Bitter Business Page 7

  We had moved into this house from an apartment downtown when I was five years old. My older brother, Teddy, was nine. Up until then our building on Lake Shore Drive had been my entire world. Gladys, the elevator operator, would take me on rides, and Winston, the doorman, would slip me lemon drops and tell me stories about growing up the eleventh child of an Arkansas sharecropper.

  The move to Lake Forest seemed to me an exile to the end of the earth, and all the years I lived there it never really felt like home. When I was twelve my little sister, Beth, was born—a bonus baby, as Daniel had called Lydia. After that a steady stream of mademoiselles entered our life, sweet French girls who came to nanny in America in order to improve their English, and left once they were fluent enough to give notice to my mother.

  And still the house held memories that would not pass. My brother Teddy killed himself when he was fifteen. He hanged himself in the garage on a Saturday night so that he could be sure, at least once, of commanding my parents’ attention when they rolled in drunk after a party. And it was in this very room that my mother and I had the most vitriolic of all our arguments. It was an hour before my wedding and all the regular furniture had been taken away, save the piano, and replaced with tables for the reception. They were covered in white linen, decorated with white roses, and set with antique silver and Spode. I’d fled there from my mother, trailing twenty feet of satin and tulle, after the stress of the day had led her to pick fights with the caterer, the minister, the photographer, and finally with me. In front of a handful of terrified waiters, Mother accused me of deliberately marrying into a family of overweight Poles who spoke no English for the express purpose of humiliating her in front of her friends. When I ventured to protest, she grabbed a fistful of silverware from a nearby table and threw it, grazing the bodice of my dress with a butter knife, so that a half-dozen pearls were cut loose from their moorings and clattered noisily to the floor.

  But today the music room was free of ghosts and filled with people—more than a dozen, all women. They were all dressed like the businesswomen you see in the movies, their daring little suits much more fashionable than anything I could wear without comment to work. Their hand-sewn Italian pumps showed no signs of having climbed in and out of taxicabs. I was secretly amused.

  My mother made a great show of happiness at my arrival in order to make me feel my tardiness all the more. She saved her look of disappointment at my dowdy work clothes for when none of her friends could see her face. I knew that I had met all of the committee members on countless other occasions but found that except for Sonny Welborn, I could recall none of their names. I always had that problem with my mother’s friends. Their elegant clothes, their expensively understated jewelry, their perfect hair all lent them a homogeneous quality in my mind. Kissing the air next to their powdered cheeks, I made the circuit of the room. Then, taking a seat, I waited expectantly for the meeting to begin.

  It rapidly became clear that the business of the Children’s Hospital Building Committee would be conducted on Lake Forest rather than Chicago time. Sonny Welborn gave a report, designer by designer, on the clothes she and my mother had seen on the runways of Paris. Two uniformed maids appeared to serve tea and sandwiches. Someone else launched into a bitter complaint about the number of foreigners who were buying houses in Palm Beach.

  When, after repeated pleas on my part about moving things along, we finally got down to business, I was horrified to learn that everyone in the room felt an overwhelming need to restate the obvious. After an hour I felt like I’d been nailed to my chair for an eternity. I was seized by a distinctly unladylike desire to scream.

  When one of the maids came to tell me that I had a phone call from the office, I made my excuses gratefully and realized that truly, any business crisis was better than this. I ducked into the library and picked up the phone. It was Cheryl.

  “I thought you might need rescuing,” she announced. “Bless you,” I replied fervently.

  “Besides, I had a question.”

  “What?”

  “Does Daniel Babbage like you very much?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, did you ever do something terrible to him? You know, something for which he might want to exact revenge?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “I just got off the phone with Jack Cavanaugh. What a jerk. I can’t imagine why Babbage would dump him on you unless he was trying to punish you for something.”

  “What did Cavanaugh want?”

