Her voice shook as she spoke. “As of today, I’m leaving the company, but I…I know you’ll all be fine. You are the most talented individuals. I have such faith in…in all of you,” Christy stammered. Her mind went blank. She became silent and looked the crowd over, the people she had cared so much about that she would probably never see again. “It has been a privilege to be your president. I…I wish you all success.” Blinking back tears, she turned and walked out the door.
Steven, who had been reading the Wall Street Week article in the front seat, was waiting in the car. With great relief, Christy stepped inside. It was one-thirty.
Niles Raines ran out of the building and rapped on Christy’s window. Steven lowered it. “Christy, are you okay?” he asked.
“Of course, I’m fine,” she said, sounding shaky at best.
“I just…I can’t believe those idiots would pick Katherine over you. It makes no sense.” Niles shook his head. “Really, what are you going to do?”
Christy smiled. “Don’t worry about me, Niles. I’m going to leave all this behind and focus on being a great wife and mother.”
Niles gave Christy a skeptical look, then kissed her and said to call him anytime. “When you’re ready, let’s talk about your next chapter.”
Christy raised the window and sunk into the seat.
Steven turned around. “Is it true? Did Katherine beat you?”
Christy nodded her head weakly, ashamed. She wished Steven wasn’t there to watch the aftermath of her crushing defeat.
“That bitch,” he said.
“Steven, really, she’s not that bad a person—”
“What do you mean? She stole the company right out from under you. I never trusted her.” Steven pulled out into traffic and drove north, mumbling under his breath.
Steven’s right, Christy thought. Katherine is a bitch. Why am I defending her? I’m definitely in shock.
“Listen, Christy, I’ve known you a long time. You’re a survivor. You’re going to be okay,” Steven said kindly.
Christy didn’t respond.
Steven kept driving. Finally, he asked, “Do you want me to take you to Michael’s office?”
“No!” she said. “Not Michael’s. Please just…just drive.” Christy immediately regretted losing her temper. But she couldn’t apologize. She couldn’t talk to Steven. She couldn’t talk to anyone.
“Where to?” Steven said.
“I don’t know. Wherever.”
Steven drove north until they reached 125th Street. Then he cut over to the FDR Drive and cruised all the way downtown, looping around the tip of Manhattan, then going north again on the West Side Highway. He checked the rearview mirror on and off, but Christy kept a stoic expression. She was silent. As they exited the highway at Twenty-third Street, Christy glanced toward the river and caught a picture of herself on one of the few billboards that hadn’t yet been replaced with one of the new ads. There she was, the face of Baby G.
Christy let out a wail and dissolved into tears, weeping like a mother at the grave of her child. Steven pulled the car over and stopped. He stepped out to give her privacy as she gave in to the grief. She cried until there was nothing left.
Finally, Steven opened the door and offered Christy a bottle of water, a package of M&M’s, and a decongestant he had just purchased at a nearby deli. She thanked him, then pulled a mirror out of her purse and started to repair the damage. Christy looked nothing like the dressed-to-kill corporate warrior who’d left the house that morning. She was red-nosed and disheveled, with black mascara circles under her eyes. Steven handed her the box of wet wipes that he kept in the glove compartment, and Christy took the makeup off her face. She chugged the bottle of Evian.
“Do you want me to take you home now?” Steven asked.
Christy shook her head. “I can’t go home now. What time is it?”
Steven checked his watch. “Two forty-five.”
Christy wasn’t sure what to do. Where do people go in the middle of the afternoon when they don’t have jobs? Shopping. Yes, that has to be it. Christy never had time to shop. “Take me to Prada,” she declared. She saw Steven raise his eyebrows in the rearview mirror as they took off in that direction.
She stared out the window as the car headed back uptown. Soon, they were driving on Park Avenue in the seventies. Women were pushing babies in strollers. In very few cases did their ethnicity match. Stay-at-home nonmoms in running clothes were jogging over to Central Park. Nipped-and-tucked matrons were dressed in luncheon couture for their afternoon of shopping. Dog walkers pulled seven purebred dogs apiece—worth a small fortune. Outside each building, doormen stood guard over their domains, buttressed in their authority by official-looking uniforms, supervising the hip-hop ensemble of delivery boys who handed off food, prescriptions, bags of designer clothes, flowers, bundles of firewood, pets returning from their day spas.
On every corner, children in private-school uniforms were being chaperoned home. Little boys with khaki pants and navy blue blazers. Young girls with light-blue pleated skirts, starched white shirts, and navy sweaters. One girl was showing a drawing to her mother, who bent down with enthusiasm and interest. “On second thought, Steven, take me to Colby. I’ll surprise Renata,” she said.
Mommy Mogul
Christy smiled for the first time that day. This was good. She had never once had the time to pick up her girl. Quickly, she dialed Nectar and told her not to come. She would be meeting Renata.
“Mmm-mmm-mmm, why, that’s wonderful, Christy. I’m so proud of you. Now that’s what I call ‘good mothering.’” Christy collapsed back in the seat as Steven drove to school.
When the car stopped in front of the Colby School, Christy opened the door and stared at the scene before her. She wasn’t
