Wife in the Fast Lane

by Karen Quinn

  “Reeeally,” Mr. Gibbons said. “You’re planning a renovation? There’s nothing in your package about a renovation.”

  “Not now,” Christy said. “I just wanted to know if someday I would be able to make the changes I’m thinking of.”

  “Sure,” Mr. Gibbons said, nodding. You can take your feet out of the stirrups now.

  “Wait, is it true that you don’t like our lobby decor?” Mr. Crackstone asked.

  “What? Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Our doorman mentioned that you made a remark about the mirrored wall we just added,” he said.

  “He must have heard me wrong,” Christy said, furious that the weasel wearing the fake Austrian color-guard uniform was, in truth, a spy for the board. “I love everything about this building, especially the mirrored wall in the lobby. It makes the room seem so much bigger. In fact, I’ll probably mirror a wall in my apartment.”

  “That’s not mentioned in your package,” Mr. Gibbons said, leafing through his papers.

  “It’s another one of those ‘someday’ things,” Christy said.

  “Well, thank you, Ms. Hayes. We’ll discuss your application and let you know.” Your test results will be available in about a week.

  “Thanks,” Christy said, standing and shaking each board member’s hand. She shut the door behind her and walked into the small waiting room where she’d left her coat and packages. Thank God that’s over, she thought. As she gathered her things, she overheard the discussion inside.

  “Have you ever?” Mrs. Rich asked. “As if we’d approve a single girl with her profile.”

  “Well, we did approve Janette Jaffe. And she was single,” Mr. Gibbons pointed out.

  “Yes, but she was from a socially prominent family. Her father’s president of Winged Foot Golf Club,” Mr. Crackstone said. “This woman doesn’t have enough in the bank for cushion. What kind of CEO spends all her money on a down payment while she doesn’t have a pot to piss in?”

  “Mr. Crackstone!” Mrs. Rich said. “Language!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, we know she’s a liar. Who are you going to believe about the mirrored wall? Bobby or her? And eleven visits! She may as well have worn a neon sign that she’ll be a pain in our backsides,” Mr. Gibbons added.

  “She’s just another wannabe who thinks she can improve her social standing by associating with people like us,” Mrs. Rich sighed.

  Screw them, Christy thought. What snobs. She swung open the boardroom door to face her detractors. “So I take it I’m rejected?” Christy said.

  Mrs. Rich’s face turned crimson. “Well, of course we haven’t made a decision yet,” she said. “You’ve interrupted our discussion.”

  Christy rolled her eyes. “Don’t bother. I’m withdrawing my application.” She turned and walked out, this time for good. There are other apartments in the city, she thought. I’ll find something yet.

  Guess Who’s Coming to Davos

  Christy was paying bills in her new study when Maria brought in the fat creamy envelope addressed to her in elegant scroll.

  “This just came,” Maria said. “It looks like a wedding invitation.” Maria Ruiz had been Christy’s housekeeper for years. In truth, she was more than that. Part mother, part sister, part loyal friend, it was Maria who waited for Christy with a hot, home-cooked meal every night, who nursed her back to health after her knee operation, who comforted her over failed love affairs—not that there had been many men in the last few years. It was Maria who gave a damn about Christy’s day, from the glamorous moments to the boring details.

  “Whoa!” Christy said, her eyes wide. “I’ve been invited to Davos.”

  “What’s that?” Maria asked.

  “The World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland,” she explained, “where the most important people in the world get together every year. Everyone who’s anyone goes. Except I’ve never been.”

  “What do they do when they get there?” Maria asked.

  “You know, wheel and deal, share ideas, alter the course of world events, that sort of thing. I can’t believe they even know who I am.”

  “Well, of course they do,” Maria said. “You’re a famous athlete. You built a big company. Plus, you’re on all those billboards.”

  Christy googled World Economic Forum and saw picture after picture of the planet’s movers and shakers. “Look at who goes,” she said. “See, there’s the Dalai Lama, the mayor, President Clinton.”

  “Hrrmph,” Maria snorted. “You’re just as important as they are. More important.”

