That the finance industry is rife with discriminatory practices, gender bias, and sexual harassment will come as no surprise to any woman who’s ever set one peep-toed foot on Wall Street—or worked in any job with men in positions of greater power, for that matter—and my research in that area revealed few, if any, surprises.
As expected, I found enough evidence to back up my assumptions two, four, ten times over.
You might say that my original premise wasn’t all that original.
You might also say that I blew my cover, compromised my story, and hurt a lot of people along the way.
You’d be right on all counts.
And since we’re all friends here, I’ve got another confession: somewhere between the first time I glued on that sweet Tom Selleck mustache and the last time I stuffed my drawers with that less-sweet tube sock, I accidentally fell in love with the boss.
I don’t mean the red-hot, heart-skipping, schoolgirl-crush-on-steroids kind of love, either—though there was certainly a lot of red-hot crushing going on. I mean the kind of love that makes you truly believe for the first time in your life—not just in love, or fairytales, or great golden possibilities.
The kind of love that makes you believe in yourself. In your strength. In your gifts and your specialness as a human being seeking a meaningful connection with another human being, despite all the obstacles, misunderstandings, and human flaws.
When you consider everything working against us, the odds of finding your one capital-P Person feel downright impossible, don’t they? I mean, I went into this experiment assuming that most men were incapable of—or, at the very least, highly resistant to—growing emotionally, showing vulnerability, or admitting their mistakes. And my assumptions about women weren’t any better. Women, I believed, were too afraid of our own power to actually do anything to take it back.
I was arrogant and stubborn and plain-old wrong in almost every possible way (except the falling in love part, but we’ll get back to that).
The truth is, we’re all a bunch of walking paradoxes. We are sensitive and brash, emotional and guarded, cowardly and courageous, horribly stubborn and yet capable of profound change.
It’s society that tries to shove us into pink and blue boxes, to make us question the way we look, the clothes we wear, the way we speak, the way we walk, the kinds of things we’re interested in. According to some fancy-pants sociologists, even the way we chew our food is a marker for gender identity!
This social compartmentalization is unnatural at the most primal, basic level, and it hurts every last one of us. At home, at work, in our families, in our friendships, in our marriages and partnerships. It hurts our children. It hurts our future. We’re taught from childhood to fear what makes us different rather than embrace it, and the lingering effects of that fear are staggering. During my brief time on Wall Street, I saw up close and personal all the ways in which we allow those differences to become dividers, those dividers to become justifications, those justifications to become weapons.
It doesn’t have to be this way. I believe that each of us has the power to break out of our confining boxes and refuse to be shoved back inside. And most importantly, to stop forcing our fellow humans to conform to narrow definitions that do nothing but starve all of us of light, love, connection, and collective greatness.
Wiser people than I have said that real change comes slowly, if at all. Perhaps this is true. But it’s not a reason to give up. I know, I trust, and I believe that change is possible.
Despite all my fumbling, stumbling, and bumbling—tube sock between the legs, remember—I still managed to expose some of the core discriminatory issues at the investment firm. With guidance and support from the firm’s incredible—wait, scratch that—from the firm’s badass female staff, the leadership team has already begun implementing changes to make the company an equal, challenging, and rewarding place for all of its team members.
And despite all my fumbling, I still managed to experience real human connection, friendship, and yes, love.
Allow me to close with a few precious nuggets of hard-earned wisdom:
* * *
1. Assumptions might make an ass out of you and me, but if you have the opportunity to challenge them, take it. And if you don’t have the opportunity, make one! This might mean an elaborate disguise, but it could also mean something as simple as talking to a new person, reading a book, wandering into a different neighborhood, or simply asking yourself if there’s any room for your opinions to change. (Spoiler alert: there’s always room for change).
* * *
2. A tube sock between the legs, while fun at parties and an excellent conversation starter, does not a real man make. Which is to say you can never truly become another person, but empathy and compassion begin with putting yourself in someone else’s shoes. If each of us committed to practicing that on even the smallest level—at work, or within our own group of family and friends—just think what we might accomplish together! Most importantly…
* * *
3. When you find your capital-P Person, the one who sees through your disguise and deep down to your soft, squishy, longing-for-connection heart, don’t be Ellie. Don’t screw it up. I know it’s scary, but find your bravery. Own it. Open up your heart and let love in. And don’t let that person get away.
* * *
One fateful afternoon, I put on a pair of men’s shoes and started walking my mile in hopes of changing the workplace environment for a group of women swimming against the current in a sea of inequity.
But in the end, the thing that changed most profoundly was myself.
And that, my friends, is when the real journey begins.
* * *
—Eleanor Seyfried
* * *
P.S. Dearest J, on the chance that you’re reading this, and on the chance that it isn’t completely obvious… Even without my mustache and tube sock, I’m still madly in love with you.
* * *
Half an hour later, I’ve read it more times than I can count. My head is spinning. I’m so proud of my girl, so happy to see her hard work come to fruition, even if it wasn’t how either of us had planned. The story went live two hours ago, and the damn thing has already gone viral.
The question on everyone’s mind—and comment thread, and Facebook and Twitter feeds—is this:
#WWDJD?
