I used the term ‘Upper East Side’ loosely when describing where I lived. It was on very bottom, the very last street that was technically considered ‘classy Manhattan.’ Look to the right, and you saw Park Avenue princesses strolling up and down the streets with designer handbags and matching dogs. Look to the left, and you were back in Midtown—cheap beer and awesome pizza. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, I was the middle ground—the neutral fence sitter who got the perks of both worlds while really belonging to neither. East 60th Street and proud of it!
Rosalie and I had gotten this place about two years ago when we finished our grad programs and settled into more permanent working internships. Rose advanced through the ranks quickly. Her light olive skin, onyx colored hair, and wide blue eyes couldn’t have hurt. But like I said, she was wicked-smart and PR was perfectly suited for that sort of thing. My internship at Goldman Sachs was a different ballgame altogether.
In finance, what was valued more than flash and first impression pizzazz was endurance, consistency. The ability to stick it out no matter the circumstances and do whatever it took to get the job done. Could you stay up for thirty-two hours, keeping an eye on the market while simultaneously adjusting to balance your client’s portfolios? Could you essentially survive on nothing but coffee for weeks on end and still manage to bleed red for the company? These were the sorts of questions they checked on your resume. These were the benchmarks to be attained.
For a long time, finance was primarily a man’s world. Women made up a fraction of the general population, and most of the ones who were able to gain employment were automatically forced to start as secretaries or front room hostesses. It wasn’t until the last decade or so that the doors opened to allow for women with actual business degrees. And even then, it was a rather stereotypical looking bunch. Needless to say, I didn’t fit the stereotype.
I was petite, a bit to the extreme, with creamy skin, dark eyes, and an almost invisible sprinkling of freckles across my nose. My cheeks were naturally rosy; my cinnamon colored hair had a natural shine. Even living with someone as jaw-dropping as Rose, I’d racked up my fair share of stalkers and broken hearts. It was impossible to be an attractive girl living in the city without getting into a little trouble along the way.
That being said, I did everything I could to combat these possibly career threatening attributes. I’d wear my hair in tight buns or long French braids. The hairstyle was sleek and modern, but it was also a warning. A ‘don’t fuck with me’ sort of do. Instead of dolling up each day with Rose in tight fitting designer dresses, I opted for the pencil skirt and conservative blouse. It wasn’t often that a woman would advance in this sort of corporation too far beyond the mail room, and I didn’t want to give the higher ups any excuses not to promote me. My work would stand for itself. Looks would have absolutely nothing to do with it. There were days when I considered getting frameless glasses just to experiment with the vibe...
I pushed open the door and dropped my things in a heap in the living room. Rose wasn’t home yet—her division was just as consumed with the merger as mine—and in the absence of a wingman to commiserate with, I made a bee-line for the kitchen. A massive headache was already forming, and after popping two Tylenol, I yanked open the freezer. A moment later, me and my bottle of vodka settled down on the living room floor.
About two hours later, the nylons were off, the blouse was unbuttoned, the bottle was half-empty, and I was sitting on a small island in a sea of market predictions and data analysis. I didn’t even hear it when the key clicked in the lock; I was in a pressurized world all to myself.
“What if I had been a burglar?”
I jumped in alarm, holding up a quarterly report as an automatic shield. When I lowered it a second later, breathless and blushing, I saw Rose staring at me speculatively from the door.
“Well, you’d be the worst burglar ever,” I defended myself. “Where would you hide your gun in that dress?”
“This?” She gestured down at herself before kicking off her shoes and ambling over to the couch. “This isn’t by choice. Do you think I’d volunteer to wear silk in this weather? No, this is for work. I had to go to an after party for Nike’s new line of footwear. I was a consultant.”