There's no Love on Wall Street Read online

  ‘Liz,’ I whispered. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah, I just feel a bit funny.’

  ‘Uh, Liz, there’s something stuck in your teeth,’ I whispered to her.

  ‘Oh,’ she said and rubbed her finger across the braces.

  We sat in silence, trying to focus on our notes. I stole a look at Liz, who was shaking her legs in the most unladylike manner. I wanted to reach out and hold her hand but the image of Liz rubbing her braces with her finger deterred any such thoughts. I had some serious handshaking to do when I walked into that interview room, I couldn’t take any chances.

  ‘Honey, that’s a really cute suit by the way,’ simpered Pam, possibly in an attempt to make Liz feel better.

  ‘Ttt-hanks,’ Liz stuttered.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Yee-ahh, just a little nervous, that’s all,’ and a big glob of saliva landed on the lapel of my suit which I was quick to flick off.

  ‘Liz Moo-ookien?’ the recruiter announced.

  She got up and tripped, spilling the papers which she held all across the floor. No one got up to help her except for me, and they all watched in partial horror and partial amusement as Liz and I fumbled to collect her belongings, the recruiter tapping her foot impatiently. I gave Liz an encouraging smile as she stood up and walked away. I felt pangs of nervousness thinking about Liz; I really wanted her to do well. She had worked harder than anyone else I knew, and she really deserved a spot. From where I sat, I could hear snatches of the interview taking place on the other side of the door.

  ‘Hello Liz, nice to meet you! Thanks for being here today.’

  There was silence. Why wasn’t she saying anything?

  ‘All right, we’re going to begin now. Could you talk to us about the current state of the economy?’

  Silence. This was easy; we all had our answers down pat for this question. Come on Liz, you know this one.

  ‘That’s all right Liz, we can come back to this later. Why don’t you explain the difference between a stock and a bond?’

  Liz definitely knew the answer to this; we had just finished an extensive homework assignment about the capital markets. But she remained mute. What was going on with her? Why wasn’t she saying anything?

  ‘Liz, would you like a drink of water or perhaps step out for a moment?’ the interviewer asked in a concerned voice after a few moments of embarrassing silence. ‘Could you tell us what the Dow was at this morning?’

  This was a textbook question! Liz had memorized the opening numbers for all the major indices for the past month. It was a one-word answer, surely she would manage this. I heard some incoherent murmuring in the room, and I moved closer to the door, trying to figure out what was going on inside. Seconds later, the door swung open, almost hitting me in the face, and out tumbled Liz. She was as pale as a sheet and trembling uncontrollably, as if she had seen a ghost.

  ‘Liz, what happened?’ I asked with concern. She shook her head from side to side, frozen in silence. Then suddenly, she burst out in tears and began rambling incoherently. I consoled a devastated Liz, telling her that it would all be all right as I led her back to her dorm room, helped her change out of her suit and put her to bed. Poor, dear Liz, she just wasn’t cut out for investment banking. I could only imagine how upsetting it would be for her.

  I glanced at the clock on the table and realized it was almost time for my interview. I rushed out of the room, more determined than ever before to crack this interview.

  Dressed in a grey skirt-suit, a Thomas Pink shirt, and the perfect banker shoes, not too high, not too pointy, not too shiny, wearing just a touch of makeup, my hair neatly parted on the side and tied back in a ponytail, I sat with my back perfectly straight, French-manicured hands on my lap, legs not crossed (because that wasn’t so ladylike), across a heavy wooden table from two women bankers from Goldstein Smith, the perfect bankerette. The big bright, friendly smile that I’d pasted on my face quickly disappeared, and a shiver ran up my spine as I gazed into their blank, stony faces. There would be no bullshit. These girls meant serious business. I had barely said hello when they began bombarding me with questions. ‘What was the Fed-funds rate this morning? What did the Dow Jones Index close at yesterday? NASDAQ? Oil prices?’ Even before I could finish the answer to one question, I was shot another. It was like dodging bullets. I was a bit thrown off when, in the middle of my opinion on the state of the housing market, one of them suddenly asked, ‘What is a lunar eclipse?’