What will “Dearest J” do?
Well, as a man who makes his living wooing wealthy clients and convincing them to part with oodles of hard-earned cash, I’m nothing if not a goddamn expert in customer satisfaction.
Before the closing bell, the People of the Internet will have their answer.
And so will Ellie.
I leave a quick message for Hannah and Lulu to reschedule my meetings for the rest of the day, grab my phone, and take off with a master plan to win back the love of my life. Well, not so much a master plan as a half-cocked scheme and a fool’s hope that my Capital-P Person meant what she said in that postscript, and that she’ll give me a chance to prove how madly in love I am, too.
With or without her porn ’stache.
Like all the most worthwhile endeavors, making my move is a risk. A big one. But if I’ve learned anything about Ellie, it’s that she’s a sucker for a wild scheme and a fool with a big enough tube sock to pull it off.
By the time I hit Vesey Street, I’m ready.
With a deep breath and another dose of blind hope, I pull out my phone, scroll to find the contact info I saved that day on the Great Lawn, and hit the call button.
Spencer answers on the first ring.
“Hey, it’s Jack Holt,” I say. “Can I ask you for a really crazy favor?”
Chapter 24
Ellie
Within minutes of my Barrington piece going live this morning, Ian texted me to tell me he’s proud of me and wants to meet for lunch tomorrow, but hours stretch on with no word from Jack.
I clean my apartment from top to bottom, reorganize m
y workspace, and compile a list of new article ideas to pitch to Denise, but still my phone remains ominously silent.
It isn’t until I’m about to hop in the shower to wash last night’s Mexican fiesta-stink out of my hair that my cell finally buzzes. I snatch it from my desk in a rush of excitement, but the text isn’t from Jack.
It’s Gregory, warning me that I’ve got one hell of an email coming, compiling evidence that Blair and William Pool—Lulu’s former asshole supervisor—have been using Blair’s connection at the Department of Justice to get insider information on pending mergers, which they’ve been using to very illegally make themselves and a few of Will’s clients very rich.
So that’s the deal he and Blair were chatting about.
Even though I know once the Feds get involved the news will bring increased scrutiny to S&H and everyone working there, I can’t help victoriously fist-pumping my way around the apartment.
I’m not usually the kind to take pleasure in another’s pain, but Blair is more of a narcissistic, criminal, mean-spirited troll under the bridge of Ian and Jack’s company than a person, and Will is a greedy jerk who made Lulu cry.
I celebrate their imminent downfall by pouring myself a glass of white wine and sipping it as I page through the treasures Gregory has uncovered.
An hour later, I’ve finished reading the file and am composing an email to break the news to Ian and Jack, when my cell buzzes again.
This time, the name is the one I’ve been waiting for, the one that makes my heart leap into my throat and stay there, pulsing with a frantic mixture of hope and anxiety.
Unfortunately, the content of Jack’s message doesn’t give me much to go on as far as how he’s feeling about me—Need to talk, Ellie. Can we meet for a drink at Masala?
Swallowing hard, I text back, Yes. Thirty minutes?
After only a moment, he responds, Perfect. I’ll be there.
Deciding the email to Ian and Jack can wait—better to warn Jack in person about what’s coming, hopefully after he’s told me he’s willing to give us another chance—I rush to the bathroom to shower. If my hopes are dashed and Jack decides to tell me goodbye forever, I don’t want to smell like a burrito while it’s happening.
I complete the world’s fastest primping routine—washing, drying, and curling the ends of my hair before putting on enough makeup to hide how poorly I’ve been sleeping since all the shit hit the fan—and hurry down the hall.
I’m waiting for the elevator when Spencer’s door opens and Sonia sticks her head out, a huge smile on her face.
“Heading out for a hot date?” she asks, a twinkle in her eye that makes me worry she’s changed my ring tone.
“Just going to see a friend.” My toes squirm in my shoes as I wonder if a white sundress, brown shawl, and cowgirl boots looks like I’m trying too hard.
I’m debating rushing back to change into jeans, when Sonia giggles. “Whatever you say.” Her dimples pop. “But take pictures for me, okay?”
I frown, but before I can ask her what she’s up to, the elevator door pings open and Sonia waves goodbye with a merry, “Good luck!”
Unease prickles across my bare arms, making me feel like I walked through a spider web, but I step into the elevator anyway and hit G for the ground floor. Whatever Sonia the Prank Master is up to, I don’t have time to dig deeper right now.
A few minutes later, I step into Masala and scan the small bar area, where a giant blue Buddha watches over the bearded man mixing drinks for a smattering of customers. There’s a couple I recognize from the neighborhood laughing it up near the fountain in the corner, but all the other patrons gathered at the bar’s high tables or perched on barstools are women.
Deciding Jack must still be in transit, I cross to the bar and claim a seat at the far end, near the garnish station. I usually find the smell of orange and lemon slices soothing, but tonight I’m too on edge. I pull out my phone to check if a text from Jack might have slipped through unnoticed, when a pair of very stylish—and very large—heels appear in my peripheral vision and a voice asks, “Is this seat taken?”
