The Boys' Club

by Erica Katz

  I threw off the covers before the front door even clicked shut, and made it to the bathroom, but not all the way to the toilet, where I vomited up the bile in my stomach. I lay crumpled on the bathroom floor for a few moments before trusting myself to get up. I Cloroxed the tiles, scrubbing to get the grout back to white, catching glimpses of my slightly green face in the mirror, and lay back down to nap while intermittently answering emails.

  By ten o’clock, I thought Jordan might be at his desk, and I grabbed my phone to call him.

  He picked up after one ring. “Skippyyyyy!”

  A salty tear slipped into the side of my parted lips from my cheek. “I’m working from home” was the only declarative statement I could manage.

  “I figured! Heard you puked. All-star happy hour showing, Skippy.”

  I started to cry silently.

  “Skip? You okay?” I couldn’t speak. “Hello?” I could hear a hint of concern in his voice.

  “Does everybody think I’m sleeping with Matt?” I whispered.

  Silence. More silence.

  “Let me close my door. Okay. Hi. Um . . . why?”

  My heart squeezed its way into my throat. “Who did you hear it from?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I can’t remember.”

  He was lying. I stood frozen in the middle of my bedroom floor, attempting to discern whether I’d need to run to the toilet again. I breathed in, swallowed, and relaxed.

  Jordan finally spoke. “I think maybe Nancy. I told her it wasn’t true. And, seriously—nobody who knows you would ever believe that.”

  “There are only like five people at this firm who actually know me!” My voice was almost a shriek, an entirely new register for me.

  “Look, Skip, I don’t mean to sound harsh here, but you gotta toughen up. When rumors fly, you’re doing something right. Who cares what these other people think? You’re part of our crew. That means you’re going to get a lot of shade thrown your way.”

  I allowed myself a small smile, not that he could see it. “Yeah,” I sniffled.

  “Throw yourself into work. This place is a prison, but sometimes you want to be locked away from everything else. That’s what I always do when my life is shit. And it’s gotten me this far.”

  “Yeah,” I said, and steadied my breath. “It’s a good distraction.” I hung up, took a shower, and called my email to life again, feeling somewhat ready to face the day.

  From: Peter Dunn

  To: Alexandra Vogel

  Subject: FW: Stag River

  Alex, see below. Gary Kaplan specifically requested you on the acquisition of Tremor Inc. That’s something to be proud of!

  —Peter

  My heart sank. I contemplated saying I was already staffed too heavily for the next month, but all first-year staffing went through Courtney, the staffing partner, so she’d know exactly what my capacity for new work was, and Peter could easily find out. All I could hope was that there wouldn’t be any face-to-face meetings for the deal. I shivered in disgust and shoved the feeling down so far I barely registered it.

  From: Alexandra Vogel

  To: Peter Dunn

  Subject: Re: FW: Stag River

  Peter,

  I’m flattered! Please let me know when I can get started.

  —Alex

  I watched as my in-box began to flood: Anna reminding me that I was delinquent in recording my time; Mike Baccard announcing that Klasko had been honored with yet another humanitarian award; Howard Kravitz, the head of PR, warning us not to answer calls from any reporters asking for comment on a partner’s son allegedly paying another student to take his SATs; dozens of emails between me and Jordan, hypothesizing which partner the email was referring to; and all the while, hundreds of messages regarding my active deals devoured my attention. The deluge mercifully squeezed the anxiety from my consciousness, and after a few hours, my small laptop screen was straining my vision. I arched my back, stretched my arms, and turned on the cold water in the shower.

  I stuck a Post-it to the refrigerator:

  Had to just head in for a few. Be back no later than 6. I’ll be sending you good vibes all day. Can’t wait to hear about it.

  X, A

  I headed to midtown, and didn’t leave the office again for seventy-two hours.

  Chapter 15

  Three days later, I finally caught a break from the onslaught, and the brief lull in a morning of back-to-back calls allowed my brain to wander back to the events of the last happy hour. I needed to figure out who had started this rumor. I shot Carmen a message, even though I knew she had a closing the next day for Jordan’s deal.

