Twelve minutes.
In my world, twelve minutes is the difference between a deal closing and a litigation nightmare beginning. It’s the length of two billable increments. It’s also exactly how long it takes to lose the person you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with, apparently.
Being late became the soundtrack of my life after making partner. It wasn’t something I decided consciously, but a gradual deterioration. You don’t simply wake up one morning deciding that a mezzanine loan trumps your anniversary; all it takes is a couple of minutes replying to one email at 6 PM before you realize that it’s already 7:15 PM and you are still staring at spreadsheets in your office, with an Uber waiting for you downstairs.
That particular Tuesday night had begun in the usual hectic routine of my life. At six o’clock that morning, I was on a phone call with my client, pacing about the wooden floor of my Gold Coast apartment. Technically, I was “ready”—I wore my stilettos and hung my coat over the couch—but I was still immersed in my work. The cell phone was pinned between my ear and my shoulder, where I would notice the pain later on, as I attempted to put in my golden hoop earrings with one hand, while I riffled through piles of closing binders with the other.
“The lender’s getting impatient, Claire,” he barked into the receiver. “They want to accelerate; we need thirty more days.”
“I will get you thirty more days,” I replied, even as my fingers wrestled with an obnoxious earring back. “But you have to send me your new pro-forma tonight.”
It was meant to be a quick check-in. Instead, it became a discussion that stretched from ten minutes to twenty, then from twenty to thirty. It’s how things go in restructuring law; nothing is ever neatly concluded there; rather, it is more a matter of pausing until one hopes the blaze will stop spreading.
By the time I reached the restaurant, I wasn’t sure I existed anymore. My body was inside The Alchemist’s Table restaurant, but my thoughts were trapped in a conference room on LaSalle Street. I clutched my cell phone, reading yet again another panicky text from my senior associate about a missing signature.
The restaurant was quintessential Evanston. Dark, sophisticated, and gleaming with an almost mirrorlike sheen. The scent of expensive bourbon and cedarwood hung heavily in the air. This was the type of place built for people wanting to look impressive without really putting in much effort. The air conditioning made the perfect temperature, a far cry from the frigid November gusts that had been swirling off Lake Michigan and burning my cheeks pink.
The warmth was almost non-existent. I was so involved in mentally drafting an e-mail to the vice president of a bank while the hostess collected my jacket. I introduced myself as Parker for a party of six and followed her into the dining area.
Well, I spotted them before they even saw me.
They were our “inner circle.” At least that was how Evan referred to them. These were the individuals whose company we filled our weekends with brunches and boat parties in the summers. I could not help but think of myself as something of a guest star in their lives, the “high-powered lawyer” who came in late and left early.
There was Evan, sitting at the head of the table. He looked good as always, and he made no attempt to conceal it. He possessed the knack of lounging in a chair with one hand holding a whiskey glass and making the rest of the world realize just how little he needed it to exist around him.
I stood around fifteen feet back, briefly hidden from view by a massive architectural fern and a glass partition.
And then I heard it.
“I no longer wish to marry her.”
There was no doubt about it; it was Evan’s voice. Not laced with regret, nor filled with anger, but matter-of-fact. It sounded just like how he would talk about something as insignificant as his golf handicap or changing plans for dinner.
For one split second, the room went silent. And then Mark released an exasperated chuckle.
“What?” Mark said. “Since when?”
“Dunno,” answered Evan. The clinking of ice in his glass could be heard as he took a sip. “These days, she’s… Dunno. Pathetic. Always worried, always late, always on the verge of breaking down about a footnote. It’s like cohabiting with a ghost always checking her watch.”
Again, there was laughter—laughter without shock but with relief that the truth had been laid bare.
“She’s a partner in one of the biggest law firms in the city, man,” said another voice. “She makes the bucks.”
“And she doesn’t spend them,” argued Evan, his tone filled with fresh disdain. “She’s too busy ‘restructuring’ stuff. Exhausting. I want someone who is there, you know? Not someone who sees me as just an item on the balance sheet.”
