“So you think a thousand for managers and two-fifty for the support staff would be about right?” Christy asked, tightening her belt.
“Better, definitely better,” Katherine said. “Although, that leaves less than two hundred thousand for each of us. I don’t think anyone would begrudge you and me taking a bit more than that. We’ve sacrificed for this company in ways no one else has. Think about what we’ve been through—the late nights, the road shows, my marriage breaking up. Geez, you haven’t even had time to start a relationship. Maybe we should think about two twenty-five for each of us and split the last fifty among the staff. It’s not like they’re expecting a bonus. And they all got stock in the public offering.”
“Well, that’s true,” Christy said, “but I think they deserve something now that we’ve come so far. They’ve worked hard, too.”
“And I totally agree,” Katherine said, gripping her armrest as the plane weathered the turbulence. “They’ve earned a reward. But at the same time, now that we’re public, it’s important to the company that you and I finally buy our own apartments. We need places to entertain and to show the world that we’re part of the Manhattan power scene. Nothing says you’ve arrived like an apartment in the right building.”
Christy sighed. “What do you have in mind?”
A flight attendant walked by, checking to see that everyone was wearing a seat belt.
“We’re buckled,” Katherine told her as she whizzed past. “I really think, and I mean this for the good of the company, that you and I should split the entire five-hundred-thousand-dollar bonus pool. If we each cash in five percent of our stock, we’d have enough for down payments on apartments. We can do something very generous for our people, like throw them a big party. They’d love that.”
“You think it’s that important for us to have our own apartments?” Christy asked. “More important than giving bonuses to our people?”
“It is, Chris,” Katherine said. “Trust me on this. Personally, I couldn’t care less about owning, but Wall Street notices senior management who live in rental buildings. And believe me, it’s not helping our reputations.”
“I’d like to do more for the staff than just give a party,” Christy said.
“And we can,” Katherine said. “In fact, why don’t we give everyone an extra free pair of our shoes? They’d flip over that.”
Christy thought about it for a moment. She had really looked forward to giving everyone their first bonus checks. But if Wall Street actually cared where she lived, she supposed she had better live in the right place. “All right,” Christy said. “This year, we buy homes. Next year, everyone gets cash.”
“Absolutely,” Katherine said.
“So, it says here that you’re not married,” said Mr. Gibbons, the board president. “Are you seeing anyone?” Mr. Gibbons resembled your basic Bowery bum. People were always shocked to learn that he lived on Fifth Avenue and employed a manservant named Pierre.
“Oh no,” Christy said. “I live a quiet life. Between starting my company, taking it public, growing it the way we have, it’s a wonder I have time to work out anymore.” She took a sip of water to wet her parched throat.
“When you do work out, do you walk through your lobby in your exercise clothes?” Mrs. Rich asked in an accusing tone. She was the type of woman who believed nice girls shouldn’t sweat.
“Of course not,” Christy said, trying not to sound defensive, as Meris Blumstein, her real estate agent, had advised her. “I belong to a gym and I change there.”
Christy was on the receiving end of one of Manhattan’s most reviled rituals—the co-op board interview. She had told Meris to find her a condo so she could avoid this humiliation, but then an apartment at 830 Fifth Avenue came up. The place was exactly what she had been looking for, except that it was a co-op, which meant that she’d have to pass inspection by board members who probably couldn’t get in themselves if they were applying today. Christy sat at the round walnut table in the building’s airless boardroom. She couldn’t have felt more exposed if she were lying on her gynecologist’s examining table covered by a thin paper gown.
“It says here that you’re only putting down fifty percent. Is there a reason you need to take out such a big mortgage?” Mr. Crackstone asked, squinting as he read Christy’s board package. Manny Crackstone prided himself on his good head for numbers. Feet in the stirrups, young lady. This instrument may feel a little cold.
“Well, after my company went public, I sold a million dollars’ worth of founder’s shares. The money will be applied to this down payment. But the bank has no problem giving me the mortgage. I’m pledging my stock options as collateral.”
“And what if your stock goes down?” Mr. Crackstone pressed. “Then how will you cover your mortgage payments? You don’t have much in savings. We like to see three times the value of the apartment in the bank at a minimum.” I’ll just be taking a few cells here for your Pap smear.
“Well, as you can see on line six,” Christy said, pointing her clammy finger at the financial statement he was holding, “I have a generous salary. And I’ll be able to exercise more options in a year to bolster my liquidity.” Christy would have liked to ask Mr. Crackstone if he had three times the value of his apartment in the bank.
“I don’t kno-o-ow,” Mrs. Rich said, clucking her tongue. “This seems risky to me.” Right now I’m just feeling for your ovaries. Try to relax.
“Mrs. Rich, on paper, I’m worth almost twenty million dollars. That should give you some sense of security.” Christy felt obnoxious saying those words aloud. But she had to defend herself.
Mrs. Rich raised her
