The Underwriting (16 page)

Tara's face went white when she saw Callum Rees. He lifted his champagne flute to say hello and she blinked, willing her jaw to close and blushing furiously as she smiled back and nodded her own hello.

“Shit,” she said to Terrence.

“Who is that?”

“Callum Rees,” she said. Now Terrence turned back to stare.

“
That's
Callum Rees?” he said. “Like billionaire investor Callum Rees?”

“Yeah,” she said. “And I'm guessing that is his current squeeze,” she added, hoping the disappointment didn't come through in her voice. The woman with Callum probably was an actual supermodel: tall and hyper-skinny, wearing some designer dress. She definitely hadn't forgotten to line her eyebrows.

“Why is he staring at you?” Terrence asked suspiciously.

“Because he's an investor in Hook and he wants me to sell his shares so that he can make a billion dollars,” she said, knowing once and for all that that was the extent of it. He hadn't ever followed up after their drinks at the Crosby. Not that he needed to, but the absence of a note had made her confront the fact that she'd been expecting one.

“I love his date's dress,” Terrence said, still looking back at them. “It's Valentino, right?”

“I don't know,” Tara said, taking a gulp of her champagne, the four-years-ago-ness of her own dress burning her skin.

She found her table at the center front of the atrium and took a deep breath, running through the client bios Catherine's assistant had sent her. She was to be seated between Rick Frier, a self-made real estate developer famous for his conservative politics, and David Dwight, the CFO of Wyatt, one of the investment bank's largest clients, whose son was in rehab, making parenting an off-limits conversation topic.

She found her seat and checked her BlackBerry to look occupied while the table filled.

“You clean up nicely.” She turned to Callum's voice as he pulled out the chair next to her and took a seat.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I wanted to see you,” he said, as if that were a perfectly good reason.

“Well that seat is for—”

“I got David to switch with me,” Callum said without further explanation. “This is Katerina,” he said, introducing his date.

“Tara,” she said, careful not to crush Katerina's skinny hand.

“Tara is my favorite investment banker,” Callum explained to the woman. Or was she a girl? She looked like she was barely legal, despite clearly being jaded by events like this one.

“I get the impression I'm beating a low bar,” Tara said, trying to calm her racing heart and adjust to this new situation.

Callum plucked a glass of white wine off a waiter's tray and put it in front of Tara. “I know you're new to these things,” he said, “but trust me, the best approach is to get very, very drunk.”

“I'm representing L.Cecil,” she said, wondering why he hadn't handed his date a glass of wine.

“And, as a major prospect of the firm, it is your duty to impress me, and I will be most impressed if you keep pace with my drinking,” he said, lifting a glass. “And I intend to drink a lot.”

She looked at him carefully. His hazel eyes were bright. She finally matched his grin, getting it: he wanted to be friends. He was giving her the chance to have the same friendly, drink-together, client/banker relationship that men like Todd had with their clients.

“Rick Frier,” a fat, balding man announced himself at her opposite side.

Tara stood from her chair, startled. “Tara Taylor,” she said. “It's so nice to meet you.”

“Same,” he said gruffly as he sat down. “Do you know Mr. Lewis?” he indicated the man at his side.

“Of course,” the man answered for her. “Tara Taylor is in our investment bank.” The man smiled broadly at Rick Frier, revealing a set of large and unnaturally whitened teeth. “The private bank works closely with the investment bank when our clients have capital needs for their businesses. It's another advantage of working with a large, integrated institution like L.Cecil.”

Rick rolled his eyes. Tara bit her lip to hide a laugh. She'd never met John Lewis, but he fit the private-wealth-manager stereotype: charismatic, overly enthusiastic WASPs who enjoyed rubbing elbows with rich people enough to dedicate their careers to opening checking accounts for them.

Someone tapped a microphone and the crowd quieted, turning to the podium, where a young woman had taken the stage.

The girl at the podium could only be twenty, a clear product of the Upper East Side: her soft blonde hair was swept up into an intricate knot at her neck; her youthful skin glowed with professionally applied bronzer.

