the segment by saying that as essential as it is to learn how to negotiate your salary—as today’s guest so wisely counseled us—it’s equally important to be smart from the get-go about managing the money you make. I ask Sasha to tell us about some of the mistakes she sees her friends making and what she wishes she could tell them.
Unfortunately, this is Sasha’s first rodeo and it shows. Her comments are stilted, and she also fails to tamp down her natural arrogance.
“How are your friends doing on the IRA front?” I ask. “Particularly the freelancers. Have they started to save for retirement yet?”
“Not all of them. It takes such a big chunk out of their earnings at a time when there are other important costs.”
“What do they consider more important than an IRA?”
“A good professional wardrobe. Networking dinners. Vacations.”
“I hate to hear that. Because the sooner you start feeding an IRA, the better.”
I notice Sasha twitch in her seat, as if she’s gearing up to make a particularly salient point.
“Actually, I have a different point of view on that,” she says.
Her comment catches me off guard. When I mentioned the importance of IRAs on Friday, she didn’t utter a word in disagreement.
“I’d love to hear it,” I say.
“Having the right clothes, meeting the right people, taking trips that energize you can actually be excellent investments. They help you grow your career and earn promotions, which in the long run can provide more benefits than investing in an IRA in your twenties.”
There’s a hint of smugness in her tone. I almost laugh out loud. Is she hoping to throw me off my game? Casey shoots me a WTF expression through the glass.
“That’s an interesting point, Sasha,” I say. “As with everything else, it all comes down to the math, figuring the rate of return. It is important to look the part, network, and take vacations. But historically, investing in the stock market has paid off far better than investing in something like Louboutin shoes.”
We wrap up a minute later, and after Sasha has hurried off to “an appointment I can’t be late for,” Casey shakes her head in annoyance.
“When is her last day again?”
“She’s finishing up Thanksgiving week.”
“Great, now I really will have something to be thankful for.”
I know I should be more annoyed by Sasha’s comment during the segment, but frankly, I’m just grateful about my performance today. The podcast was hardly dazzling, but I’d give it a solid B.
I take a cab back to the apartment, cobble a lunch together, and then read through the contract Mulroney’s sent me. There don’t seem to be any obvious red flags, so I sign, scan, and forward it to him along with a couple of recent photos of myself. It would have made sense, of course, to let Hugh take a lawyerly look at the contract, but I don’t want to wait or run the risk of him talking me out of it. Finally, I use PayPal to forward the retainer. Minutes later Mulroney emails back to thank me and to confirm that he’s already dropped off the bag of tissues at the lab.
I switch out of the black pencil skirt and turquoise V-neck sweater I’ve been wearing and change into jeans, a crisp white collared shirt, and boots. I take more pains than I probably should with my makeup, but I can’t shake the desire to replace Damien’s last image of me—foul smelling, rain soaked, coming apart at the seams—with that of a sane and pulled-together woman.
A few minutes later I head north on Broadway to the café in the West Seventies that Damien ended up suggesting. I remind myself there’s nothing to feel guilty about, that I haven’t told Hugh about the meeting simply because I don’t want to upset him unnecessarily.
The streets are crowded with West Siders doing their thing: culture lovers dashing up the steps of the Lincoln Center plaza; people returning from work (half of the guys with messenger bags over their shoulders); teenagers meandering home from school; mothers and nannies pushing strollers, often with a second child perched on a little platform at the back. Once I wanted the latter—or a variation of it—in my own life. Why did the desire seem to dissolve overnight? When Erling’s question—“Do you not want children, or do you not want them with Hugh?”—tries to force its way to the front of my mind, I fight it off.
I pull my sweater coat tighter across my chest. It’s cooler today