There's no Love on Wall Street Read online

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  There’s No Love oN WaLL sTreeT

  Ira Trivedi is the author of the best-selling novels What Would You Do to Save the World?: Confessions of a Could-Have-Been Beauty Queen and The Great Indian Love Story. Her books have been translated into several regional languages and have been met by critical and public acclaim. She has an MBA from Columbia Business School and a BA in economics from Wellesley College.

  Praise for What Would You Do to Save the World?:

  Confessions of a Could-Have-Been Beauty Queen

  ‘There’s a letter-perfect analysis of the social phenomenon known as South Bombay … Trivedi’s take on what a society girl from Delhi can hope to take away from a beauty queen’s tiara is cruelly satisfying’—Outlook

  ‘An entertaining first novel which reveals the dust behind the diamonds, the tears behind the plastic smiles, and dishes the dirt on what really goes on behind the scenes of a beauty pageant’—Deccan Herald

  Praise for The Great Indian Love Story

  ‘For the time-strapped fast-paced modern woman … an interesting insight into the lives of the rich and famous’—DNA

  ‘[Ira Trivedi] lays bare the souls of the protagonists … a racy read’—Mail Today

  THERE’S NO

  LOVE ON

  Wall Street

  IRA TRIVEDI

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  To those who have passed and to those who are born.

  The soul always remains one.

  I would like to dedicate this book to my late grandmother, the writer Kranti Trivedi, for giving me the gift of words. Also to the latest addition to the Trivedi family—my niece Vani Tewari whom the heavens have blessed with beauty, intelligence and the loveliest parents a girl could have.

  ‘Someone reminded me I once said, “Greed is good.” Now it seems that it’s legal. Because everyone is drinking the same Kool Aid.’—Gordon Gekko, Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps

  Enlightenment

  It was a beautiful fall day in Wellesley, Massachusetts. The sun shone brightly, birds were chirping and the soft breeze blew gently. Girls lay out on the lawn, tanning in their bikinis, catching the last rays of the summer sun, others played a lazy game of soccer, and some swam in the calm waters of Lake Waban. The sounds of their fun-filled laughter floated in through the windows of the biology lab where I was spending yet another day with my best friend Lola, a three-pound female mink whom I was painstakingly dissecting. A deep darkness set into my being as I looked out into the glimmering sunshine at the fun and freedom that would never be mine, not in this lifetime anyways. My pre-med life didn’t leave me time for anyone, Lola was my one and only, my partner. That was when I saw them. I remember it vividly—it was one of those hard-hitting, soul-stirring moments that can change one’s life forever. They trotted across the lawn in their dangerously pointed high-heels, their business suits hugging their toned, sculpted yoga bodies, strings of pearls glistening around their necks, their backs arched proudly, their delicate chins up in the air, clutching the black résumé folders engraved with the majestic Wellesley College crest close to their hearts. The Banking Girls! Everyone on campus knew them. They were all economics majors who aspired to be investment bankers. They played field hockey and tennis and were on the debate team, all in an effort to plump up their résumés. Hair, make-up, styling, grades, career prospects—they were perfect in every way. How elusive and enchanting they looked from where I stood in the darkness of the biology lab, the princesses of Wellesley college. If only …

  And suddenly the revelation came … like a shooting star from heaven, like a bolt of lightning that shattered the darkness that had surrounded me, everything became crystal clear. I knew in the deepest part of my being, that I, Riya Jain, was going to become an investment banker when I grew up. I had no idea what an investment bank was, what investment bankers did or how they did it, but I did know that it would be my way into the good life. No more ill-fitting lab coats, smelly latex gloves, or dissected minks, though I did love Lola so. I would be a banking babe, don a sexy business suit, shiny pearls, designer shoes and attend cocktail receptions, fancy dinners and other such sophisticated events that pariah pre-med students would always be shunned from. I peeled off my latex gloves and shrugged off my lab coat, and with it my life as a dorky pre-med student … forever. It was as if a beautiful butterfly had shed the thick layers of her cocoon to reveal a new self, one that would be an investment banker one day. I ran out into the sunshine, my arms up in the air, and my heart sang in pure, unadulterated joy.

