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Unsuspected Vixen

Taking Wall Street

By Claire ButlerPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 18 min read
5

I, Shelly Keating, grew up poor in the projects of Brooklyn where sex was traded every night in back alleys reeking of urine and vomit, or in cheap hotels with bug-ridden mattresses. I was a people-watcher. Television never interested me despite the 54-inch model in the two-bedroom flat I lived in as a child. My useless father spent countless hours in front of it watching wrestling and NASCAR, while drinking one cheap brew after the next, ignoring the falling-down wallpaper and chunks of drywall that littered the floors. It took no time to realize that my focus should be on reading. Book after book, I carefully crafted my future.

I knew what I wanted and how to get it—nothing so cliché as a roll on the sofa. No. I’d become an expert in the stock market while concealing my knowledge in order to manipulate those in high places on Wall Street. I wanted to be a master of the universe. Manipulation was my game—knowing when to speak and when not to was essential—manipulation is best articulated in silence.

At eighteen, I won a scholarship to L’institut Chateau Beau-Cedre finishing school for women in Clarens, Switzerland by writing an essay. I studied art and French, and achieved that certain je ne sais quoi that eludes most. I studied business, and practiced body language that was open and smart, yet slightly arrogant—just enough to intrigue.

My objective was to earn my place in the top one percent of the world’s wealthy, and I would stop at nothing to reach it—except for sleeping my way up. That would be giving them the power. No, I would take credit for my own success and use their weaknesses against them, as men were useless except as a means to my end. They would have no power over me, yet they will think that they do. I easily landed a secretarial position at the New York Stock Exchange; it was the perfect cover for my plans.

****

Four top executives at the Exchange were to escort their wives to dinner on Saturday night, and I was invited along because I had lost a nylon down one leg in front of my boss, Tom Anthony. He had stopped me in the hall as I left the ladies’ room to ask a question of no significance. It was obvious that he was smitten from the moment we met; I tossed my thick brown hair over my shoulder and batted my green eyes, and he grabbed on to that gesture as one would grab for a rail before falling off a ledge. It wasn’t long before he was giving me eye-fucks, which I entertained only for a brief moment to keep him guessing.

“I think you’ve lost a stocking,” chuckled Anthony, ogling my legs.

“Oh, no!” I turned, feigning embarrassment, and rushed to reattach it, likely causing a stir south of his ample equator.

“Do you have plans for Saturday night? My colleagues and I are taking our wives to dinner at La Maisonette. Can you join us?”

“So kind of you to ask. I’ve heard the Wellington is fabulous! But I’m single and it doesn’t sound like an evening that requires a secretary,” I began to move on.

“Well, you’re wrong. Normally, Mr. Brockman’s secretary attends to take notes, but she’s otherwise obligated this weekend,” he said while fidgeting with his gold-tinged Montblanc.

“One never knows what brilliance might be worth noting,” he said.

“I’d love to meet your wife,” I said. Truth. Yes, I did want to meet the woman who married this toadstool.

He prattled on while I secretly plotted. I’d ignore Anthony at dinner while setting my sights on someone else at the table who could advance my objective—Hunter Brockman. I’d order my meal in French, ask questions about the market, seem in awe of his position, and convey my interest in the Exchange. Mr. Wall Street would never suspect my true objective, and it would work out just as it had worked out for my stocking to fall in the hallway because I had rigged my garter to fail. I’d likewise rig the seating arrangements at the dinner table. There isn’t a man in the Exchange who would not do the same thing.

My thoughts were interrupted by Anthony’s continued blathering.

“This will be the perfect opportunity for you to meet the higher echelon and learn more about the Exchange—such an opportunity could advance your secretarial career.”

I recoiled, but it was one of those times when silence became my ally, so I nodded assent.

****

Saturday morning, while selecting my little black dress, I recalled Anthony’s words: One day you might be secretary to the most powerful man on Wall Street! I smiled at his take on things. One day he would eat those words.

My persona that evening with the wives would be as domestic as a hausfrau. I could not afford for any of them to feel threatened; a jealous wife could ruin things. And a single, attractive woman at work could present as a threat.

****

The limo arrived at my tiny Brooklyn flat at six. To my surprise, Mr. and Mrs. Anthony were in the car. I had not planned for that—I had planned to arrive alone and fashionably late.

“Hello Mr. Anthony,” I said.

“This is my wife, Charlotte,” he nodded toward his wife.

I offered my hand, “Shelly Keating,” I said.

Charlotte was pretty and about twenty years younger than the sixty-year-old Tom Anthony.

“So nice to finally meet you,” said Charlotte. “Where did you attend university?” It was expected that secretaries attend university to work for the Exchange.

