There's no Love on Wall Street Read online

  I looked down at the list of interns and the institutions they hailed from—Harvard, Princeton, Yale, Brown, UPenn, Stanford. As expected the East Coast Ivy League schools dominated. There was a smattering from the East Coast liberal arts schools such as Wellesley, Amherst, Williams, a few from top West Coast schools like Berkeley and Stanford and, for diversity’s sake, a chosen few from the better state schools like the Universities of Virginia and Michigan. Mostly everyone was white, though there were sprinklings of colour—Asians and Indians (my mother’s voice echoed in my head for a moment, but none of the desi men were particularly attractive), the token African American and Hispanic person.

  Our offers at Goldstein Smith had granted us admission to the inner circle of investment banking. But the race was far from over. It began in high school, with the struggle to get into college, where yet another fierce battle waged as everyone set their eyes on the investment banks, Goldstein Smith being the jewel in the crown. And then the tussle to get to private equity firms and hedge funds, then to make VP, MD, partner. It was a never-ending rat race, the group became smaller and smaller, the weak got sifted out, and only the strongest survived.

  As I sat among the best who had made it here, I felt extremely lucky … and a little bit nervous. A series of fortuitous events and persistence had brought me this far and now I wondered if I, a dorky Indian pre-med girl, had it in me to compete with these kids and make it in the big bad world of banking. How long would I survive in the rat race before I was overtaken, run over and squashed to a pulp?

  Honeymoon

  ‘Today is your last day at school. Tomorrow you enter the real world. Make every day count, the next three months will fly by, and before you know it, before you can say "investment banking", it will be D-day. We have spent twelve long months looking for you guys. You are the cream of the crop, handpicked from the best and brightest in your class to be part of the firm. You are in the best playground in the world. Play. Play like you have never played before. Like there is no tomorrow. Follow the golden rule: Be the first one to show up and the last one to leave. One word. One important fucking word. Network. It’s the name of the game. Live, drink and eat networking. If you have to buy your own lunch more than once a week, you are not doing a good enough job. If you pay for any of your drinks … you are a loser. Drink beer like water and vodka like fruit punch. Alcohol is your tonic for survival, the elixir for your tired and sleepless soul, and the best part is that it is all free. But don’t ever get so drunk that you don’t remember what the fuck you did the night before. That is dangerous, very dangerous … trust me. Proactive—it’s the name of the game. Be proactive. Ask for work … beg for work if you must. Be on your toes, downtime for others means opportunity for you. We are really fucking busy here, time is an expensive fucking commodity, and if you don’t show a strong desire to learn, no one will teach you. Be proactive but not irritating. Switch off your cellphones, especially if you are on the trading floor. We hate cellphones. You will have a phone on your desk; call anyone you want, wherever you want, in any country you want, for however long you want. We’ll foot the bill. Tell your mother, father, sister, anyone, everyone, to call you on that phone. Just switch off your damn cellphone, and change your ringtone, because if your phone goes off by mistake and some gay-ass ringtone goes off, then you might as well quit Goldstein now, because you aren’t getting a job at this firm. You will be judged every day and by everyone you meet, so look good, behave, and even if you’re not all that smart, sound intelligent. Form a good impression. The golden rule for all interns: Be the first one to show up at work and the last one to leave, let everyone know that you love what you do, and you will do anything, absolutely anything, to get the job. If you work hard you will be rewarded with an offer. As of right now all of you have an offer. We want you. That is why you are here. Now it is up to you to prove that you belong here. The time has finally come for you to unleash your potential, and there is no better place to do this than here. Thank you and good fucking luck. You’ll need it.’

  During the week-long intern-training session, we had people from the firm—from the chairman, to the heads of all the most important departments, and so many VPs that I had lost track—come and talk to us about the dos and don’ts of the summer internship. In between speakers we were offered gourmet meals. Every night was a party. We were entertained at some trendy bar that had been booked for us and offered free-flowing drinks. We were all told that this was an integral part of our job, to entertain and be entertained. We were the future of Goldstein Smith and, by association, the future of the world. We had never felt as important.

