She tried to tell herself that Thandy was as common as the rest. The revelation that Jack had been seeing her for ten years fell on Etienne’s head like an avalanche of bricks. She could live with the idea that her husband was fucking a string of women as casually as he changed his underwear. But not that he spent years with one woman.
She didn’t even have her own bank account. How had she been so stupid?
“You know her?” the accountant asked.
Before Finlayson could stop her, she said, “She’s my husband’s mistress. Ex-husband,” she corrected. “I guess now she’s his ex-mistress.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he said, sliding down into his seat. “I’m sure there’s another firm.”
“If she’s really smart, she’ll forget him,” Etienne said.
“I’ll compile a list of good firms,” Finlayson tossed out, trying to change the subject.
Unfortunately, Etienne was already caught up in yesterday. Finlayson walked her to the elevator and left her with a strong hug as the door opened.
“I just want to say thank you, Finny. I know he’s your friend.”
“I guess he won’t be speaking to me after this.”
“He isn’t the kind to forgive easily, but he’ll come around.”
“Maybe.”
“In the meantime, sell the condo. How much did you say it was worth?”
“Two million flat, sight unseen. It’s yours. You can move in.”
“Not a chance. Sell it. Give Liddy my best.”
“Will do.”
The elevator door closed. Etienne smiled broadly as she descended the floors. The strong scent of the rain-soaked city filled her nose as she stepped out of the revolving door. The black town car was waiting at the curb.
“Where to, Mrs. Gabrielle?”
“Ms. Pulliam,” she quickly corrected. “Head out 20 west and then take 285 south to the Cascade Road exit.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
She needed to see the boys, to be with them, to hold them. She parceled out a few drippings of small talk as the town car moved swiftly through the streets and up the on-ramp. The driver nodded, but said nothing.
Her mind raced back to their first Christmas together. Jack had promised twelve days of Christmas splendor. Instead he showed up wearing a Santa hat and carrying a gift bag, undoubtedly bought at a dime store. She remembered how excited she was to open it. Inside was a bottle of disappointment wrapped in tissue paper. No offense to Mary Kay, but given that her darling Jack was a trust-fund baby and well on his way to a storied career in neurology, she found the gift cheap and thoughtless. Still she smiled.
The next day, presumably in keeping with the second day of Christmas, he brought another gift. More Mary Kay. Maybe he was climbing up to something, but he was out of rope. Even though she wanted to strangle him with that rope, Etienne expressed her discontent in the kindest way she could. He promised to do better. They made love that night and every night after that for ten days. His tidings grew marginally better. But when she discovered another girl’s phone number in his clinical jacket, Etienne blew her top. They spent the remainder of the holiday season apart. When they did get back together, he expected that they would just pick up where they had left off. He never apologized.
She wished now that she had been smart enough, strong enough to walk away then. Over the years, there had been so many indiscretions, so many late nights and strangely private cell phone calls, that she simply lost count.
Gail and the boys were waiting on the stoop when the car pulled up to the curb. They ran out to meet her.
“Mommy! Mommy!” Jacob called. Twelve-year-old Jack walked coolly behind him.
Jacob ran as fast as his little brown legs could carry him. They’d seen their mother only two or three times in the past few weeks. She hadn’t wanted them to see her in pain. She’d already told them about the divorce, though she was sure Jacob didn’t know what it meant at the time.
“We’re getting a new house,” she told them as they hugged her waist.
“I like Auntie Gail’s house,” Jack Jr. announced.
“You can pick any house you want,” she told him.
“I want to go home,” Jacob said, confused.
“Baby,” she said, kneeling down until her eyes met his. “Remember what Mommy said? Mommy and Daddy are going to live in different houses from now on.”
“He’s not going to the new house with us?”
“No, baby. But you can go see him anytime you want.”
“How come he hasn’t come yet?” Jack asked. “Auntie Gail said he would come, but he didn’t.”
“He’s been very busy.”
“Can we call him?”
“Sure, baby. You can call him.”
“I wanna call him now,” Jacob pleaded. “Right now, Mom.”
“Not right now, baby.” Etienne’s eyes welled up with tears.
“How come we can’t call him right now, Mama?” Jacob said, tugging her skirt.
“Baby, Daddy is in surgery. He’s working at the hospital,” she said, telling the first lie that came to mind. She didn’t really know where Jack was. Until the boys had asked, she hadn’t really cared.
“C’mon, fellas,” Gail said. “Let’s get your things.”
Gail took the boys by the hands and led them back into the house. She turned to Etienne and said, “It gets better, girl.”
Etienne looked up at the sky. The clouds were starting to clear. She hadn’t taken a drink in several months, not since the plane ride home to D.C., and she was pleased with herself.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Thandy was staring at the roses on her credenza when she picked up the phone to dial Phillipa.
“He called you? What could he possibly want?” Phillipa asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean you’re not sure?” Phillipa pressed. “Girl, don’t you dare think about giving in. You’ve come too damn far for that.”
“He sent roses. They got here a few days ago.”
