by Karen Quinn
“No, no, no. Switching doctors would devastate Renata. She might never recover,” Dr. Perlmutter explained.
“I think we’ll pass on increasing the sessions, Doc. Three times a week will have to suffice. Maybe we should invite Mrs. De Mille to our next update and get her thoughts; what do you think, Eve?” Christy said.
“Good idea. Let’s do it,” Eve said.
Michael poked his head in to say good-bye to Christy. “Don’t stop,” she told everyone as she slipped out to give her husband a kiss.
“What’s going on in there?” he asked.
“It’s a meeting of Renata’s caregivers. I’m holding a quarterly review of her progress.”
Michael gave his wife a strange look.
“What?”
“You don’t think that’s a little weird?” he asked.
“No. These are the people I’ve entrusted with her care. They have to be managed.”
“Okay, fine, whatever,” he said.
“You don’t think I’m doing a good job?” Christy snapped.
“I didn’t say that. I just think it’s an unusual way to raise a child, that’s all.”
“Well, since you don’t want to be involved, this is how it has to be. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
“No, no I haven’t. She’s your responsibility. Listen, Beeg, I’m not going to be able to make the ceremony today. I have to go to L.A. We’re having problems with the Anipix acquisition. I’m really sorry.”
Christy noticed that Michael looked worried. He was usually pretty undaunted by work stuff. “I’ll miss you. I promise to thank you in my speech.”
“Would you?”
“Of course.”
“Do me a favor,” Michael said. “Call me on your cell phone right before you speak. Then leave it on so I can hear what you say.”
“Of course I will.” Christy kissed Michael good-bye and rejoined her meeting.
“We’re just getting to Nectar, Christy,” Eve reported. “Nectar? Nectar, are you asleep?”
Nectar awoke with a start. “Sorry, I was just checking for holes in my eyelids. As you know, I’m with Renata most of the time. I take her near about everywhere she needs to go. Bad as I hate to say this, the child is hurtin’. It’s like she fell outta the lonely tree and hit every branch on the way down. She needs a mama.”
Christy was transfixed by Nectar. She was the least-educated person in the room, but Christy felt she was, in many ways, the smartest. They were lucky to have her on the team.
“Isn’t it your job to nurture her, Nectar?” Eve asked, her eyebrows raised.
“Yes, but I’m not her mama. The child needs someone who’s not paid to be her parent. “’Tis such fools as you that makes the world full of ill-favored children.’”
“Let me guess,” Eve said, “Shakespeare.”
“I have to agree with Shakespeare…I mean Nectar,” Dr. Perlmutter added.
“Me, too,” Junior added.
“Me, too,” said Yok Wah.
“Point taken,” Eve said officiously. “Christy, why don’t we meet after everyone leaves? We’ll juggle things around, schedule more bonding time.”
“Right,” Christy said, feeling a sense of emptiness without knowing why. “Block out two hours for me to take her to the cemetery today.” Is Michael right? she wondered. Maybe this is no way to raise a child. But what can I do? There isn’t enough time in the day. Maria, what were you thinking? I don’t want to let you down. And I really don’t want to let Renata down. Could I be missing the basic mommy gene?
Halibut, Honor, and Humiliation
The theme of the Matrix Awards this year was “Fearless Women.” The luncheon was as glitzy as ever, with awards presented by media luminaries even more impressive than the winners. Goldie Hawn was giving Christy her award. She was inhibited to be in the presence of such a celebrity, but she tried to act like this was an everyday thing. Still, she knew that no matter how hard she tried, she would never be as fabulous as Goldie. Christy wondered if there would ever be a day when she wouldn’t feel inadequate. Where was that unbridled confidence that was supposed to go along with being a CEO?
At the last minute, Katherine couldn’t make the ceremony. Some sort of problem with Alex at school. Katherine had her assistant let Christy’s assistant know. Christy understood these kinds of emergencies now. But she was disappointed.
When no one was looking, Christy rearranged the place cards to seat herself next to Galit at the luncheon. She would crack that reporter if it killed her. Galit was one tough lady. Although, Christy supposed, you had to be tough to serve in the Israeli elite forces. She could just imagine Galit in a camouflage miniskirt brandishing an Uzi and wiping out a band of angry insurgents.
