Opening Belle

by Maureen Sherry

  “We don’t have bone china.”

  “But we could.”

  “You grew up with that. You hated it. You hated doilies too.”

  “I forgot.”

  “We’ll order sushi,” I suggest.

  “Yeah, and eat with our hands. That’s the sort of rich we are.”

  “Yeah, let’s go crazy and maybe even eat in a restaurant,” I say while thanking a higher power for reminding me that my husband is funny, and for this unexpected diversion from my sinful ways. I hang up.

  CHAPTER 16

  Takeover

  MY JOB at this conference, besides swooning in a wet bathrobe and apparently bunking with clients, is to moderate one of the panels. This means I came up with the topic and secured the guest speakers whom I will interview, Katie Couric–style, in front of the attendees. King is now moderating the one before mine and he’s chosen a topic getting traction in the press lately, “Do Hedge Fund Managers Deserve Their Current Level of Compensation?”

  While we are paid handsomely, the hedge funders make us look like people on a breadline and many of those hedge fund guys are here. King is digging deep and lobbing milquetoasty questions to the panel to justify their nutty compensation. He does this for two reasons: First, Feagin Dixon gets to appear to federal regulators like we too have a scrutinizing eye on overpayment in the industry. We all do everything in our power to not be investigated and this panel topic makes us look critical of the money machine. The second reason is to appease these hedge funders themselves, whose wealth trickles to us in the form of deal and trading fees. If they stop making crazy money, then so will we. In the end, King will summarize for the audience why these guys are worth every penny and they can feel good about themselves and about us.

  From my seat I watch a mathematical geek sitting in the front row, James Simon. He’s a guy who bases his trades on numerical fluctuations in his portfolio and hedges his bets. Last year he took home $1.7 billion, a number that seems inconceivable, even in Monopoly money terms. Did James Simon really earn $1.7 billion? Did he actually make something to do that? Since the union pension funds he manages are probably getting a better return on their money than if it were, say, in the bank, does that justify overpaying a few people? I know a free economy will support whatever the market will bear, but since all these funds have the same rates and conditions, aren’t they acting like a monopoly? Do the institutions that have to trust them have any ability to pay lower fees if they all charge the same or are they essentially forced to pay these fees? Has Bruce become like a voice inside my head with this stuff? My own panel is about to start so I stop ruminating and get my head in the game.

  All anyone really wants to discuss here is the volatile mortgage-backed securities market, but my topic is something far fresher, something I think is the next place to make some home-run investments in and I’m determined to grab the attention of the room. I’ve entitled it “What’s a Fair Price to Pay for a Library of Freely Submitted Content?” In this world where everyone shares their videos, movies, songs, blogs, and ideas, how do we value the company that everyone posts them to? That’s my big idea, something I came up with when I was trying to value CeeV-TV.

  My three panelists and I sit onstage, behind a table with polyester drapes Velcroed into place. I sweep my eyes across the room and can tell that Henry isn’t here, because even in a sea of white men wearing polos and khakis, Henry stands out. I thought he’d come, especially since he has a truckload of CeeV-TV, and I check my gut and push away the thought that maybe Henry still can’t stand to see me succeed.

  Last night proved we could be great business associates focused on our mutual success and we’re into a new chapter in our relationship that does not include kissing.

  The news about CeeV-TV will make my panel discussion the most timely one of the day. Many of the hedge fund investors here either own property like CeeV-TV, or are short (meaning they bet the price will fall) the public stocks of similar companies. But when I look at the audience, I see a sea of distraction. The questions I have readied for the panelists seem vanilla and the audience catatonic. While my first guest drones about his investing methodology, my mind drifts to tomorrow, when I have that Glass Ceiling Club lunch to discuss Naked Girl and when I return to my family. Will it be hard to face Bruce? Should I tell Bruce? Would I tell him just to feel less guilty or to make sure I never do it again?

  “CeeV-TV is an excellent example,” this panelist is saying, “of low barriers of entry into this business. It should be worth nothing because competitors will pop up everywhere.”