I glance up, an apology for needing to keep the stool free on my lips, but the moment I see the person standing with a hand braced gracefully on the bar beside me, the words are lost. My eyes fly open wide, my jaw drops, and a strangled sound gurgles from my chest. I don’t know whether to be shocked, amused, horrified, or a mixture of all three, but I know the moment I meet Jack’s expertly made-up smoky-eyes that everything is going to be all right.
I don’t know much about romance, but having an alpha male without a cross-dressing-curious bone in his body gear up in drag for me is absolutely the most romantic event of my life.
Bar none.
“What on earth?” I ask, lips curving.
“I didn’t want to tell you I’m on your side again, Eleanor,” he says, brushing his long hair over his shoulder. “I wanted to walk my mile in your shoes and show you.”
“Wow.” I blink faster as my gaze skims up and down, taking in his silky brunette wig, deftly applied makeup, and figure-skimming green dress. He’s wearing a stuffed bra of some kind, in addition to panty hose, and should look ridiculous. But even though he’s one of the tallest “women” I’ve ever seen, he doesn’t.
“You’re a surprisingly pretty woman, Mr. Holt,” I say as he settles into the seat next to mine, making my heart lift as the familiar smell of him rushes through my head.
God, I’ve missed his smell. Nine days without it is too much.
“Thank you.” Jack sets his small clutch on the bar and reaches out to take my hand, making me grin wider even as the back of my nose begins to sting. “But I’ll confess I had help. Spencer really is a genius with makeup.”
I laugh, Sonia’s request for a picture making sense now.
“I read your article,” Jack says in a softer voice.
“Yeah?” My throat locks up and my pulse races as I realize this is it, the moment I find out if Jack feels the way I feel. Considering he’s literally walked here in women’s shoes—a size thirteen or fourteen satin pump to be exact—things are looking good, but there’s too much at stake not to be on the edge of my seat.
I lean forward, gaze locked on his as he continues, “You weren’t plain old wrong, the way you said in the article. I was wrong. I should have given you more time instead of letting fear call the shots.”
“We all let fear call the shots sometimes. I certainly did.” I take a deep breath, tongue sweeping out to dampen my lips as I confess, “I shouldn’t have left the office the way I did. I should have stayed and talked it out. Or at least taken your calls after that. I was just…overwhelmed. My feelings for you, all the stuff I was uncovering, the lies Blair told… I regressed, and I’m sorry.”
“I understand.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “I fumbled the pass, El. I should have put myself in your shoes a week ago. I’m sorry I made you wait. Can you ever forgive me?”
I smile even as my throat goes tight. “I think that can be arranged.”
“Yeah?” His glossy lips curve in that vulnerable just-for-Ellie grin that’s become so precious to me. “And how about being my Capital-P Person? And letting me be yours? Because you locked down my heart the first time you swaggered out of the bathroom with a sock stuffed down your pants.”
“Well, since we’re doing confessions…that first time wasn’t a sock. It was a shower cap stuffed with TP.” I laugh, but the sound fades to a sigh as he continues, saying the words I’ve been dying to hear.
“I love you, Eleanor Seyfried.” His green eyes seem to shine from the inside, leaving no doubt in my mind that he means every word. “You are everything I want in a partner and everything I was too stupid to realize I needed until you turned my world upside down and showed me the beautiful things I was missing. Will you be my Capital P?”
I curl my fingers around his as tears fill my eyes. But they’re happy tears. Grateful tears. “Yes, Jack Holt,” I say, with a sniff. “I
would be honored to be your Capital P. I love you, too. So much.”
“Thank God.” Relief fills his eyes as he wraps his arms around me, drawing me off my stool and into a fierce hug that makes me feel so safe and precious that not even Jack’s fake boobs pressing against my chest can make the moment anything less than perfect.
Then he kisses me, soft and sweet and then deeper, claiming my lips the way he’s claimed my heart. I wrap my arms around him and hold on tight, grateful that I live in a neighborhood where a woman and a man dressed in drag can make out at a bar without anyone batting an eye, and even more grateful for this man, this chance, this shot at forever that I’m going to fight for with every ounce of passion I’ve got.
Which reminds me…
I pull away from the kiss with a deep breath. “Blair and Will have been using insider info from someone at the DOJ to run their own scheme on the side. I have evidence. I was about to send it over when you texted.”
Leaving Gregory’s name out of it, I give him the scoop, including the fact that Blair’s shady behavior made my hackles raise, and how I couldn’t ignore my intuition.
Jack’s eyes narrow. “That scheming, conniving—”
“Monster jerk,” I provide.
“I was going to say asshole,” Jack says, “because I’ve learned not to use gendered words like ‘bitch’ that I wouldn’t use if I were talking about a man. But yeah, monster jerk works. Scum is also good.” He curses beneath his breath. “I can’t believe she put our company at risk this way. We were good to her. Not to mention, Will. He was one of our first hires, someone we thought we could count on to put S and H first.”
“They screwed up,” I say, feeling terrible for him. For me, this is a win, but for him it’s proof that his trust was both misplaced and abused. “But you didn’t. They were sneaky, both of them. I almost missed it myself.”
Like a Boss Page 17