  From: Alexandra Vogel

  To: Carmen Greyson

  Subject: HUGE Favor

  I really need to chat. Are you around? Know you’re swamped. But, PLEASE. I’m in my office for the next few hours.

  Carmen breezed into my office three minutes after I had hit send, her skin clear and taut and her bright blue eyes alert despite the stress I would have imagined she was under, shut the door, and took a seat.

  “You look amazing for having a closing tomorrow,” I said, then realized how it sounded. “I mean, you look really good, period. Which is impressive considering you have a closing tomorrow!”

  She smiled with a slight bow of her head. Something was different. She really did look . . . She had to be dating somebody. Everybody looks better when there is somebody to look better for. But she was looking better in the office! Was she dating somebody at work?

  “I’m hiding the stress well, I guess. Actually, Jordan is making this closing really smooth for me. It’s sort of a complicated deal, so Jordan’s holding my hand a bit.” She had said his name twice in three sentences, but moreover, she’d said it as though she loved saying it, and was itching to say it a thousand more times. It’s Jordan she’s been looking so good for lately, I thought. I wondered if he was reciprocating. “But I have to get back to it soon. What’s up?”

  I shook the thoughts of her and Jordan away, knowing I didn’t have much time, and launched into my deposition. “Have you heard a rumor about me?”

  Her eyes widened in what resembled panic before her face settled into her classically inscrutable expression, and she gave a slight shake of her head. “What? No. Why? Have you heard one about me?”

  I couldn’t tell if she was expertly deflecting or legitimately wondering, but she looked genuinely worried. “No. Why would I have heard one about you?” She’s definitely sleeping with Jordan, then. I didn’t wait for her to respond. “Everybody was looking at me funny at happy hour.”

  She scoffed. “That’s all? That’s just how lawyers look. We’re all socially awkward! You’re being silly.”

  “And then Derrick accused me of sleeping with Matt.”

  Carmen coughed on my last word. “What? Matt Jaskel?” She glanced over her shoulder to confirm that my door was closed. “Are you?” she whispered, even though it was. She was either a very good actress, or completely shocked.

  “No! Jesus. No.”

  “I’m just confirming before I say what I was about to, which is that that is absurd! Nobody is saying that.” She was almost laughing.

  “Everybody is saying it! Nancy, Derrick, Jordan. And I’m not being paranoid. Everybody was looking at me suspiciously. I want to die. But honestly, between Stag River and National, I’m way too busy to buy arsenic. Tell me the truth—do I need to switch firms?”

  “Al, don’t even kid about that. You can’t leave Klasko. I need you here. And nobody would ever believe that. Ever. I trust that Nancy girl as far as I can throw her. She’s so weird, and definitely has a thing for Jordan.” Despite the fact that her response was a classic deflection, she also had a point. I watched as her expression clouded over. “Would you ever sleep with somebody at work?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?” I asked gently, trying not to scare her off.

  “You know what, never mind! Don’t pay attention to people. And I’m so sorry, but I really have
to go. I have a closing!” She was out of her seat before I could say another word.

  Carmen was right. Nobody actually believed the rumor. Plus, screw them! They were probably just jealous because I was making inroads with the M&A team. I was certain the hostility would dissipate after we were all placed into groups. I could handle the cattiness for a few more months.

  * * *

  Just before Klasko partners migrated south to St. Barth’s or east to Chamonix, the firm held its annual Winter Ball. As Jordan explained, it was formerly known as a Christmas party, and then a holiday party, until the idea of offending anybody who did not observe a winter holiday overwhelmed firm management to such an extent that they created a Winter Ball instead. The entire firm and our plus-ones descended on the Pierre Hotel like a plague, a swarm just shy of a thousand. Everybody was invited. The mailroom. The librarians. Secretaries. Lawyers. Plus-ones.

