The Everything Girl Read online

  “Really? Is she back in New Jersey?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure she’s working for Glocap, a Manhattan recruiting firm.”

  “Huh.” New York. It was definitely another state. An entire continent away from Darien. It was also the financial center of the world. If I was going to try to make it in finance, I might as well swing for the fence. It was what my dad wanted. I was good at it. I could do it, but did I want to?

  “Paris?” The manager stuck her head in the door. “You have a client waiting for you. She’s got a dog with her. Please remind her of our policy about animals.”

  I bit my thumbnail and stared past the manager. From behind her, a high-pitched yipping bounced off the bank’s highly stylized adobe walls. Oh yeah, I want to do it. I want to go. My boyfriend’s new girlfriend wouldn’t dare bring her vanity dog into the Federal Reserve Bank of New York.

  Within a week, I was in New York, Gina Romano bent over my shoulder, digging her pointy chin into my neck.

  “As much as I appreciate the massage, can you give me some space?” I asked. My friend from university reminded me of a French bulldog. Short and tenacious with cute cheeks you just wanted to pinch. But her chin could be used as a weapon.

  When I’d called to see if she knew of any job openings in the Manhattan banks, she had first screamed in delight and then yelled at me to pack up and move across country that very minute. I barely remembered the drive through the states, having distracted myself from the boring, mostly rainy roads by listening to Suze Orman podcasts on managing money and practicing my interviewing skills.

  I’d landed at Gina’s SoHo apartment three days ago. Gina’s roommate, Lucia, hadn’t been nearly as thrilled when I showed up with four suitcases and a bag of my dad’s sangak bread, exploring the city by day, riding the couch by night.

  “Paris, let me help,” Gina barked. “This is what I do. I get people jobs. Besides, the faster you get a job, the sooner you can get your own apartment and stop clogging up my shower drain with your ridiculous hair.”

  Gina and Lucia, Italian American childhood friends, were both hardworking, career-oriented women. They also spent quality time on blowouts and applying hair products, though their hair was much shorter than mine and apparently didn’t shed—it definitely was my long, thick strands clogging the drain.

  Gina had a trendy chestnut pageboy that went well with her New Jersey accent. Lucia, on the other hand, was a silent, blonde runway model with a shaggy pixie cut and the tendency to sway—when she did speak, her accent was still very Italian. While my old friend Gina was a bulldog, Lucia came off as an underfed minx: skinny, beautiful, and ready to lash out with her sharp claws.

  So, what kind of animal was I? I smoothed the dark hairs on my forearms. I decided I was a panther. Maybe I was a little too easygoing for a jungle cat, but I thought with my long, thick tangle of black hair and olive skin, I could pull it off. Rawr.

  Being silly made me think of Dad. I could easily picture him at his desk, working away as the West Coast sun lit up his office and his bald head … while I hunkered down in this cold, shadowed kitchen on a sunless New York afternoon in February.

  Darien is probably on the beach with his new girlfriend right now, rubbing organic oils on her back, discussing schools for their perfect Jewish children. My stomach clenched. How had I bought into that story for so long?

  But his rejection had pushed me into action. Maybe it was for the best. I eyed my stack of luggage in the corner of the living room, ready for a new home. The only other items I’d brought were my laptop and a professional camera, still in the box. The laptop was well used but the camera had been a graduation gift I’d forgotten about, probably because my dad had stashed it in the back of a closet. I figured I could mess around with it while I waited for my callbacks on jobs.

  Gina pulled up a chair next to me at the Ikea dining table.

  Trying to keep everyone happy, I tapped the computer screen on the table in front of me. “You said to apply for this one, Gina. But I don’t see why.”

  Gina leaned her short, slightly pudgy body back in her chair, folding her hands behind her head. “Loooook, I know you’re trying to stick to jobs in banks for now, but you have a degree in finance and a few years in the industry. You want to break onto Wall Street someday, right? So why not try to jump up the ladder?”

  “Okay, but this is for an executive assistant.”

  “You’re not looking at the right specs.”

  “You want me to be an errand girl?”

