by Wan, Helen
Tyler shook his head. “We haven’t met. Hi, Justin, I’m Tyler Robinson.”
Justin barely looked at him. “Hi.”
Then Murph leaned over, and he and Justin greeted each other with the white male fist-bump. “Hey, Keating.”
“Hey.”
Just when had they gotten so friendly? As far as I knew, I was the only Corporate associate who had the misfortune to have Justin assisting on a deal. Adler leaned toward me and said, “So what’s new, Slugger?”
I tried not to look too pleased.
Murph grinned. “Slugger? Who’s Slugger?”
“Ingrid. Ever since last week.” Adler winked at me, then turned to Harold Rubinstein. “Seems that Ted Lassiter witnessed our very own Ms. Yung here dressing down some jerk on the street. He called me personally to tell me how impressed he was with Ingrid’s ‘gumption.’ Now he’s taken to calling her Slugger.” Adler looked absolutely delighted.
Harold Rubinstein grinned at me and raised his coffee mug in a little toast. “Here’s to you, Slugger.”
Tyler and Murph seemed amused.
“Speaking of our friend Ted Lassiter,” said Adler, “what’s the latest on SunCorp?”
The three summer associates all turned to look at me.
“Well,” I began, “I served up the binding term sheet to Binney’s lawyers last week and just got a redline back. I’ll have my markup to you on Monday, which keeps us on track for an on-time announcement,” I said.
In unison, the three summers swiveled their heads back toward Adler, as if they were at a tennis match.
“Any red flags I should know about?” he asked.
“None so far. They marked up the seller’s reps and MAC clause pretty heavily, but I’ll let you know if I see any showstoppers.”
“Impeccable, as always, Ingrid,” said Adler. “Keep up the great work.”
One of the summers spoke up. “What’s a MAC clause?”
“I’ll let Ingrid take that.” Adler nodded at me.
“Sure.” I turned to the guy who’d asked the question. He’d impressed me. Back when I was a summer associate, I would have been too scared to ask a question like that in front of a partner. I would have been terrified to admit that there was so much I didn’t know. “So, a MAC is a material adverse change,” I told him. “It just means a change in circumstance that affects a bargain after the deal is signed but before it gets closed. If a MAC clause gets triggered, a party might be able to back out of a deal.”
“So, for example?” prompted Adler.
“For example,” I continued, “if an embargo suddenly went into effect that cut off a main import supply, or a new tax law passed that substantially impacted an industry’s bottom line, you could pay your breakup fee—and it might be hefty—but you could walk away from the deal.”
The three summers nodded in actual or feigned understanding.
“And there you have it,” said Adler.
Murph cleared his throat. “So anyway, Marty, you getting in any golf this year?”
Adler looked at his watch. “As a matter of fact, Justin and I have a ten-thirty tee time. We better get going.” He clapped his hands to his knees. “Enjoy the day, everybody. Have fun.”
With that, he and Justin stood up, placed their napkins on the table, and walked off into the clubhouse. Murph excused himself to join Hunter at the tennis courts. Tyler peeled off for his squash court reservation.
It was hard not to feel a little lonely as I headed to the deserted women’s locker room, stowed my duffel bag, and then wandered down to the pool by myself.
The scene by the pool was in full swing by the time I got down there. No one was swimming, but a line had already formed at the bar. Coolers packed with ice, Perrier, Gatorade, and bottled beer were positioned at convenient intervals across the spotless pool deck. I did what I always did—got a club soda with a wedge of lime and then stretched out on a green-and-white-striped lounge chair, crossing my ankles demurely, pasting a smile on my face, and trying to look like I was having a fantastic time.
The sun reflected off the glittering surface of the pool like tiny gemstones. It felt good on my face and shoulders. I leaned back and closed my eyes, relaxing a little.
Before long, I heard two loud splashes and some high-pitched giggles. I opened my eyes. It was the same group of chatty summer associates I’d seen on the bus. Two of the guys had cannonballed into the deep end of the pool. A third was making a beeline for the open bar—Steinberg, I presumed. The rest of the group were picking out deck chairs and moving them out of the shade, arranging them in a sprawling semicircle a few yards from me.