I When it comes to negotiation skills, there is always a lesson to be learned by keeping quiet. In negotiations, it’s the first one who speaks that gets outplayed. I’ve learned over my entire life not to raise my heart rate above ninety, even with a billionaire yelling at me. I had experience in being able to control my emotions.
This, however, was no negotiation. This was an autopsy.
I was already thirty-four. For ten years now, I’ve been dealing with companies’ inner demons and making them realize the consequences of their own actions. The moment everything became clear came without warning, as the stroke of lightning.
I wasn’t pathetic; I was his solid basis upon which he stood and complained.
I moved towards the table.
Dana, who’d been laughing only a moment ago, caught sight of me first. She didn’t have time to gasp—she was far too refined for that—but her eyes widened, and she froze. The noise at the table silenced itself in one fell swoop.
Evan looked up. His hand didn’t fly to his chest—he was too trained for that—but I could see the look of fear in his pupils, the grip he took on the glass that whitened his knuckles.
“Claire,” he breathed, just slightly, “you’re here. We were just… discussing how hard you’ve been working.”
The lie was so pathetic it wasn’t even funny.
I didn’t take a seat. My bag never made it from its spot slung over my shoulder to the vacant chair. I stood at the end of the table, looking down at him. There was an odd peace inside me.
“I know,” I said.
That silence was deafening. It was the silence that came just before the jury announced their verdict in a courtroom.
I did not shout at him, I did not scream or cry, I did not let him see my tears, and I did not give him the satisfaction of watching me throw a fit. Rather, I grabbed onto the ring that held an engagement stone he chose for me; a beautiful ring, which I had suggested him buy from that jeweler since I enjoyed a corporate discount.
I set the ring on the table. There was a loud, crystal sound as the ring hit the table next to his glass of whiskey.
“Claire, come on,” Evan stood halfway. “Don’t make a drama out of this. I was just blowing off some steam.”
“Sure,” I answered calmly, in the same way that I explained a Chapter 11 filing to a board of directors. “I will not force you to marry me. Your responsibilities are lifted now.”
A flicker of relief passed over his face. He believed he had escaped unscathed, that the “pathetic” girl was bowing out gracefully without any harm done to his ego.
He was mistaken.
“The whole idea about being invisible, Evan, is that they forget that you’re the one carrying the weight,” I continued, bending in close enough that the table would have had difficulty hearing anything beyond the conversation at their table. “Like your logistics company that was six months away from bankruptcy when you walked into my office in tears because no one was answering your calls from the bank.”
My tone remained calm, but the table held its breath. “Every contract keeping you above water was written by me. That debt-equity exchange? Worked out on my Sunday mornings. That forbearance? Negotiated during my lunch break. All for the simple reason that I thought we were building a life. However, since I am apparently so pathetic, I suppose you won’t need my help anymore.”
I took a breath to let it sink in. “If you want an extension from your banker, he needs a compliance statement which I will not be signing. Without it, by tomorrow morning, the bank defaults, do you remember? That default statement I made sure was quite easygoing? Without my signature, no?”
His cheeks grew pale. For once, Evan looked into my eyes and saw the woman who kept him going all these years.
“You might want to try some of the hors d’oeuvres, the tartare is supposed to be great.”
I started walking towards the exit, my heels echoing through the hall. Evan ran after me, grabbing my hand right before the door.
“Claire, please don’t ruin everything because of this little game.”
“Not a joke,” I replied, meeting his gaze as he released my hand. “A confession. You never liked me; you liked what I could do for you.”
“Sure, sure, I’ll apologize,” he began stammering. “Only… please don’t call the bank.”
“I’m not calling to ruin your life, Evan,” I replied softly. “I’m just not calling to save it.”
The cold of Chicago greeted me as I stepped out into the evening, feeling almost weightless. Sitting in the back of a taxi, my phone beeped, letting me know that an associate had sent me the following text message: “Lender extension? Should I tell the client we’re all set?”
To which I replied: “Things have changed. We’re heading in a new direction.” I was exactly on time for once in my life.
Please SHARE this article with your family and friends on Facebook.
Bored Daddy
Love and Peace