  “What, are you new to this decade? If you can get close to the CEO of a hedge fund—which this is—then you’ll be kneeling at the feet of the master. Why start in a cubicle three floors away? Sure, you’ll get his coffee and write his reports, but you’re going to see how he does what he does. Better, you’re going to be in charge of his Rolodex.”

  “Hmm, okay. I like how you’re thinking outside of the box.” I wound a pencil in my hair, thinking. “But this position requires over ten years of hedge fund experience. I’ve never worked with a hedge fund directly.”

  “Pshh. That doesn’t matter. You’re smart. Read between the lines. Like, right here, it says, ‘Must be able to confidently and professionally manage challenging personalities and high-stress environments.’” She gripped my shoulder and shook me like I wasn’t twice her height. “They’re saying they need someone who can handle assholes. If you come across as halfway competent with numbers and seem like you’re the type to stay calm and say ‘namaste’ whenever anyone gives you crap, they’re gonna jump at you. Can you ignore a dickhead long enough to get the experience and contacts you need?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Please. Just tweak your resume to look like you’ve done this stuff. You can do it. Don’t be a coward. I need my couch back.”

  I ducked my head, twisting my mother’s gold hoop earring. So far, Gina and her roommate had been pleasant to me. If Lucia was put out, she’d only complained about it in Italian. But her Italian was starting to sound increasingly rant-y.

  Gina was right; I did have the skills to pull it off and the ability to learn quickly. Besides, the couch was squeaky black leatherette, and I had to sleep on my side like a fetus, afraid to breathe too deeply lest I fall off—but it had become my comfort zone, my safe place in this loud, crazy city. Except when my whirling thoughts settled on Darien, and then I’d fixate on how I was never going to find a worthwhile man who liked me for me. Classic, angsty teenager stuff. There was no safe zone from my brain.

  Lucia stood in the kitchen doorway. “No offense, Paris, but let’s get you out there.” The model stepped forward, black dresses and black shirts and black pants draped over one slender arm, and a pack of Benson & Hedges in the other hand. She laid the items, including the cigarettes, in my lap. “You’ll need these.”

  “I have nice business clothes! And are you saying I should start smoking?”

  The model ran her eyes over my purple yoga pants, favorite hoodie, and my non-nicotine stained fingers. “Yes. And everyone smokes. You’re not in fucking hippy-land anymore.”

  Lucia sounded cool even when she was insulting me, with her lilting Italian vowels. She waved a hand over me gracefully. “You go into any interview in the city wearing that yellow skirt you have hanging in the bathroom, they’re going to call you a cafone. A dork.”

  I liked her better when she was not talking.

  I was skeptical. Skeptical everyone in New York City wore black. Skeptical an entire generation of East Coasters didn’t care about lung cancer. Assessing Lucia’s clothes, I was skeptical I could fit into a size four—unless, of course, I embraced smoking instead of eating. Mostly, I was skeptical anyone reading my resume would believe I was anything but a rank-and-file kind of girl.

  I sighed. But I can’t just sit here and wait for the hand of God to reach down and throw a paycheck at me. Time to get started.

  Gina and Lucia’s gazes were heating the back of my head; I o
pened up the link to the application at Purple Rock Capital Management. Besides, Lucia probably already has my suitcases in my car.

  Chapter 3

  I sidestepped sidewalk patches of February frost as I made my way to the subway entrance, retching when I put my foot in a bright green glob of phlegm and retching again when I touched something squishy on the underside of the handrail. My gag reflex sat in high gear, thanks to a hangover.

  I hated the subway but I was in no shape to negotiate morning traffic in Manhattan; trying to find parking would push me into a stress coma. It’s why people who lived in the city didn’t drive. I knew with 100 percent certainty, however, that the second I was underground, I was going to get mugged by a middle school gang, or penis-rubbed by a homeless guy, or kidnapped by the mole people and dragged into a dingy, sulfurous underworld.

  By the time I spied a map showing the subway routes and had it narrowed down to two lines that might possibly get me to 57th Street, somewhere between Carnegie Hall and Columbus Circle, nervous sweat was pooling in my bra. Thank God I’m wearing black, I thought. Lucia won’t be able to see my sweaty boobs outlined on her silk blouse.