  Carmen, Kevin, and Derrick left without me, since I’d been stuck on a call with Stag River, so I hurried over to the Pierre solo, trying to beat Sam there so he didn’t have to navigate the party alone. As I entered the ballroom, my eyes were pulled skyward by the ornate crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and then down to take in the rich red carpeting, dotted with male attorneys wearing exactly what they wore to the office and female attorneys taking a few fashion liberties they might not otherwise—skirts a few inches higher and blouses a few lower. Their dates stood out more because they wore nonbusiness clothing than because I didn’t recognize their faces from around the office. I was wearing a new high-waisted burgundy skirt from Aritzia with a white silk blouse from Intermix, an outfit I hoped was just conservative enough to be appropriate and just playful enough to be considered “festive” attire.

  “Love your skirt,” Mike Baccard’s wife mouthed at me as he led her past me into the crowd. The compliment lightened and straightened me. I entered with my shoulders back, my neck stretched long. I was going to present myself as above it all, blissfully above the rumors and politics swirling around my ankles.

  I accepted a glass of white wine from a passing server as I scanned the crowd for Sam, not able to spot him at first but taking in the scene on the dance floor. Almost no attorneys danced—I guessed they were not drunk enough yet—but Darlene from the mailroom, who always moved my documents to the top of her printing queue, was grinding against Isaac from accounting, who never bothered Jordan about our expenses, with little regard for the gawking onlookers.

  I spotted Jordan and his wife, Jessica, looking the picture of marital bliss as they chatted with another couple. I hoped people would notice that Sam and I fit together as well, quashing the Matt Jaskel rumors once and for all. As I looked at the bar in the far corner, I saw Carmen ordering a drink, but just as I started off toward her, a hand slipped around my waist and I smiled. Sam. As soon as I turned to face him, though, my smile faded. I took in his vintage-style maroon velvet blazer, blue button-down, and the ill-fitting black jeans he’d chosen to complete the look.

  “Holy shit, this is a classy affair! Is this okay?” he asked, fastening his one jacket button—the other was missing, but had left hanging thread behind as a parting gift.

  I searched his face, wondering if he was deliberately attempting to embarrass me with this absurd outfit—was it a prank?

  “What happened to the clothes I left on the bed?” I asked through a clenched smile. I’d laid out the tweed blazer and white French-cuff shirt I’d gotten him to wear with his cuff links, plus a smart blue tie. It would read start-up, tech nerd, cool and chic.

  “I’m not a child, Alex. I can dress myself.”

  I shot him a look. All evidence was to the contrary, but there was nothing I could do about it right now. I took a long swig of oaky chardonnay and searched for a way to get him away from the ballroom entrance, where a number of the partners were congregating to meet their wives.

  “I want you to say hi to Carmen,” I said as cheerily as possible, and led him farther into the ballroom to the bar. They greeted each other warmly, having already met a few times in Cambridge, as I glanced around the room.

  “Is it open bar?” Sam whispered into my ear. I nodded, relieved nobody else had heard him. I was fairly sure the Pierre didn’t offer a cash bar option. “Shots?” he asked eagerly.

  “Don’t you have to run early tomorrow? Are shots a good idea?” I asked gently.

  “I don’t think I can train for the marathon anymore. Work is ramping up, and I don’t have the time.”

  As he spoke, I wondered if this was true or if he felt the need to overstate how busy he was, in this ballroom dripping with industriousness and capitalism.

  “I definitely get that,” Carmen said. “But the training is just such a great way to stay in shape, so it’s cool you’ve been doing it, even if you don’t end up running the race.”

  I relaxed; I had almost forgotten how charming she could be with new people.

  It took only one round of champagne for Sam to convince Carmen that Patrón wouldn’t be a bad idea at all, but I opted out. As they ordered the shots from the bartender, I saw Peter guiding his rail-thin platinum-blond wife through the crowd. I willed myself not to stare, but my eyes would not oblige. She was even more striking than when I had seen her at Benihana. I took in the red soles of her black patent pumps and the indented delineation of muscle between her calf and shin along her outer leg—the line I’d never been able to achieve even when I’d worked out a few times a week. She’s perfect, I thought. They’re the perfect couple.

  “Wait!” I yelled. Sam and Carmen stopped mid-cheers. “Sam, just come meet Peter and his wife so we can thank them for the ski weekend, and then I promise you can drink whatever you want.”

  Sam nodded, and I watched him make an effort to look sincere. I beckoned for Carmen to come with us, but she vehemently shook her head.