  This speaker is a stocky man, a manager from the pension funds of the State of California. State employees receive about one grain of the bushel of compensation the others in this room get. They tend to not like anything and I wonder if some are mad at themselves for not starting their career on the private rather than public side. My attention deficit subsides as the conversation ratchets up. Then I do what I do best—lob a question that is insightful, provocative, and intelligent.

  “So, Liam, do you agree?”

  I have no idea what Mr. California has just said. The one thing I do know is that by simply asking someone to agree, the discussion will keep moving while I fumble to get my brain in gear.

  “I think this CeeV-TV should be worth about one dollar per share,” says the Californian guy. He doesn’t like all these new, growth-fueled companies. “This thing is a flash in the pan. If content is free and barriers to entry to stream that content are low, I’m not buying the stock. That’s a loser’s game.”

  Many state funds are managed more cautiously, preferring value rather than explosive growth. They tend to be more careful with the money entrusted to them so they want to feel something tangible, to touch the bricks and mortar under their feet before they’ll invest in a company. They don’t buy dreams. People who believe the positive stuff about the CeeV-TV story like growth. They’ll pay big multiples for ideas and intangibles about companies with no profit. My third panelist is one of these growth investors and he finally wakes up.

  “I disagree,” he says while clearing his throat. He’s a smartly dressed British guy, about my age though some balding makes me unsure. “If you sell content that is provided free, how can you be anything but profitable?”

  “Because, young man,” growls California State Fund Guy, “every Tom, Dick, and Harry can do the same thing, which makes your company worthless.”

  But I know they can’t. I’m tempted to interrupt, to tell him why, but the Brit is fired up.

  “You cannot implore your target market to think you are cool: you either are or you are not. It’s called branding. You can’t just go get an image or change your image overnight. CeeV-TV has established itself as cool. Like with people, it’s hard to become cool when you’ve been quite uncool your whole life. CeeV-TV is the coolest thing out there.”

  British Guy seems to be talking about more than stocks here. I think he’s just insulted the nerdy, older pension manager and to me, that was very uncool. I need to calm things down but he continues to speak. “In fact, I think the multiple that CeeV-TV is worth is about double where this deal talk is. Google is lowballing these guys. Google is getting a bargain and I’m a buyer of both stocks.”

  I hear the room wake up. This is where I’m supposed to say something, to inflame the conversation and get us to new territory. I lob another killer question.

  “Why?” I ask, even though I can answer this question better than anyone in the room.

  “Why?” snooty British Guy asks me sarcastically.

  He’s irritating as hell now. By picking the one stock I know more about than him, he has met his match. I ready my tirade of facts about CeeV-TV, about to bring the house down. I try to let him finish so we aren’t speaking over each other. In other words, I am polite, which in business can also be interpreted as being weak.

  “Right. Well, for one, Google is getting a deal. And if Google is getting it at a fire sale price, the public
stock of Google will trade even higher. This also means that if Google is getting a deal, others will come to play. This means a bidding war for CeeV-TV.”

  I listen, thinking this means more money for the McElroys, as the stock is sure to go higher. I envision the CeeV-TV spreadsheet in my mind. I’m about to spew the facts I know so well about this company, but then get interrupted.

  The voice comes from the audience and it’s not even question time. It’s a commanding voice, a voice of authority from a person also able to spew the facts, facts that I’ve given him.

  “Liam, we see other content providers paying triple the CeeV-TV bid multiple. Why did Google go in with such a low offer?” It’s Henry.

  Liam answers with weak details that support Henry but nobody’s even listening. They hear the words low offer, they think it’s cheap, and they want to be buyers. Henry is leading the investors in this room to bid up his position in CeeV-TV and will move the public stock of Google higher too. Henry already owns both.