  Good thing I had taken an astronomy class last semester and was able to answer that question coherently enough. Within a mere five minutes the interview that I had spent long hours and sleepless nights prepping for was over. I couldn’t believe it, the whole experience had been so quick and surreal, and I couldn’t believe that it was over and that I had done … well. The hunters seemed satisfied, they had taken a big hearty bite from the piece of meat. They gave me a satiated smile. They politely asked me to leave, and let the next victim in. I saw them salivating from their stony mouths as a tiny quivering Asian girl walked in. They were bankers, they had no time to waste. They went through the process quickly and efficiently. Their job was to kill prey, wipe their hands of the young blood and walk away. Only the strong would survive.

  My Number One

  I was invited over. I was one of the six people shortlisted from the preliminary list of sixteen, invited to go to New York City for the second-round interview! Finally, finally, I was on my way to fulfilling my life-long dream of bankerdom. The banker life was glamorous beyond even my wildest of dreams. All six of us were shuttled from Wellesley College to the airport in a stretch limousine arranged by the firm the night before the interview. We flew business class on the forty-five-minute flight from Boston to New York. On arrival we were received at the airport by a uniformed driver who took us to the Carlyle Hotel, Prince Charles’ choice of hotel when he visited New York, in a limousine. Each one us was given our very own room. Some of the girls who had been flown down for other bank interviews complained that they had had to share rooms at the Citigroup interview. How inappropriate, they exclaimed, to be packed into a room like sardines. What a cheap bank! Morgan Stanley had not even sent cars to pick them up at the airport. They had had to wait in line for a yellow cab! In just a few days we had gotten used to the good life. Unfortunately, soon everyone but a lucky few would be jostled back to their college student life, counting their dollars down to the cent, trading in the comfortable limos for public buses, and five-star hotels for youth hostels.

  I was woken up in the morning by the knocking on my door. An excited Pam called out to me, ‘Good morning, sunshine! We are meeting downstairs for breakfast in forty minutes for a last-minute prep session. The breakfast spread here is incredible. Hurry up!’

  I rolled around on the soft, fragrant white linen on the bed (I had not laundered my own sheets on my hard college bed in two weeks) and reluctantly lifted my head off the feather pillow. If only I could lay like this forever. Grudingly, I got out of bed and pulled on the luxurious bathrobe that had been hanging in the spastyle bathroom last night. I spent a minute appreciating the outfit that I had chosen for this occasion, which I had carefully hung in the closet. A lovely mauve shirt with white cuffs from Thomas Pink, along with a smart charcoal grey pinstripe skirt-suit, $20 pantyhose and well-polished black pumps. I was going to look my part for my big day. Irma at career services had told us that wearing a pantsuit was more appropriate; skirt-suits were too feminine and gave the wrong impression. You had to be tough like a man in the world of banking; you wanted to conceal every bit of your feminine side. Well, I wasn’t going to take Irma’s advice. After all, there was a reason why she was a mere career counsellor and not an investment banker. I enjoyed wearing hip-hugging skirtsuits. I felt confident, beautiful and sexy in them. I got ready quickly though I longed to stay in the luxurious bathroom lathering myself with Kiehls products forever. I picked up the WSJ that I had remembered to ord
er the previous night and scoured it before I went down to meet the other girls. The breakfast spread was indeed amazing. Salmon, caviar, exquisite cheeses that put the brie at the presentations to shame, and croissants so fine they just melted in your mouth. It was unfortunate that anxiety had killed my hunger.

  ‘Riya, you look sharp,’ said Pam between bites of the decadent eggs Benedict that lay in front of her. ‘You have to have this, it is amazing, the best I’ve ever had.’ A few minutes later a white-gloved server appeared with a plate piled high with pancakes, maple syrup and butter. ‘This looks fabulous!’ Pam attacked the pancakes with a vengeance and after she had polished them off, she began eating the untouched omelette on my plate.

