was written somewhere that I’d be covering emerging artists.”

  “Williams, you are so funny.” He snickers. “We don’t have any fund that covers emerging artists. But that’s a great idea. I’ll suggest it to the management. Until then, oil.”

  I’m confused. I can’t figure out why Alex or Dad didn’t warn Andrew that I’ve got a fund to invest on my own. I decide to text my godfather discreetly. Hi, Andrew’s asking me to spend time on oil research… You didn’t tell him I got my own fund?

  I wait a bit.

  Finally, I see Alex typing. I smile. No, Andrew doesn’t know who you are. You must convince him you want to have a fund.

  But my smile vanishes just as fast. What? Since he doesn’t know who I am, he’ll never support me!

  Tell him you want to invest in emerging artists, get him on your side, and then tell him you’d like to pitch your idea to the management, he instantly replies.

  And what if he doesn’t let me talk to the management?

  You wanted to play by the rules, right? Then play by them. Good luck.

  I cringe. Andrew’s a douchebag. I can feel it. With no sensibility or appreciation whatsoever for art, I’ll have to convince him with numbers and potential returns.

  I leave my desk, my research folded under my arm, and look around for him.

  Ah, here he is! I find him standing with colleagues next to the coffee machine.

  I take a deep breath, clear my throat, and poke him. “Andrew? I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a minute?”

  “What’s up?”

  “I think you should check the research I’ve done about potential returns in the art sector.” I hand him the sheet with stats and returns. “Some artists even achieved fifteen hundred percent growth in less than eighteen months. This one, for instance, started selling his paintings at one thousand dollars, and one year later, some of his artwork was valued at fifteen thousand dollars. With all the exhibitions he’s doing worldwide, he could achieve at least one h
undred thousand dollars per piece within three to four years, based on the performance of similar artists.”

  “I’m hungry. You want to talk about this over lunch?”

  He paid attention. That’s amazing! “Yes, sure. Let’s grab lunch.”

  We go to a small bistro just across the street. “They make amazing pasta,” he guarantees as we sit, and before I can say anything, he orders for both of us.

  I hand my research to Andrew, who scans the pages attentively, asking questions as he goes.

  “Alright, Williams, convincing numbers. What do you want from me?”

  “I’d like to pitch a fund for emerging artists to the management.”

  He bursts into laughter, shaking his head. “Yeah, right…” But I remain serious. I’m not kidding, dumbass. He clears his throat and straightens his posture. “It’s a little early, Williams. You’ve just arrived.” I look suspiciously at him until he glances again at my file, more precisely at the financial forecast. “Who exactly do you think would be interested in your idea?” He takes a sip from his glass.

  “Alexander Van Dieren.”

  But he nearly chokes on it. “The CEO? Wow, you aim high. Look, he’s quite busy, you know. I’m not sure if he has time for that.”

  “I’m sure he has time to test some new revenue lines.”

  “This is a super-risky type of fund. I don’t know if he would be interested,” he insists.

  “I saw you invest in emerging markets. Why not emerging artists?”

  Andrew sighs. “Alright, look,” he starts. “I admire folks who have the guts to pitch new ideas, but getting a fund as an intern is nearly impossible. And even if by some sort of divine intervention you manage to convince Van Dieren to open a fund for emerging artists, you’ll need someone to supervise it, and you being on my team, this someone would be me…” He smirks. “Therefore, I would want a commission.”

  “Well, I imagine if the fund profits are for Gatt-Dieren Capital, then I’m probably entitled to a percentage, and you too.”

  “Right. But just to make it clear—I want a percentage on your percentages.”

  “What? That’s not fair.”

  “The world isn’t fair, darling. You’ll need my help for the intro and the pitch.”

  What about telling you he is my godfather, idiot? No, cool down, Petra. You wanted to play by the rules; you play by the rules. “You know, I’m just looking for a small fund to start, two hundred and fifty thousand as a test. I might leave the company after this internship, but you can easily replace me with someone and continue to grow the fund and make further returns. So, in the long-term, you’ve already won.”

  “Alright, alright…” He mumbles, staring at the beautiful waitress as she places our lunch on the table. Right, he probably didn’t hear a thing.

  We start eating.

  Ugh. This meeting is going nowhere. I have to try harder. “When are you calling Van Dieren?”

  “You mean, you want me to call him now?” he garbles while chewing.

  “Of course. I want to pitch the fund as soon as possible. I thought you were a hustler.”

  And Andrew is one. He takes the bait, picks up his phone, and finally calls Van Dieren’s office.

  “Hi, Cate. It’s Andrew Sullivan. Is Mr. Van Dieren available this afternoon? I’d like to talk to him… Just ten minutes would be enough… It’s about opening a new fund… Alternative investments… Perfect. After lunch is fine.” He hangs up. “After lunch I can talk to him for ten minutes. See? I’m a real hustler. That’s why I make seven figures a year.”

  I roll my eyes. Such a pathetic ego. So easy to manipulate.

  Andrew seems visibly nervous as we walk down the hallway to Van Dieren’s office. I follow closely, trying to contain my amusement.

  “Okay, look, you stay behind me, and don’t talk unless he asks you something.”

  “Are you alright?” I ask, quite entertained.