  Some people leave the room to call their trading desks, some start sending trading orders on their BlackBerry. I now also know the reason Henry was so late to the conference discussion this morning: he was setting up his sell orders. Most likely he’ll be selling to the very people who just left the room to go buy his stock, locking in his giant gains in both CeeV-TV and Google. Henry’s position will be down to zero by the end of the day. He is ahead of everyone. Henry looks brilliant, and even though it was my idea, everyone will remember it as Henry’s. My panel is breaking up, and I never got my moment to shine. I waited too long, and Henry, once again, has won.

  CHAPTER 17

  Pump and Dump

  I BUMP ALONG in a pimped-out van going to King’s winter vacation house. Each of these conferences is strategically located near one of our executives’ second or third home in Anguilla, Provence, Jackson Hole, or any place where they line the driveways with money. One evening’s entertainment will be watching an aging rock star perform for rich people in some depressing way—that was last night thanks to Hootie and the Blowfish, which my dinner with Gibbs had me miss—while the second evening includes dinner at the high-ranking investment fund/host’s house. That is tonight. King’s third home is located on South Ocean Boulevard in Palm Beach, where he will keep us all outside looking in on a breathtakingly beautiful February evening.

  Gone are the days when I avoided being the first guest at a party. I’m so rushed to get everything done that self-consciousness isn’t a luxury I have. I need to cross commitments off my list at a mind-spinning rate of efficiency, so here I sit in an empty van, the first van to leave the hotel, in an effort to get to the party, speak to whom I need to speak to, and leave.

  The young Cuban driver wears a stiff button-down shirt and a black bow tie. I sit directly behind him in awkward silence because I can’t think of anything to say to the back of someone’s head. This is a moment that Bruce would embrace, letting conversation flow effortlessly from his mouth in his sincere quest to understand what makes the human race tick. As nice as that is, I’d bet anything that right now he’s forgotten to pick Kevin up from a dinner playdate I had arranged and he’s not answering my texts. I hate managing our home life long-distance and hate that I don’t trust Bruce to get everything done. The driver pumps up the volume of a Beyoncé song and wordlessly lets me out of the van.

  The dramatic lane to the house is paved with white, shell-like pebbles that crunch under my feet. Champagne-bearing waiters get the signal to stand tall and greet me. This is a grand entrance to pull off alone but my goal is the usual: get in early, talk to the people I need to impress before they have a few drinks, and catch the first van back. I heard that Henry has already gone back to New York and I’m glad to be rid of the distraction. How did I ever let that guy one-up me this morning and did I really sleep in the same bed as him last night? It’s hard to recognize this new Henry who has personality swings that seem manic.

  Everything about the house is white-on-white; plush white pillows lie atop deep white couches placed perfectly about the green lawn. Lush white flowers drip lazily out of trophy-like silver urns. I gratefully take a glass of champagne and wander to a precarious lookout to watch the perfectly orchestrated surf, bang and retreat, bang and retreat. My thoughts wander to Bruce, to our children, to the weird possibility that we may suddenly have extra money. Not this sort of white-on-white, third-home-on-the-Atlantic money, but breathing-room money: the type of money that takes one’s eyes off survival mode, off getting-through-the-day mode. I wonder about the divorce rate among the rich. Is it higher because they can afford to split everything in two and still have a life? Or is it lower because they can purchase escapes, exotic trips, and lots of shrink time? The possibility of having more money is wondrous. A few home runs like CeeV-TV could change everything in our lives and take the pressure off me for a while.

  I really miss Bruce right now. I take out my phone to call, to check that Kevin got picked up from his playdate, to see what Caregiver is concocting as a dinner, to make sure the dog walker came, and to see if Owen was able to nap after his hard night. Suddenly a large hand squeezes my hip from behind and stays there. Instinctively, I turn—ready to push one of the usual culprits away, but it’s not a usual culprit. It’s Tim Boylan, Henry’s boss. He looks as shocked as I feel.

  “Oh, sorry to grab you like that,” he mutters, self-consciously. “I was just happy to find you in this crowd.”

  We both look out at a very uncrowded party and I think it odd to hear a universe master apologize. I say nothing.

  “Isabelle McElroy, right?”