  Investment banking … here I come

  When I came to attend Wellesley College, fresh off the boat or, as in my case, an Air India flight from Indore, India, I had promised my parents that I would fulfil their dreams and study medicine. On that fateful day as the investment banking army marched past me, boasting their pastel colours, my pre-med life as planned by my parents took a 180-degree turn.

  The bane of my existence, the curse of my bad karma was the fact that I was born an only child. All my life I had prayed for my parents to be blessed with another child; a boy if the gods were kind, but anything would do as long as there was someone else to share the burden of an Indian parent’s love. It’s not like they hadn’t tried. They had travelled the world many times over looking for a solution, for they longed even more than me for a son. As the number of unsuccessful fertility treatments grew, the dismal hospital visits in obscure parts of Virginia and strange cities in Germany became fewer and we were forced to accept that I was all there would ever be. So it was only me, the child who would be it all for my parents—boy and girl, youngest and oldest. My parents expected all the laurels and achievements that they would of a dutiful son, but they also expected me to be the good subservient Indian daughter. Over the years I had come to the realization that any Indian parent in any part of the world had only one dream for their daughter and that was to find her a good husband. Now that I was of age, marriage seemed to have deluded my parent’s minds, particularly that of my mother. After much discussion, mostly between my parents, it was decided that medicine seemed to be a good career choice for me. It seemed to me that it was what they would have expected of a son—to be a well-paid doctor who took care of his ailing parents—yet somehow being a doctor, a caregiver, a healer didn’t compromise my femininity. Also, Prema Aunty, my mother’s best friend, whose favorite pastime was to scour matrimonial websites, had informed my mother that shaadi.com, India’s most popular website, boasted the most positive marriage statistics for women doctors between the ages of 21.3 and 25.6.

  Though I didn’t particularly enjoy biology, and had no interest whatsoever in the human body, fixing or caring for it, the nagging guilt that I had felt all my life of not being able to fulfill my parents’ dreams prevailed and I reluctantly agreed with their plans for me like the good Indian daughter always had. I had felt the onset of the prickly rash of rebellion since I had entered the gates of Wellesley College, the school my parents had chosen for me. After all, they wanted the very best international education for their only child but the thought of their daughter sharing a bathroom with a boy had been too much for them. For the first time in my life I saw girls my own age pursuing their very own dreams, not those of their parents, and I realized that it was indeed possible to create a life of my own imagination.

  That small prickly rash was now a full-blown skin disease and it had now taken over my well-being. I wanted something on my own, for my own. I felt a deep yearning, in my stomach, from the bottom of my heart, to be an investment banker. It was a well-known fact on campus that investment banking was where the money was, and all the coolest, prettiest, most popular girls on campus were part of the in
vestment banking coterie. Setting my eyes firmly on the prize I embarked on Project Banking Babe, beginning my assimilation into the beautiful world of banking. I changed my major from biology to economics (which I had no interest in, but this is the major that most investment banks preferred). I started collecting my wardrobe, piece by piece, to be identical to that of the ‘I-banking’ crew, and I joined the Wellesley squash team. I knew that Investment Banks loved hiring athletes and all forms of sporting activities, particularly the preppy sports like squash, lacrosse, and field hockey. I had played some squash in school and, fortunately for me, the Wellesley squash team was in poor form and desperately looking for players.