“Hi, everyone,” she started nervously, batting her eyelashes in the light, clearly accustomed to attention but not the kind earned by speaking. “I want to thank you all for coming tonight. I am so excited you're here to celebrate our newest exhibit, featuring George E . . .”

“Catherine's daughter,” Callum whispered to Tara.

“How do you know?”

“And Catherine's husband.” Callum pointed across the room to a man in a tuxedo at the bar, taking a shot with the bartender, not paying attention to the stage. “I was a groomsman in their wedding.”

Tara paused and turned. “You know Catherine?”

“Would be very strange if I'd been in her wedding and didn't, wouldn't it?”

“I didn't—” Her brain raced: Had she said anything foolish at the Crosby when they'd talked about it? Why hadn't he mentioned it then? “Do you know where she is?” Tara whispered, indicating the empty seat across the table.

“Guessing she's at work.” Callum shrugged. “She usually finds an excuse.”

Catherine's daughter approached the table.

“Well done,” Callum told the girl, who was clearly happy to see him.

“I'm so glad it's over,” the girl said, letting Callum kiss her on the cheek.

“Lauren, this is Katerina,” Callum said, introducing the woman to his left. “And this is Tara—she works at L.Cecil, for your mother.”

Lauren shook hands with the model but paused before taking Tara's, scanning her suspiciously. “Mom's still at work,” Lauren finally said. “Why aren't you?”

“Oh, I've heard so much about this event,” Tara lied. “There's no way I could miss it.”

Lauren's jaw clenched and her thin throat swallowed without saying anything. She excused herself to make her hostess rounds.

“What did I do wrong?” Tara asked Callum.

“Don't worry about it.” Callum brushed it away. “She's too old to not realize she isn't her mother's priority.”

Tara watched Lauren smiling politely across the room and for a minute felt sorry for her.

“But Catherine clearly got Lauren up on that podium, and got L.Cecil to sponsor this event,” Tara said, defending the mentor she'd never met. “I think all mothers love their daughters the best way they know how.”

“Oh, Catherine certainly got the sponsorship, but not for Lauren. She did it for Phil Dalton.” Callum took a sip of his drink.

“What?”

“George E is one of Phil Dalton's investments—he gets twenty percent of whatever George E creates. An event like this increases the value of the artist's work tenfold, maybe more. Catherine knew Phil had a bunch of companies in the Dalton Henley portfolio that could use an investment bank, so she orchestrated this event in exchange for throwing those deals to L.Cecil.”

“Is that why we got Hook?” Tara squinted at Callum. “I thought Josh and Todd knew each other from—”

“There's always more to the story, Tara,” Callum said, snapping at the waiter to get him to fill up their wineglasses and indicating her drink. “Keep up,” he coached.

Tara let that sink in as the dinner was served.

“By the way, you might want to save your other prospect from that guy,” Callum said, lifting his brow to John Lewis, who was talking rapidly at Rick Frier.

“And so with the premier checking account, you get
three
free wires every month and unlimited transfers to any other L.Cecil account, but you have to maintain—”

“Mind if I join in?” Tara turned and smiled pleasantly. The booze had her feeling surprisingly at ease.

“Please,” Rick said, seeming to mean it.

“Is it true you grew up in California?” Tara asked the man, remembering the bio. “I went to school out there.”

“Oakland,” he said, pleased with the shift in topic. “Where'd you go to school?”

“Stanford,” she said politely. John glared at her, offended that Rick was more interested in her than deposit rates.

“We've got a great presence in Silicon Valley,” John interjected, shifting his tack. “In fact, we've been able to get our clients a lot of access to IPO shares for companies that—”

“That's where that girl went, right?” Rick ignored him. “The girl that died?”

“What girl?” Tara asked, taking a sip of her wine.

“Kelly something.” Rick snapped his fingers.

“Jacobson,” John filled in.

Tara felt her face drain. “Kelly Jacobson died?”

“Do you live in a cave?” Rick made a face. “She overdosed on drugs three weeks ago. Did I hear she was supposed to work for you guys? Better cover that one up.”