  “I’ll be here,” she said, turning back to the bar.

  “We’ll be just a minute,” I promised Carmen as I pulled Sam behind me by the wrist and we caught up to the Dunns.

  “Peter, I wanted you to meet my boyfriend, Sam.”

  “Hi there!” Peter extended his hand, and I cringed as I watched him take in Sam’s blazer. “And this is my wife, Marcie.” We all shook hands, Marcie meeting my enthusiastic grin with a wan smile.

  “Mini brie and fig tartlet?” A tray was thrust into the middle of our foursome.

  Sam popped one in his mouth, and I politely declined. Peter took one, but his wife gave a small shake of her head, her thick blond hair sweeping her shoulders. She was exactly what I thought of when I heard the word statuesque: beautiful but frigid. Her skin was impossibly taut. Her nose, delicate. Her lips, plump. She wasn’t a natural beauty and had certainly been nipped and tucked over the years, but she was unarguably beautiful. The quintessential wife of a partner—plastic, but perfect.

  “So nice to meet both of you. And we just wanted to say thank you again for lending us your Killington house. It was the nicest getaway.” I nudged Sam.

  “Yes, thanks!” he added, swallowing the last bit of tartlet as he spoke.

  “You have the loveliest home,” I said to Marcie. She smiled graciously but said nothing, the way only truly rich and elegant women can do without seeming rude.

  Another tray appeared. “Shrimp cocktail?” I felt the wine resting in my stomach, so I took two shrimp, and Peter and Sam followed my lead.

  “Excuse me just a moment,” Marcie said. “Pleasure to meet you both.” Then she turned away, her eyes focused on something at the far end of the ballroom.

  “I’m so glad you enjoyed the house,” Peter said. “We never get up there, so somebody might as well use it.”

  “Yeah, it’s a great spot,” Sam said flatly, fidgeting with his lone blazer button, now looking uncomfortable with his choice of attire.

  “Did you ski?” Peter asked, taking a sip of the auburn liquid in his stout crystal glass.

  “I was so tired after that closing that we did almost n
othing. We totally wasted the weekend,” I answered. Because Sam didn’t want to do anything fun, I refrained from adding. He just wanted to talk and eat and stay in pajamas. No nice dinners out. No good wine. No skiing.

  “I aspire to waste a weekend someday,” Peter said, then patted the puffy half-moon under his right eye with a fingertip. “Wait to have kids,” he said to us with a short laugh. For the first time, I wondered if he was happy in his perfect-looking life.

  “Hey, Skippy!” Matt had suddenly joined our group, given me a side hug, and slapped Peter’s back. I saw Peter tense his shoulders, but his face remained placid.

  “Matt, this is my boyfriend, Sam. Sam, Matt Jaskel.”

  “Nice to finally meet you,” Matt slurred, shaking his hand. “Skippy, you excited for tomorrow?”

  “What’s tomorrow? Aside from a hangover on a Friday?” I sipped at my drink.

  “So, just a normal Friday?” Peter smirked, and we clinked glasses.

  “Bonus day!” Matt cheered. “The firm never announces it in advance, so people don’t complain if it’s a day late or something.”

  “Holy shit! I figured we wouldn’t get them until January!” I exclaimed.

  “I’m going to get a refill,” Sam announced, taking off toward the bar.

  “Where’s Marcie?” Matt panned the room in slow motion.

  “Off doing what she does best—hobnobbing with management.” Peter cocked his head toward his wife, chatting with Mike Baccard, who was wearing a double-breasted pinstripe suit and horn-rimmed glasses. I had only seen his picture on the bottom of press releases and in the firm Facebook, but never seen him in person. He had classic male-pattern baldness and, at well over six feet tall, a commanding presence, in a room full of people with presence.

  “Can I give you a piece of advice?” Matt asked. I nodded. “You and Sam have a joint checking account, right?”

  Peter coughed, looking uncomfortable, and I shook my head. “Why would you think that we do?”

  “Because his eyes lit up when I mentioned your bonus.”

  Had they? That didn’t seem like him. I bit my lower lip. “So what’s your advice?”