  “He can be scary sometimes. He has this annoying habit of looking you straight in the eyes with a serious stare and no smile whatsoever. I never know what he’s thinking—maybe he likes what I’m saying or maybe he hates it. Anyway, let me do the talking, and you’ll be fine.”

  We step into an open room with a desk and a well-groomed receptionist smiling at us. But I find myself staring at the glass wall behind her instead, which offers a splendid view of the city.

  “Hi, Cate. How are you? Is Van Dieren available?”

  “Hi, Andrew. Let me check.” She calls and speaks over the phone in a low, discreet voice. “You can enter. You’ve got ten minutes.”

  Andrew swallows hard. “Perfect. Thank you, Cate.” He looks at me standing behind him. “Let’s go.” He then takes a deep breath and, after knocking out of courtesy, opens the door. “Mr. Van Dieren, how are you doing?”

  Alex stands leaning against the edge of his office desk, reading some report. He doesn’t pay attention to Andrew’s greeting. I notice he’s wearing glasses to read. Damn, even with glasses he looks hot. Today he’s formal but somehow looks effortless—fit navy-striped waistcoat and pants; white shirt with a tie and sleeves rolled up to his elbows; hair unbrushed, wild, and loose, touching each side of his forehead... Petra, focus! I decide to move toward him and introduce myself. “Good afternoon, Mr. Van Dieren.” I extend a hand. “I’m Petra Williams, an intern on Andrew’s team.”

  “Petra,” he smiles, staring at me straight in the eyes, probably proud to see me here in his office. “Very nice to meet you.” He holds my hand a fraction longer than necessary.

  “Mr. Van Dieren, many thanks for your time. Petra is a new but very motivated intern, and she gave me some great ideas to open a new fund—a small one—in the field of emerging artists.”

  “I see… So, who had the idea for this fund?”

  “I did,” reply both Andrew and I at the same time.

  What a liar! I can’t believe it! “I’m sorry, Andrew, I think you misunderstood. I did talk to you about my idea over lunch, but I am the one who did all the legwork,” I protest. Alex tries hard to suppress a smile. “Mr. Van Dieren, I’d like to discuss the opportunity to have a fund to invest in emerging artists that could generate real value for the firm,” I start. “I know this is not a field you’ve supported previously at Gatt-Dieren Capital, but art is just like—”

  “Andrew?”

  “Yes, Mr. Van Dieren?”

  “You may go back to your desk. I’m sure your interns are looking for you.”

  “Sure.” Andrew can’t hide his disappointment at being dismissed, but he leaves the office anyway.

  Alex keeps quiet until Andrew shuts the door behind him. He looks back at me with a corner smile. “I’m impressed. That’s a great start. Roy will be very proud of you.”

  I try to keep a serious, professional face, but I also let a quick smile escape. “Being stubborn has its benefits.”

  “Here.” He hands me his file. “You’ve got all the details of your new fund inside.”

  I open it and read the first page attentively. “I don’t see Andrew Sullivan as the fund supervisor…”

  “Correct, he is not. I am the supervisor. You report directly to me.”

  “They’ll find it suspicious. It’s a small fund of…” I blink many times before I can read the capital properly without gagging. “One-point-five million dollars?”

  “I did some research about the artists you talked about. Quite impressive. For instance, that Mel Bochner you like so much—his artwork has been sold in auctions for one hundred thousand dollars apiece. I’m no art dealer, but you’re on the right path to become one. As you’ll read in the conditions, this is a long-term fund, so you can’t spend it all during your internship—you also have to leave two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in capital for emergency and growth.”

  I feel light-headed. Beyond excited. I want so much to hug him tight. But instead, I smile respectfully and say, “I won’t disappoint you. Thank you so much, Alex.”

  �
��You should thank your father too. After all, he’s the one who suggested giving you a seven-figure fund.”

  What I considered to be work doesn’t feel like work at all anymore. With such an amazing opportunity to finally build up a substantial art collection, I’m keeping myself as focused as an eagle on its prey, except the prey is my investment plan— a requirement before spending a dime.

  “I didn’t start the right way with you. I’m sorry.” But I keep staring at my screen, ignoring Andrew exactly like our CEO just did.

  “That’s alright,” I mumble, since he’s not leaving. And I know why. I’m laughing hard inside. Andrew is not getting a single dime of my new fund, and I love it! “Just in case you didn’t know, you’re not supervising this fund.” My eyes remain on the screen, but I can feel his mind churning in confusion.

  “What? What do you mean I’m not supervising your fund?” He grabs the file from my desk and impatiently reads the fund’s details. “Very well, Williams. That’s a move I wasn’t expecting. You like to play tough. We’ll see how you perform.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Andrew. Stop crying.” I find myself saying as I shift my eyes to him. “It would have been an insignificant bonus anyway. You should focus on where the big money is.” I finish with a friendly smile, though I know Andrew isn’t pissed because of the commission, but rather because he’s been outsmarted, and his ego is now taking a hammering.

  “Look, you might have charmed Van Dieren with your pathetic idea, but I’m still your supervisor. And I am the one writing the reports about your behavior, your ethical approach, and your professionalism…” He steps slightly closer to me. “You know if I give you poor ratings in terms of your behavior toward your superiors, no firm in New York will hire you, right?”

  My face remains unreadable, but I’m starting to lose my temper with this little parasite.