Tara felt like her sternum was breaking. “I had just—” she started, lifting her hand to her mouth. “Oh my god, what a heartbreaking accident.”

“Accident?” Rick scoffed. “You don't accidentally go to a concert and take a gram of drugs. She was at one of the fanciest schools in the country—she should have been making something of that, not squandering it by getting high.”

“College kids experiment,” Tara said, knowing she shouldn't say it but not liking the tone this man was taking about Kelly or girls like her. “It's how you learn who you are.”

“How old are you?” Rick's brow furrowed at Tara.

“Twenty-eight,” she said, unashamed.

“That's the problem with your generation. You”—he waved his hand in the air—
“millennials
.
”
He said it like a dirty word. “You have no sense of work ethic. You take an opportunity like a university education and squander it ‘finding yourselves,' then come out with no useful skills and whine when your bosses don't make you feel good about yourselves.”

“That's not fair.” Tara's voice was firmer than she meant it to be, but she had been working her ass off for the past three weeks to make men like him money, and Kelly would have done exactly the same. How dare he accuse her generation of a bad work ethic. John Lewis glared at her from over Rick's shoulder but she went on. “We've worked hard our entire lives. To get into a school like Stanford? Kelly probably didn't have a childhood, she was under so much pressure—”

“Pressure?” Rick laughed. “Pressure to do what? Get good grades and participate in lots of extracurricular activities? You want pressure? Try having a draft number.”

Tara glared at him. His face was rough and mean, and made her angry. “Every generation has experiences that shape it. You had Vietnam, we had 9/11—”

“No comparison,” Rick interrupted. “I haven't got an ounce of sympathy for your generation, or some pretty sorority girl doing drugs and slutting around. I'm just glad I won't live long enough to witness you and Obama destroy this country.”

“Speaking of which,” John interrupted, flashing his fluorescent teeth. “Have you done much estate planning? We can help you set up a dynasty trust and—”

“Yours is the generation that destroyed this country,” Tara heard herself announce.

“What did you say?” Rick turned to her, his jaw set.

“Nothing.” John tried to pull his attention back. “She didn't say anything.” John's eyes dared her to speak again.

“You exploited other nations and drove up spending to support your own short-term thinking. And now we're stuck with terrorists that hate us and debts we can't afford. And that perfect, happy life you told us we'd have if we just worked hard and took out student loans and went to good colleges: those dreams weren't real. We gave up our childhoods to become successful adults, and now that we're here we discover it was all a lie, that you've left us nothing but unsustainable policies to untangle. And you have the nerve to criticize us while you cash out and run? How dare you blame millennials for wanting to escape that burden sometimes, or for being drawn to a president that provides an ounce of hope in the midst of your bitter, selfish cynicism.”

Rick Frier's jaw had come unhinged. John Lewis was fuming behind the man's shoulder.

“If you'll please excuse me,” Tara said, putting her napkin on the table and standing up, focusing her eyes on the exit so she wouldn't feel the stares of Callum or the other guests who had paused in their meals to watch her.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she repeated as she shut the door to the bathroom stall, letting her forehead fall against the door. “Oh my god. What did you just do?” she whispered, all the alcohol evaporating from her brain so she could see the situation with terrifying sobriety.

That was it. It was over. Just like that, she had ruined her career. She'd taken an opportunity people aspired to their entire lives and she had ruined it. Where had that come from? She hadn't even remembered to vote in the last election: why was she defending Obama to a notoriously conservative client? But something about his face—it had been so mean. And Kelly—fuck. Was Kelly Jacobson really dead?

She reached into her purse and found the Xanax she kept for emergencies, swallowing a pill as she heard someone enter the bathroom and lock the door.

The woman went into the stall next to hers and lifted the toilet seat. Tara held her breath, and waited for the vomiting to start. Tara had never been bulimic, but she'd tried the binge-and-purge thing a few times, as had every woman she knew, and she didn't judge the girl in the next stall for it. In fact, she kind of wished she could do it now: take a finger and punish herself, purge up the last hour and start over from empty.