“I attended L’institut Chateau Beau-Cedre in Switzerland, and graduated eight years ago. It’s a business and finishing school for women,” I said.

“I’m familiar,” said Charlotte. “I attended L’institut Surval Mont Fleuri, also in Switzerland. Thomas has always had a soft spot for finishing school graduates,” she said giving me an exaggerated wink. Was she aware of his flirtations?

“So you are thirty?” asked Charlotte.

“Twenty-nine,” I said.

We chatted about living in Switzerland and the demands of the headmistress like long-lost school chums. I quite liked her.

Anthony was right about one thing: this was an important upward move. Dinner promised to be a challenge as I contemplated being one thing for the executives and another for their wives. I could be a compelling conversationalist if the occasion required it—weaving fiction from pure manure.

We met in the bar and I could tell the others had been drinking for a while—they loudly debated each other. I ordered soda with a twist. An hour later we were finally escorted to a beautifully appointed table for nine just outside the kitchen door. An off-white damask tablecloth set with Limoges dinnerware, and navy lap napkins nearly the size of an Hermes wash scarf. Diners paid a premium for the opportunity to sit at the Chef’s Table that included Chef’s off-menu tasting specialties.

I stood with the others waiting for Mr. Brockman to choose a seat. When he did, I quickly tossed my bag and steno pad onto the chair to his right and excused myself to the ladies’ room, hoping my bag would remain there while the others took their seats.

When I returned, Brockman stood and pulled out my chair. What I had not predicted was Tom Anthony sitting to my right—apparently, his own power play. To make the best of it, I calculated how I could use Anthony to advance my career. I allowed his conceit to carry the evening while he described me to Mr. Wall Street as an incredible find for the Exchange. I remained silent, but objected occasionally.

“It’s just part of the job,” I said.

The sommelier greeted us with a corkscrew hanging from his neck. He handed us leather-bound wine lists—offering his opinions for excellent reds with superior tannins, and buttery whites, not too sweet.

Gaspard, the maître d’ approached to ask if there were any questions—flanked by fussy wait staff that I imagined would soon be breaking our bread and feeding it to us. I asked him in French, “Is it possible to order the Wellington tonight?”

He responded in French, “It will be the pleasure of the kitchen to accommodate if another in your party also orders it.”

I repeated our conversation in English, and three male hands went into the air except for Mr. Brockman’s. Fixing his gaze on the maître d’ he said, “I, too, will order the Wellington,” and the other hands went down.

Menus were distributed. The wives discussed salads in curious detail. Salads? In a restaurant like this?

Brockman turned to me, “Where did you learn to speak French?”

“In finishing school,” I said.

“Please say more—you speak beautifully.”

Was this a test? He seemed unconvinced of the one truth I was guilty of. I wanted to say Vous etes un vieux pet dont je prendrai le travail, (You are an old fart whose job I will be taking.) but I resisted as it was possible that Charlotte had also studied the language. Instead, I said, “I am privileged to be sitting among such distinguished company this evening.” He answered, “Le plaisir est pour nous.” The pleasure is ours, he’d said. I did not expect that. Clearly, I needed to step up my homework.

After dinner, cognac for everyone arrived along with the check, a combination of events that would never happen in France, where sipping cognac was a religious experience not to be sullied by the expectation of paying for dinner.

“So, how are the bulls and bears getting along?” I asked Brockman. He shoved his cognac forward, took a pen from his shirt pocket and drew on the tablecloth in front of him.

“The current bull and bear markets are as such,” he made a graph. I was about to offer my steno pad when the Maitre d’ leaned in and whispered into Brockman’s right ear.

“My dear sir, this is La Maisonette and we do not write on the tablecloths.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, this ink is water soluble. It will wash out in the laundry,” Brockman explained while demonstrating by scribbling on his custom tailored, monogrammed shirtsleeve.

“I’ve ruined so many shirts by putting uncapped pens into my shirt pockets that I now order these specialty pens.”

The Maitre d’ was having none of it. By now everyone at the table was invested in the outcome for fear of being tossed.

“I’m sorry sir, but you must pay for the tablecloth,” said the Maitre d’.

There was really only one thing to do: go to the ladies’ room to avoid witnessing an embarrassing situation that was destined to become worse and unravel my plans.

When I returned to the table the two of them were still going at it, now flanked by several of the wait staff. The situation had to be diffused. I reached my hand over to pat Brockman’s closed fist and said to him in French,

“Please allow me to buy this tablecloth as a souvenir of the evening.”

Without hesitation, Brockman reached for his wallet and handed the Maitre d’ a crisp Benjamin, and in French said, “Please have it wrapped for the lady.”

