The Boys' Club

by Erica Katz

  My mind raced. Is this a fire-able offense? What are the repercussions to the company? And to Didier and his team? How can I undo this? I crossed and recrossed my legs as I thought of what to say. I ran my hand through my hair. Then I paused. I breathed in and stuck my chest out a bit farther as I corrected my posture. I invited Matt to stare with large puppy-dog eyes. I reran my fingers through my long strands, flipping them messily to one side. I slithered my backside on the leather and uncrossed my legs slowly as I maintained a carefully thoughtful expression.

  “I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again. What can I do to fix this?” I forced a sultry tone into my voice. Matt stared back at me without speaking. Crisis averted. I whined a bit more. “It was my first closing. I would never do that now. Do I need to get on the phone with Didier?” I didn’t feel as though I was about to cry, but I pouted my lower lip anyway.

  He held up a palm. “Whatever is happening right now . . . stop.” His eyes blazed furiously despite his calm tone. “I’m not like Peter. Don’t get it twisted, Skippy.”

  I slumped my shoulders, my cheeks flushing. I felt like I’d been dealt an electric shock. I prayed he was speaking in generalities about Peter’s personality and that he didn’t suspect anything specific.

  He shook his head to dispel the anger lodged in it and straightened his tie. “I’ve handled it. You need to send the minutes from the board meeting that discussed the new agreement to Bruce Shyer on the employment team, and explain to him we’d appreciate his review by COB. I’ve handled everything with the National team. Didier is fine with us proceeding with opposing counsel and not bothering him further with this.”

  I straightened, utterly mortified and unable to speak. I nodded as he gestured to the door and stood to leave.

  “Skip!” Matt called after me. I turned. “Don’t forget you’re actually good at your job. Go. Fix this. CC me and Jordan on everything. This will be cleared up within a few days.” He gave me a short, forgiving smile. I nodded and blinked in apology before turning.

  I walked slowly down the hallway, not trusting my feet beneath my wobbling knees, promising myself to never make the mistake of relying on my appearance over my intelligence again.

  I cracked my neck as emails about what I had thought was a closed deal flooded my in-box. I stared at the number on my ringing phone.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Dad’s here too! We’re just checking in.”

  Phone calls with my parents were the only points in my week when I actually remembered that I had broken up with Sam. I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell them Sam had moved out, and my willful omission alerted me to a deep sense of failure over the relationship not working that was bubbling beneath my skin. And not telling them one thing made my brain skulk shamefully off to all the other things I’d never tell them, like my thing with Peter and my occasional drug use. Instead, I filled our conversation with chatter about my deals and the upcoming gala.

  The Private Equity Fights Hunger gala was one of the most highly anticipated and popularly photographed charity events on the New York social calendar. It would be a veritable who’s who of upper-echelon New Yorkers from every walk of life and line of work, and this year it would be sponsored by Stag River because Gary was chairing the event. I googled last year’s event from my office, clicking wide-eyed through pictures of Anna Wintour, Oprah, and the Obamas. I had only one thought: What am I going to wear?

  Practically, I wasn’t going to spend thousands of dollars on a couture gown—less because of the money than because I would never have the time to tailor it properly, and it would be a total waste. I opted for Rent the Runway, borrowing a $12,000 Naeem Khan runway gown with a corseted bodice and black gossamer tulle skirt covered in deep violet silk flowers. It fit perfectly.

  I knew I had made the right choice as soon as I arrived at the steps to the Met, trying desperately not to grin at the flashing cameras, knowing the photographers were mistaking me for somebody important. I didn’t actually care what the random photographers thought, but I believe their reaction portended what Peter’s might be when he saw me. My heart pulsated wildly as I posed for the press while standing in between the posters of Gary Kaplan shaking hands with the president of the Fight Against Hunger organization that flanked the step-and-repeat. I traded emails about my location with Peter until I finally spotted him in front of the oyster display, dashing in his perfectly tailored shawl-collar tux and classic bow tie. I watched him from a distance for a moment, plotting how we’d slip out together unnoticed at the end of the evening.