  “Uhh, that’s right.” I fake smile.

  The Grand Papi of Cheetah’s $35 billion hedge fund never, ever attends conferences like this one. I didn’t know he was here and this throws me because Simon will be livid to not be having dinner with him, and B. Gruss II, our chairman, will want to meet him. How did I not know this? Why didn’t Henry tell me?

  I recover a little. “How are you, Tim?”

  “Great, nice to see you. Sorry to show up on you like this, I wanted to hear your panel this morning so I just flew down for the day.”

  “No problem. Actually it’s great to see you here.”

  And I mean this. He came because of my panel—did he really just say that?

  “I heard the CeeV-TV news yesterday and saw how perfect and timely your panel was. I wasn’t disappointed.”

  “And so you stayed for this evening?”

  Tim wrinkles his brow and tugs at his French cuffs, a very fancy look for this party.

  “Well, I’m one of those types that shows up for cocktails and skips the dinner, if you know what I mean. Been in this business a long time,” he says thoughtfully. “But sometimes it’s good to get out of the office and shake a few hands. Sitting in the ivory tower too long gives you hemorrhoids.”

  “I thought that’s why you hired Henry—for the hand shaking part, I mean.”

  “Yesss,” he says carefully. “Finally admitted you know each other from college.”

  “He told you?”

  “Honey, I’m a researcher. Takes no detective to feel the energy at our lunch table that day. Wasn’t sure what it was till I asked him.”

  “Yeah. Sorry about that. I think we were both shocked and didn’t want to start reminiscing in front of you. I mean, we dated a little.”

  “Yes, well, Henry is off to a pretty good start,” he mutters. “Have you seen him tonight?”

  “I think he said he was going home early because, you know, he misses his three kids,” I say ironically.

  “Oh.” Tim looks confused. “Well, really, Ms. McElroy, I want you to know that I do remember my manners. The reason I’m here tonight is to personally thank you for probably the two best ideas in our portfolio, this CeeV and EBS. If this thing works out, you’ll have made our year. Let me know when you want to come work for me!” He laughs.

  “Oh, I’m pretty happy where I am now,” I lie. “Anyway, I thoug
ht you would’ve sold your position by now.”

  “Henry wanted to but I said to hold on to that stock ’cause this here is a big idea. You know that time we had lunch at the Four Seasons, I wasn’t sure you had it in you. Love when the ladies prove me wrong. Anyway, keep Cheetah up to speed with any information you have on those two stocks, do you hear?”

  “I hear,” I say, standing tall.

  “Doing anything in mortgages?” he asks.

  I’m a little surprised that Cheetah is yet another hedge fund on the mortgage bandwagon. “I don’t totally understand those MBS, CDO, acronym-laden things, so I’m staying with the basics for now. Henry must be a big help there. Isn’t that what he was doing at Goldman?”

  Tim smiles. “That’s why people trust you, Isabelle. Everyone else would just say yes and pretend they knew something just to get my business. I want you to know that I like your honesty. I also want you to know that Henry may be my hand shaker, but he had no business taking your moment from you in that room this morning.”

  I know exactly what he means but act like I don’t. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You put that panel together, you were letting the story unfold naturally, letting your clients get to understanding this idea in a macro way. You were about to ask the question, the one that makes a yawn of a conference into a memorable one, the one that lets people remember it was your idea in the first place. Instead Henry beat you to the punch. Damn kid ended that panel early. It was not his place to do that.”

  “I’m used to men stealing my thunder,” I say.

  “Well it damn well cheeses me.”

  “Go easy on Henry,” I say. “And he’ll make you lots of money.”

  “There you go being honest again.” We both laugh.

  “You know that CeeV investment was the first time I took such a gamble with Henry. I mean, he’s a new kid who seemed to be pushing it because you were pushing it. He keeps telling me you’ve got one sharp brain and that you’re the one to watch. So far it looks like that boy knows what he’s talking about. I’ll be damned”—he gazes past my shoulder thoughtfully—“how’d you come up with that idea?”