I live a very glamorous life. At least, that's what you
would think if you didn't know any better.
You've probably seen my type before — striding briskly
through airports with a cell phone clasped to my ear,
settling into first class as the gateway doors shut. Power
breakfasting at New York's finer hotels with men in
expensive dark suits and silk ties. Or perhaps reading the
Wall Street Journal in the back seat of a Lincoln Town
Car, heading south on the FDR Drive toward Wall Street.
You may even have seen me on a recent cover of Fortune
magazine, posed in a crisply tailored black Armani with
several other Yuppie-types under the caption "Wall
Street's Next Generation: They're Young, They're Hungry,
and They're Women."
My father had a copy of the cover blown up to postersize
and framed; it hangs on the wall of his office,
incongruous next to his numerous academic degrees. The
article also inspired a long-distance lecture from my
grandmother titled "You don't want to be one of those
career girls, now, do you?" This was actually a welcome
change from her usual repertoire,which includes such
popular hits as "Have you met anyone nice?""My dentist has
the most handsome new associate," and (my personal
favorite) "I just want to go to a wedding before I die."
I am an investment banker for the new millennium. Forget
the movies you've seen — Michael Douglas with his hair
slicked back in Wall Street or Sigourney Weaver in Working
Girl.This is a kinder, gentler era. We talk to our clients
about managing the transition to a global economy and
relationship-driven banking. The partners at Winslow,
Brown, the firm I've called home for the better part of a
decade,espouse diversity and teamwork.
This doesn't mean that it's all fun and games. My life is
far less glamorous than it appears. I have worked into the
early morning hours on more nights, canceled more weekend
plans and slept in more Holiday Inns in small industrial
towns than I care to count — standard practice in the
business of mergers and acquisitions. Entire months of my
life have passed in a fog of caffeine, numbers, meetings
and documents.
So why, one might ask, do I do this?
Fresh-faced, newly minted MBAs ask me this question
frequently, and I tell them how rewarding it is to counsel
top executives on issues of critical strategic importance
and to work with sharp, highly motivated people in a
collegial environment.
These might be the reasons I joined the firm when I was a
newly minted MBA. Why I'm still here, despite the grinding
work and red-eye flights, is much simpler.
Greed.
I know it's not an attractive answer, but the oversize
year-end bonus checks and their promise of financial
independence are the only thing that can make hundred-hour
work weeks palatable. For me at least. There is the
occasional de-ranged individual who truly loves finance,
the thrill of closing a deal and the illusion of power it
bestows.
One such individual is Scott Epson, a Winslow, Brown
colleague who was sitting next to me this Wednesday
afternoon in early January. We were on the Delta Shuttle,
bound from New York to Boston, on our way to participate
in an annual ritual at Harvard Business School known as
Hell Week, when all of the major investment banks,
consulting firms and other corporate recruiters compete to
lure the most promising students to join our respective
companies upon graduation. An advance team from Winslow,
Brown had completed an initial round of interviews during
the first half of the week,and second rounds were to take
place on Thursday and Friday.
I was not sitting with Scott by choice. I had seen him in
the waiting area, gesticulating wildly on his cell phone
with his customary air of self-importance. I thought that
I had crept by unseen, but I was only a few feet down the
gateway when I heard his nasal voice behind me. "Rachel!
Rachel! Hey — wait up!"
For a split second I'd toyed with the possibility of
playing deaf, but remembering my New Year's resolution to
be a nicer person, I turned around, feigned surprise and
gave Scott a big fake smile and wave.
He was weighted down by a bulging briefcase in one hand,a
stack of file folders under his opposite arm and a garment
bag suspended from his shoulder. His suit jacket hung
loosely from a scrawny frame,and his striped shirt was
almost completely untucked. If it weren't for the rapidity
with which he was losing his mouse-brown hair, it would be
easy to mistake Scott for a high-school student dressed up
in his father's clothing. I knew from a good source that
he needed to shave only a couple of times a week.
"Hi," I greeted him when he'd caught up to me. "How are
you?" I gave myself a mental pat on the back for the
warmth I'd mustered in my tone.
"Busy, busy, busy," answered Scott with an exaggerated
sigh."We were up all night running the numbers on Stan's
new deal. The client has completely unrealistic
expectations as to how quickly we'll be able to close, but
of course Stan told him we could get it done."
Stan Winslow is the head of Winslow, Brown's Mergers and
Acquisitions department, or M&A. Scott spends a great deal
of time trying to ingratiate himself to Stan. This can be
highly amusing to watch, because our trusty leader is
largely oblivious to much of what goes on around him. His
attention is usually focused on his next golf game, his
next martini and his new,significantly younger wife. The
primary value Stan brings to Winslow, Brown is his surname
(which is,in fact,related to that on the firm's
letterhead) and his over-stuffed Rolodex, the product of
an adolescence enrolled at an elite New England prep
school and a young adulthood engaged in drinking,puking
and otherwise bonding with future leaders at Yale.
Scott and I advanced down the gateway together, and he
blustered on about his incredible deal and how incredibly
pivotal his role in the entire endeavor truly was. I
prayed that the flight would be too full for us to
possibly sit together. Alas, an empty row beckoned right
up front. I slid into the window seat and Scott took the
aisle. We put our coats and briefcases on the middle seat
as a silent deterrent to anyone who might be interested in
sitting there. Not that I would have minded a buffer
between us in the form of a disinterested third party,
especially since Scott was all ready to settle in for an
amiable chat. "So, Rach," he asked,"how goes it with you?
What have you got in the hopper?" I hate being called Rach
by anyone but a close friend, and even then I'm ambivalent.
