CHAPTER 1
BEEP. Wednesday, 10:02 p.m.
Kate, you’re up third in tomorrow’s morning meeting. Good night.
KATE
MY CHEST HEAVES. EVERY INCH OF MY BODY IS SLICK WITH SWEAT. MY LEGS ARE AS shaky as if I just sprinted the last hundred yards in the mile at a track meet.
Having reached the front of the conference room, I set my flip chart on the easel and place my notes on the podium while I psych myself up to face the rows of my firm’s traders and salesmen. Then I remember what Mr. Brady said to Jan when she was nervous to debate in front of a crowd. Unfortunately, picturing these guys in their underwear instead of suits as shiny as the gel slicking their hair back just recalls the images left on my desk on a daily basis my first couple of weeks on the job.
Xerox copies of what’s inside that underwear. Bet Jan Brady never had to deal with that.
Suck it up, Bishop. You didn’t eat breakfast, so there’s nothing to throw up like the first time you presented your Buy recommendations. You brought a glass of water so your mouth won’t get so dry that you literally can’t get the words out like the second time. What’s that new campaign slogan Nike’s about to roll out? “Just Do It”?
Gritting my teeth, keeping my focus on my meticulously prepared graphs instead of the sea of bored male faces, I manage to stumble through my list of stock recs. The anecdotes I planned to tell to make my conclusions more memo- rable? They all seem stupid now, so I skip them and woodenly read my notes.
Finally, it’s over and I get out of the way so the next junior analyst can take my place. Leaning against the side wall, I fumble for a pen so I can take notes on the rest of the meeting. The moment it’s finished, instead of lingering to answer questions I scoot back to my cubicle and my research, the part of my job I’m actu- ally good at. But before I can even sit down, the phone on my desk buzzes.
“Roland would like to see you in his office in fifteen minutes.” The statement is followed by the dial tone. My boss’s secretary Gail rarely wastes words on greetings or goodbyes. Or names. Or hints as to my fate.
I have time to either scarf down the bagel I brought or change out of my pit- soaked blouse before this meeting, but not both. I’d rather face Roland in dry clothes, so I race to the ladies’ room before heading up to the executive floor. Breakfast can wait.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, I sidle up to Gail’s desk, hoping for a clue of what’s to come. She looks up and waves me through, her always pallid complexion revealing nothing. “He’s waiting for you.”
“Thanks.” My voice wobbles on the word.
Just do it, Bishop.
Gingerly sticking my head inside the lion’s den, I tap on the heavy oak door. “You needed to see me, sir?”
In contrast to the modern decor I’ve glimpsed in partners’ offices, this den is more Upstairs, Downstairs than LA Law. Posh surroundings aren’t what make my boss one of the most highly respected equity analysts in the world, but they do make me feel like a poor relation fortunate to share air with him.
He waves at me, patrician nose in a report. “Katherine Bishop. Come in, come in.” His royally accented voice trails off as he jots down notes. Neatly tucking everything to the side, he removes his reading glasses. “All right, then?”
I hover on the threshold. “Um, yes. I’m almost done with the quarterly for your athletic shoe manufacturers. I do need to make a call to ask about an earn- ings upside at Adidas.”
He sits back in his chair and narrows his eyes at me. “Why haven’t we had you out in the field yet?”
I’m not sure how to answer. Isn’t that his call to make? “Well,” I begin, since he seems to be waiting for me to speak, “I haven’t really felt ready to—”
He interrupts me, gaze sharp and silver brows low. “Your presentation at the sales meeting this morning wasn’t ideal.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, I’ve been working on—”
He waves away my sputtered explanations. “Kate. If you can’t pull yourself together enough to present to a friendly crowd here in our offices, how will you face a group of institutional investors who will challenge each and every argument you make?”
I stifle a harsh laugh. Friendly crowd? It wasn’t just photocopies of private parts landing on my desk during my first month on the job. The traders sent me a stripper disguised as a bike messenger, and every single sales guy asked me out. Or suggested a quickie in their office. I’d be willing to bet they don’t welcome new male analysts the same way.
Of course, I can’t complain about any of it without sounding like a whiny little girl. “Well, I guess I—”
He interrupts me again, waving his hand. “Kate, please sit down. Your gorgeous gams are so distracting I can’t think.”
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