  Christy giggled. “Right. Maria, you are the only person in the world who thinks I’m more important than the Dalai Lama, but I love you for that.” She stood and gave her a hug. “Now let’s go see what’s for lunch.”

  Three months later, Christy arrived in Zurich bleary-eyed, wearing toe-pinching high heels, and schlepping her overstuffed tote. Even after two Olympics and plenty of business travel, Christy always felt slightly homesick when overseas. However, she never failed to be cheered by Golden Arches, and there they were before her. Grabbing some French fries for breakfast, she continued her trudge to baggage and the big red tour bus. She took a seat in the front, avoiding her fellow jet-lagged delegates. At six A.M., it was too early to face the world’s Best and Brightest.

  She wished Katherine was with her, but Katherine hadn’t been invited. Christy felt bad about that and considered canceling, but she just couldn’t. This was too important. It was a chance to raise her company’s visibility and make relationships that could mean millions of dollars in profits. If she was honest with herself, there was one other draw. She hoped she might meet someone interesting, though she had been careful not to share this thought with anyone, not even Katherine. Over the last ten years, she had kept her vow and barely dated. Truth be told, working fourteen hours a day wasn’t conducive to falling in love. Now, at thirty-nine, with each new level of success she felt a deepening sense of loneliness.

  As the bus drove higher and higher into the Swiss Alps, they passed picturesque farms and small mountain villages. She cast a few furtive glances at her bus mates. They looked slightly nerdy, rumpled, and unassuming. Christy couldn’t believe that these were the giants who could move markets, shake up governments, and define modern culture.

  As she discovered the next day, they weren’t. Jimmy Carter, at his Life After Leading session, made a joke that you could tell the big shots by the helicopters they rode in on. A man in the back of the room shouted, “Didn’t I see you on the bus?” The former president responded with an ear-to-ear grin.

  Christy’s bus sped past the Royalton Hotel, where the A-list CEOs and heads of state stayed, giving them the advantage of only having to crawl upstairs after the evening drinkfest instead of braving icy streets at the far edge of town. Christy debarked at a hotel that looked like it should be called the Earth Shoe and Granola Lodge. She overheard a famous German Nobel Prize winner cursing his secretary under his breath for forgetting to register him early enough at a more impressive venue. Christy chuckled to herself as he tried to cover his less-than-remarkable status among the world-renowned attendees. Oh well, she thought, at least Davos made me feel important back home.

  After checking in, Christy walked over to the conference center in the middle of town. It was a beautiful concrete-and-glass structure that seemed to have been dropped in the midst of old churches, elegant storefronts, and beautiful townhomes that looked like they belonged to the local aristocracy. Davos was centuries old, sitting quietly under a blanket of snow. On one side, the mountains hovered over the town. A gracious alpine valley stretched out below on the other side. Four college-age male snowboarders sporting various facial piercings walked by, giving Christy “the look.” Okay, she thought. I haven’t lost it yet. That’s good news.

  Ahead were the tightest security checkpoints she had ever seen. She realized that a person unhappy with the state of the world could wipe out half of its leadership during
one coffee break here. As she approached the conference center, two hunky six-foot Swiss guards in full army gear moved together to slow her down. Actually stammering, she told them she was here to register for the World Forum and showed her papers. Wordlessly, they parted again. She had a fleeting image involving black military boots and ripped fishnet stockings. Okay, back to work. Maybe she had kept herself on a short leash a little too long.

  Glancing around, she noticed swarms of new arrivals brandishing name badges and official shoulder bags as they darted in and out of small espresso bars, the bookstore where every single book was written by one of the participants, and the VIP section for special members. That was weird. She thought everyone here was special. She was fast learning that Davos was a very good imitation of life at her old high school. There were concentric layers of coolness so that only a couple of people in the world could enjoy being in the truly last inner circle with no one to envy or try to displace. They just had to worry about losing their place to the guys coming up the ranks.