"Oh, the usual." Unable to resist the opportunity to prey
on Scott's insecurities, I mentioned a couple of high-
profile deals in progress."And then there's the entire HBS
effort. It's a big time commitment but Stan did ask me to
take it on — I couldn't say no. You know how it is when
the partners really want you to do something." I gave
Scott my most winning colleague-in-arms smile.
Winslow, Brown was growing rapidly, and to fuel its growth
we had intensified our efforts to recruit new MBAs. When
Stan asked me to head up the process, I had mixed
feelings. On the one hand, it was a prestigious role that
offered significant exposure to the firm's partners.On the
other hand, I resented that it seemed always to be the few
female bankers at the firm who were asked to spearhead
such activities as recruiting and training. However, I
knew that Scott had been angling for the honor himself,
probably because he derived so much of his identity from
his own Harvard MBA. It didn't help matters that Stan
seems to enjoy setting the two of us up in competition.
He eyed me with an expression that was either jealousy or
indigestion and straightened his tie. It was a nifty
little number featuring white whales on a navy
background. "Well,"he harrumphed."I guess women have a
special knack for that sort of thing, what with all of
this emphasis on 'diversity." The way he said diversity
made it sound like a curse word, which I guessed it was if
one had the misfortune to be born a white male.
"Oh, definitely. We really do have a knack for these
things," I agreed innocently."Well, I wish I could spend
the whole flight talking, but I need to catch up on a few
things. Do you mind?" I asked, indicating my
briefcase. "Oh, me, too. I'm just incredibly busy. Just an
incredible amount of stuff going on."
I pulled some papers from my black leather portfolio,
hoping that he didn't notice the copy of People poking out
from the inside pocket. Eager to demonstrate his equal if
not superior level of busyness, Scott started punching
numbers into his calculator.
I began flipping through my papers,but it was hard to
concentrate on facts and figures, much less a stack of
student résumés.I had more on my agenda for this trip than
recruiting. The best part was Peter,my boyfriend of nearly
five months. Peter ran a start-up in San Francisco, but he
would be joining me in Boston to attend a high-tech
conference. To my utter amazement,not to mention that of
my friends and family,I seemed to be in a successful
relationship for the first time ever. The New Year's we'd
just spent together had been pure romantic bliss — a
remote ski cabin, very little skiing and lots of snuggling
in front of roaring fires. This was in stark contrast to
New Year's with boyfriends past, particularly the New
Year's Eve Massacre three years ago, when my date had
taken me to a nightclub and forced me to listen to live
jazz as he explained that he'd decided to marry his
college girlfriend. Of course, the Valentine's Day
Massacre of two years ago completely trumped the New
Year's Eve Massacre. My date had shown up with his mother,
whom he'd surprised with a dozen red roses and a Tiffany
heart on a delicate chain. He gave me a pair of mittens.
With Peter, I'd finally stopped waiting for the other shoe
to drop. I'd even stopped worrying that I'd jinx
everything by referring to him as my boyfriend and making
plans more than a week in advance. And I had an elaborate
theory of jinxing, one that wasn't easily discarded. To
feel secure, particularly in a relationship with an
attractive man, was to invite the wrath of the Jinxing
Gods, a nasty pantheon watching from above, taking note of
any occasion on which I became too sure of myself and
gleefully ensuring that I was punished with an
appropriately confidence-depleting blow.
But Peter was honestly what he seemed to be — smart,
funny, handsome, considerate. He even smelled wonderful.
The time I'd spent with him had thoroughly vanquished the
Jinxing Gods. I'd sent them packing, assured that I was no
longer their plaything.
The only drawback — there had to be one — was that Peter
lived on the opposite side of the country. I'd managed
frequent trips to San Francisco for work, and he had made
a number of trips to New York. We'd spent the holidays
together — Thanksgiving with my family and Christmas with
his — and everyone had gotten along wonderfully. Still,
being with him was bittersweet, always knowing that it
wasn't long before one of us would have to get on a plane.
At least this time I'd have him with me for the better
part of a week. He was due in Boston that night and would
be staying on after the conference for my annual reunion
with my college roommates, which we always held on the
second weekend in January. This year Jane, who lived in
Cambridge with her husband, Sean, was the designated host.
It was convenient for me since I already had to be in the
area. Emma purported to live in New York but had been
spending most of her time of late with Matthew, a doctor
who worked in South Boston, so it suited her nicely.
Hilary, a journalist, didn't really live anywhere, but she
was working on a new project and had said that Boston was
exactly where she needed to be for her research. Luisa
would be flying up from South America and had recently
ended her relationship with her girlfriend of three years;
she seemed eager for an excuse to flee any continent on
which Isobel lived, regardless of the distance she'd have
to travel.
I nearly purred with contented anticipation. Peter and my
best friends, all in one place, for an entire weekend. It
would be perfect.
The only thing I had to worry about was recruiting. And
Sara Grenthaler.
The next day, I planned to skip the morning's schedule of
interviews to attend a memorial service for Tom Barnett,
who had been my client and the CEO of Grenthaler Media. He
had suffered a heart attack the previous Friday and was
pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. That evening I
had plans to dine with Sara Grenthaler — Tom's
goddaughter, Grenthaler Media's largest individual
shareholder, and a friend of mine. I was uneasy about the
dinner — I sensed that Sara was distraught about more than
Tom's death when we spoke by phone earlier that week, and
she'd been insistent that we meet, sooner rather than
later. But when I pressed her, asked her what was wrong,
she simply said that it would be better to discuss things
in person. And I was hardly in a position to disagree.
I wondered why she felt so strongly about seeing me that
night.