There’s a moment when an ordinary woman realizes she’s beautiful. Maybe not to the fashionistas or to the standards of the air-brushed magazine covers, but beautiful to ordinary men. The way her eyes light up in realization, the way her posture shifts into confidence—that moment is precious. It’s worth more than gold and more than just about anything you can pay short of pure love and adoration. And I should know, because I do pay for it.
With Laura, it cost me $1834.17 and my Jerry Garcia tie.
Was it worth it? To see her glow and almost giggle under the lights of center stage? How could it not be? Even though I wasn’t the beneficiary of her amorous affections later that night, I’d have paid three times as much simply to see that smile of exultation. To see that moment when “I’m just an accountant” Laura transformed into “Worship me as a sex goddess!” Laura. There are few greater pleasures in the world. Few indeed.
Now, to be fair, Laura had never been a shrinking violet. In the three years we’d worked together, I’d seen her successfully navigate the boors and blowhards that all too often populate financial services companies. She’d brush her hair back behind her ear and let out a low “hmmm” before politely but firmly explaining why the IRS just wouldn’t quite appreciate the financial creativity being proposed. If the pomposity du jour decided to bluster, she’d politely wait him out and then once again explain how seriously mistaken he was. Once, when a Texas energy company flack called her “sweetie,” she asked if that was what he also called his wife. He didn’t quite know how to reply. Her cool competency earned her professional admiration, but also professional distance.
I’d noticed that on a business trip to Houston. The CFO and Chief Accountant from the client company had wanted to go out to a ribs joint afterward, and Laura spent the evening sipping her Coke quietly as she’d listened to us greybeards swap war stories of the 2008 crash and our individual run-ins with the Enron crowd. Trent, the only person on our team besides Laura under thirty-five and the other member of this particular business expedition, tried to draw her into the conversation a couple of times. It didn’t work, as she’d just contribute a comment or two before falling quiet once again. She was proper, professional, and tight. And when the client suggested Trent and I join them for some ‘after-dinner entertainment,’ she was left completely alone.
She knew what was going on, of course. The next morning at breakfast in the hotel restaurant, I looked up from my newspaper to see her standing next to me and frowning.
“You went to a strip club last night, didn’t you?”
I blinked, the orange juice in my mouth suddenly a bit sour. I swallowed and nodded. “Well, yes.”
She slid into the seat opposite me. “You realize I could file a discrimination complaint.”
“Because it was a strip club or because you weren’t invited?”
“Because I wasn’t invited.”
The waiter arrived then and Laura ordered “coffee, black, one grapefruit half, and wheat toast, no butter.” She pasted on a false sweet smile when she turned back to me.
“Did you want to go?” I asked.
“Not to some sleazy club.”
I shrugged. “This one wasn’t.”
She frowned.
“It wasn’t,” I said, “but it doesn’t matter. I should’ve suggested that we do something else with the client that didn’t exclude you. I’m sorry.”
“You should’ve. I spent the evening wondering what deals you were making between lap dances.”
I couldn’t help grinning at the mental image of trying to sign contracts with strippers draped over us. “We didn’t cut any deals. It was just building relationships, but you know that.”
She glared at me, but didn’t dispute it.
“Besides,” I said, “I didn’t get any lap dances.” I held up my left hand and rubbed my ring with my thumb. “My wife has a strict ‘Look, don’t touch’ policy. I can look all I want, but lap dances—those are touching.”
“Did Trent get lap dances?”
I blinked at the edge in her voice. “Does it matter?”
She snorted softly. “I suppose not. He’s single. He can do what he wants.”
Her breakfast arrived then, and I took a moment to shovel some lukewarm eggs into my mouth. Trent had, in fact, not gotten any lap dances, but spent almost the entire visit sipping a beer and gawking at the dancers on stage. Meanwhile, our clients threw money around like they were printing it and drank shots like they were water. It had been an uncomfortable evening that had only ended when I persuaded our hosts to let me pour them into a cab while Trent and I drove their cars back to their office. I considered telling Laura that, but I was pretty sure that the more confidential it was, the better.
That was a preview of Center Stage. To read the rest purchase the book.