  On our third day of training I had befriended Ivana, a good-looking Russian from the University of Chicago with a love for vodka, men and Microsoft Excel—sure success signs for a career in banking. Ivana had backpacked through India the previous summer and we had a lot to talk about. That evening we were both drunk after consuming too many glasses of red wine, and spent the rest of the night critiquing all the interns.

  It was 8.30 a.m. and Ivana and I sat in the back of the room, nursing our hangovers with cups of strong black coffee.

  ‘Babe, those last six vodka–Red Bulls were a bad idea. I knew I should have stopped on the third. Thank God this is the last day of these damn intern events. There is no bloody way we’re getting offers if we keep getting sloshed every night, no matter what they say.’

  ‘Yeah, all this free booze, it’s trouble I tell ya. We’re going to have to set a two-drink maximum tonight. If I drink more than that, I’m seriously going to get liver poisoning, and we’ve got to be in good shape for our first day of work tomorrow,’ I said taking a big gulp of my coffee, trying to drown out the taste of vodka, which lingered in my mouth despite brushing my teeth three times.

  ‘Good morning interns!’ chirped Alison, head recruiter and Mother Duck to the summer interns. ‘Today is a sad day for me because you’ll be leaving me to move on to bigger and better things, your assigned groups! Exciting! All the best, and make me proud.’ There was a smattering of applause, after which she continued in that same annoyingly chirpy tone. ‘We have brought a really interesting bunch of people to speak to you today. We have organized a panel of young bankers who can answer all your questions, from the kind of work you have to do to favourite restaurants and, ahem, the most important … favourite bars in the city,’ she said with a giggle. ‘These guys were in your shoes just a few years ago, so they’re great people to turn to for help. The panel is going to start in a few minutes, so please grab the last of the muffins and take your seats!’

  Alison strutted away in her high heels. As always she was dressed very well, she had mastered the art of looking sexy yet very appropriate. Her skirt was tight enough to show off her toned body, but not too tight to be deemed inappropriate. Her top was cut low to reveal just a touch of her supple breasts.

  ‘That Alison is one hot potato,’ whispered Ivana in my ear. ‘Rumour has it that she is dating some hot-shot MD here.’

  ‘That’s not entirely surprising, you know they are called HR hos for a reason.’

  The HR girls were some of the hottest girls at the firm. Often they were jaded ex-bankers or traders, and since they could not hold out in that job, and if they were hot enough, they would be transferred to Human Resources, where they had more exposure to human beings than to Excel. They would stick around in HR till they snagged a rich VP or MD who was much too busy with work to find himself a wife outside the bank, and that happily ended her banking career and began her career as domestic goddess. I went and grabbed one last cup of coffee and a bagel to fuel me through the ‘young banker’ session that promised to be a bore and went back to my seat, where I found Ivana snoring softly. I let her sleep. Poor thing. She had really gone overboard with the vodka yesterday. We had been at bowling night and Ivana and an analyst (a real one, not just a summer intern) had a drinking game that involved bowling balls and shots of vodka. Understandably, she was in poor shape today.
r />   ‘Interns, let me introduce to our fabulous panel this morning. First, is Ross Jones, an associate in equity derivatives.’

  ‘Hello,’ said a flat, deep voice that sounded disturbingly familiar. Was I so hungover that I was imagining things? It couldn’t be him, could it? I arched my back and craned my neck to look past all the intern heads blocking my view. And almost fell off my chair. Holy shit! It was him. I grabbed Ivana’s arm and she gave me a sleepy, surprised look.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘That guy up there, he’s my ex from freshman year. How crazy is that!’

  ‘Are you serious? Ex-boyfriend?’