  At the registration counter, a petite Swiss beauty wearing a Prada-like uniform looked over Christy’s choices for sessions, all the while clucking and shaking her head. “Sorry, all full. Sold out. And this, too—no space.” She explained patiently, as though to a child, that everyone who knows Davos sends their assistants in a day early to register for the hot speakers. Christy had hoped to attend discussions on currency flows, international markets, manufacturing plants in Asia, but she would have to content herself with more esoteric fare.

  Christy was directed to the next counter, which held a huge pile of BlackBerries. The young gentleman who was hosting the booth handed her one, and turned it on to demonstrate. He told her that if she wanted to meet any Davos participant, invite them to a party, or have an e-mail conversation, all she had to do was click on his picture. He suggested that she check her mailbox, as she probably had a slew of messages already. She checked. Empty. The ongoing humiliation of being the lowest of the high continued.

  For the official opening-night party, she made the trek again, this time navigating the icy sidewalk in spiky heels and a classic black Chanel cocktail dress with a vintage lynx shrug. She thought she made a pretty cool entrance, only to find that none of the bigwigs whose last names need not be mentioned were there—no Warren, no Bill and Melinda, no Hillary. They were all at private parties with their fellow heavyweights.

  Still, Christy had an enjoyable evening hobnobbing with first-year CEOs, inventors, musicians, and scientists. She learned something about molecular biology, contemplative strands of Islam, brain activity, and perpendicular data-recording technology. The evening was only slightly marred by the A-list whose absence sent an unspoken message to the party: You may be important in your own little world, but here at Davos, you are toe jam.

  That’s not to say things didn’t improve. Christy had been invited to be a panelist during one of the lunch sessions, Building New Brands. She was asked to open with a five-minute talk about how she’d launched Baby G. She arrived an hour early to prepare and to calm her nerves, only to find people already lining up to get in. When she asked Rosemary, the forum organizer, why the crowd, she was surprised to hear the answer. Apparently the draw was the sexy new hotshot—her.

  Between the sessions, there was informal talk over croissants and espresso. After her panel, Christy was sought out by bankers and other CEOs who could help her grow the company. On the personal front, she had the advantage of being one of the younger and prettier single women at the event. That, plus her athlete status, was enough of an aphrodisiac to the unattached men to create a mini-stir. On day two, her BlackBerry started vibrating with amazing regularity. “Would you like to have dinner?” the Russian president proposed. “Can I interest you in a sleigh ride and midnight picnic?” a notorious investment banker wondered. “Would you like to get sex in the bed with me?” a prince of suspicious lineage asked.

  Christy accepted the invitation of Francis Rich, managing director of Cantor Farrar, who had attended her session. Coincidentally, he was the estranged husband of that ghastly woman on the co-op board at 830 Fifth Avenue. They’d recently broken up—Christy had read about it on the Post’s Page Six. He invited Christy to tag along with him to the most interesting sessions, the coveted parties, and private conversations from which she’d earlier been excluded. Christy felt like a junior in high school again, when, as a certified geek, she’d been unwelcome at, well, everything until she went out with Ty Schwab, the senior tight end. Then her status was temporarily elevated to low-grade popular.

  Fran was as dapper as they came—the sort of blueblood who always wore elegant wing tips and hand-tailored suits with shirts showing the perfect amount of white cuff. Christy thought he was the most sophisticated man she’d ever met. She was so in awe of him that, by his side, she felt flustered and slightly tongue-tied. She didn’t know the protocol of dating a Master of the Universe, but she didn’t want to blow it.

  Like Ty, Fran expected Christy to show her appreciation for the privilege of being on his arm. On the fourth night, he leaned over and suggested they blow off the after-dinner discussion of the day’s highlights. He led her outside the hotel and into a waiting sleigh drawn by two huge horses, its backseat heaped with fur blankets. They left the town behind as they turned up a small mountain road past cottages with bright lights inside. Christy could see that Fran was a man with a plan and her job was to go along and be impressed. And she was. The sleigh came to a stop where the snowplow had finished. Beyond them were the towering peaks of the Alps, shimmering in a hazy moonlight. There was a little lamplight from an inn fifty yards away, and they could just hear the slightly drunken voices of delegates heading into eleven P.M. dinners. The driver turned around and nodded at Fran, then left them alone in the sleigh. Christy gulped.

