The Boys' Club

by Erica Katz

  “So, where were you in law school?” she asked abruptly.

  “Harvard,” I said, and she nodded dismissively, keeping one eye on her work phone. Her platinum hair was pin-straight and tied into a short ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her nails were long and painted white. She wore a white silk blouse with a thick red pinstripe tucked into a navy pencil skirt with four-inch nude heels, which only made her about five-four. Her skin was perfectly pale and flawless. I need to stay out of the sun, I thought. Her makeup was minimal. I wonder if my eyeliner is smudged. My eyeliner is always smudged. She couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. I need to stop eating carbs. If I hadn’t known her name, I might have guessed it was Vivienne. It suited her.

  “Did you enjoy your time there?”

  “I loved it.”

  She looked up at me skeptically, and I realized my mistake. We were supposed to portray an unruffled, contemplative, skeptical, calm-in-the-face-of-chaos persona at all times.

  “It was a great education,” I said, correcting myself. She clicked one more button and then put her work phone facedown next to her personal cell. She looked as though she was momentarily contemplating dislocating her jaw and devouring me.

  “That was schooling. This is an education,” she said, her attention now fully on me. I thought for a moment she was referring to our lunch. I suppose she might have been. But I thought it more likely that she meant working life more generally. “Anyway, I’m glad we finally got to do this. Sorry for the delay. I’m a crappy mentor, but they keep giving me mentees.”

  I laughed politely, at a loss for a more appropriate reaction.

  “What have you been working on?” she asked, picking up her phone. “I’m listening.”

  “I’m doing almost all M&A these days. I did a few real estate deals when I first arrived.” I was talking to fill the silence, quite certain she wasn’t hearing a word I was saying. “I like M&A. I think it’s more my speed than real estate.”

  “What do you mean?” She looked at me squarely, her hands still.

  My heart rate increased. I felt my knees go slightly rubbery. “Oh. I just felt like I was more on the periphery of deal-making or -breaking decisions when I worked in real estate.”

  Fuck. Is she a real estate lawyer? No. Capital markets. I’m sure of it. Shit. Am I offending her?

  “But then again, the deal I was on was an acquisition, so obviously I wasn’t part of the core team doing real estate,” I blabbered on. “Anyway, I enjoy the more centralized vantage point I have from the M&A platform.”

  She looked back down at her phone and resumed typing. I had the sense that she not only resented having to be my mentor but also simply didn’t care for me at all.

  “I totally get that. I feel the same way. That’s why I do capital markets,” she said without looking up. “I see a lot of myself in you, actually. So sorry. After this, I’m done. I swear.”

  I wondered just how I was presenting myself if she thought we were similar, but I reassured her as best I could. “Please. Don’t apologize. I get it. Maybe a couple months ago, I didn’t, but now I do.”

  “You think you do.”

  Her condescending tone knocked me off balance yet again, and two simultaneous but disparate emotions cropped up in my chest: terror that if I continued in BigLaw, I’d inevitably become cold and rigid like Vivienne, and exhilaration that if I continued in BigLaw, I’d become a fashionable, beautiful, intelligent, and successful partner like Vivienne.

  “Okay. I’m back.” She looked up at me and set down her phone again. “By the way, nobody outside BigLaw will ever get it. Maybe investment bankers. But they’re the client. They have the luxury of not responding. We don’t. Doctors keep horrendous hours, but they at least know when they’re going to be on call. There’s no predictability with us. No ability to unplug. Do you know how many vacations I’ve taken where I haven’t left my hotel room? I haven’t been anywhere without an internet connection in sixteen years. Planes used to be the only time I really slept, and then the airlines went and got fucking Wi-Fi. The ironic part is, I did the IPO for GoGo—the company that delivers it to them.” She smacked her head dramatically. “If anybody tells you they ‘get it,’ they’re lying. And they probably hate you for being on your phone so much.”

  I pointed to her phone cover. “You seem to have it figured out,” I said, laying it on as thickly as I dared.