The tablecloth was delivered to the table wrapped in freezer paper and kitchen twine. Our tablemates eyed the mysterious package in confusion. Obviously, they didn’t speak French. I could tell they were all dying to know what had just happened.

****

The Anthony’s and I piled into the limo for our return home. I placed my package on my lap and Charlotte wasted no time,

“You’re a valuable asset to the team, Shelly. What a brilliant solution to end an escalating faux pas on the part of Mr. Brockman,” she said. “And, it’s likely Brockman took notice of your swift action, too.”

I looked at Tom who was comatose, so I pumped Charlotte for information.

“How did you meet Tom?” I asked her.

“I worked as his secretary at the Exchange,” she said. “I was about your age when Brockman poached me. The old coot loves stealing Tom’s secretaries. And who could blame him? Thomas always finds young, accomplished women.”

“What is Mr. Brockman like to work for?”

“He’s a demanding perfectionist, arrogant and driven,” said Charlotte. “And after tonight, I wouldn’t be surprised if he poaches you next. He can’t resist having the best of everything.”

Monday morning, I found a bouquet of France’s national flowers—stylized lilies, wrapped in pink fleur-de-lis paper on my desk with a note: “It was my pleasure to be seated next to such an accomplished and wise woman at dinner Saturday night. You will go far.” It was signed, “Hunter.” Nice touch. A cunning and confirming smile converted my lips, “Check.”

****

Monday afternoon was hectic due to the one thing I hated most: dictation. A letter dictated to Brockman caught my attention: Garman Grove, was trading low. Garman had a reputation for hanging in there even when the economy tanked. They manufactured mid-priced, high-quality bathroom fixtures. Even my modest flat had them. I quickly checked to see what it was trading for, and decided to buy it. This was likely considered insider trading, but I decided it was worth the risk—nothing ventured nothing gained, as the saying goes.

I was barely finished daydreaming when Anthony came out of his office in a rush. “Please transcribe the Brockman letter first,” he said, “and then hand-deliver it to the executive suite. Brockman’s expecting it.”

Things couldn’t be working out better. This gave me a chance to make the next move. When I entered the executive suite, Mr. Brockman’s door was closed so I handed the sealed envelope to his secretary, Madge. She was older with short, gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses and wearing a suit. She was all business. I turned to leave when she stopped me, “Mr. Brockman wants to see you,” she said as she pushed a button on her phone to announce me.

Brockman opened his office door with a smile on his face, “Shelly! Come in.” He closed the door which made me a bit nervous. He nodded to a chair and said, “Sit.” He kept his eyes intently upon me. If he hinted at a dalliance, it would ruin everything.

“Thank you for the flowers,” I began. He ignored me.

“I have a delicate question for you,” he said. Here it comes. Would it be here in the office or in the Presidential suite at the Palace? I’m not ready for this.

“I see you’ve met Madge,” he said. I nodded assent.

“She’s taking early retirement. She’s made some wise investments while she’s been here and she’s set for life. I’d like for you to be her replacement.” I melted into the chair with relief and disguised victory.

“I’m stunned and flattered—but Mr. Brockman, you don’t know anything about me. Don’t I need to interview?” I asked.

“Your interview was last Saturday night when you saved me from embarrassment. Hunter Brockman being tossed from La Maisonette is the sort of thing would have made the society page in the Times on Sunday morning,” he said. You are the kind of woman I need in this office—one who thinks on her feet. There is one test you must pass, and one only. I will let you know about it later.

“That sounds cryptic,” I said with raised eyebrows. “May I have until Friday to think it over?”

“Yes,” he said, “I like a candidate who takes the time to think things through.”

“Have you discussed this offer with Mr. Anthony?”

“No. But I’m certain he thinks something is afoot because I asked him to send up that document pronto, and I asked him to have you deliver it.” I will bet the test was to see if I buy stock in Garman. Well, crap. I really wanted that stock.

“Let me talk with Tom before you say anything to him. Discretion is the number one rule around here.”

“Of course, Mr. Brockman. Thank you.”

“You can go now, and close the door on your way out.” That was abrupt. I wasn’t used to being dismissed like that, but at least now I knew where he stood. Little did he know that his discretion rule was loosely observed; just like everywhere else, gossip travels.

****

Friday came and went, and so did the window for buying Garman stock. I wondered all weekend why I had not heard anything from either Anthony or Brockman about moving into Madge’s chair.

Had Madge heard anything? I didn’t know her well, just through a couple of phone conversations regarding business. She seemed unapproachable, but with the right touch maybe I could siphon information from her, despite the discretion policy. I decided to stalk the third-floor ladies’ room on my lunch hour in the hope that she might enter so I could accidentally run into her. At noon on Monday I did just that.

