I narrow my eyes. The running joke, among pretty much everyone here, is that my vagina has teeth. The Castrator, they call me. In theory because I often represent women in custody disputes, and in truth because I won’t play the game—I don’t bake cupcakes and make cooing noises over pictures of everyone’s kids. If a man doesn’t bake cupcakes and make cooing noises, you know what they call him? Senior Partner. Ben hasn’t made cupcakes once. But men expect you to be more thoughtful than they are—softer, more accommodating. And when you are paid less than your peers, or assaulted on a date, or lose a promotion, they’ll tell you it was your fault—you were too soft, too accommodating.
They think it’s a slur when they refer to me as a castrating bitch, but all it says to me is that they’ve finally realized I’m not someone to fuck with. I was someone who was fucked with a lot, once upon a time. It won’t happen again.
Fields’ assistant, Debbie, steps to the front of the room and beside me, Terri discretely sets a timer. We have a running bet about how long Debbie will speak, because even the simplest statement can take thirty minutes in her capable hands.
I text Terri.
Me: Three minutes, thirty seconds.
Terri: Three minutes, forty seconds.
“So, I shouldn’t have to say this again,” says Debbie, “but I really need everyone to label food in the break room.”
It’s going to be a long one—I can already tell. I go ahead and slide Terri a five-dollar bill.
“So many containers look the same,” she continues. “I don’t want to accidentally eat your escargot when I brought in a tuna sandwich.”
I consider pointing out that you would have to be a fucking idiot to confuse escargot with a sandwich of any kind, but it would just give Debbie something more to talk about, which is the opposite of what I want.
“Anyway,” Debbie says, “you really need to label and it’s not hard to do. I like to use a piece of masking tape, and then I just write my name on there with a Sharpie.”
Debbie continues to explain, to a group of grown humans, how food is labeled. I sigh quietly, and Ben’s eyes flicker to mine, as if he finds my irritation amusing.
One day I’m going to light him on fire—we’ll see how much laughing he does then.
When she says labeling is really important for the third time—repetition is Debbie’s favorite conversational gambit—I have to tune her out and go to my happy place…Shoes. Shoes I will buy. Shoes I wish someone would make. Right now, I’m thinking about green suede heels I saw at Nordstrom. Some people might argue that a kelly-green suede shoe has limited usefulness, particularly when it costs five hundred dollars, but with enough rationalization, I can make the math work in my favor.
“You’re thinking about shoes again, aren’t you?” whispers Terri.
I give her a sidelong glance. “What else would I think about?”
“You’re young and gorgeous. You should be thinking about a hot guy walking out of your shower.”
“What hot guy? There certainly aren’t any here.”
Her eyes flicker toward Ben, but she knows better than to suggest him to me.
“Chris Hemsworth,” she replies, and I laugh quietly.
The statistical probability of Chris Hemsworth walking out of my shower is almost zero, and if it were to happen, I know exactly how it would end, because every attempt at a relationship since Kyle has ended in the exact same way: with him accusing me of being ‘dead inside’ or obsessed with work, which is what men say if you work harder than they do. Unlike shoes, which just exist to cradle you in their green suede bosom.
“Care to share the conversation?” Debbie snaps at the two of us.
“We were talking about Sharpies, for labeling the food,” I reply smoothly. “I just asked Terri to order some.”
“It’s weird, then,” says Ben, eyes glinting with malice, “that she’d respond by saying Chris Hemsworth.”
For a single moment I picture whipping one of my heels across the table—his cry of pain, the brief triumph I’d feel before I remember I’ve done this in front of the most litigious people in LA.
Fortunately, Arvin Fields, managing partner, enters the room before I can act. Arvin is approximately one million years old, but shows no signs of retiring, and he’s still younger than McGovern, who likely remembers voting for John Adams in our nation’s third election.
“As you know,” he begins, “there are changes coming.” His speech is gratingly slow, which isn’t a product of age but more a tactic to wind us all up. He likes his underlings to be like a swarm of angry bees, fighting for dominance, stinging anything in their path.
Which is why Ben and I have both done well here. We were already angry bees when we arrived.
“At the end of this year, two of our partners will be retiring.” I sit up straighter. The announcement. “We’re hoping one of you can step up to the plate.”
My head jerks. “One?” I ask, my voice sharper than I’d like.
“Just one. Over the past decade, we’ve seen a lot less work from certain sectors, and it’s cut into our profits. We’ll be watching you very closely this winter, so may the best man, or woman, win.”
It feels like someone just put a hole in my lungs and all the air is escaping. I deserve to make partner, and instead of just giving it to me like they should, they’re going to turn it into a fucking competition. One Ben will go out of his way to make sure I lose.
My phone vibrates in my lap and I glance at it.
Ben: Uh oh :-( Sorry about the bad news.
God, I hate him so much. He has my number thanks to the company directory. He’s only used it abusively, thus far. As I have, in turn.
Me: Bad news for whom?
Ben: I thought that was obvious. It’ll be fun watching you on your best behavior for a few months, though.
Me: Best behavior? The standards here are pretty low. As long as I’m not caught in the bathroom with a client’s spouse, I should be in the clear.
Ben had a little incident at his first holiday party with FMG, during which he got caught with a client’s drunk wife. It’s the only thing he’s ever seemed embarrassed about.
I try to reference it whenever possible, obviously.
That devil in my chest is cackling maniacally while Ben reads the text, but he merely leans back in his seat, a casual smile on his generous mouth, eyes gleaming behind absurdly thick lashes.
Ben: You sure bring that up a lot. It’s almost like you wish it was you.
The skin on my neck tingles, as if he’s whispered those words in my ear—his voice soft as velvet, dark as the grave. I turn my phone facedown, ending the conversation. I wonder if I can report him, but as I go over what was said, I realize it doesn’t make me look great either.
Whatever.
I’m about to be FMG’s first female partner, at which point I will begin crushing the boys’ club here under my very expensive heels. And Ben Tate is where I’ll start.
3
My father calls more often than I’d like, which is to say he still calls on occasion when I wish he’d drop off the face of the Earth. He’s a man who always wants something from you, a man incapable of a genuine gesture. If he gives you a gift, a smile, a compliment…rest assured he is about to ask for far more in exchange.