I slowly raise my eyes to his, every muscle in my face taut with what I hope conveys irritation, but I suspect also appears as distress. I despise the part of me that still looks to this man for validation. My words hang between us as I spout them. “I’m a portfolio manager who has raised a billion dollars in just over a year with funds which now trade on three of the four major wirehouse platforms. A portfolio manager who leads a winning team.”
“Your team? Where are they?” he hisses, but he doesn’t need to search the room.
The heat in my chest turns to ice. I loathe this man.
From the beginning, Dave was the vocal challenger to inviting anyone but my second-in-command, even to this reception, where we have more capacity. In fact, his opposition has been keen from the moment my idea for the funds was floated. If it’s not his idea, he’s not interested. He opposed me utilizing his mutual-fund sales team, requiring me to build a small but mighty ETF sales group focusedonly on the new funds. And they have hit it out of the park. The only reason they aren’t here is because guys like Dave insist on taking their places at high-profile events, like bell ringings, that according to him are growing as stale as low-coupon bonds.
“What do you want, Dave?” My tone is neutral. The long game unfurls itself before me. I’m not willing to let anything go sour today.
“What I want—Hey, Lucas, nice to see you,” Dave darts back. The head of Wealth Management at Meymack steps beside him. His financial advisors were early adopters of our funds. Since Meymack is arguably the largest broker-dealer on the street, their trendsetting has helped fuel the demand.
“Just the person I wanted to see.” Lucas disentangles himself from Dave’s enthusiastic shoulder slaps and reaches for my palm. “Meredith.” My name is almost a sigh on his lips.
I want to pull away. Intensely. I need a moment.
But I remain still.
A huge benign smile parts Lucas’s full lips. “Thanks for the invite. Phil said I owe you.”
“Glad you could make it.” My hand slips from his and hangs unnaturally inert against the wool of my skirt. I force myself not to wipe the dampness from my fingers.
“Of course. Folks can’t stop talking about your fund wizardry. And getting them on the Meymack platform in less than a year... You’re the woman to watch.”
I clamp down on a grimace and hope it looks enough like a grin.Woman to watch. My mother would bristle at those words. She wouldn’t let them go unexamined and certainly wouldn’t be smiling with anything but sarcasm. Her voice echoes in my head.Would Dave be “the man to watch” if he’d come up with the innovation?I brush aside my mother’s transplanted annoyance and appreciate the sentiment.Lucas was one of the many executives who spoke up in support of getting our ETFs on the Meymack platform. It can take years.
His voice is persuasive.
“While I have you, wondering if we might set up some time to have your team come out to visit the Cherry Hill office. Maybe help them craft their customer presentations to be more engaging.” Lucas slides his phone out of an inner suit pocket.
Dave barks out a cough. “Cherry Hill—one of your largest branches. They haven’t been out to see them yet?” His concerned tone only barely masks his glee at discovering my team’s failure.
“Of course they have.” Lucas swats his long tapered fingers through the air as if dismissing a fly. “Meredith, you might remember, last time you came out, they only assembled their senior staff. I’d like to get the entire office involved. If you’re busy, I understand. I know you’ve got those training videos out there...” Lucas’s upper lip curls as if he’s sucking on something sour.
“We’d be happy to come back out.” I bite the inside of my cheek and take a hungry glance at Dave’s reddening face. The online lessons were Dave’s brainchild. Betsey thought they were too simple and didn’t cover the type of questions our team was getting from the field. The videos were highlighted on the website anyway.
I wipe the smugness from my face and have pulled out my phone to quote a few possible times when I notice three missed calls from Erika.
My stomach clenches.
I already exchanged congratulatory texts with her after the bell ringing. She watched it with her AP Microeconomics class. Erika is a typical teenager. She can have moments focused on others, even impulsive pride in her mother’s appearance on television, but she quickly ricochets back to herself. Pretty sure these calls don’t have anything to do with me. And Erika is allergic to actually speaking ona phone, always preferring her fingers flitting across the tiny letters on her screen.
I lift my face from my phone. This interruption is also my means of escape. “My team will get back to you on timing, Lucas. I need to return a call.”
“No rush. We can do this all by email.” Lucas’s words drip less enthusiasm. Men like him are not used to being left in a conversation by others on lower rungs. He turns to Dave and asks his take on the greens in Vegas for the upcoming Shriners Children’s Open—my prompt to slip away. Golf is not my game.
My phone pressed against my ear, I pretend to be already engaged as I shuffle through the crowd to the door. I wait until I push out into the hallway and find a small glass-doored nook, created for just the thing I need—a quiet place to phone my daughter.
“Mom.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“Hi, sweetheart. Is everything all right?”
“I, um... I, uh...” Soft sobbing fills my ear.
“Honey, it’s going to be okay. Tell me what’s wrong.” I glance at my watch. Erika’s go-to response when things get messy is tears. I want to be patient, but I have a roomful of people waiting. I should’ve called Clint first. He could tell me what event she’d not been invited to, or which friend snubbed her in the hall. All valid concerns. All concerns I would gladly commiserate through, but I need to fast-track the story today.
The sobbing is not abating. I can picture her tucked into a bathroom stall at the high school. As a junior in good standing, no one seems to pay attention to her whereabouts, assuming she’s in class or where she needs to be. I’ve questioned Clint on the wisdom of such freedom with anxiety rates so high.
“Erika, honey, how can I help?”