  She sucked air in sharply, and I wondered if I’d made a misstep. But she looked at the picture on her phone case wistfully for only a moment before smiling and then motioning to the waiter with one hand while slipping her phone into her purse with the other.

  “We can order,” she snapped at a server rushing by, even though he wasn’t the one assigned to our table. I reached for the menu and scanned it frantically.

  “I’ll start with a Caesar salad. And the chicken paillard,” she said, handing him her menu as he and I scrambled to catch up.

  “I’ll have the caprese to start,” I said, trying to pick something different from what she’d ordered. “And the scallops, please.”

  “May I interest you ladies in some of our house-made bread?” A second server came over with a bread basket and tongs.

  No way she eats carbs.

  “One olive and one whole wheat, please,” Vivienne barked. “And can you bring the good butter they have in the back? The whipped kind?” She looked back to me. “Something about the foil makes it taste metallic, you know?”

  I didn’t, but I nodded.

  “Multigrain, please,” I said, craning my neck over the basket. The roll was warm, and the steam escaped in tiny curls when I broke through its crusty exterior.

  “Are you looking forward to First-Year Academy?” Vivienne asked, breaking her bread as well. “I think they schedule the retreat for somewhere warm in February to try to compensate for the fact that first-year associates are expected to work through Christmas and New Year’s.”

  Well, that put an end to the conversations I’d been having with Sam about where to go for Christmas vacation.

  “Definitely,” I said. Oddly enough, it wasn’t a lie. In theory, spending time in a hotel conference room while the California sun blazed outside didn’t sound all that fun. But in reality, I wasn’t yet comfortable enough in my new financial reality to not be thrilled by an all-expenses-paid trip across the country, a luxury hotel room all to myself, complete with slippers and robes and Egyptian cotton sheets, and unlimited alcohol.

  Vivienne was back to reading her emails. “Great,” she muttered under her breath sarcastically as she typed a quick reply. “I have to lead a training this year, so I’ll see you there. Don’t wear a bikini.”

  I swallowed before I had fully chewed my roll. “Sorry?”

  “Don’t wear a bikini. When you have free time at the pool,” she said, looking at me, her eyes suddenly brighter and her voice lighter. “Your male colleagues see you in a bathing suit once, and they’ll picture you in a bathing suit in every single meeting for the rest of your life.” She must have seen the skepticism on my face. “Trust me on this one.”

  I nodded, but felt eager to change the subject. “So, you were a partner at Gifford before coming to Klasko?”

  “Yep. It was no cakewalk being the new kid. I found I needed to prove myself. And look the part. You’re lucky, you got in on the ground floor. And you already look the part.” She gave me a small smile to let me know it was a compliment, and I sensed she was suddenly enjoying my company.

  I tried to picture Vivienne in anything but perfectly tailored, stylish business attire and wondered what she could have worn before she “looked the part.”

  The busboy cleared my plate of crumbs and her plate of two whole rolls, torn apart but still there in their entirety, as well as her untouched ramekin of butter. I felt that she somehow had just purposefully tricked me into eating carbs.

  She told me about capital markets work over salads and offered to get me on one of her de
als over entrées. I grinned obsequiously and thanked her, despite being terrified at the prospect of working for her. She handed the waiter her credit card as she asked for the bill and signed without reviewing the check and, I was pretty sure, without the addition of “esq.”

  We walked back to the office in silence as she typed away on her work phone, and in the lobby we passed Carmen and Roxanne, who seemed to be on their way to grab lunch. Carmen waved and Roxanne gave me a high five, then they went through the revolving door without a word.

  Vivienne looked up from her phone. “Your friends?”

  I nodded. “My class is great. It’s been really nice to have actual friends as I adjust to life at a big firm.”

  Vivienne looked at me intently. “Hmm.” She finally released her grip on her phone and tossed it into her purse. “Erich Fromm once said that intelligence is a man’s instrument for manipulating the world more successfully. You know what I mean?”

  I began to nod slowly before I allowed my head to shake instead.