I put my sunglasses on so I could watch more carefully. I was curious, and more than a little nostalgic. There had been ninety-five of us in my class when we’d first started out, and over a third of us were women. Now, eight years later in Corporate, it was just me, Murph, Hunter, Tyler, and a handful of other guys left standing.
I was still friends with a lot of the women lawyers who’d left Parsons Valentine over the years. I knew they all rooted for me. Every Christmas, I received an enthusiastic chorus of messages: Keep up the good fight! Looking forward to toasting the firm’s first female Corporate partner!!!! Go Ingrid!!
These messages typically came scrawled on the back of a holiday photo card featuring some impossibly cute two-year-old in a reindeer costume, or one of my former colleagues and her husband, both wearing elf hats and hugging an affable-looking Labrador retriever between them.
As I watched this latest crop of summer associates, shrieking and splashing each other in the pool, I thought about how much I missed that easy camaraderie—the freedom you felt when you were nowhere near up for partner, that blissful safety in numbers. It was so much harder to blend in when there was only one of you.
The one called Steinberg was back with a large tropical drink served in a hollowed-out pineapple. “Hey,” he yelled to one of the girls. “Why aren’t you in the pool yet?”
This particular girl—the prettiest girl in the group—was a tall, willowy blonde with high cheekbones, fair skin, and a faint spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her hair was swept back into an unfussy chignon and secured with a tiny tortoiseshell pin. She was wearing a chic black cover-up; the white spaghetti straps of a swimsuit top were visibly knotted together behind her neck.
I knew her name—Cameron Alexander—because Murph and Hunter had pointed her out in the Summer Associate Directory, also known among the male attorneys at the firm as The Menu. Cameron had been to Exeter and was a double-Harvard—both college and law school—and, according to her firm bio, did some modeling in her spare time. Runway, not catalog. Rumor had it she was also dating a client, the manager of an exclusive hedge fund the firm represented.
“Come on, Cameron,” said the one called Steinberg. “You said you’d be going in.”
“I don’t see anyone stopping you from swimming, Jason,” Cameron said with a toss of her head. “Why does it always have to be follow-the-leader with you?”
This seemed to shut Steinberg up for a moment. The other men in the group sniggered.
Good for you, Cameron, I thought.
“Hey, Ingrid, mind if I join you?”
I looked up. It was Tim Hollister, a youngish Corporate partner in our Emerging Markets group. A glint was coming off of his Clark Kent glasses where the sunlight hit them just so.
“Of course not,” I said, sitting up and pushing my sunglasses up onto the crown of my head. “Pull up a chair.”
I liked Tim. He’d been in the associate class three years above me and Murph, and seemed a little surprised to have woken up one day to discover himself occupying a huge corner office. Even after he’d made partner, Tim still managed to seem like one of us. He was the type of young partner who rarely asked associates to work on weekends if he wasn’t also coming in himself. Once, I’d even stood behind him in line in the Jury Box and heard him greet the cashier by name.
Tim swung the ne
arest deck chair around, parked it next to mine, and sat down, stretching out his long legs. He opened the bottled water he was holding and took a swallow.
“No tropical slushy for you today, Tim?” I asked, inclining my head toward Jason Steinberg and his hollowed-out pineapple.
He looked over and grinned. “Wow. It’s only ten fifty. I try to wait til at least noon.” Then he looked at me and said, “This is always such a long day, you know?”
I nodded, and felt grateful to him for having said it.
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment. I slid my huge Audrey Hepburn–style sunglasses back on my face and studied Tim Hollister in profile. Rumor had it that he actually had a Ph.D. in political theory in addition to his law degree, which made him rather noteworthy to the women at the firm. Tim had salt-and-pepper hair and kind gray eyes. He was the type of guy whose appeal, I guessed, was obvious to most but not all. Intelligent women might disagree as to whether or not he was handsome.
As I was busy thinking all this, he opened his mouth and said to me, “So, Ingrid, the buzz is that you’ve impressed the hell out of the SunCorp CEO.”
