Caroline's fingers stopped typing when I didn’t answer straight away and she looked up at me, eyebrow raised.
"Any one of them is fine," I assured her, eyes moving over her shoulder toward the door of the opulent ballroom.
"You don't have a preference?" she asked, those perfectly manicured brows now knitting together.
She didn't mean a preference between a bachelor's and a master's or three years’ experience versus five or seven. She meant did I want a brunette or a blonde to suck me off beneath my desk while I negotiated a 1.2 billion dollar contract with Hong Kong.
"Any one of them is fine," I repeated.
Caroline hesitated, but then nodded. "Alright then."
Without a word, let alone a word of goodbye, Caroline spun on her Louis Vuitton heel, her silky black bob whipping around and falling right back into place. At the last moment, I reached for her, touching her elbow.
"Hey, Caroline?"
She only went as far as to glance hastily at me over her shoulder.
"What if I weren’t to give a speech?" I asked.
She frowned. "You're expected to."
"I know, but—"
"You're expected to give a speech. The senior partners expect you to give a speech."
I gave her a curt nod.
"Do you want me to review your speech?" she asked, her eyes roaming now with suspicion to the breast pocket of my suit jacket.
"No, no," I said, shaking my head. "I followed the guidelines you sent me."
Caroline's eyes narrowed at me. "This is your special night, Michael. Don't fuck it up."
With that pleasant remark of congratulations, she stalked off and disappeared into the crowd. I had tried to write a speech. I had. I had sat in my office till the light of dawn crept across my desk every day for the last week, trying to write the goddamn speech.
I tried to say how grateful I was to the company, to PLA Harper, to Bill, to Gregory, to Walter, to whomever else Caroline's memo instructed me to include.
I tried to force my fingers to type that this was the happiest day not just of my professional career, but of my life, my whole life.
I tried to get out the words: this is everything I've ever worked for, everything I've ever wanted, everything I could ever hope for.
But every time I managed to get to the end, I would read back over what I'd written, hastily delete it all, and slam shut the screen of my laptop angrily.
Because I knew the company and PLA Harper and Bill and Gregory and Walter and whomever else Caroline's memo instructed me to include were all just using me. I was nothing more to them than a foot soldier, a yes-man, a shiny new cog in their filthy machine.
Because this was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, and it wasn't. And I didn't really know why. And that pissed me off. And irritated me. And scared the fuck out of me.
Because this was everything I'd worked for, everything I'd ever wanted, everything I could have ever hoped for, but I no longer knew what “this” was. A fancy new car? A hot secretary to fuck? More sleepless nights and zeros in my bank account I won't have the time or energy or interest to even spend?
The worst part was I didn't know what else there was besides that. So I'd work toward a fancier fancy new car, a hotter hot secretary to fuck, and more sleepless nights and more zeros in my bank account, because that was success.
I guessed.
The band played on and like a choreographed dance I shook hands, laughed at jokes about golf and hookers and tax law loopholes for billionaires. I accepted congratulations and pretended I didn't see the greedy, jealous eyes of my subordinates and the predatory, threatened eyes of my superiors. I was a willing marionette as the band played on.
The third martini was perhaps a mistake.
By the third martini I was forgetting to laugh at jokes I was supposed to laugh at, I was drifting off during conversations I was supposed to be paying attention to, and I was dangerously close to doing the worst thing imaginable: speaking my mind.
Instead of complimenting a senior partner's secretary on her diamond necklace, I almost said, “Bad investment. Those looks won't keep you employed forever. I could recommend some high return portfolios instead.”
Instead of nodding along about how lovely the ballroom had been decorated, I almost, almost said, “Hate it. Absolutely hate it. I envy the little animal that gets to choke on those balloons.”
And when Caroline came over later in the night to inform me it was almost time, I almost, almost told her where she and her guidelines could shove it.
"Can I at least go take a leak first?" I asked instead. "As you know I've got a long list of names to get through up there."
Caroline's face darkened, clearly not amused.
"Make it quick," she said, glancing at the clock on her tablet. "It will be quite the embarrassment to Bill if you're not here when he calls you up."
I saluted her, something two-martini me would have never dared doing. "I'll piss like the wind, Captain. Piss lightning."
Caroline glared after me and I grinned a little. It felt good to be something slightly less than the epitome of professionalism. Two-martini me would have protested, arguing that you could jeopardise your career with nonsense like that.
But three-martini me had the reins now.
As I wandered a little more than a little drunk toward a hallway I thought might have a bathroom, I realised my life was perfect. I had