  She laughed as though she’d guessed as much. “I’m just saying, be careful. You put a bunch of smart, hungry people in competition for the same prize, and the result is . . . well, people are almost never what they seem around here.” She broke into a large smile. “This was lovely, Alex! Looking forward to doing it again soon.”

  I fumbled slightly. “Thank you for lunch. I had such a nice time.”

  I didn’t actually know what kind of a time I’d had. It wasn’t a bad time. I felt a bit like I had just lost a game of chicken, but I had never felt like Vivienne was coming at me at all. I exhaled as she waved lightly, almost brushing the air away from behind her head, and started off toward the far elevator bank.

  From: Peter Dunn

  To: Alexandra Vogel

  Subject: FW: Goldshore

  Hi Alex,

  See below. The kickoff meeting for Goldshore will be tomorrow. Please schedule. The timeline will be tight, and due to some scheduled vacation time by the senior associate on the deal, you will be the only associate on it for the next few weeks. I know this deal will cut in a bit to Thanksgiving time, but we’ll do our level best to make sure you can enjoy at least Thursday. Should be a great opportunity. And a lot of work. I trust you are equal to the task!

  —Peter

  From: Alexandra Vogel

  To: Peter Dunn

  Subject: Re: FW: Goldshore

  Hi Peter,

  Thanks. I’ll schedule the meeting asap. I’m definitely equal to the task! Looking forward to it.

  Best,

  Alex

  Chapter 11

  “Babe, honestly, it’s enough. It’s Thanksgiving,” Sam said, a slight whine in his voice.

  He was driving our rental car to my parents’ house in Connecticut, flashing his brights every so often to illuminate the murky suburban road winding before us in the moonless night. I typed furiously at my phone with my computer on my lap, making changes I could save to the system as soon as I got onto Wi-Fi. My plan to float under the staffing partner’s radar hadn’t lasted more than a week. More senior associates had started to travel home for Thanksgiving, and first-years were required to pick up the slack. I found myself heading into the four-day weekend on three deals, the one for Peter and two new ones for Matt.

  “I know I know I know! Sorry! I just want to do this now so I can really spend time with you and our families when we get there.”

  Sam nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced.

  “I’m sorry!” I begged.

  “I know.”

  “Sorry,” I repeated, defeated.

  He put his right hand on my knee, and when I contorted my arm at the elbow so that I didn’t hit his hand on my lap as I typed, I felt him roll his eyes at me and move his palm back onto the wheel.

  “Bunny! My Bunny is home!” My mom ran into the front hall as soon as we opened the door. A savory waft of a roast in the oven and the smell of something sweet with cinnamon reached me even before she did. They immediately calmed me, and I put my bags down and leaned into her embrace.

  “The house smells amazing!” I shut my eyes as I breathed in. When I opened my eyes, my heart sank. Absolutely nothing had changed in the house I grew up in. The same floral tablecloth was draped over the Formica table. The same crocheted pillow declaring “Home Is Where the Heart Is” occupied the best seat on the reclining chair. I suppose I had never noticed how outdated the decor was until I had my own adult apartment to decorate. And somehow the house felt as though it had shrunk, the walls closing in on me.

  I started to feel warm and pulled at my collar. “Is it hot in here?” I tugged at the bottom of my shirt to fan my torso.

  “Probably a little, because of the oven. I’ll open a window.” My mother continued to chatter as she made her way to the window and allowed a bit of cold air in. “I’m making Brussels sprouts, jalapeño cheddar corn bread, green bean casserole, cranberry orange chutney, ham, and turkey, of course. Sam, your mom is bringing a vegetable tartlet and two pies. Aunt Sue is bringing the salad and fruit salad. What am I missing?”

  “How should I know?” I said, more sharply than I’d intended.

  My mom’s face fell, and she dropped her hands to her sides.

  I was struck by a feeling of guilt. “I mean, I just got here! Can I just do a little work, and then we’ll do a full rundown of the menu?”

  “Sure! The computer is all set up for you in the basement.”