I nearly fell out of my chair. Tim Hollister and I didn’t know each other very well. We barely talked. The fact that this had made its way to him was news.
I tried not to sound giddy. “I’m surprised you heard about that, Tim. But thanks,” I said, and meant it.
“Are you kidding?” Tim looked genuinely happy for me. “There are no secrets around this place, believe me. Marty Adler’s been crowing about you all week. Just wanted to say I think it’s really well deserved. And the timing couldn’t be better for you, obviously.”
I felt my face flush with pleasure. I was trying to think of something both witty and sincere to say back, but Tim had already turned away and was looking toward the entrance to the pool. Gavin Dunlop, another young Corporate partner, was gesturing impatiently at Tim, pointing at his watch and making exaggerated swinging motions with his arms.
Tim stood. “Gotta run. Eleven o’clock tee time. I’ll see you around.”
“See you. And thanks. I really appreciate what you said.”
“Anytime.” He raised both arms and made a graceful free throw with his empty water bottle. I watched it arc smoothly into a nearby bin. Then Tim jogged over toward Gavin Dunlop, and the two of them headed up the grassy slope toward the clubhouse.
I took in a long, deep breath and stretched out my arms and legs as far as they would reach, feeling the pleasant pull in each muscle, the sheer joy of being young and appreciated and good at what you did. I draped one arm lazily above my head and closed my eyes, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun and Tim’s words. I think it’s really well deserved.
My eyes were still closed when suddenly I thought, It’s really quiet. It’s too quiet. A reverent hush had fallen over the pool deck. When I opened my eyes, I saw why.
Cameron Alexander had peeled off her cover-up and was sauntering toward the shallow end of the pool, wearing only a white string bikini. She moved with an unhurried grace, as if she were aware of so many eyes on her and really didn’t mind. Steinberg was obediently loping along behind her, still clasping the ridiculous pineapple beverage. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning.
For women lawyers at a firm outing, the swimsuit question presented a conundrum. Just what should a young career woman wear to what was essentially a pool party thrown by her employer? On the one hand—let’s be honest—law firms valued good looks and sex appeal as much as anyone. So if you were an attractive young woman, you didn’t exactly want to be the class prude, huddled poolside in a parka. On the other hand, showing too much skin wasn’t a good idea, either. Not if you ever expected to be taken seriously again. I watched the male attorneys on line at the bar surreptitiously smirk and nudge each other. People pretended to return to their momentarily abandoned conversations but continued to stare in her direction.
Unflustered, Cameron stood alone at the water’s edge. She raised one perfect, Pilates-toned leg and dipped a pointed toe into the water.
“Still pretty cold,” she announced, loud enough for all of us to hear. “I think I’ll wait a bit.”
Steinberg didn’t seem disappointed to hear this. His objective had been achieved.
“Fine with me,” he said, shaking his pineapple drink at her. “I’m out. Let’s go get something else to drink.”
Cameron shrugged and walked with Steinberg to the back of the drinks line, where they were joined by—I should say she was joined by—two male partners who were suddenly extremely interested in striking up a conversation with the summer associates. Before long, Cameron and Steinberg’s group of friends had joined them, too, forming a large gaggle in front of the bar.
All the summers were trying to schmooze the partners, but none succeeded like Cameron Alexander. She looked almost queenly, wearing a beneficent smile and occasionally throwing her head back with laughter, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be standing around barefoot with the Corporate Tax partners, chatting animatedly about the latest summer action flick, while wearing a white string bikini and gesturing with your mojito for emphasis.
I was, if I’m being honest, jealous. Of course I was—but not of the way Cameron looked in her white string bikini. Instead, I was jealous of her confidence and her utter unself-consciousness. What would it be like, I marveled, to go through life so utterly unwary? So wholly certain of your belonging to a place that it was never necessary to consider how your next move would be perceived?
Making partner at Parsons Valentine felt like a big final exam to which a select few held the answer key. While the rest of us schmucks had to study.