  ‘Pam, are you all right?’ I asked, thinking about the fluorescent liquid diet that she had been on ever since I could remember.

  When I thought about it, I wasn’t sure if I had ever actually seen her consume any solid food.

  ‘Yes, I need to fuel myself for the interview. I’m sure it’s going to last through lunch and I don’t want to get hungry during,’ she gave me a big maple-syrupy smile as she finished off the last of my omelette. There was a line of black cars waiting outside the hotel to take us to the Goldstein Smith offices. What a great feeling it was to travel across New York City, from the Upper East Side to Wall Street in a black car. I just felt so … successful. I tried my best to concentrate on my notes but my eyes kept straying to catch glimpses of the spectacular, bustling city that I would soon call home. One last hurdle to cross before the prize was finally mine. Only one lucky girl would be selected for the internship, only one of us would get the chance to be a Goldstein girl. And that would be me. We arrived at 85 Broad Street, at the Goldstein Smith offices. I stepped out of the limo and took a deep breath, preparing myself to lay eyes upon this shrine. The grandeur of the white marble, the sparkling glass doors, the tower that reached so far into the sky … it was magnificent, exactly as I had pictured it. I had been waiting to step inside this building all my life. My pleasant thoughts were interrupted by a whimper.

  ‘Riya, I don’t feel so well,’ moaned Pam.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked, trying to bring in a touch of concern in my voice. Pam was such a drama queen that I never really took anything she said or did very seriously.

  ‘My tummy hurts,’ she let out a groan while clutching her stomach. Her face was ashen and beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead. ‘Uhhhh, it was probably the eggs Benedict. I’ve never had them before I … uhhh … I need to go to the bathroom.’ She began running towards the exit of the building awkwardly in her suit and her high heels, one hand clutching her tummy. Through the magnificent glass walls of the lobby, I saw her run into the Starbucks next door. That was the last I saw of Pam that day. I guess some people were just destined for I-banking greatness while others were not.

  ‘Welcome to Goldstein Smith,’ said the smiling, blonde, stylish HR rep as she handed each of us a folder. ‘This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so make it count!’

  Easy for her to say, it’s not like her entire life was hinging on this interview. We followed her, mesmerized by the grand surroundings, the pin-drop silence in the plush carpeted hallways, the heavy wooden furniture, the beautiful artwork on the perfect walls, the frosted glass doors. Well-dressed, good-looking people working quietly, efficiently and systematically in cubicles and offices. We came to a door at the end of the hallway that she opened by punching in a code. We were led into a small waiting area that led to a long hallway with numbered frosted glass doors on either side.

  ‘Ladies, in your folders you will find a door number, a corresponding swipe key and a list of instructions. Please follow them very carefully. Good luck,’ she said with a calm smile and left.

  I pushed Door 6 open after three attempts on the magnetic lock and entered an opulent conference room with an oval table surrounded by soft black leather chairs. I had been told nothing. I had no idea who or how many people were going to interview me, and for how long. I chose a chair towards the middle, sat down and placed the copy of the WSJ that had been sitting in my simple black tote bag next to my folder. It was a little trick that Sachin had taught me to make the interviewers believe I was smart and intellectual.

  A few minutes later two men entered the room. A chubby, bald black man dressed in a smart three-piece suit, and a short, skinny Asian gentleman who was floating in a pinstriped jacket that was a few sizes too big for him. I stood up and shook hands with them.

  ‘Hello, Riya. I am Kumasi, an associate in the healthcare group,’ the chubby guy introduced himself. ‘And this is my colleague.’

  ‘Hello, I am Michael Dong, senior analyst, healthcare group,’ the other man said in a thin, flat, not-particularly-friendly voice. They each had a copy of my résumé that they placed in front of them.

  ‘Thank you for taking the time to talk to me,’ I said as we sat down.

  Kumasi nodded, rubbed his bald head with the palm of his hand and began. ‘So Riya, why investment banking?’