  Slowly yet steadily I transformed myself, secretly stalking the investment banking girls, observing and absorbing. Thus far in life, I hadn’t cared very much about the way I looked, not the way some of the girls at Wellesley did anyway. I was not unfortunate-looking, and at five-eight, my height seemed to be an attractive quality. My parents had always been proud of my height, somehow I had managed to outgrow both my mother and my father, and I stood at 5’8". Gigantic for an Indian girl. I figured it was my parents’ desire for me to be a boy that manifested in my height. I was skinny, which my mother and other Indian aunties had always resented, but I didn’t really give it much thought. It was just the way I was. At Wellesley, my long-maligned skinniness worked in my favour: with the I-banking crew it seemed like the skinnier the better.

  Throughout my schooling in India I had worn uniforms, and the little free time that I had was spent in various tuitions and activities which would better my chances to get into American colleges. For those I didn’t need to dress up very fashionably. None of the pre-med friends that I had made at Wellesley had cared very much about the way they looked, not the way they cared about the books that they read anyways. The main difference between the I-banking girls and me seemed to be that they all looked so … good, and I was well … drab. Would it ever be possible for me to look like them? Maybe not. But if I had to be an investment banker, I would have to try.

  As I observed their rose-hued complexions, and perfectly straight hair, I wondered if I would ever be able to look like that. I began discovery of my deeper self. With each stroke of the make-up brush I felt like my personality was being highlighted. It wasn’t merely physical. As I applied lip-gloss to my chapped, colourless lips it was as if along with my lips my self-confidence was also being plumped. With each sweep of the foundation on my dull skin it was as if I was brightening up the drab, boring person that I was. As I lined my eyes it was as if I was giving shape to the girl that I always wanted to be. With each strand of my frizzy hair that I straightened it was as if I was straightening some flaw in my personality. When I looked in the mirror I couldn’t believe what I saw. I saw a pretty, sexy, confident girl, a girl who looked like an investment banker to me. I got rid of the Levi’s jeans that my dad had bought me during my pre-college-shopping spree.

  ‘Kid, you need two good pairs of jeans and a good pair of running shoes when you go abroad,’ said my dad, who considered himself an expert, since he had done his masters in the UK some twenty-odd years ago. I started babysitting and made strategic investments with my money (aah, the investment banker in me!). I invested in Lactose and Polo shirts of various pastel shades, cashmere and cable-knit cardigans for the winter, a pair of ridiculously priced designer jeans which set me back $120 (even though I bought them on eBay), and ribbon belts that cost $30 a piece. This preppy ensemble was the casual uniform of the investment banking crew and I had to buy in to fit in. As I donned these new clothes it was as if along with my body, my personality had taken new shape and form. Though my conservative school in India was co-ed, it was unthinkable for boys and girls to date. The most that would happen was a guy asking a girl to be his ‘friend’, usually via Facebook, with a charmless bouquet of e-roses. When the rare opportunity presented itself, the bolder and more romantic ones sometimes accosted the girl with hand-written notes and the occasional gift. Having been subjected to their attention, I had often wondered what these boys saw in me, the plain, long-faced girl with a thin nose and shapeless lips and a light complexion that some would call ‘fair’. I had ignored these requests because I was too scared and shy to respond. The group of girls I hung out with didn’t encourage it either. What if your parents find out, they had demanded, what then? Much to my parents’ disappointment (though of course they would never know about this expedition of mine) I began discovering my sexuality. I am sure they would have liked me to forever remain the asexual son-daughter, boy-girl that I had become.

  I started following the hordes of girls on the estrogen-charged Wellesley weekend buses to MIT and Harvard frat parties. The sole aim of these trips was to meet boys, flirt with them, dance with them and who knew what else. Perhaps the only contribution biology made towards my I-banking pursuits was the fake ID I got from my lab partner, which gave me access to the free beer that was served at these parties. Though I didn’t particularly like the taste of alcohol, it was what the I-banking crowd drank, and so I drank it like a nutrition drink for my I-banking soul. It made talking to boys easier too. Like the time I went to the Delta Kappa frat house at Harvard for a keg party in my freshman year. I didn’t know the girls who had invited me too well, but I wanted to prove that I was one of them. As soon as I entered I was handed a glass of beer. I chugged the first one within five minutes because it tasted so vile. I had barely finished my drink when I was handed another by a cute boy. We got talking and I lost count of how many times he topped up my glass, his arm around my waist distracting me. I don’t remember much about that party but I do recall the girls being friendlier on the drive back to Wellesley.

