Phil elbows me to stop pressing the button. He then bangs the gavel hard on the sounding block.
A tremor courses through my body.
The woman who’s not permitted within a hundred yards of me has vanished.
5
PHIL PRESSES ANOTHER GLASSof champagne at me. My hand is remarkably steady. Following the initial escalation as we left the balcony, no sign of Betsey was found. Because of security questions, I missed the opportunity to autograph the wall and instead listened from the bottom of the stairs to the muted whispers between Dave and Terrence. They probably speculated that my overwrought brain imagined the unhinged woman. Security is tight at NYSE.
It’s inconceivable no one else saw her, but they’re not questioning my report. Instead, teams are checking the admission list and the cameras. It’s not lost on me that she was standing in the exact spot where we spoke one week ago.
I assume she’s long gone.
Thankfully, the guys keep any musings to themselves, and Candace assures us no one who is not on the list will step foot into the reception room. I’m conflicted. As much as I don’t want to derailour long-awaited celebration, I’d like to wrestle Betsey to the ground. Has she completely lost her mind?
It’s barely 4:30. I shouldn’t even sip at the flute sparkling between my fingers. Two glasses of bubbly or wine over dinner are no problem. During the day, half a glass starts to make everything slightly warm and fuzzy. Apparently, it also gives me a tendency to exaggerate my own might. Given the time Betsey spends in her kickboxing gym, wrestling her to the ground seems unlikely. And although I grate at any indication that I’m overwrought, I am operating on only a couple hours of sleep. Again. As well as a definite lack of strength training.
“Did you see Lucas from Meymack is here?” Phil leans in and stage-whispers.
“I invited him.” A confidence straightens my spine as I hear the solid ease of my words.
“Of course you did.” Phil chuckles. “Enjoy this, Meredith, but don’t rest too long. I want you back planning our next headline.” He strides away.
I pivot and deposit my glass onto a bussing tray and ask for some water. Concealing a deep breath, I glance up at the incredible stained glass ceiling. Like a gold and crystal crown embracing the gilded room, it’s been covered for a century, since a bomb scare in 1920. I pause and then catch a snippet of our fund promotional video on one of the discreetly fitted LED screens between two of the baroque columns. I’ve seen the media clip countless times, but it raises a trembling inside me to see the inspiring testimonies heralded inside this gorgeous NYSE boardroom.
My stomach shyly grumbles. I notice a charcuterie along the wall. Perhaps I can nab a canapé or a cheese and cracker. They must have something that won’t leave little flakes all over my buff wool suit.
I take a swallow from my iced tumbler and head across the room.
Dave approaches with his garnished Bloody Mary held high. “Nice party.” He stops short of clinking my water glass as he scowls at my humble liquid. Day drinking is always a group sport.
“Thank you. Glad you could make it.” I try to slip around him, but he nonchalantly shifts his weight, blocking my breakaway. He then glances around the room as if he didn’t notice.
Dave always has thoughts, whether about topless flight attendants or creative sales strategies. He’s always prepared to fill the space between other people’s sentences. But he’s also talented, runs a successful sales team, and never lets anyone forget how valuable he is.
“Yeah, well, I had enough time to block my calendar. What, like, sixteen months since we launched the funds?” Dave gulps his drink. Droplets of tomato juice pepper his trim mustache above his thin pale lips.
He either doesn’t realize I know his invitation was procured this morning by Terrence or doesn’t care. He made his excuse to skip this reception until the spot on the balcony opened. The lure of television cameras was not to be missed.
As head of sales, Dave could have pushed in on the balcony a month ago when he first saw the proposed list without his name, but instead he feigned disinterest. He likely assumed the bell ringing was going to be a B-list event. We worked hard to assemble strong supporters of the funds as well as those we’d like to bring on board. Most importantly, instead of requesting a bell ringing when we launched, we waited until we had success to celebrate.
I’m still surprised Terrence used his invite on Dave.
Does he need Dave’s support on a project, for a vote? Or perhaps Terrence also plays the long game. I file the alliance away.
Dave is only here because Betsey is not. Unease at seeing her earlier still sits in my gut. How dare she show up today after causing such a scene at my home and office? While I scan the room and spyCandace still stalking the perimeter, Dave drones on about how bell ringings have become almost commonplace. As if all that I’ve planned is not unique or good enough. Besides, in his world, truth need not be true—it can merely be a confidently created narrative dispersed through the mill.
I nod. “Excuse me, Dave, I see someone I invited. Enjoy yourself.”
Dave snatches my arm.
I clamp my lips down on my gasp.
Each of his fingers presses through my autumn-weight wool suit and into my scrawny bicep.
A heat builds through me. This time I will make a scene. He knows better than to touch me. We are likely being watched, which harms us both—predator and prey.
Abruptly, he releases me as he steps closer. “Don’t get too big for your britches, Meredith. You are only a portfolio manager.”