  ‘As an economics major at Wellesley I have had the chance to study the financial markets, and I find them extremely interesting. I am very eager to learn, and I feel that a career in investment banking will give me the opportunity to expand my horizons further. Being a national-level squash player in India, and a member of the Wellesley College varsity squash team has taught me the great benefits of friendly competition and I work extremely well as part of a team. I love challenges and I strongly believe that a career in investment banking will provide me with the intellectual and emotional challenge to become the person that I aspire to be.’ I glanced quickly at my watch and realized I had overshot the thirty-five second mark, the ideal time in which to state your answer. ‘For all these reasons, banking is the perfect personality fit for me,’ I quickly concluded before the men lost interest.

  Kumasi rubbed his head with his palm again and looked over at his poker-faced associate.

  ‘Riya, are you ready to put in the long hours this job demands? I work an average of seventeen hours a day. That’s hard work, do you think you can handle it?’ asked Michael Dong without a hint of emotion in his voice.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied with a confident smile. ‘Absolutely. I believe that we must challenge ourselves now, at the beginning of our careers, to set the trend for the rest of our professional lives. Hard work is key to building a successful career. I believe the long hours will build stamina and endurance and serve me in good stead not only in my career, but in life.’

  ‘That’s what every candidate says. What makes you think you are better than the next person we are going to talk to? Maybe you could give us an example of a challenge that you met with and how you dealt with it?’ asked Kumasi smugly.

  Aha, a textbook question! ‘Of course,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘Last year, our squash team was looking to raise two thousand dollars to participate in a series of tournaments. The Boston marathon was a few months away and our coach suggested that we could raise the money if two people volunteered to run the marathon. I have always enjoyed running, but had never run a marathon before.’ I paused for effect. ‘I decided to do it. I trained for four months along with another team member and we ran the marathon in three and a half hours. We were able to raise thirty-two hundred dollars. The marathon was a physical, mental and emotional challenge that I met effectively.’ Score! Even Dong looked impressed. The truth was that I hated running, and the only time I had participated in a long-distance event was in school and I fainted at the finish line. But it wasn’t all a lie. I had run the Boston marathon, but just for two miles with a cute frat boy who was running, and I had promised to run a few miles with him.

  ‘Why Goldstein?’ Dong wanted to know next.

  ‘The answer to that question is very simple.’ Pause for effect. ‘Culture. I have noticed that the culture here at Goldstein is unique. It is a culture of teamwork, enthusiasm and intellectual curiosity, it is about service to your team, to your client, and most imp
ortantly to yourself. It is this that makes it the best place to work on the Street, and I want to be a part of it.’

  Kumasi nodded thoughtfully.

  Michael asked, ‘Do you think you will be able to multitask? I am working on five deals right now and have pulled three all-nighters in a row. Will you be able to do that?’

  I took a sip from the glass of water I had poured for myself at the beginning of the interview—all part of the plan. ‘That situation actually sounds very exciting to me, it would be a great learning experience, and I would love to meet the challenge. After all, challenges make us grow into strong, steadfast individuals.’

  The rest of the interview was fairly straightforward, questions on interest rates and oil prices. Thirty minutes after they had entered the room, Kumasi and Michael left looking adequately impressed. That had been the ‘fit’ part of my interview. I guessed technicals would be next. I gulped in fear.

  ‘Salman, senior vice president in collaterized debt obligations—the most profitable group in the firm,’ said the man who walked in a few minutes later. He was tall, dark and quite handsome though the heavily gelled hair made him look a little sleazy. He was wearing a red-and-white striped shirt with big golden cufflinks, and a dark suit with a red pocket square. ‘Riya, what a lovely perfume, what is it?’ he asked as he shook my hand and squeezed it, holding it a moment longer than necessary.

  ‘Thanks, it’s Marc Jacobs.’

  ‘Riya … That’s a nice name. Indian?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said with a nervous smile.

  He glanced down at my résumé. ‘What an interesting background,’ he said, rubbing his chin. ‘Hometown Indore, where is that now?’ Salman asked.