  “He wanted to talk to you. Now! When I told him that you were out of the office and unavailable, he threw a blue fit and started screaming at me. I hate guys who do that. The asshole would never raise his voice to you, his attorney. But I’m just a secretary, so he thinks it’s okay to treat me like dirt.”

  “Does he want me to call him back?”

  “No. You don’t have to. He didn’t really need to talk to you in the first place. It turns out he just wanted to set up a meeting between you and his daughter Lydia. I’d already set it up for nine o’clock tomorrow morning, just like you asked.”

  “Is he going to be there?”

  “I don’t know. He said he’d fax you instructions. I’ve got to leave for class in about half an hour, so I’ll just put them on your desk.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Anything else? There are so many elses I wouldn’t even know where to start. I’m running out of excuses. People are starting to notice how behind you’re getting.”

  My stomach churned.

  “I’ll be leaving here in ten minutes,” I said, looking at my watch. “Have Daniel’s secretary bring me the three most recent binders in the Superior Plating file and leave them on my desk—also all of their incorporation documents. I’m planning on working until midnight so that I can get caught up on some of this stuff.”

  “No you’re not. You’re meeting Stephen for dinner at L’Auberge at seven o’clock.”

  “Tell me you’re making this up,” I said. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I could have sworn that dinner with Stephen was Tuesday night.”

  “Today is Tuesday.”

  “Shit. You’ll have to call him and tell him I can’t make it.”

  “Last week when you told me to put this on your calendar, you made me swear a blood oath that I wouldn’t let you cancel. Those Swiss guys flew in especially for this.”

  “You’re right. I have to go.”

  “I guess it’s safe to assume that you forgot to bring clothes to change into. L’Auberge is very dressy and the Swiss are very formal.”

  I swore.

  “I guess you’ll just have to borrow something of your mother’s,” said Cheryl. There was no mistaking the amusement in her voice.

  I was standing in my mother’s dressing room in my underwear. Of the two of us, she was the one who was having a good time.

  “I can’t believe you wear that cheap-looking brassiere,” she lectured. “Wherever did you get it? Victoria’s Secret?”

  “It’s beige, for God’s sake, Mother,” I protested. “How can you look cheap in beige underwear?”

  “I didn’t mean that kind of cheap. I mean that it’s of poor quality. I don’t know what it’s made out of, but it’s probably some sort of synthetic. I believe they make it out of old panty hose. I don’t know how you expect your clothes to fit correctly when you don’t have the proper foundation garments.”

  I looked at her hard to see if I could detect even a hint of self-mockery, but for my mother the business of getting dressed was deadly serious. She turned to reach for a bare slip of a fuchsia cocktail dress with spaghetti straps.

  “Where’s the rest of it?” I demanded. “I can’t wear that to a business dinner with a bunch of pharmaceutical executives.”

  “Tonight, for once, you’re going to wear what I tell you to wear,” declared my mother, her eyes flashing with pleasure. “And after we’ve picked a dress, I’m doing something about your hair!�
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  A cat on hot bricks is nothing compared to what I felt like by the time my mother had finished her ministrations with the hot rollers and her makeup bag. When at last she had declared herself satisfied, I practically flew out of the house, desperate to be free of her and anxious to get to the restaurant on time. The Swiss may be formal, but they are punctual as well.

  From the minute the parking attendant swung open the door of my car I knew that something strange was going on. The doorman practically clicked his heels as he greeted me. The maître d’ sprang to my side and gallantly swept my mother’s coat from my shoulders—a full-length Russian sable that she’d pressed upon me at the last moment. As he escorted me to the table where Stephen and the two executives from Gordimer A.G. were waiting, heads turned. But I hadn’t completely realized the full extent of what Mother had done until I saw Stephen rising to his feet, a look of undisguised wonder in his eyes.

  In Stephen’s face I saw what, in my hurry, I hadn’t noticed in the mirror of my mother’s dressing table. In the slinky dress and skyscraper heels, with Mother’s dark red lipstick and my hair now all soft curls cascading in torrents over my bare shoulders—I looked sexy. It was a completely new experience for me.