  “Hey!” I tapped him playfully.

  He spun around, flustered. “My wife is here. Just came. You look amazing.” He said it all as one word.

  I plastered a smile on my face as my chest tightened and my throat closed.

  “Well . . . I’m going to get a martini.” As I turned toward the bar, tears sprang to my eyes. I had somehow convinced myself in the past few weeks that his wife didn’t exist—that she was just some beautiful figure who fed his kids while I played the romantic lead in Peter’s life. It was more difficult to pretend she was a mere nanny when she was on his arm at a gala. I sniffled and steadied myself, missing Sam for the first time since I had watched him pack.

  I twisted the clasp of my evening clutch anxiously as I waited for the elderly couple in front of me to get their club sodas.

  “Somebody get this lady a drink.” I recognized Gary’s voice immediately. This just wasn’t my night. I turned and greeted him with a smile, though I’d been hoping to make it through the evening without seeing the host.

  “Hi, Gary. This event is lovely. Thanks for having me.”

  “Alex, I want you to meet my wife, Cynthia, and our daughter, Olivia.” Gary turned his body diagonally in the crowd, and his wife and daughter leaned their heads forward into my view. His wife had a large, bright smile. She was conservatively dressed in a stately black gown. His daughter was wearing a sequined shift that was perfect for her gangly teenage frame and took the attention off her pink braces. I smiled broadly and sidestepped the older couple so I could stand in front of them. I was almost confused by the sight of them—they seemed the picture of a New York society family.

  “Hi. It’s such a pleasure to meet both of you. You must be so proud.”

  “We are.” His wife beamed over at her husband. Maybe I’d misjudged him entirely. Had the Rainbow Room grope actually somehow been an accident or misunderstanding? Was that woman in the Nomad a friend? Did he have an arrangement with his doting wife?

  “Alex is at Klasko. She works a lot with Peter Dunn,” Gary announced to his wife, who seemed to recognize Peter’s name. And all of a sudden he knows my name. “She’s really been integral to a few of our deals. She’s going places.”

  I tried to wipe the look of confusion off my face.

  “Honey, I want to catch Bill and Hillary before they leave. They never stay for dinner.” Cynthia pulled gently at Gary’s arm, and Gary nodded, putting his arm around his daughter as they all waved goodbye to me. I watched the happy family leave before shaking myself back into the moment.

  I made certain to finish two martinis before taking my seat at the Klasko table across from Peter and Marcie. She wore a simple sleeveless black velvet sheath with a diamond brooch, and she’d swept her hair into an effortlessly loose knot, accentuating her impossibly long neck. I looked at the parade of fabric marching across my breast and had the sudden and overwhelming feeling that I was emphasizing my short frame and small chest with the busy gown. I only lasted twenty minutes across from her, forcing myself to wait until Gary’s speech was over before excusing myself.

  I ran my fingers angrily over the silk petals protruding from my gown as I made my way out of the dining area. Somebody opened the front door, and the unseasonably cold air was so inviting that I slipped outside, the night air stinging my lungs as though reminding me I was still breathing. What a fucking disaster of an evening! I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even eight o’cl
ock, and while the idea of hours alone in my empty apartment made me shiver, it was better than even a moment longer at the gala. I snapped myself out of the pathetic pity party, hiked up the bottom of my gown, and plunged down the long set of granite stairs leading to Fifth Avenue.

  As I reached the bottom step, I saw the outline of two men fighting, arms locked around each other like two boxers who got knotted up.

  “Alex! Hey! Can you give me a hand here?” Gary was struggling to keep another man vertical as he slipped down the stairs, missing whole bunches of the concrete plateaus as his feet spilled over them. Not fighting, I corrected myself. The man was wasted.

  I rushed to the man’s side and took his other arm, trying desperately not to get my gown caught on my heels as I did so. Gary and I practically carried him down the steps of the Met.