I hid in a stall and peered out between where the stall meets the wall. After fifteen minutes, I became weary when she finally entered to wash her hands. I flushed the commode and left the stall, making eye contact with her in the mirror in front of the wash basins. She smiled dismissively.

“Hi Madge, are you looking forward to your retirement?”

“How…how did you know about that?” she asked.

“The opening appeared on the virtual bulletin board. I check it daily just to keep on top of things.”

“Oh,” she said. “I am so busy I forgot all about that. When you’re already at the top in your field you don’t need to check the board for anything. I’m traveling around the world on a nine-month cruise.”

“Exciting!” I said.

“Compared with this job, it will be less exciting and I’m quite looking forward to that.”

“Has Mr. Brockman chosen a replacement for you, yet?”

“Not to my knowledge, and I leave in three weeks,” said Madge. “What are you doing on the third floor, anyway? Isn’t Mr. Anthony’s office on two?”

“Yes, but there was a line and besides, this ladies’ room is much nicer than the one on two.”

“What difference does that make? You conduct your business and leave. Or, were you hoping to bump into me or Mr. Brockman?” she asked suspiciously.

“Oh, no…not at all. I just didn’t want to wait in line.”

“Well, you’d be best off not trying to interview for a job through me. If you’re interested, apply through channels.” And out the door she went. She nailed me. I needed to survey the situation and wait this thing out before I blew it.

When I returned to my desk there were three voice messages blinking on my console. All were from Brockman yelling into the phone that he needed me to come to his office NOW. Crap. I left Anthony a note and went back to the third floor.

Madge was nowhere to be seen, so I knocked on his office door. He gruffly yelled, “Come in.” When he saw me, he said, “Where were you? I needed to talk with you and I couldn’t find Madge either.”

“I was at lunch,” I said with a bit of an air.

“Oh,” he said, “What the Hell time is it anyway?”

“It’s twelve-forty.” He was agitated.

“Well, you’ve got the job if you want it,” he said.

“I thought you wanted me to take a test?”

“You’ve already had the test. You passed.”

“Ooookay? What was the test?”

“Never mind. Just plan on sitting at Madge’s desk whenever it is that she leaves. Touch base with her so she can train you before she takes off for her tour. She will be impossible to get ahold of. Remember what I said about discretion and close the door behind you.”

I wondered if he meant the same kind of discretion that JFK demanded from his secret service detail. No matter, I can become the “Third-Floor Madame,” if needed.

****

Working alongside Madge made me feel as if I were running a 42-K every day for three straight weeks with no glory lap. Brockman worked long hours and was on the phone constantly. During that time, there were no booty-calls coming or going from Brockman’s office despite his closely kept secret—but I’d heard the whispering. I was glad that I did NOT buy the Garman stock. I was certain that was the so-called test, a trap that Brockman set for me. He needed to be sure I am the person he believes me to be.

****

“I’m going out for the day,” said Brockman.

It gave me a chance to explore his office. A lighted virtual jumbo tickertape ran across the wall above his office door so he could watch it from his desk. An antique tickertape machine stood as a reminder of the old days like a shrine in front of three library walls of books. Two leather wing-backed chairs parked squarely in front of his desk, and a suspiciously stained sofa. His private bath had a shower, a commode stall including a bidet, a granite topped washstand, monogrammed hand towels, a large mahogany clothing locker, and a settee upholstered in hunter green—also stained. Why would Brockman need a bidet?

I opened the medicine cabinet and stopped short. There was a bottle of digitalis and hidden behind it, a vial labeled Viagra. I shook the digitalis—almost empty; this could come in handy. If Brockman was screwing around on his wife as the stained sofas, the Viagra and bidet all suggested—well, a watered-down digitalis might kill two birds with one stone—justice for Mrs. Brockman and a career move for me.

A loose plan began to form. Anthony would be retiring in five years or less; less if I have my way—gaslighting him would be fun. It would be a travesty if the old guy suddenly became daft. After proving myself to Brockman, I could easily convince him to let me replace Anthony by promising him a roll in the hay—a reality that will never happen. After all is arranged I would, of course, publicly expose him for the player that he really is. And, what a shame that Brockman should succumb to heart failure after his wife leaves him and he loses control over company discretion, leaving me in a position to replace him. My plan to shake up Wall Street would not come fast or easy, but it certainly just became more interesting.

The first thing to go will be that hideously stained sofa… .

Short Story
5

About the Creator

Claire Butler

Claire Butler is a writer/author, professional artist and francophile. She loves spending her day either behind her computer, in front of her easel or studying French. She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio.

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