When they first sat down, Galit didn’t remember who Christy was. This was doubly maddening because Christy was wearing a name tag. Once she was reminded, Galit asked how things were at the company.
“Great, things are just great. Sales are up. Profits are up.”
“Mmm-mmm,” Galit mumbled.
Mmm-mmm? What does that mean? Christy wondered. “How are things at the Journal?” she asked.
“Busy as always. Companies are coming out with earnings statements. It’s our version of Christmas season.”
“Yes, I guess it is,” Christy said, willing herself to be interested in this creature whose job it was to make CEOs’ lives a living hell. “I’m surprised at how bland the food is, aren’t you? I’d expect more from the Waldorf.” Jeez, did I really say that? Christy was unable to muster her legendary charisma in the face of this cold fish.
“These lunches are all the same. Poached salmon. Roasted potatoes, steamed carrots, coffee, and a fruit tart. I always eat before coming,” Galit said, in the tone of a woman who would never leave any detail of her life to fate.
“That’s smart. I should do that.” Christy wasn’t giving up, no matter how unlikable Galit was. Charming her would do more for her business than a string of perfect quarters. “Tell me, are you working on a book these days? I enjoyed your Ian Malik bio.”
“Thanks,” Galit said coolly. “I haven’t settled on a subject yet. I like covering business leaders who aren’t overly publicized.”
“Malik’s had his share of media attention,” Christy said.
“Yes, but he rarely gave interviews. Malik ‘the man’ was still a mystery to most people.”
“You should consider doing my husband, Michael Drummond,” Christy said, trying to melt the icicle sitting next to her. “He’s a complicated guy, very interesting, always follows his own path.”
“Michael’s the ultimate outsider, that’s for sure,” Galit said. “He keeps a low profile.”
“He’s been burned by the press, so he’s cautious about being too public. Anyway, he doesn’t need the exposure. He owns the majority shares of his company, and his products speak for themselves.”
Galit’s demeanor changed. “Do you think he’d be interested in cooperating on a biography?” she asked, leaning in, giving Christy’s arm a meaningful touch.
“I could ask. Or, better yet, here’s his private number,” Christy said, reaching into her purse for a card. “Give him a call and tell him I suggested it. I’ll mention you might call. But don’t try till next week. He’s in California for the next few days.” Christy knew she was being worked, but somehow Galit’s attention was like a potent drug, even on her. And she needed this woman.
“Listen, Christy, I want to give you a heads-up. The Journal’s going to press with a pretty damaging article about you. It’s scheduled to run tomorrow.”
“About me? What are you talking about?” Christy asked.
“I’m talking about your sex life,” Galit explained.
“Sex life? The Financial Journal? Why on earth would a business paper run an article about my sex life? Did you write it?” Christy asked.
“No, it’s not me. No one called you for a quote?”
“I’ve been out all day, but the
office has my cell number.”
“They probably left a message. The reporter is Alan Hooper. I’ll write down his number for you.” Galit took a pen out of her purse and jotted the information on her card.
“Do you guys have something against me? Why all the negative press?”
“When we get a newsworthy tip, we investigate. That’s our job. Give Alan a call. Maybe you can offer some balancing information.” Galit looked at her with such empathy that Christy knew she was in deep shit.
“Thanks, I’ll do it.” Damn, Christy thought. This was supposed to be my day. A day of kudos, glory, and recognition. Instead, I have to go out and defend myself against some nasty reporter with nothing better to do than tell lies about my sex life. What could this possibly be about? Sometimes I hate playing in the big leagues.
Twenty minutes later, with Michael listening in on his cell phone, Christy got up and gave her acceptance speech. Somehow, she pulled herself together and managed to sound completely unshaken. Even she was impressed.
Christy left the Matrix Awards with Skip Heller by her side. The time had come to say good-bye to the pesky weasel. It was a good thing. Christy was getting annoyed by Skip’s constant presence, and further pissed off by his Nikes. “So, I guess this is it,” she said. “Do you have much more to do on my story?”
“No, not really. I just have to interview your friends and enemies.”
“I don’t have enemies,” Christy said, fervently hoping that was true.
“Every CEO does,” Skip said.
“Skip, please be gentle,” she said, hating the power that people like him had over her.
“Of course I will.”
