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It’s odd to watch him interact with his peers, knowing what I know. How had he learned to move so easily amongst people he has nothing in common with?
Before Chicago I would have found his vanishing act pathetic. Now I find it rather impressive. I’d always scorned the business world, flaunted my contempt for it. Now I can’t help but wonder if I’d even be able to fit into Liz’s world if I tried.
We break by the garage, each going our separate ways. I stalk toward the main house, still flushed and trying not to fume. After my second half turnaround, I’d gone from second behind Bill to dead last.
I’m unable to escape before Paul stops me, cutting into my path and forcing me to engage.
“You almost had me in the beginning,” he says, hands tucked casually into his salmon-colored shorts.
I try to brush past him, but he puts a hand on my chest as I pass. I stop, suddenly deadly cold, and stare pointedly at his touch.
Wisely, he removes his hand before I remove it from him.
“I stopped trying,” I say.
“I’m not talking about the golf game,” he says.
“I suggest you make your point,” I say flatly. “I’m tired of games.”
Paul smirks. “I meant Chicago. I’m sure the two of you are mighty pleased with yourselves.”
I don’t comment, waiting still for his point.
“Now we both know you had nothing to do with the Westing Bank snagging Marie’s account. That Ms. Slate is a force to be reckoned with. I can see what you see in her. Though I confess I don’t quite see what she sees in you.”
I check my watch. Paul’s smirk wilts a bit in the face of my feigned indifference.
“I’ll admit, I was quite chaffed by Ms. Slate’s stunts at the conference. In fact, I was furious. But I’ve come to a rather satisfying realization. So I suggest you enjoy this phony victory while you can. Because it only looks like you won. In reality, I’ll get that account in the end.”
“And how will you do that?” I ask in a bored monotone, feeding him the line he so obviously wants from me.
“I’ll answer with a question of my own,” Paul says. “When is Sloane going to retire?”
I shrug.
“Two years? Five?”
“I have no idea,” I answer truthfully.
“Well regardless of the exact timeline, it will happen. Even that mother of yours will want to retire eventually. So maybe a better question is how long do you think you’ll be able to stay in the black once you take the reigns? Because you seem to barely grasp even the most basic economic concepts, let alone how to run a massive international financial institution.”
This time he doesn’t wait for me to respond. “Personally I’d estimate seven quarters, five if you’re able to be honest with yourself about just how out of your element you really are.”
He leans in, leering. “And when that day comes — and that’s when, not if — I will have a very attractive offer for you.”
When I speak my voice is cold with fury. “I would rather burn the bank to the ground than sell it to you.”
Paul just smiles. “Aren’t you listening, Rhett? When I come knocking, you’ll already have.”
He turns, barking at Clark to snap to it with his clubs, and the two of them disappear into Bill’s six-car garage.
I stand rigid and unblinking and then finally turn to head back to the room.
Paul’s words cut me deeply, as much as I hate to admit it. They reflect all my insecurities, all the anxieties that have festered over my life. They are an echo of Mother’s constant admonishments, even of Liz’s words when she first met me.
I’m incapable, unworthy and unable to carry the weight of my family’s legacy, of living up to Mother’s brains and my father’s grit. A fuckup. A loser. A waste.
There’s an irony to the fact that I’m feeling pressure from all sides to care about something that’s been nothing but destructive to all the same people that herald its greatness. Paul is a complete jackass, worried about nothing but the bottom line. My mother hasn’t been happy since the Reagan administration.