  Dinner was very odd. We were meeting to discuss financing options for the proposed joint venture between Azor and Gordimer. But while I outlined the international tax implications for various capitalization structures the two businessmen from Switzerland took turns looking down my dress.

  Men, I reflected, are really very simple, obvious creatures.

  * * *

  After Stephen had handed the gentlemen from Gordimer into their taxi, we stood beneath the striped awning of the restaurant and waited for our cars to be brought around.

  “I don’t have to tell you that the big pharmaceutical houses have seen their profits go soft in the last couple of years,” I advised him. “Gordimer’s no exception. They’ve all been gobbling up small, research-oriented companies with good product in their pipeline. Companies like Azor. I think you should keep that firmly in mind while you’re deciding whether or not to jump into bed with them.”

  “I love your hair like this,” Stephen said, marveling. “Why don’t you follow me home for a drink?”

  “Have you been listening to what I’ve been saying?” I demanded.

  “You told me I should be careful before I jump into bed. Would you rather we dropped your car at your office?”

  “I have to go back to the office and work. I have a meeting with Lydia Cavanaugh tomorrow morning. I have to review the file.”

  Stephen bent his head and kissed my neck. I was flabbergasted. I had never known Stephen to be affectionate in public.

  “You can pick up the file when we drop the car. I’ll wake you up early—when I get up. That way you’ll be able to read the file when you’re fresh.”

  “I am never fresh in the morning.”

  “Please?” Stephen whispered, sliding his hand down my spine to the small of my back.

  Out of the comer of my eye I noticed one of the red-jacketed parking attendants watching us with great attention. He was licking his lips.

  “Okay, okay,” I relented.

  The whole way back to my office I kept shaking my head. I parked my car in the empty garage. Stephen pulled in beside me. Fred, the night security guard, did a double take while I signed in. In the elevator, to my utter astonishment, Stephen stood behind me and played with my hair.

  The reception room was dark, softly lit by a few brass lamps that the janitorial staff allowed to bum all night. I checked the alcove where we had pigeonholes for messages and picked up mine. Out of habit, I flipped the switch that illuminated my name on the night call-board. All the other names were dark.

  Stephen trailed me into my office, whistling a complicated passage from Bach. I didn’t turn on the overhead light. I didn’t want to see all the files piled up and waiting for me in the morning. Instead, I switched on the small reading light on my desk. I slipped off the heavy sable of my mother’s coat, feeling it rub agreeably against my bare skin. I laid it carefully over the end of the couch. Stephen shifted some files to make room for himself next to it. Then he stretched his long legs out in front of him and watched me from the darkest comer of the room.

  Cheryl had left the files I’d asked for on my chair. I leaned over carefully in the tight dress, throwing the unfamiliar tangle of my hair over my shoulder. The fax from Jack Cavanaugh was on top. I scanned it quickly. While he acknowledged that Lydia was attending our meeting in the hopes of beginning negotiations for the sale of her shares, he announced that no other family members would attend in order that I might have a better chance of gaining his daughter’s confidence and dissuading her from selling. I groaned.

  I flipped through the folders that Cheryl had pulled for me, checking to make sure that I had everything I would need in the morning. As I clipped Jack’s fax onto one of the files, I felt Stephen’s eyes on me like a cat watching a careless bird.

  “Is that all you need?” he asked softly. I was surprised, when I turned, to find him standing over me.

  He took my hands and pulled me to him in one long, smooth motion. Sometimes, when he is close, the sheer size of him overwhelms me. I am tall enough that I spend my days looking most men in the eye. With Stephen, even when I stand on tiptoe he must bend himself to me.

  As I heard the quiet growl of the zipper of my dress being lowered inch by inch, I cast a cautious glance toward the door. The hallway was dark. We were alone in the churchlike confines of Callahan Ross and Stephen had made a bed for us of Russian sable on my office floor.