“So what? He sent some damn roses. Don’t tell me this is the first time he ever sent roses. He’s still the same Jack Gabrielle. Ain’t nothing changed about that. He probably ordered them from QuikTrip. Did they throw in a free slushy?”
“I’ve been through a lot,” Thandy said, conceding the point.
“Don’t let a bunch of roses make you forget that. Nothing, and I mean nothing, trumps the pain and neglect he laid at your doorstep. Remember, you were in that hospital room by yourself.”
“I gave him back the house.”
“You did what?”
“And the car.”
“You’re nuts.”
“I don’t need it. I don’t need him. I can afford my own stuff. I’ve got a wonderful life, Philly. I won’t give that up. I don’t need some broke-back prince to save me from anything.”
“That’s my girl. But I still would’ve kept the house. You could’ve gave me the car.”
Thandy assured her friend that she was just fine, and said, “Listen, I’ve got to run. I’ve a got a full docket today.”
“Do yourself a favor.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t take his calls. Throw the flowers away and move on, baby. Move on. You don’t want what he’s selling.”
Thandy laid the phone down on the receiver and pushed herself back from her desk.
The conference room was full when Thandy walked in. She took her seat at the head of the table and opened the agenda. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”
There was ample cause for anxiety. The past few quarters had been decidedly less than stellar, despite the addition of several new accounts. Thandy quickly got to the point.
“Bad margins,” she said. “We’re extending far too much effort. The accounts are overstaffed.”
“What are you suggesting?” Stafford asked.
“I’m not suggesting anything. The point is we’re billing too much in senior hours.
Some of the work should be shifted to the middle team. I expect the solutions to come from each of you. You’ve got three days to hammer out a better allocation of talent. I expect some of the smaller clients to be shifted to the retail side of the house.”
“That’s at least thirty percent of the client base,” Roberto Cervante jumped in. “That’ll shrink our revenues and we won’t make our numbers.”
“Most of the people in this room aren’t making their numbers now,” she countered.
Cervante shrank away.
“We,” she continued, “haven’t made our numbers for three quarters and counting. The year-over-year is dismal and I’m giving you one more quarter to straighten it out. Two to show some results,” she said flatly. “If we shift the thirty to discount retail that will free up senior counsel to pitch and win a new bank of business. We’ll need to establish stronger criteria. Goldman requires a ten-million-dollar minimum.”
“We’re not Goldman,” Stafford piped in.
“And we never will be if we don’t start acting like it,” Thandy dismissed. “What I am saying is that if we keep positioning ourselves at the bottom of the market then that’s where we’ll stay. We’re not a discount house, but we’re acting like one. Ten million is a strong number. We’ll have to set the right number for us. Everything is about positioning.”
The room was silent.
“I will say this,” Thandy added. “The T and E budget is way out of line.”
She opened a manila folder and handed out a summary report of the quarter’s expenses. Each executive’s submitted and paid expenses were calculated against the related account. Those that fell over twenty-five percent were highlighted in yellow. Those over thirty percent were in red. Cervante’s name was at the top. His travel and expense rang in at thirty-six percent.
“For some of you, especially those in red, I expect some immediate action. I want you to think twice before you sign your name to an expense report. Ultimately, I will hold you accountable for how you spend our clients’ money.”
Thandy ran through a housekeeping list. Among the items was a planned competitive bid for the firm’s technology infrastructure implementation and IT services.
“We’ll release the Request of Proposal late next week.”
She went on to establish a standing leadership team meeting each Monday at 7:00 a.m.
“If you’re traveling, I expect you to dial in. The meeting will last one hour. Block your calendar. Bring your weekly financials. Top-line only. The count will run from Saturday to Saturday. I expect a soft copy via e-mail every Sunday before four p.m. I will accept no excuses, so don’t keep me waiting. If you suspect your line of business won’t make the stated targets, tell me about that in the body of the e-mail. Do not surprise me. I hate surprises. Manage my expectations, ladies and gentlemen.”
She stood up and adjourned the meeting. The group was afraid to move.
“Cervante, meet me in my office,” she directed.
“I have a client conference call in ten minutes,” he returned.
“With whom?”
“George Overstreet. He’s set to pull the trigger on fifty million in assets.”
“Stafford, what do you have on your plate?” she said, turning to John.
“I’m flying to New York to see TriVest.”
“Can you get a later flight?”
He hesitated. “Sure, if necessary.”
“It’s necessary. I want you to staff the Overstreet call.”
The blood rushed from Cervante’s face. He pushed in his chair and nodded to Stafford. Thandy left the conference room and he followed like a dead man walking. She went into her office, waved Cervante in, and closed the door behind them.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Take a seat.” She walked over to the windowsill and started talking to the glass. “You’ve been with the firm over five years.”
“Yes.”
“And in five years, you’ve made your bonus target every quarter.”
“Yes.”