  I was on my way to a job interview. I definitely needed the money. The ATM machines heckled me when I walked past. My “life savings” was a joke—when I lived with my father, I’d put my earnings mostly toward paying down my massive student loan debt. Since coming to New York, I’d been trying to maintain what little savings I had so I could afford the deposit on an apartment of my own, but my reserves were dwindling. Despite totally supporting me getting my own place, Lucia and Gina didn’t help. They kept trying to get me to go out for drinks and dinner, and never at a Denny’s or someplace with a five-dollar special. And they kept dropping not-too-subtle hints that I needed a new wardrobe, but again, not from an affordable source. No, instead, they would use yellow stickies to flag articles on fashion and style in their glamour magazines, with notes like “These would look cute on you” next to a $200 pair of jeans, or “Get rid of your T-shirts” with an arrow pointing to a $150 fitted shirt.

  Luckily, I was now able to fit into Lucia’s “fat” clothes. Not because of smoking—which she repeatedly suggested—but because of days on the “poverty diet,” which consisted of water, carrot sticks, and peanut butter sandwiches on old bread. While saving money, the lack of calories was eating away at my willpower.

  Gina had come home from her office in Midtown the night before to find me glassy eyed and depressed after days of sending out queries and resumes to the long list of possibilities she’d put together for me. Over half had already responded with a form letter informing me I was a moron and there was no way they would hire me.

  “Let’s go out. We need drinks and dicks, stat,” Gina said.

  “You are so classy.” At her look of irritation, I quickly said, “But, yeah, okay, let’s go somewhere.”

  Lucia walked in as I was sliding on a cardigan. “For Christ’s sake, Paris. What are you wearing?”

  I pinched my pink jersey T-shirt and glared at her. “Listen, this is from Banana Republic. I know how to dress. I don’t need an intervention—”

  “You look great, Paris,” Gina said. “That color is gorgeous against your skin. Lucia simply has lost the ability to dress herself without a manager.” She clapped her hands twice, calling us to attention. “Now let’s go.”

  Lucia didn’t say anything, just smirked and handed me a fresh pack of cigarettes and the latest edition of That, a fashion magazine, before following Gina out the door.

  Gina took us to The Rooftop at Viceroy. Her favorite bar was close to Central Park with an amazing view, but it was a twenty-minute taxi ride from SoHo. Once inside, I could feel the base thudding in my chest. As Gina and Lucia yelled over the music with a couple of guys who owned a string of gyms, I wandered around with a Moscow Mule in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other, drawn to a collection of sepia-toned photos on a back wall. I rolled my eyes when I noticed they were portraits of athletes; this was supposedly a sports bar, but it was packed with suits who likely only spent time on a golf course or were forced to play racquetball with the old guard.

  Then the sophistication of the imagery caught and held my gaze. The composition was creative, with fresh angles and perspectives. Each seemed to tell a story about the subject, even the young women, with the focus on different strengths they exuded, not on their thighs or perky breasts.

  “So, you like the girls, huh?”

  I twisted to my right, ready to lash out at the idiot, but a cute, disheveled guy in jeans and loose button-down shirt held up both hands and laughed. “Wait, don’t shoot! I kid! I kid!”

  I paused and then said, “Well, to be honest, yeah, I think these are great.” I pointed with my drink. “At first glance, I thought they were commercial. But the photographer is pretty amazing. An artist, really.”

  He smiled, sandy-colored curls swooping across his forehead. Freckles smattered over his nose and cheekbones added a boyishness to his charm. “Eh. He’s alright, I guess. At least the chicks are hot.”

  “Nice.” I stepped away, turning to find my friends. The cute ones are always gay or total jerks.

  “No, wait,” he said. I swiveled back to him and he offered a lopsided grin. “I’m sorry. I’m Benji. I took these. See?” He pointed to a name in the corner of one of the photographs. Benjamin Stark. “Tonight’s the opening for my newest collection. I thought I’d hang out.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  He laughed again, self-consciously this time. “Alright. I’ve made this awkward. I’m good at that. Let’s start over.” He stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Benji Stark. What’s your name?”

  He really is adorable. And he’s got a show in a place like this. How bad can he be? We chatted for a short while, first about photo lens filters, then about when I thought I might actually smoke the unlit cigarette I’d been holding.