Christy was relieved not to have him looking over her shoulder while she dealt with this latest press attack. She called Randi, her office assistant, to see if the Financial Journal had called. Sure enough, Alan Hooper had phoned hours ago. He said he was on deadline.
“So, did you put him through to Rick Slotnik?” Christy asked.
“He was out today.”
“What about Katherine?”
“She was out, too.”
“Why didn’t you call me here?”
“I didn’t want to bother you while you were getting an award.”
“Randi, why do you think I carry my cell phone with me? It’s so you can reach me in emergencies.”
“Was it important?”
“YES! Alan Hooper’s a reporter at the Financial Journal. Apparently he’s filing some kind of negative story. Give me all the numbers he left. I’ll try to catch him.”
Christy dialed Alan’s office and cell numbers. Both calls went to voice mail. Damn, why do we bother carrying these phones if they don’t do us any good when we need them?
That evening, after dinner, Hooper called her at home. He said he’d tried to reach someone in a position of authority at the company, but couldn’t. The article was running in tomorrow’s edition.
“What’s the gist of it?” Christy asked.
“You’re part of a broader story we’re breaking about female CEOs who traded sexual favors for initial capitalization.”
“What? You can’t be serious.” Christy was incredulous. If they were accusing Katherine, yes, she could understand, but her? This was nuts.
“Of course we’re serious. We’re the Financial Journal. We have witnesses who claim you provided sex to influence their investment in your company’s privately held stock.”
Christy was furious. “Witnesses? To what? First of all, Mr. Hooper, this never happened. Second of all, no banker would decide to fund a company in exchange for a fuck.”
“Can I quote you on that?”
Christy took a deep breath. “Mr. Hooper, this is a serious accusation you’re making. I suggest you not run the article or you’ll be facing a libel suit.”
“We’re extremely comfortable with our source, Ms. Hayes. Tell me, do the names Ty Jennings and Robert Peale ring a bell? Hmmmm? Why don’t you give me a call tomorrow. Maybe we can do a follow-up and keep the dialogue going.”
Oh, yeah, Christy thought, great idea. Let’s string this story out for days in the press. “I’ll get back to you,” she said, slamming the phone down.
Oh, man, she thought miserably. Now I know what those movie stars are always complaining about. Lies in the tabloid press. But the Journal’s no tabloid. Why would they believe this trash? The world’s gonna think I’m a whore. Then she remembered her husband, who was still in Los Angeles. Forget what the world thinks. She reached for the phone. I’d better clear this up with Michael.
Mean Girls
DEAR DIARY,
NOW I GO TO THE COLBY SCHOOL. THESE ARE THE GIRLS IN MY CLASS:
LANGLEY STOKES—SHE HAS THE SMELLIEST FEET EVER. I SWEAR SHE WASHES THEM IN VOMIT. NEVER TRUST A GIRL WITH STINKY FEET.
JADA SHIFF—HER PEN EXPLODED IN HER MOUTH AND MRS. SMART WOULDN’T LET HER WASH OFF THE INK SO SHE’D LEARN A VALUABLE LESSON. BUT JADA LOOKS AWESOME IN BLUE LIPS SO HA! ON MRS. SMART.
PIPPA TILBERRY—SHE FEELS SORRY FOR ME BECAUSE I’M MEXICAN. I FEEL SORRY FOR HER BECAUSE SHE’S STUPID.
MICA MORGAN—SHE BRAGS ABOUT HER DOG WHO IS GAY. HOW DOES SHE KNOW?
BUNNY PRATT—HAS A MOLE ON HER FACE WITH HAIR GROWING OUT OF IT. PEOPLE LIKE THAT ALWAYS THINK THEY’RE BETTER THAN EVERYONE ELSE.
STEPHANIE RICH—TRIES TO BE TEACHER’S PET. I DON’T JUDGE HER FOR THIS.
MUFFIN WOJTKIEWICZ—HER ARMPITS ARE SO DEEP, IT’S HAIRY (GET IT DIARY? HAIRY INSTEAD OF SCARY!!!).
YANNA SEVIGNY—ALWAYS WHINING. BUT EVERYONE LIKES HER BECAUSE HER DAD’S A MOVIE STAR. BIG DEAL.
SOMERS BURDEN—SHE CAN WIGGLE HER DOUBLE CHIN LIKE JELL-O. WHAT A SHOW OFF.