  Fran covered her with a warm fur blanket and asked if she wanted anything. Christy had no idea how she was supposed to answer that question, so she mumbled that she was fine, that it was all so beautiful. She was waiting for whatever came next. He traced a finger along her cheekbone and down her throat. Then he told her to take off her clothes.

  Christy didn’t know what to say, but she couldn’t do what he asked. She sat frozen, staring at him.

  “Christy, you are beautiful, sexy, smart. No man is going to spend time with you without wanting you. There’s no reason to hold back. You deserve to let yourself go once in a while. Look, we’re in the mountains, all alone, on a moonlit night. No one will miss us. Why don’t you just let me take care of you? Tomorrow you can go back to being a CEO.”

  Christy prepared her comeback, but as she did, Fran ran his fingertips lightly down her thigh, slipped them between her legs, and began to massage her. She was startled by the wave of heat coming from his hand, and suddenly she wanted more. She took off her clothes, piece by piece, while Fran watched every move.

  Later, she got dropped off at the Earth Shoe Lodge, where she sat up watching the sunrise, torn between hope and fear. He seems so interested, so solicitous. Sure, until you gave him everything. He said I was intelligent, attractive, and he was so gracious when he put me in a cab to my hotel. Still, you should have waited…and on and on until finally she pulled on her mukluks and went for a dawn walk through the empty streets, delighted to find a McDonald’s sitting incongruously at the opposite end of town.

  By Saturday night, Christy was feeling more confident. She’d come alone and done well. She had made dozens of valuable business contacts. Even really accomplished people seemed to find the story of her company notable—that anyone would have the balls to go up against the Nikes and Reeboks of the world. And she thought she had a real shot with Fran. It seemed important to make a memorable impression at the closing soiree, the only formal event at Davos. She glided in gracefully in her black, wispy-as-a-breeze Versace. Even in the freezing Swiss air, the dress made Christy feel hot, with its tiers of sheer chiffon, its leg-revealing slit to the thigh, and its hand-embroidered leaves hiding
the ties that held the backless outfit together. She could sense the heads turning, male and female, and realized almost shyly that her lean athletic body would always be one of her great assets, even at a gathering of the powerful and brainy. She just hoped Fran was watching.

  Christy grabbed a red wine, then caught up with Fran, who was standing near a table with the Dalai Lama; Andreas Dracopoulos, the shipping magnate, and Galit Portal, the aggressive front-page reporter for the Financial Journal. This was the first time Christy had seen Galit in person, and she was spellbound. At six feet two, Galit seemed to tower above her colleagues, who ogled her like love-struck minions, leaning in and looking up in unison. She looked nothing like the stern and bespectacled journalist on the back of the biography she had written about Ian Malik. Ravishing was the word that came to Christy’s mind. Her legs rose endlessly out of five-inch Lucite heels, sheathed in the sheerest seamed stockings. Above that were a black silk mini and a matching beaded cashmere that made even Christy want to reach out and touch Galit’s voluptuous breasts. Her jet black hair fell almost to her waist, and her turquoise eyes seemed to promise intimacy. Galit was as famous for using her long legs and short skirts to gain access to media-shy CEOs as she was for having once been a member of Israel’s most elite commando forces, the Sayeret Matkal.

  Galit had Fran, Andreas, and the Dalai Lama enraptured and hanging on her every word like lovesick lap dogs. Meanwhile, Andreas’s wife and the Dalai Lama’s acolyte sat slumped in their seats at the far end of the table, both yawning. Christy wondered if she should call him Dalai, Mr. Lama, or Your Highness if they were introduced. She wasn’t certain of the etiquette required in speaking to the Enlightened Being.

  Christy gently put her hand on Fran’s shoulder to let him know she was there. He ignored her touch, and Galit subtly turned her body about twenty degrees to shut Christy out. Christy rolled her eyes, wishing that Davos were more about business and less about reliving adolescence.