  “I can walk! I’m not a fucking baby!” The man writhed as though in pain in an attempt to extricate himself from our hands. I moved to release him once we were on flat ground, but he was so unsteady on his feet, I grabbed for his arm again.

  “Alex, this is my partner, Simon. Simon, Alex.” Gary smiled at me over the man’s drooping head.

  “Shouldn’t you be inside?” I asked Gary, who rolled his eyes.

  “Fuck Alex,” Simon slurred, laughing after with his lip curled up into the base of his nose.

  “There.” Gary threw his chin toward the black Escalade. “Help me.” His driver opened the door as he saw us approaching, and I prepared to transfer Simon into his arms.

  “Hop in and pull him up from inside, will you?” Gary asked.

  I hoisted my gown over my knees and stepped up into the black SUV, turning and grabbing Simon’s hand, then pulled it hard as Gary and the driver shoved him into the car. Gary hopped in after him, and the door shut behind him. I found myself huddled into one of the bucket seats with Simon practically on my lap.

  “I’ll drop you,” Gary said to me. Simon was laughing at nothing in particular, leaning the full weight of his body on me.

  “You’re leaving your own gala?” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Drop her? Let’s go out! All of us.” Simon rolled his head from side to side as he stared at the ceiling. The driver started the engine. “You are no fun anymore!”

  Gary didn’t react, but he pulled at the side of his bow tie until it released.

  “I can get my own car,” I offered, reaching for the door handle.

  “Let’s go,” Gary ordered the driver. Before he’d finished speaking, the car lurched into drive, and I heard the doors locking automatically. I swallowed hard, trying desperately to figure out why I felt so panicked. I could barely see the trees from the park streaking by the tinted windows.

  “Where are we going?” Gary demanded.

  “Chelsea. Eighteenth and Eighth,” I managed shakily.

  I finally extricated myself from Simon’s weight and slipped back into the third row’s cool leather, where I shoved myself against the far window. My stomach churned as a feeling of dread spread over my entire body. Chill out, I told myself. The firm’s biggest client knew me and was just being nice by giving me a ride home. I’d be there in a few minutes. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. I grabbed for my phone and dialed my own work number, leaving it on and putting it back in my bag.

  “So, you’re the one who’s fucking Peter,” Simon slurred from the middle row. I whipped my head up, praying I had misheard. When I met Gary’s gaze, he smiled sadistically and nodded. I couldn’t believe Peter would tell people that. Not people, clients!

  “Turn the music up!” Gary commanded the driver. The thudding of the bass from somewhere below my thighs rattled my bones against one another. The bile in my stomach rose as I felt the energy in the car shift. I wanted to disappear into the leather, to melt into the cool black seat and leave only my rented dress as evidence I had ever existed. I crossed my legs tightly and clasped my hands together over my knees. I wondered if they could see the tears welling in my eyes.

  “This is just her act,” Gary snarled. “She pretends to be so proper.” Simon burst out laughing and looked at me hungrily. “Really, she wants it,” Gary whispered.

  Despite the back of his chair shielding him from me, and the darkness of the car, I could tell Gary was getting excited. I need to get out of this car. The driver turned left and picked up speed. I looked outside and realized we were on the West Side Highway, going at least sixty miles an hour. With a sinking feeling, I noted that there was no door to my left. I had given up my ability to flee the vehicle when I moved to the back row.

  I turned to face the front, only to find Gary now next to me.

  “Please don’t,” I whispered. Simon leaned over the back of his chair as though watching a dogfight. My mind raced, and I grabbed onto my last hope. “I’m glad that NDA we drafted is working out for you. Do you keep track of who signs them? I never did.”

  Gary’s eyes bulged, and a large vein running directly down the middle of his forehead pulsated.

  “You don’t have to sign one. You’re my lawyer. What we do is confidential. You only have a job because I let you. Your firm only exists because I let it. This is MY fucking town. Do you hear me, you ungrateful little whore?”

  As he screamed, I felt hot tears run down my face.