  I did not expect Lydia to come to our nine o’clock meeting alone and she did not disappoint me. A phalanx of lawyers preceded her into the conference room. Her husband was at her side.

  Arthur Wallace was a small man, slim and dark, with a manicured black beard and the narrow waist and slim hips of a dancer. It was easy to see why Jack Cavanaugh must have hated him on sight. My own impression was that he was an oily little man, obviously on the make, whose birdlike eyes seemed to display an almost infinite capacity for calculation.

  The resemblance between Lydia and Peaches was startling. There was the same blond hair, swept straight back from the face, the same carefully applied makeup, the same kind of expensive designer suit I was confident that Peaches would have chosen for the occasion. But while Jack’s wife radiated warmth and telegenic charm, unhappiness was telegraphed by Lydia’s every gesture. Her face was set in a discontented frown calcified by habit.

  As I introduced myself her eyes darted around the room, as if looking for someone else, and the hand she gave to be shaken was stiff with rings.

  “Where’s Babbage?” she demanded as she claimed the seat at the head of the table. “I told Daddy specifically that I wanted to meet with the company’s head lawyer and not be pushed off on some young flunky. No offense.”

  “Why ever would I be offended at being called a flunky?” I inquired coldly. For years people had been bowing and scraping before Lydia, giving her exactly what she wanted. So far it didn’t seem to be doing anybody any good. I decided on a different approach. “The first time I went to court after I graduated from law school, the judge looked right at me and asked where the lawyer was. Women lawyers learn early not to take offense. To answer your question, Daniel Babbage is dying of cancer. I am replacing him as corporate counsel.”

  Lydia looked at me and chewed her gum. If I’d offended her, she didn’t show it, and if I had, I didn’t care. I’d been up since five o’clock in the morning reading the Superior Plating file and I was in no mood to take shit from anybody, especially anybody named Cavanaugh.

  “Well, he couldn’t have picked a worse time to be sick,” she said finally. “It would have been easier to deal with someone who knows our family.”

  “Your family is wondering why you’ve chosen to sell your shares,” I cut in.

  “It’s a purely business decision,” replied Lydia
, her tone of voice implying the exact opposite.

  “I see.” My internal bullshit meter was already edging toward the red zone. “Would you mind being more specific? What exactly are your concerns with the way in which the company is being managed?”

  “If you can call what’s going on at Superior Plating management.” Lydia sniffed. From the looks she was getting from her lawyers I could tell that she’d been coached not to get into a discussion of her motives. But Lydia, I guessed, had never been one to take direction. Besides, it was obvious that she couldn’t resist an audience.

  “My father runs the company like he runs the family. It’s all just an extension of his own ego. He reaches into the company’s coffers like he’s putting his hand into his own pocket. Who do you think pays for his plane? His horses? His houses? Now that he’s married that bimbo, he’s been looting the company to keep her in style. Who do you think’s paying for all those shopping trips to New York? It’s disgusting.”

  “Have you discussed this with the other board members?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you talked this over with your brothers and sister?”

  “Why? I know exactly what they’ll say. This family has always been divided. There’s an inside group and an outside group. Philip and Dagny are the insiders because they go to the office every day and suck up to my dad. Eugene and I are left out in the cold. The three of them pay themselves whatever they feel like. Whatever’s left over they pay out in dividends like throwing scraps to a dog. Well, I for one am fed up.”

  “I’ve read through the minutes of the board meetings for the last five years,” I reported. “I saw no mention of you ever having raised any of these concerns. I’m interested in why you seem to have suddenly developed such strong feelings about the manner in which the company has been run.”

  “That’s immaterial,” interjected one of Lydia’s lawyers, a man named Cliff Schaeffer, who was married to a woman I went to law school with. “We came here to discuss the terms of a possible buyout—”