The Everything Girl

by L. Maleki

  As I waited for my subway car to stop and the doors to open, I held on to the pole and prayed I was at the right stop. Behind me, a young guy wearing a suit jacket, cargo shorts, and a pair of Crocs repeatedly rolled his bike tire onto the back of my calf. I’m glad to see narcissistic dudes with a man-bun and zero concept of personal space can be found on public transit anywhere in the US.

  I tried to shift away but the other sardines wouldn’t give. Glaring made no difference. My legs were bare and now hosted a red waffle tattoo. Motherfucker, I thought, but was too cowardly to say anything. I wasn’t up for confrontation so early in the morning, especially when I didn’t know if he’d be the kind of guy who apologized, ignored me, or starting screaming about the love of Jesus in my face.

  I moved out with the crowd when the doors finally swooshed open, speed walked to the surface, and breathed in great gulps of fresh street air. The carbon monoxide and smell of damp wool coats were mixed with the smells of coffee and curry and the angst of humanity. Ah, New York. I desperately wished I was back in California, where the smog was warm and the bums were friendly.

  Dodging construction workers and college kids on skateboards, I mentally reviewed what I knew about hedge funds. I felt more confident than maybe I should have but I’d worked in securities for a few years, and I’d aced my classes back in school specific to the strategies and the laws. I’d downloaded the latest Wall Street Journal and Hedge Funds for Dummies early this morning, brushing up on the buzzwords. I understood the basics just fine; I was way more worried about the people. Information? I could master that. People? Who knows what these people are going to want from me.

  Approaching the building, I stopped to switch my flats for a pair of heels. I leaned up against the plate glass window of a coffee shop and tugged stilettos from my tote bag. The café looked like the kind of place that massaged the organic coffee plants and then harvested, roasted, and served the coffee with only peace and love in their hearts. Joe’s Coffee Shop. I adored it already. I pushed away from the glass and promised myself I’d stop later. Properly attired, I joined the legions of black-suited worker drones marching down the sidewalks.

  My feet hurt by the time I stood in front of a newly renovated building, PRCM hopefully to be found on the thirty-eighth floor, which is what I had scribbled onto the back of a receipt the night before. I’d used my lip gloss, so it was a little smudgy.

  A security guard named Kwan sat on a stool at the front counter. He found my name on a list and handed me a card with a code. “This code will only work for today,” he said, before directing me to a private bank of elevators at the back of the lobby.

  Inside the teak-paneled elevator, I poked the button for the thirty-eighth floor and then entered the numbers. The ride was silent, the doors sliding open before I even had a chance to straighten my skirt and exhale completely. I stepped into a wood-and-steel Scandinavian-flavored lobby, complete with a blonde receptionist.

  An older man, slender and quick-stepped, popped out of an office just past the reception desk and zeroed in on me. I’m pretty sure Hot Secretary hadn’t had time to alert anyone to my presence, yet this man was clearly aiming for me. His intense gaze was friendly, though, and his wooly gray eyebrows hovered high above honest eyes. I returned his smile as he approached, my nerves easing a bit.

  “Hi, you must be Paris.” He held out his hand. “I’m Todd Lindstrom, the Chief Operating Officer.”

  “Mr. Lindstrom, I’m honored to meet you.” I stepped forward, projecting “confident adult,” shaking hands calmly and with authority. It felt good, being in a place of business again.

  “Call me Todd.”

  A woman in her thirties appeared next to Todd. “And you can call me Ericka. Briefly. I’m the EA on my way out.” Ericka was attractive, though the skin on her face appeared blotchy and there were dark circles under her eyes. “Come on, we’re in conference room two.”

  Once settled, Ericka and Todd took turns politely asking questions. At first, they were normal interview questions, like, What is your background in finance, and As the executive assistant, you’d be overseeing four other assistants. Tell me about your leadership style, and How will you react when you’re face-to-face with one of our celebrity investors? I lied and told them I viewed all people equally and had no problem remaining professional when Alex Rodriguez or Brooke Shields needed an Americano or a bowl of blue M&M’s.