But you’re getting there, too, Ingrid! I quickly reminded myself. Hadn’t Tim Hollister just personally congratulated me on the great work I’d been doing? Hadn’t Marty Adler called me Slugger? Today was not the day for a pity party. I decided to treat myself to a celebratory margarita or two. I stood up and walked over to join the drinks line.
* * *
Just before dusk, having passed a pleasant afternoon of schmoozing and socializing, watching a little tennis and strolling around the grounds, I made my way over to the clubhouse to get ready for dinner. I slipped into the dress I’d brought—a slim white linen sheath with a simple scalloped neckline—along with a pair of strappy alligator slingbacks. I brushed my hair into place, stepped back, and surveyed the effect in the mirror. Elegant, yet effortless. This was what we were expected to channel all the time. If only it were as easy as Cameron Alexander made it look.
I had a pleasant buzz as I crossed the lawns to the area where dinner would be served. The tent looked lovely, like an oasis. It was a perfect summer evening, the sun had just dipped below the treeline, and the first stars would soon be visible in the night sky. Across the lawn, the stone path near the clubhouse had been lit up with hundreds of tiny tea lights, and the tent itself was adorned with little paper lanterns. Everything felt cozy and festive.
This had been the best firm-outing day I could remember from my eight years at Parsons Valentine. With the buzz from the tequila, and the high from Tim’s compliment, I was the happiest, most relaxed I’d been in a very long time.
Under the canopy, the dinner was set up like a stylish wedding reception—twenty round tables set with china and crystal, floral centerpieces glowing in the candlelight. Elegant ivory name cards directed us to our seats. I was pleased to see that Murph and I were assigned to the same table. In fact, it was a good table overall, with Corporate partners Harold Rubinstein and Gavin Dunlop; Pamela Karnow, a no-bullshit, fortysomething partner in Litigation whom I admired; two senior Litigation associates I’d never worked with; and three random summer associates.
Gavin and the three summers were already at the table, discussing the Broadway show the firm had taken them to the previous evening. Then Murph appeared, freshly showered and shaved after his tennis game. His dark blond hair was still damp, and he’d put on a clean white dress shirt
and freshly pressed khakis. He looked handsome, and I thought about telling him so.
I sat down between Murph and Gavin Dunlop. Since Gavin was in the Securities group I’d never worked with him, but Tyler had, and thought he was a good guy—a little stodgy, perhaps (Gavin wore bow ties and seersucker without irony), but a straight shooter.
“Hey, Ingrid,” Gavin greeted me. Then he introduced me to the three summers.
I scanned the name cards arranged in front of their plates. Caleb Sweeney, UNC–Chapel Hill. Nate McArdle, Duke. Andrea Carr, Yale.
Caleb and Nate seemed to know each other well already—I guessed they’d bonded over the North Carolina thing. Nate McArdle had an athletic build and a good tan, and was handsome in an unoriginal way. Caleb Sweeney looked like a nice kid, earnest and scrubbed. I noticed with a sympathetic pang that his hair was neatly parted on the side, unironically, while most other guys were wearing that mussed-up, no-part style. Andrea Carr was a pretty, petite blonde wearing tortoiseshell glasses, a tasteful black dress, and a single strand of freshwater pearls at her throat.
Murph immediately introduced himself to Andrea, grinning his most dazzling grin. How predictable. I’d have to tease him about this later.
Andrea replied in a practiced voice that was faultlessly polite but utterly neutral. I knew that voice. I’d used it myself many times. “Hi, Jeff, it’s very nice to meet you.” No hair toss, no giggling, no flirtation whatsoever. This surprised and impressed me. Women were not usually this resistant to Murph’s charms. On a hunch, I snuck a glance at Andrea’s left hand. Sure enough, there it was: a gigantic engagement ring, winking at me in the candlelight.
After we were joined by Harold Rubinstein, Pamela Karnow, and the two senior associates from Litigation, the waiters came around to fill our wine goblets, and we all tucked into our salads.
I was still enjoying a pleasant buzz and a general, comfortable feeling of all being right with the world. The margaritas hadn’t quite worn off yet, and the red wine I was drinking was keeping the glow going.