  ‘Uh … something like that, I guess.’ Her eyes widened in surprise and she suppressed laughter. Alison looked around sternly, trying to locate the source of the noise. We shut up and pretended to be engrossed in Ross’s speech. Pesky interns were asking him stale questions, the usual stuff—What is your career plan? Do you see yourself staying at Goldstein? What challenges have you faced? What advice do you have for us?—while I took a rather not entirely pleasant walk down memory lane. I met Ross during my freshman year at a party at Harvard, where he was a senior. It was the beginning of my transformation into I-banking swan and I was going to the parties at Harvard because it was the cool thing to do. I stood in the corner sipping on cheap beer that tasted vile, but I had to drink it because everyone else around me was. The girls I had come to the party with had all run off with some boy or the other and I was left alone in the corner, feeling stupid, lost and awkward and hoping that I didn’t look like the loser that I felt I was. Right when I was on the verge of leaving, thinking it would be more pleasant to be subjected to the freezing cold weather at the bus stop than this party, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ said a husky voice behind me.

  I turned around, confused. ‘What … excuse me? Are you talking to me?’

  ‘Yes, you.’

  He was cute. Definitely cute. He looked Indian, but not completely, he seemed to be an exotic mix of sorts. He snatched the beer out of my hand, took a giant gulp, and threw the empty plastic cup on the floor.

  ‘You’ve been sipping this for an hour; you hate it. Let’s go back to my place and get you a decent glass of wine.’

  I was flattered that he had been watching me for the past hour, and even more so that he wanted to leave with me. No one had ever asked me to do that before.

  ‘Um … I don’t even know you,’ I said nervously.

  ‘I’m Ross, and I live right next door.’ Then he added softly, ‘Even though we’ve just met, I feel like I’ve known you forever.’

  It was one of the cheesiest pick-up lines ever, but I still blushed. Usually, college guys never came on to me so strong … if at all. ‘Thanks … but I …’ I hesitated.

  ‘Come on now, princess, don’t be a bore,’ he said, rolling his eyes at me.

  I thought about it. I mean, how sketchy could he really be. He was a senior at Harvard after all … and he was kind of cute … actually quite cute.

  ‘Oh … all right … But, but only for a bit.’

  ‘Awesome!’ he said smiling.

  His room was not next door but a few blocks away. He was half black and half white, which explained his honey-coloured skin, and had grown up in New York City. He was an economics major and a basketball player and he was moving back to New York the following year to be … an investment banker! The fact that he was a real-life investment banker sent a thrill up my spine. Was it possible that I, the nerdy Indian girl, could have an I-banker boyfriend?! At his room we shared half a bottle of wine before I decided it was time to leave. Ross wanted me to spend the night, and though some part of me wanted to stay, it was too much, too soon, and I left shortly after.

  For the next few weeks we hung out with each other often. He would take the bus up to Wellesley where we sat in our dining hall, and later walk hand-in-hand to the Wellesley Ville for ice cream. I hoped that one of the banking girls would carry the news back to the clan. I could picture them in my mind, huddling together, shaking their heads in disbelief, jealousy in their eyes as they watched … Riya with her new man, a beautiful banker boy from Harvard.

  Although being seen with him and being able to proclaim that I had a Harvard boyfriend had done wonders for my reputation, I soon tired of Ross. He was rather boring and we ran out of things to talk about pretty quickly. Eventually, all he seemed interested in was getting my clothes off and into bed with him; I didn’t like that very much. And, if my parents ever found out I had a foreign boyfriend, moreover one who was black (even half), I would be on the next flight to India with a one-way ticket. With a twinge of regret, I told Ross over Facebook that I didn’t want to see him any more. I avoided his calls, and attended the parties at MIT instead of Harvard. It was for the best; I had to focus on my banking goals anyway and that didn’t leave me too much time for boys. Besides, with the I-banking crowd beginning to take me seriously and being nice to me I didn’t feel like a loser who needed the ‘boyfriend’ crutch any more.

  I couldn’t believe that all these years later, I was bumping into him at intern training at Goldstein Smith.