  I was disappointed when the owner came by with a couple of art enthusiasts. Paying art enthusiasts.

  Don’t leave, okay? the handsome photographer mouthed behind their backs, which is when I noticed the striking gold-flacked hazel of his eyes. I nodded and made my way over to Gina and Lucia.

  “He’s not ugly,” Gina said.

  “And he actually seems to have a brain. Possibly a job.” I grinned.

  “You can always dream,” sighed Lucia. She was ignoring two much older gentlemen who were trying to catch her attention from down the bar. Gina was trying to intercept their gazes, but they weren’t budging from the tall blonde throwing them shade.

  We tossed down a round of tequila shots, then another.

  Soon enough, liquid courage brought one of the older men into our midst, though he quickly realized Lucia was never going to be interested, or even talk to him. Gina leapt in, using the chance to practice her sharp-tongued banter—Mr. Business called her “feisty” and it was on. Lust was in the air.

  I felt my cell phone buzz in my clutch. I took it out, assuming it would be my father with something important to tell me, like “Hey, how come a bike can’t stand on its own? ’Cuz it’s two tired!” followed by a stretch of old-man laughter. But no, it was a number I didn’t recognize. A Manhattan number.

  “Hello?” I shouted into the phone, ramming my finger in my ear in an attempt to hear over a hundred drunken twenty-somethings and Justin Bieber singing about a woman’s vajayjay.

  “Is this Ms. Tehrani?”

  “Yes … ?”

  “Good evening. This is Bob from Soloman Page. I’m a recruiter, working with a client of ours, a fifteen billion dollar hedge fund. Do you have a moment?”

  Was this guy calling on behalf of Purple Rock Capital? He couldn’t be. Yet, that was the only hedge fund I’d applied to.

  “Um, yeah, give me a second. I’m going to step outside so I can hear you, if that’s okay.” I had no idea what he said in response, but I prayed he wouldn’t hang up before I could push through a trio of gro
pers blocking the elevator and then to a quiet corner in the lobby.

  “I’m sorry about that. Who did you say this is again?”

  “I’m working with a hedge fund anxious to hire someone … I know it’s late, I hope that’s okay.”

  “No worries.” Should I make him think he’s interrupting an important dinner meeting? I’d heard of a phone app that replicated different background noises. I considered doing a search for “sophisticated dinner party sounds,” but decided he’d probably already guessed at the truth.

  “Listen,” he said. “The woman currently in the executive administration position at Purple Rock Capitol has put in her two-week notice. We need to hire someone now. Can you come in for an interview tomorrow?” I heard him shuffling through papers. “Say, eleven?”

  Clearly, my resume had accidentally been put in the “interview” pile instead of the “meh” pile. This recruiter just lost his commission.

  I turned into a robot. “Yes. That. Will. Be. Fine.”

  He gave me the address and described a few landmarks, said goodbye in a tired voice, and hung up. He probably had ten way more qualified people to call. By the time Gina and Lucia stumbled out of the elevator behind me, I was in a level-ten state of panic.

  “Mia cara, you’re a mess. Here …” Lucia dug a Xanax out of her Hermes handbag. According to Gina, both the pharmaceuticals and the purse were gifts from one of the many women or men who lusted after her.

  Gina shooed her away. “She doesn’t need to wake up all puffy!” Then she noticed my eyes as I squinted at my friends through tequila and terror. “Puffier. Damn it, Paris, you’ll be fine.” The New Jersey girl struggled into her heavy peacoat, straightened the trendy bow on the neck of her blouse, and let her homeland come out. “Girl, let’s get you home and sobered up. Tomorrow, just go in there with your shoulders thrown back, and be all, ‘What’s up, bitches,’ but Beyoncé-like, not Gordon Ramsay-like. You got this, girl.”

  I barely remembered the Uber ride home. Why did I love Moscow Mules so much? Thank God, someone set the alarm on my iPhone. Gina had left a note on the table, tucked under a cup of coffee. She’d drawn a picture of a flexing arm. I assumed she was giving me the ol’ “Rosie the Riveter did it, so can you.”