  And just like that, by carefully replicating each move of theirs, by cloning their personalities and by imitating their behaviour I was slowly yet surely assimilating into my banking avatar.

  IBD-GenX

  For the next two years, I feverishly followed every process of the investment banking recruiting season, the seniors looking for full-time positions in the fall and the juniors for internships in the spring. Who made the interview lists? Who made the first cut? Who was lucky enough to proceed to the second round of interviews, and get an offer? And most importantly, who was fortunate enough to make it to the Holy Grail of investment banks—Goldstein Smith? I carefully tracked the Wellesley career, personal life and wardrobe of the lucky few who got the coveted summer internships, and the even fewer jobs.

  Our sophomore year, two friends from my intermediate microeconomics class—Liz Mookien and Pam Saluja—and I formed a club called IBD-GenX. During our weekly study group meetings, we would eagerly share all the investment-banking gossip, discussing everything from the best way to secure a Wall Street job to the girls who made the cut and the ones who hadn’t; who had worn the classiest suit or who had been foolish enough to rent one of the ill-fitting outfits from career services to the quintessential banker’s shoe (not too high, nor too trendy, nor too shiny). So far the club only consisted of the three of us but we hoped to grow when we found the right members. We had all decided that it would be extremely private and highly selective. If any member of the group did not secure an investment-banking offer, she would be immediately kicked out of the club.

  Like me, Liz had come to Wellesley with the intent of becoming a doctor but was swept off her feet by the might of the investment banking army. She immediately switched her major from chemistry to economics (with a second degree in English to keep her GPA up), attempting to enlist into the ranks of the I-banking army. Unlike me, it was a very, very difficult battle for Liz. She was a geek, born and raised, and though she tried very hard, she would never be like the banking girls. And to make matters worse, she had had the bright idea to get herself the shiniest silver braces known to mankind. Though she didn’t have much social sense, she did have the GPA that any of us econ-major investment bankers would die for. Those sexy numbers would get her on the interview list at any bank out there. I wou
ld spend long hours studying economics with her in the hope that my not-so-high GPA would improve, many of which were spent engrossed in investment-banking chatter.

  ‘Riya, do you think I’m pretty enough to be a banker?’ asked Liz, looking at me with an earnest smile.

  ‘Of course, Liz, none of that stuff matters anyways!’ I told her kindly.

  ‘Hmm … I guess I am hot in that dusky Indian-babe sort of way … but I don’t think I am bitchy enough to be an investment banker. Did you see the new battalion of Goldstein girls this year? They picked all the pretty, put-together girls … but they’re all just so dumb. Those girls really know how to be mean, and lie! Jenny Wu claims to have received five offers but I know for a fact that it’s not true. Irma at career services told me. Jenny had the audacity to say that I don’t have it in me to be a banker! How the hell can she say that?! The bitch! She has no idea what my GPA is, no idea how desperately the department wants me to work on a thesis …’ Liz was rambling now and was starting to spit and spew through those wires of hers. A sudden, desperate and pathetic look came upon her face.

  ‘Riya … you have to help me at this. I have to be like them … they get all the offers. You are friends with all those girls, you know how they operate … help me.’

  She looked so helpless (and I could not help but notice that Liz was starting to develop a serious acne problem) that I felt like I just had to help this girl. After all, all she really needed was some hair straightening, some foundation, a dab of blush, and a good suit. It was probably good banking karma anyway. Maybe if I helped Liz, she would help me study for the approaching economics mid-term.

  ‘All right,’ I said concealing my hesitation with a tight smile.