  Todd cleared his throat and said, “Elton John was in here last week and I had to physically remove one of our research assistants. There is to be no wheedling, fawning, or even talking to the investors, unless it is necessary.”

  “Of course.” I nodded and kept my face blank while my inner fangirl jumped around, screaming, Elton John! Ermygawd! “The Circle of Life”!

  Then Ericka leaned in, intent, and began asking the “real” questions.

  “If one of the CEOs asked you to order lunch but then became highly agitated because the food arrived cold, how would you handle it?”

  Show him how the microwave works. “I would apologize and heat it for him. Better yet, if this is something important to him, I would quality check his food before he gets it.”

  And: “Do politically incorrect jokes bother you?”

  “I assume they bother most people, but I don’t let them get to me.” I’d had to allow my fair share of sexist and racist “jokes” roll off my back. That didn’t mean I’d be thrilled with a racist boss. Was I expected to keep quiet at that kind of thing? And was it such an acceptable habit that they had to work it into the interview?

  Then: “One of the CEOs is a mumbler; are you comfortable repeatedly asking him to clarify, though it will bother him?”

  “Um. I’m sure I can handle that.” Who is this guy?

  This went on for about twenty minutes. Finally, Todd asked, “Okay, anything you’d like to ask us, Paris?”

  I took a deep breath. The crazy questions were jarring, but I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just because the CEO sounded like a nutjob. It’s not like I have to live with him. I wanted to get this right. They had yet to ask me specifically how long I’d worked with hedge funds, so I hadn’t had to lie. Clearly, they were focused on something else.

  “I am really good at numbers and have spent my life managing finances. I graduated top of my class, and my past employer made a lot of money because of me. But my greatest asset, I believe, is that I can deal with big, difficult personalities, adapting easily to challenging people or environments. Most of my clients would say I am quick, efficient, and relatable. I make things happen and I do it smoothly, without fuss.” I tapped the table with my pencil. “And I can easily see myself here at PRCM.”

  Todd and Ericka exchanged a glance. Then they had a private tête-à-tête in the hall. Through the wall of plate glass, I could see their heads almost touching, both of them serious. A couple of times they were interrupted by women walking by. How come they’re all so attractive? I hope that’s not an imperative. I twisted my mother’s earrings, hoping for luck.

  “Okay, Paris,” said Todd, coming in with a smile. “You’ve made it to the next round. We’re going to call in a CEO to do the final portion of the interview. I’ll be back in a minute.” He strode out of the room.

  Ericka stayed behind. “Do you need some more coffee?”

  “No, I’m good, thanks.”

  She slid into a seat across from me, gathered papers, and put them in a folder. “You’re going to want something. Frank will take forever to get here. He’s not exactly perceptive when it comes to time. Or people. And he’s the CEO who you’ll be working with ninety percent of the time. He’s a little … needy.”

  I peered around. We were alone. Gently, gently. “So, he’s kinda hard to work for?”

  She shut her eyes. Nodding to herself, she opened them again but wouldn’t look at me straight on. “He’s challenging.” She cleared her throat. “But you can learn a lot from him, that’s for sure. While there are two CEOs here, Frank is th
e brain of this operation. He’s the genius. Andrew, on the other hand, is the voice of reason. Together, they keep fifteen billion in funds afloat.”

  She finally made eye contact, brushing bangs out of her face. “You’re smart. You’re easygoing. And you’re very pretty. You’re going to get this job.” Ericka reached across the table and patted my hand, as if she were a grandmother. “When it gets tough, remind yourself: it’s just a job, don’t take his tantrums personally. Also remind yourself you are extremely lucky. Hundreds of interns and a hundred more finance grads are trying to get a piece of Franklin Coyle. You’ll have him, like it or not. Make sure you get something out of it.”

  “Then why are you leaving?”

  The conference room door flew open. I startled, but relief washed over Ericka’s face. She stood up and edged away from me. “Okay, Paris, it was nice meeting you! Good luck!”

