Dear Phil,
I’ve always remembered what you said the first time we met:Time is the valued currency of a wise life.
I thank you for your willingness to spend your time celebrating the success of the ETFs this week.
While pressing forward with our new pitch on Monday, we also need to watch our flank. Please let me know if you have any issue with me assembling a task force to thoroughly examine our ETF contracts and policies. We need tounderstand our structural strengths and weaknesses as we plan for the new funds. I will ask for a few volunteers to ensure we have fresh thinking and report back to you on our progress.
Best,
Meredith
After pressing Send, I delete all the other drafted messages. The battery alert flashes in the upper left corner of my screen. Putting my laptop to sleep, I slide it off my knees and yelp as I catch my falling towel.
As I stretch my aching arms, I imagine Phil reading my email. If he is the source of the data or the reason why they lied about it—a burn of acid reaches up into my chest—he’s likely to tell me to leave the flank-watching to him. I walk to the closet, refusing to consider what it means if he doesn’t let me move forward.
27
“I DO NOT HAVE ACCESSto all of the fund folders on the share drive.” One of my analysts who works on the mutual funds I inherited last quarter walks into my office, most of his face hidden behind his laptop screen.
I glance back down at my open email.
“What can I do for you, Temor?” I stress the sharp edge in my voice. My door is, mostly, always open, but there is a bit more formality to the office than just barging in when someone is obviously working, or, rather, trying to remote-mother.
“I apologize, but I do not believe I have the right permissions.” There is almost a musicality to Temor’s slight East Asian accent. He combs his unusually long fingers through his dark hair. The casualness of his appearance is in direct contrast to the proper cadence of his speech pattern. He’s new and either has not learned the adage about dressing for the job you want or has chosen to ignore it. I don’t know him well enough yet to gauge the wisdom of his choice.
“Have you put in a request to Compliance?” I ask.
“I can get him set up.” Alyssa walks into my office with two coffees. She raises the mugs above her head, almost spinning entirely around to get past Temor. As I’ve witnessed countless times with others, I watch for his eyes to graze over her body, but he neither moves out of the way nor appraises her.
She sets one mug on my desk. “I’ll run by in a few minutes.” She pauses and then raises her hand and shuffles it at him. “Scoot.”
He bobs his head and scampers out the door.
“He’s brilliant,” she says.
“Really?” I lift the warm mug to my lips and breathe in the freshly roasted beans. I used to stop for an overpriced nonfat latte on my way in every morning, but the company recently got these amazing machines that grind and brew beans to order. I miss my frothed milk but appreciate a creamy shot of coconut milk from the dispenser—and that the coffee is always available and saves me from squeezing through the line to get to the pickup corral. I savor my first sip.
“Really.” She widens her eyes. “Like, beyond all the regular geniuses.”
Maybe he can be more helpful than he knows. “Thanks for the delivery.” I raise my mug. “Anything weird about that securities lending agreement?”
“You just emailed me the link ten minutes ago,” she deadpans.
I raise an eyebrow and take another sip.
“No.” One side of her smile turns up because of course she’s already looked at it. “On first glance it’s pretty standard. No strange contingencies. Exit language looks reasonable. Is there something I should be seeing?”
“Maybe not.”
Alyssa cocks her head. “But maybe.”
“Take more time with it.”
I can almost see the gears turning in her head, and I’m instantly hit by a not-so-esoteric concern. Alyssa, if not given more responsibility, is going to leave.
“No problem. I’ll let you know soon.” She double-takes at the sight of the mangled frame on my desk. “Hey, what happened here?”
“Betsey’s redecorating.”