“Somehow you’ve made your bonus target, but your margins are as thin as tissue paper. When the bottom fell out of the market last year, you maintained your numbers. Oil prices went into the stratosphere and you made your numbers. Hurricane Katrina took out most of the southern coast and sank a whole American city and you made your numbers. Hurricane Rita stopped oil production for a week and you made your numbers. The Dow lost four hundred points and unemployment hit a ten-year high and you made your numbers. I’d say that is cause for applause.”
Thandy walked over to the credenza and pulled a manila folder from a stack. She opened the file, skimmed the top sheet, and handed it to Cervante, who looked like he was sweating bullets.
“I must say you’re good,” she said with sarcasm.
“I don’t understand.”
“Sure you do. I asked a forensic accountant to take a look at your numbers. We started with the day you joined the firm,” she said, handing him a second page. “I thought I was dealing with a modern-day Superman. You’ve got just five years under your belt and still you outgunned even John Thain,” she said, referring to the former president of Goldman Sachs and newly appointed chief executive of the New York Stock Exchange. “I’d say that’s one hell of an achievement. Greenspan takes the interest rate up with no sign of stopping, then retires to Florida; consumer confidence is in the toilet; the housing market is about to pop like a grenade; and you still make your numbers.”
Thandy paused and looked curiously at Cervante. “What is VeriSoft?” she asked.
“A privately held software security firm. One of my best clients.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Ms. Malone.”
Thandy called her secretary. “Get me Victor Sillers. Tell him to come up.”
She clicked the line closed and turned her attention back to Cervante. He was by far the highest-ranking Hispanic in the firm. The son of Peruvian immigrants, he’d earned an MBA from Stanford and graduated in the top one percent of his class. Cervante had been one of the firm’s first-round picks. His performance evaluations during his five-year tenure had been impeccable. He took home an annual bonus that exceeded a half million dollars. His father, Eduardo Cervante, was among the country’s most highly regarded financial analysts and specialized in Latin American economic matters. He was the first to predict the telecommunications boom that took over the continent. American cell companies and all the Bells called on him for guidance. Roberto was from good stock.
“You’ve made quite a name for yourself around here.”
“This is the only job I ever wanted,” he pushed out.
Sillers knocked and entered. He took the chair next to Cervante, who nervously reached to shake his hand. Sillers kept his hands on his knees and said nothing.
“First, let me be straight with you. This is your last day of service at Campbell-Perkins,” Thandy said.
“On what grounds?” he protested. “You can’t just let me go.”
“I can and I have,” she said flatly. “You are frankly a very lucky young man.”
“I don’t feel lucky.”
“You’re lucky you’re not on a train ride down to Marion. Our investigation revealed several things. First, VeriSoft is a shell company with no known revenues. However, somehow—and if you like you can explain it to a judge—they managed to pay this firm over four million in fees last year alone, taking you over your defined performance targets.”
She wasn’t finished. “Then there is the matter of your travel and expense reports. On one occasion you submitted receipts for airline tickets to Amelia Island and a stay at the Ritz-Carlton there. However, your cell records indicate that you never left Chicago. I can count dozens of instances just like it.”
Cervante thought quickly. “I paid for a client’s travel. Nothing wrong with that. Standard practice.”
“Which client? Certainly not VeriSoft. Frankly, I did not believe the initial report. So I asked Mr. Sillers to take ano
ther look. Now, what do you suppose he found?”
Cervante shrugged his shoulders as Thandy took another slip of paper from the file.
“We checked with the hotel. Your parents were coincidentally on vacation at the same hotel, at the same time. But more important, I found six shadow accounts,” Sillers said, peeling through a stack of papers. “All shell companies, with no traceable revenues.”
“I admire ambition, Mr. Cervante,” Thandy said. “In fact, that’s how we all got here. But if nothing else, I hate a liar. And I can’t stand a thief.”
She sat down at her desk and handed him a page from another file. He hadn’t noticed it before. The folder was marked “Cervante Separation.”
“This is your separation agreement. I don’t expect you to sign it right away. If you’re smart, you will retain counsel and review this today. If I don’t have a signed copy of the agreement by close of business tomorrow, I will turn everything over to federal prosecutors. I also expect that you will repay every dime that you stole from this firm. You have ten business days to deliver a certified check for three million dollars. That represents the adjusted bonus amounts and repayment of all nonbusiness expenses. If you do that, we will approach this as an employment issue. If you fail to return the funds, then it will become a criminal issue. It’s your call.”
Cervante took the agreement and left. He rode the elevator down to his office, where two uniformed security guards were already posted outside. His personal effects were already boxed, taped, and loaded onto a mail cart. His nameplate had already been taken down. His e-mail account, corporate American Express, access to the company intranet, and cell phone had already been canceled. His assistant wouldn’t look him in the eye. The guards escorted him from the building and watched as he drove out of the parking deck.
“Aren’t you worried that he’ll sue us?” Sillers asked.
“Not in the least. He’s looking at twenty years’ hard time if he doesn’t sign and pay us back. Any lawyer worth his salt will tell him to sign it and sell lemonade to pay up if he has to.”
The January Girl Page 14