  “Ungrateful!” Simon echoed, cackling.

  Gary grabbed at the bottom of my dress and pushed it up toward my thighs. I became an animal in survival mode. I fought him with every ounce of my strength, with every limb and body part I could throw at him, but then I registered another set of hands on me. Simon had somehow gained enough muscular control to hold down my legs quite forcefully. I felt both sets of hands ripping down the top of my dress and shoving the bottom of it up. I could no longer fight and scream at the same time. I fell silent as I struggled to keep my waist pointed down and as far away from the predators as possible. I’m going to die. They’re going to kill me. They’re going to rape me and then kill me.

  For just a moment, I felt less weight bearing down on me. Was it over? Were they tired? Had they decided not to do it? Then a primal fear unlike any I had ever experienced froze my body as I heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper being unzipped. They weren’t tired; they were moving on to phase two. Taking advantage of Gary having to lean away to unzip his tux pants and Simon’s inebriated state, I kicked as hard as I could in the direction of the zipping sound. I felt my heel hit something and then sink into it just as Gary let out a gut-wrenching scream.

  The car screeched to a halt, and the lights turned on. I pulled back my foot, but my shoe slipped off, stuck on something. When Gary finally removed the revolting weight of his body from mine, Simon and I stared at Gary’s ripped pant leg, revealing a thick red line of blood against his pale, hairy upper thigh. The door opened from behind Simon as the driver, apparently unaccustomed to the sound of male screams, came to see what the commotion was. With the car light illuminating the back seat, we all gawked at my Louboutin heel and Gary’s thigh, his blood matching the color of my sole.

  I pulled the top of my dress up and the bottom down and slipped out between Gary and the driver. I paused for a moment, knowing it was stupid. Nobody was paying attention to me. Were they just letting me go? I kicked off my other shoe and began to run, the ground slicing into my bare soles like an angry blessing.

  “Let her go,” I heard Gary yell. “She won’t talk.”

  I don’t remember much about the rest of the night. I have a vague recollection of the doorman eyeing my feet, more out of annoyance that I was leaving bloody footprints on our white marble lobby floor than out of any real concern for my well-being. I remember taking great care to remove my dress, as though returning it in decent shape would allow me to ignore what had happened entirely. I remember crying in truncated bursts, but mostly because I felt as though I should. I wasn’t actually sad. I was angry. And relieved. And scared.

  For the bulk of the night, I shook. Sometimes gently, and some
times more violently. And I had terrible nightmares, though I couldn’t remember their substance. I’d find myself upright atop sweat-soaked sheets, my throat raw with the screams still ringing in the air. As the sun rose, I made my way out of bed, feeling dirty from the inside, knowing I should shower, but wanting nothing less than to be alone with my naked body, which suddenly seemed such a liability.

  I emailed Anna that I had the flu and asked her to let anybody who called know as much before crawling under my covers for two days. I felt that the bottom, the reliable floor of my life, had been ripped out from under me. I was in free fall. Finally, I checked my phone for the first time in days. I apologized to Jordan and Matt for not answering emails, blaming my illness. I finally read the missed emails from the morning after the gala. The words made me feel as if my brain were in a vise, about to be squeezed to the point of permanent debilitation.

  From: Peter Dunn

  To: Gary Kaplan

  Cc: Alexandra Vogel

  Subject: Gala

  Gary,

  Thank you so much for having us. The event was spectacular. We’re so proud to represent somebody who does so much good.

  From: Gary Kaplan

  To: Peter Dunn

  Cc: Alexandra Vogel

  Subject: Re: Gala

  Alex and Peter,

  You guys are the best! Thanks for being there and for all that you do for me and Stag River.

  —GRK

  I dropped my phone to the cushion beside me and stared at it for a moment, willing the pressure in my skull to subside just a little. I never once, not even for a moment, contemplated telling anybody what had happened. I could barely recount it to myself: I left the gala early because I couldn’t stand to be around the wife of the coworker I’ve been sleeping with . . . I had to stop there.