  And she was gone.

  In her place, staring at me like I was a strip of bacon, was a man of medium height and medium looks, the bland face and haircut of a high school science teacher—yet some kind of heat boiled off him, a crazy intelligence blazing from his money-green eyes that made me blink. Or it might have been the pink shirt with the darker pink suit jacket and the lime green tie. He was blinding.

  “Tehrani … are you an Arab?” he asked, beginning to pace.

  “Not according to history,” I responded, surprised into answering. Was this guy for real? “My family is Persian, not Arab. I was born in Iran, but I’ve lived in the US my whole—”

  “Paris. Your first name is Paris. Ha. How’d the sex video work out for you?”

  Breathe. Control your face. “Well, I had to ditch the blonde hair and white skin, and the string of hotels, so I guess not so great.” This was not the first time I’d heard the Paris Hilton joke. Hilarious, every time.

  He stopped pacing. “Good one. I like that—you’re spunky. I’m Frank Coyle, a CEO here.” He didn’t reach out to shake, instead put his hands in his pants pockets and started rocking on his heels. “Are you married?”

  “No.” I remained pleasant, adopting a nonchalant, slightly amused tone of voice. I could be outraged at the illegal question later. I would also spend some time praying that by answering no, he wouldn’t take that as permission to grab my ass.

  “Are you willing to work overtime?”

  “Absolutely.” Slow down, what are you agreeing to?

  “Do you think hedge funds are shady?”

  He’d mumbled the question, just as I had been warned, so I didn’t think I heard him correctly. “Umm … what?”

  “You’ve been in the game for a while now, Paris. Paris. I love that name. Anyway, you must have had run-ins with the self-righteous fucks who think hedge funds are all about making money off suckers, manipulating the market so others lose, while we gain.” He crossed his arms, looming over me.

  “Mr. Coyle,” I started slowly, “obviously a few traders went rogue and were caught stealing from their investors and now they are household names. But in reality, I know a good hedge fund manager has their own funds tied up in the investments as well and the clients can see what is happening with their money. More than that, hedge fund traders are doing exactly what other investors are doing, they just have more latitude because they take more risk—”

  “Okay, fine.” He cut me off. Again. He went to the door and yelled out into the hall. “Ericka! Bring me some water!”

  I don’t know how much I believed in what I was saying, but figured I would find out soon enough, when I had been “in the game for a while” for realsies. Trying to be helpful, I said, “Mr. Coyle, there’s a pitcher of water on the table—”

  “Ericka!”

  A young, redheaded woman came skittering into the room with a bottle of Perrier and a glass. She set them on the table. “Ericka had to leave,” she said, turning to me. She had an odd cast to her face. Her voice was friendly but her eyes were cold, a condescending sneer turning up her pale lip.

  Frank took a long swig, his Adam’s apple working under his pimply, poorly shaven throat. “This is lemon.” Frank threw the bottle at the garbage can but missed. It crashed against the wall.

  I jumped and so did the assistant, who paled, a sheen developing in her eyes, but she remained in control. “Frank, we are out of lime. I’ll have to go to the market. I’ll be back in a minute.” She picked up the bottle off the floor and marched out the door.

  He dropped into a chair. “Ericka should take that one with her,” he said, pointing at the redhead’s disappearing back. Then, abruptly, he swung his finger to point at me. “Do you have children?”

  “No, but I was thinking about getting a puppy …” Not my best joke, but he did not even attempt a chuckle. Or seem to hear me.

  “Do you live in the City?”

  “I’m looking for a place—”

  “Good. This job is difficult. You need to be close. You’ll create and run my schedule, which changes minute by minute. The junior assistants report to you—you need to make sure they stay on task, and that they’re doing it right. It’s a lot of work and I have a lot on my plate. I have foundation meetings, I’m on a dozen boards, I donate … you have to keep track of everything at all times. My wife has her own business and you might help her from time to time. I have multiple homes, and I have home staff you’ll have to talk to: nannies, butler, drivers, a kid. Do you think you can handle it?” He was breathless by the time he was done.