  “I have mine.” I slid my Klasko laptop out of its cover.

  “The Wi-Fi is down, actually. The last storm knocked it out. We’ve been meaning to fix it, but they keep giving us a six-hour window for an appointment! Who has that kind of time to sit around? Just use ours.” I stared at my mother. I certainly didn’t have that kind of time, but I didn’t quite know what else she was doing with her days.

  “Mom, I need my computer to be on the internet. I have files saved locally—” I breathed in sharply and put my forefinger to my temple. “Does your computer have an LAN connection? Is it only the wireless that’s down? I guess I can use yours if it’s connected,” I said, figuring that I would only need to redo the work I’d done in the car if I couldn’t connect my laptop.

  “There’s no internet,” she repeated robotically.

  I looked to Sam for help. “Maybe there’s a twenty-four-hour Starbucks,” he offered. I cocked my head to the side, waiting to see if he’d laugh. He wasn’t joking. I had grown accustomed to high-speed printers, double-wide computer screens, and ergonomic office chairs. Working from my parents’ home was bad enough. I refused to be punished by sitting in some random Starbucks in the Connecticut suburbs because my parents had yet to enter the twenty-first century. There had to be a solution, but obviously I would need to come up with it myself.

  “Jesus Christ.” I took out my phone and walked into the house, leaving them by the door. I began to compose a mental list of everything I’d need internet for over the weekend. Item 1: Everything. “I don’t even know how you people function,” I grumbled.

  My mother followed me as I paced around the house, looking up the number for our corporate help desk.

  “Klasko & Fitch technology help center. This is Arthur. How may I help you?”

  “Hi, Arthur. This is Alex Vogel in the New York office. I’m in Connecticut, a couple hours outside the city, for the holiday, and I don’t have Wi-Fi.”

  “What are they going to do about it?” Sam asked, more to my mother than to me, and she nodded, as if I was being ridiculous.

  “Oh, you’re able to send a messenger with a Myfi? By eleven is perfect.” I gave Sam an exaggerated wink.

  “No. I didn’t know that was possible . . . Yes, I have it here . . . No, I’m calling you from my personal device, my work phone is in my hand . . . okay . . . okay . . . okay. Now what? . . . Really!? I had no idea. You’re a genius. Hold on, let me see if it works.” I opened my computer and put my phone next to it.

  “What are you doing?”
my mother whispered. I hated when she whispered just because I was on the phone, as though her question was less intrusive that way.

  “I’m using my work phone as a personal hotspot. I didn’t realize I could do that.” My mom nodded, pretending to understand, then busied herself offering Sam food.

  “I’m in! Four bars. Thanks again. You’re the greatest. Have a very happy holiday.” I hung up with a smile.

  “Phew!” My mother sighed. “What can I fix you for dinner? Sam’s going to have salad and chicken.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I said, not looking up from my screen. In truth, I was starving, but few things gave my mother as much pleasure as feeding people, and denying her that pleasure was a way of punishing her for my own frustration about the internet. “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s in the cellar, picking some bottles for the weekend. He’ll be up in—”

  As if on cue, my father entered the room carrying a crate of wine, which he shoved onto the kitchen island before enveloping me in his arms. I buried my head in his chest and took a deep breath.

  “What is it?” My father pried me off of him and looked at me. I immediately noticed the fraying of his collar, as well as his ill-fitting jeans and mismatched socks. Though I wished they didn’t bother me, I cringed slightly.

  “Nothing! I’m just tired. My brain hurts.”

  Back at my laptop, I kept my eyes laser-focused on my work so I didn’t have to see the sideways glances Sam and my parents exchanged as my mom threw together dinner from a mixture of leftovers and whatever she had on hand. I wanted a fresh salad, something light so I wouldn’t get sleepy while working, or maybe a piece of fish, but she placed store-bought chicken cutlets and lettuce drenched in ranch dressing before us. Sam and my father’s forks nearly collided as they both reached for the chicken, but I excused myself from the table without having any.