  That evening during drinks at the intern event at a trendy bar in the Lower East, which Goldstein Smith had privately booked, I saw Ross’s chocolate-brown face amidst the crowds. Just to put it all into context, I was a little bit drunk, which always made me more confident and a hell of a lot more flirtatious.

  ‘Ivana, should I go say hi to him? He saw me, he looked at me, I swear, he saw me.’ Ivana giggled. She was already on her fourth vodka and quite tipsy as well. So much for our two-drink limit. I at least had an excuse.

  ‘You could. He probably thinks he is too cool now to come and say hi to you, being an associate and all. He’s a loser in the first place, to be at this intern event on a Friday evening. Loser! Doesn’t he have better things to do with his time?’

  ‘All right, I might as well. Here goes nothing.’ I walked in the direction of where Ross stood by the bar. I took a big gulp of my beer and applied some lip-gloss on the way over. I came up behind him and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘Ross?’

  ‘Hey hey, look who we have here … Indian Princess,’ he said with a smug smile, almost as if he had known that I would come over to say hi.

  It was all a bit awkward. I didn’t know if I should be shaking his hand, or giving him a hug. We just stood across from each other doing neither.

  ‘You look really good, you haven’t changed much. Usually girls get fat at Wellesley,’ he said at last.

  ‘Thanks, I guess …’ I wondered if he was being sarcastic. He looked exactly as I remembered him, though instead of baggy cargos and a crimson Harvard sweatshirt he was clad in a navy blue pinstriped suit and a purple Ferragamo tie. There was an uncomfortable silence as I tried to find something to say to him. ‘Um, I like your tie.’

  ‘So, how’ve you been?’ he asked, a silly sly smile still plastered on his face.

  ‘I’m really good actually.’

  ‘That’s good to know …’

  ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Work is good … Really good.’

  ‘That’s good …’

  After all these years, we didn’t really have much to talk about, or to say to each other.

  ‘Boyfriends? You were always quite the little player,’ he said with a smirk.

  ‘Hah, me?’ I said pointing to myself, ‘No chance!’

  ‘Ah, single … now that’s interesting,’ he said, and winked at me, and then tried to put his arm around my waist. Not much had changed in the past two years, he was still a sleaze.

  ‘I’m going to go now. My friends are waiting for me, but, I’ll see you around.’

  As I walked away, he reached out and touched my hand. ‘I hope to see a lot of you around.’

  Home, Smelly Home

  I was waiting in the Goldstein Smith cafeteria for my new boss to meet me. Eac
h intern had been placed in a group based on their preference and availability in the chosen group. I had hoped to be placed in consumer retail or luxury retail—those were the groups that all the coolest I-banking girls wanted to be in. Rumour had it that they got to attend fashion shows, have lunch with famous designers and got lots and lots of free samples. But as luck would have it, I had been assigned to the CDO group. I had no clue what a CDO even was except that it reminded me of fish. Thirty minutes after the prescribed meeting time of 8 a.m. a bespectacled, serious-looking woman dressed in a ridiculously cropped grey pantsuit approached me.

  ‘Riya?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ I smiled enthusiastically as I stood up and extended my hand to her.

  She looked me up and down, taking in my well-fitting high-waisted skirt, and neatly ironed white shirt. ‘Hello,’ she said stiffly, no semblance of a smile on her pale, icy face. ‘My name is Sally Katz and I am a vice president in the CDO group. You will be reporting to me for the duration of your time at the bank.’

  ‘Nice to meet you!’ I said pasting another clown-like smile on my face to mask the burgeoning horror that I felt. Who was this hideous woman? With her plain face, unfashionable thick glasses, greasy, limp chin-length hair, ill-fitting clothes and flat, granny loafers, she could not possibly be an investment banker! My boss? Obviously some sort of mistake had been made. Maybe I had misunderstood, maybe she was just the secretary and she was speaking on behalf of my actual boss. I breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, that must be it.