  “Yes, I’ve done this all before.” That was a complete lie. I’d tracked investments and managed bank accounts and mortgages, not people. Normally, I would have panicked at his overwhelming list, but I was numb, and disappointed. He had not specified anything to do with financial responsibilities. I struggled to put my ego aside. I needed a job. And if I was smart and self-motivated, I’d pay attention to his methods and come out with investing savvy and a good resume. Just do it.

  I laid my palms gently on the table, leaned toward him, and said, “I like a challenge.”

  He leaned in as well, dropping his voice. “You are so calm. Are you like this all the time?”

  I burst out with a laugh but reeled it in before I contradicted my serene persona. “Well, I don’t panic easily, if that’s what you mean. I’m driven when it comes to getting things done, and done correctly, but I don’t spend a lot of energy freaking out.”

  Frank snorted. “We’ll see. Anyway, do you have any questions for me?”

  A rule in interviewing is to always have questions ready for the employer. I should probably have remembered that before sitting down. “Um, yes, the executive assistant who’s leaving … what do you like about her? Anything she does that you’d change?”

  He stood up abruptly and then shrugged, peering off into the distance, like he’d already left the conversation. “I don’t know, she just does everything. Everything gets done. She doesn’t cry a lot. She doesn’t smell like garlic. Why would I change that?”

  And then he was gone. He didn’t shake my hand or say goodbye, he simply vanished.

  I’d tried to say everything I thought he’d wanted to hear. And there he went, with not even a parting glance. I’d somehow turned this guy off, my first real shot at a good job in New York. I was sure I would sink into depression and self-flagellation on the way home, possibly eat a box of Oreos, but, right then, I couldn’t quite process what had just happened.

  Walking to the conference room door, I noticed a dent in the wall by the garbage can.

  It would suck to work here, anyway.

  Chapter 4

  I’d almost escaped out the lobby doors when Kwan, the security guard I’d met earlier, yelled my name across the wide-open room. Suits everywhere stopped to see what was going on.

  “Paris! Paris Tehrani!” The balding gentleman was jogging toward me, his hand on a gun to keep it from flapping against his fleshy hip. At least, I hoped that’s what he was doing.

  The flush didn’t stop on my face; even my arms were blushing. “Ye
s?” I stammered.

  Though he’d run only fifty feet, he bent over and leaned against his knees, wheezing. “Todd,” gasp, “Lindstrom,” gasp. “He wants,” gasp, “you to go back up.” The poor man stood up and straightened his collar. “Whew. You walk fast.”

  “Todd wants me back upstairs? The COO?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Yah.” He gave me a thumbs-up and lumbered back to his desk, hitching up his pants.

  Todd met me at the elevator as I stepped back onto the thirty-eighth floor. “So glad Kwan caught you! Frank approved your hiring. Still interested in the job?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The COO grinned. “It might seem like a snap decision, but we need to fill the position right away. If Frank is on board, so are we. I will speak to the recruiter and get the paperwork going and he will present you with a formal offer, but I wanted to let you know.”

  By the time I was back at the lobby doors, waving goodbye to Kwan, my new best friend, I was loaded down with strategy and market handbooks, office policies, trading regulations and requirements, contact sheets, catalogs, name tags, access cards, and a huge grin.

  But by the time I found the correct subway entrance, my arms hurt and my grin had dwindled to a frown. Was I doing the right thing? Could I fake my way through the training?

  Franklin Coyle could teach me about hedge funds and provide connections. He couldn’t possibly be as douchey as he seemed. Working there gave me a paycheck in the immediate, and a platform on which to build my career. Plus, the pay was three times more than I’d been making at the bank back in California. Yes, PRCM was going to be great.

  I had ten days to find an apartment and study up on managing hedge funds—and managing genius hedge fund managers who appeared to be dealing with a cocktail of anger issues and Asperger’s.