TARA MCBEE—SHE CUT A HOLE IN MY UNIFORM JUST TO BE MEAN. I HATE HER. HER MOM HATES HER TOO. I KNOW THIS FOR A FACT.
DESIREE DEEDER—HAS A REALLY LONG TOUNGE THAT WILL PROBABLY HAVE TO BE SHORTENED SOMEDAY.
ARIEL SANDBERG—SHE KEEPS ACCUSING ME OF LIKING BOYS WHICH IS NOT, I REPEAT, NOT (!!!!!!!!!!) TRUE.
ME—SMART, CUTE, ZANY, NORMAL.
The car was stuck behind a moving van on East Seventy-sixth Street. People were honking. Tempers were exploding. Christy was oblivious. She had her PR guy on the line. “Rick, where were you yesterday? Why weren’t you reachable?” Christy demanded.
“I was at a funeral, I—”
“Did you see the story this morning? Do you know how much damage it’ll do? From now on, someone from your department has to be on call to back you up. I can’t believe I have to tell you this.”
“I’m sorry, Christy.”
“Where’s Katherine?”
“She’s in her office.”
“Well, transfer me.”
The phone rang, and Katherine picked up. Christy launched into her. “Katherine, did you read the article? What do you propose we do about it?”
“Deny, deny, deny. It’s your word against theirs.”
“But did you see who they named? Ty Jennings, Robert Peale? Aren’t those guys you slept with?”
“Yes, but you know I didn’t do it to get funding. I just did it because…because they were cute. I was young. I was single. What do you expect?”
“You were married.”
“Whatever. I must have been having marital problems.”
“Aaargh. Katherine, how do you think the Financial Journal got the names of two men you slept with? Don’t you find that odd?”
“Yes, I think it’s odd. And I have calls in to both men trying to get an explanation.”
“Could Malcolm be behind this? Is this somehow related to your divorce? Because if it is—”
“No, he wouldn’t do this. Stop acting like it’s my fault.”
Christy took a deep breath and composed herself. “Katherine, it’s not your fault. I’m just trying to understand how the Journal got the information so we can deal with it.”
“Well, obviously they contacted the banks we approached for our first round of financing. So
meone there must have something against you.”
“But who? Why? I don’t get it. And what am I supposed to do? Deny that I slept with them and explain that it was you?”
“No, of course not. That’s just as bad.”
“Then what?”
“When’ll you be in? Why don’t we powwow with Rick? We have to prepare for the board anyway.”
“The board?”
“They called an emergency meeting for four o’clock. Where are you?”
“I’m in the car on my way to Colby. I have an appointment with Brownie. Look, get things started with Rick and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Christy clicked off her phone. Her head was pounding. She wanted to scream. What was Rick’s problem? Lately, he’s been asleep at the switch. Maybe she should fire him. Of all days to have these school meetings. She realized she could have run to Colby in about ten minutes, and it was taking her half an hour by chauffeur. Oh, the perks of the rich.
This morning, Christy was getting her fifth-grade graduation marching orders from Brownie. Then, after school, there was the formal kickoff with all the volunteers. Steven pulled up to the entrance, and she got out. “This should take about an hour, no more. I’ll call you when I’m finished.”
Christy walked purposefully through the flock of stay-at-home moms who congregated in the entry hall of the school, chatting away with nary a care in the world. In her black take-no-prisoners suit and stiletto heels, Christy may as well have been wearing a sign that read LIVE SMALLPOX VIRUS—STAY BACK. The Mommies wore neutral-colored designer slacks, Prada sports shoes, cashmere tops, Hermes scarves, full makeup, and model-straight hair. The required look was one of accidental chic, a presentation that whispers, “for a girl who didn’t even try, don’t I look rich and perfect?” And they accomplished this expensive, time-consuming nonchalance before eight in the morning.
How do they do it? Why do they do it? And don’t they have anything better to do? Christy wondered, wearing a brave half smile. She nodded at the Mommies, a few of whom were actually leering at her. The least they could do is hide their contempt, Christy thought. That’s only polite. She wondered, do they hate me because of the Financial Journal article or because I’m a working mom? Then she decided it had to be the latter, because no woman could read the paper and make herself look like that before breakfast. It wasn’t physically possible.