AT TEN MINUTES TO FOUR,fourteen of us pile onto the slender balcony overlooking the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Well-lit backdrops for investment shows and advertisers are interspersed between booths that still shelter the floor brokers who manage some of the large custom orders for their firms. But many of the seasoned specialists who used to shout and gesture while amassing their company’s fortunes have been replaced by automated algorithms operating from New Jersey.
An electricity crackles in the air as I press toward the left of the podium. Everyone jostles for space, and an outstretched arm inadvertently grazes my nose. I rock back on my slender red-bottomed shoes. Even with my added height, Dave and Terrence create a suited wall separating me from the front of the balcony.
I swallow a growl. Dave is Terrence’s pulled string. If I had known Terrence was going to waste my favor on an insider, I would haveconfirmed Alyssa’s plan and invited our index provider’s CEO and not our head of sales.
I shuffle to my right. Our placement is scripted, and as the creator and portfolio manager, I earned my place at the front. These are my team’s highly innovative, active ETFs we’re celebrating. I conceived of them, and my team has made them a go-to investment for discerning client portfolios. With everything else happening today, is it too much to ask for everyone to stand where they’re meant to be?
Suddenly, Dave throws back his head and I stumble into the wall. He roars with laughter as he finishes a lewd joke about a topless flight attendant. I’ve heard it, and others, countless times before. Certainly not a remarkable story. Why does Terrence even want him here? Dave’s sales teams have barely participated in our success, and he’s made it clear from the beginning that I’m peddling a second-rate solution that will never compete with the so-calledproven strategies. Although he’s been having a hard time arguing with my sustained results.
Shifting to my left, I try to scrape by the guys, but the balcony is now full. My family and friends are watching CNBC to see me, and all I see are blue suits.
“Hey, Dave. Terrence.” I raise my voice, but either our head of sales and chief compliance officer don’t hear me or choose to ignore me.
I could make a scene. But from their higher rungs, they could make every other day difficult. After the actual bell ringing, photographers will take pictures of us at the podium below. I’ll get my moment. A television spot does not define my worth. I’m a master of the long game, which serves as both my advantage and, apparently, my Achilles’ heel. I started my career in finance as a financial advisor. I loved the idea of helping moms and pops amass the fortunes they would need to send their kids to college and retire comfortably. I learned it was a prioritization game. The more successful youradvice, the more affluent clients you gained, and therefore the more you were told to slough off the ones with few assets and unprofitable referrals.
My third Christmas at a boutique Kennebunkport practice, I was strongly encouraged to drop ten languishing accounts—send a letter, provide a referral, and focus on the A-list clients crowding the top of my daily to-do list. Instead, during our shuttered week before New Year’s, I stacked my calendar with living-room meetings and extended phone calls. Bob and Vera O’Shausenny told me of their plans for a bunk room renovation enabling them to host their many grandchildren in Maine. Although their meager savings might afford them such a plan, their ability to retire remained many years away. No matter that I was making almost no revenue on their accounts, their gratitude for my financial management of their precious dreams made it impossible for me to move them off my list.
Two weeks later, while sitting with my boss, trying to convince him of my plan to keep all my clients, an urgent call was forwarded to his phone. Bob and Vera had won the Maine State Lottery. Big money. Big fees. We never addressed my client list again.
Now I create the investments that financial advisors sell to the moms and pops and to the top of their list. I still play to win, but always with the long game.
“Meredith.” Phil Langford angles his shoulder between the wall of suits. “What are you doing back there?” His fuzzy white eyebrows have journeyed up his lined forehead. Relief twitches my glossed lips. His brow hairs, which often look as though they are attempting to escape his face, have been moderately tamed.
“Making my way to the front.” I jostle past Terrence. He has the good grace to slide his gaze away. If our boss hadn’t pulled me forward, these guys would have boxed me out. I imagine stomping on their insteps with my Louboutins, but of course I do no such thing.
“Good. Good. I’ll press the bell button first and then you. Good?” Phil positions himself at the center of the podium.
“Yes.” I step closer to Phil and look down at the three buttons and gavel. We were instructed to continuously press the primary controller to simulate strikes of the brass bell below.
“Are you good?” Phil asks. He’s a gifted CEO, but when he’s nervous,goodbecomes his go-to word. Dave, as annoying as he is, does an uncanny impression.
About fifteen feet below, photographers and video cameras prepare for the shot. I need to remember to thank Phil’s wife for the well-timed face grooming.
“We start our celebration early,” the liaison from the NYSE explains from my left. “When they cut to our stream, you’ll be in full cheer. On my signal, we’re clapping and we’re cheering. Everyone set? All right, here we go. Five, four, three, two, one.” Like well-trained seals, we slap our hands together.
On the confidence monitor, I watch the seconds tick down.
“Markets closed! We’re striking the bell,” the liaison announces.
Phil presses the button, and a shrill ringing fills my ears. Continuing to clap enthusiastically, I then wave at the various cameras directed at us. Trading on the stock exchange has finished for the day.
As my boss takes a slight step back, I slide my hand over the controller. Years of planning, persuading, and performing numerous trading cycles to ensure we get it just right have led to this moment. My cheeks ache at the size of my smile. As my gaze sweeps across the trading floor, gratitude swells within me.
Then my breath catches. It can’t be.
Betsey tips her round chin in my direction, never losing eye contact. Her features look as if they’re etched in stone.
A chill prickles along my hairline. How did she get past security?
The bell bleats as my finger continues to pump the controller. I twist toward Phil. He wears a huge grin. Even if he did spot her, he’d probably not recognize the woman we fired. The woman who compelled a restraining order. The woman who attacked the last joyful photograph taken of my family.
My gaze darts down and to the left as I scan through the people below. I see Candace’s salt-and-pepper bob. She stands at the ready. I never connected with her today, but I know our entire security team was briefed. Always in the background but looking as if her internal coil is one tick from releasing, Candace immediately notices my shifted focus.
When Phil hired Candace, sidebars from his almost all-male executive team poked fun at an older woman being hired to manage security. That levity was quickly extinguished when her special intelligence record in Iraq and her jujitsu championships were revealed.
I nod slightly at our head of security. Her countenance stiffens. I drag my gaze back to the trading floor. Candace marches forward.
I scour the area around the Cygna booth, where Betsey was just standing.
