“Thanks,” I muttered.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” I said sleepily, and wrapped my arm around my far shoulder in a half hug, attempting to counteract the feeling that I was about to unravel.
“Look, my wife and I are going to her sister’s wedding this weekend in Mexico. She’s on her fourth marriage . . . don’t get me started. Anyway, our ski house in Killington is free. You’re welcome to take it for a long weekend with your boyfriend. Duck out after work Thursday, and the house is all set up to work from Friday. Wi-Fi, printer, everything.” He waited for my reaction.
Say no. It’s an empty gesture. He’s just being nice.
“Thanks so much, Peter. That’s really kind. But we have First-Year Academy in LA in February, so I’m sure I’ll get some rest there.”
“Are you kidding? Sitting in trainings with colleagues is not relaxing. You can even bring friends to my place if you want—there are five bedrooms. There’s no food in the fridge, but there’s everything else you need. It’s right on the mountain. And if the snow’s no good, there’s a spa and a jacuzzi. What do you think?”
Maybe this was exactly what Sam and I needed to get back on track, to reconnect.
“Alex?”
“Yes.” I looked up at Peter. “Yes. That sounds so amazing. I could really use a break. I cannot thank you enough.”
Peter reached into his pocket and fiddled with his key ring, prying one loose. He tossed me a key and fob.
“Fob is for the house. Key is for the ski locker just outside. Enjoy!”
“Peter, this is so generous . . .”
“It’s a pleasure, kiddo. You’ve been doing great work. It doesn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated. Consider this a token of gratitude.”
I smiled. “I thought that’s what a paycheck was.”
He laughed. “Alex, if you break down your salary by the hours you work, it’s a lot closer to minimum wage than you realize.” I groaned. “See you at the party.”
I turned back to work but couldn’t focus. What if a weekend away with Sam just proved how far we had drifted apart? No. It would be great. I would make it great. I checked my personal email in-box, which was filled with all junk, except for one email from Sam with Christmas vacation suggestions. I wrote him back that, bad news, I wasn’t allowed to take vacation this year, but that I’d be making it up to him with a long weekend in Vermont.
Growing annoyed at the presumption behind his email—was I supposed to pay for both of us to go to some Caribbean island?—and trying to put myself in the best possible frame of mind about Vermont, I distracted myself further by logging in to my checking account. I stared at the balance, which steadily climbed regardless of how much I put toward retirement, saved in my Roth IRA, and flushed down the toilet paying our astronomical New York City rent. I looked at the clock again and smiled slightly to myself as I realized I had just enough time to get a new outfit for the night.
After shoving my brown paper Bloomingdale’s bags into the trash can nearest the Rainbow Room entrance, and running my hands down the sides of my white-and-red organza Alice and Olivia dress to make sure I had removed all the tags, I glided into the Stag River cocktail party only thirty minutes late. I had never spent more than a few hundred dollars on an item of clothing, but I had just blown upward of $600 in under forty-five minutes, and the rush of it made me feel not only beautiful but that I belonged in this room full of real estate titans and Wall Street tycoons.
“Wow. Skip!” Jordan fell into step beside me as I made my way to the bar. “You look really nice.” He coughed awkwardly, as if he was unsure of what he should and shouldn’t say after the whiteboard incident.
I smiled to let him know all was forgiven. “Not so bad yourself,” I said, straightening his tie.
A jazz band comprised of musicians dressed like the Rat Pack filled the air with a 1950s vibe as the dim rainbowed lighting made everybody appear as though they were draped in swirling cotton candy. As Jordan pointed out the heads of banks and private equity firms to me, I waved to Vivienne White across the room. She smiled coolly but didn’t seem to miss a beat in her conversation with a stout Asian man.
Peter slid into place next to us. “So, what do you think of your first Stag River event?” he asked me.
“Great,” I told him, and meant it. It was the most beautiful room I had ever seen. The city skyline twinkled out the windows, none of the grit and grime showing and all of the magic.
“A little tame,” Jordan joked.
“Dunn! Glad you made it!” Gary Kaplan slapped Peter on the back, nearly knocking the drink out of his hand, looking animated, exuberant, and far from sober. He turned his attention to me. “Well, aren’t you beautiful.” He took my hand and held it in his moist palm.
“You’ve met Alex. She’s one of our associates,” Peter announced, a protective overlay in his tone. “And this is Jordan Sellar, a senior associate. He mostly does your deals with Jaskel.”
Gary continued to stare at me, making no attempt to avert his eyes from my body, but I finally wiggled my hand out from his grip.
“Excuse me while I get some food. Can I grab anything for any of you?” I asked the group, but before they could answer, I made my way to the display of oysters and shrimp cocktail on the far side of the room. I took a final sip of my wine as I waited for the server to place the shrimp on my plate. I was reaching for the horseradish and cocktail sauce when I suddenly felt an arm graze my breast. I snapped my back straight and stared over at Gary, mortified that I must have pushed my chest against his arm when I bent to reach the condiments.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, desperately trying to shrug off possibly the most awkward encounter I could imagine with the firm’s most important client. He smiled, looking completely unruffled, the pools of black where his eyes were meant to be making me slightly queasy. It hadn’t been my mistake. And it wasn’t his either. The pervert touched me on purpose.
“Please, Alex.” Gary gave me a reassuring wink. “Don’t be sorry,” he said, reaching toward me and gently placing his palm over my heart, his pinkie finger dipping low to search for my nipple.
I froze. The timpani faded, and I heard only the beating of my heart in my ears. He took his hand away and grabbed an oyster. I couldn’t manage to move my legs to escape. When he turned back toward me, his eyes focused over my shoulder and his voice lightened.
“Peter! Alex and I have been chatting. She’s quite ambitious! I’d love you both to be my special guests at the Private Equity Fights Hunger gala I’m chairing at the Met this spring. I’ll have my assistant send you all the details.”
I felt Peter next to me, but I continued to stare at Gary, trying to discern whether he’d intended the invitation as payment for his transgression or, even worse, license for future ones. As Peter responded to Gary in a pleasant tone, I did my best to compose myself, and as soon as my legs would move, I put down my plate and returned to Jordan.
“Peter told me that Japanese businessman over there with his wife just fucked his assistant in the bathroom!” Jordan cackled. I stared forward, shivering. “Skip? You okay?” Jordan bent low, his head cocked, and shoved his face into my line of vision.