Page 2 of Audacity

I was right.

She wants me.

I don’t usually do women, but she’s undeniably magnetic, her dark-hair sleekly centre-parted in a way that would look overly severe on someone who didn’t have her bone structure or her skin or her ability to perfect a velvety scarlet lip.

‘Again. Do I look like a virgin to you?’

She doesn’t answer immediately, instead taking a sip of her champagne as she allows herself to study me. I know what she’ll see. My Miu Miu dress is sleek and black and tasteful, hinting at my assets rather than serving them up on a silver platter. My stockings are black and sheer. My Valentino heels are elegant, my Van Cleef bracelet and earrings set—a gift from my parents—an understated addition.

I look like I could fit in anywhere and conduct myself with exquisite social propriety and never, ever disgrace myself unless, oruntil, the right person dragged me into a store cupboard or a disabled loo and put his hand around my throat and forced me to my knees.

ThenI could disgrace myself with aplomb.

‘You look,’ she says, lowering her glass as she continues to survey me, ‘like you are not a virgin, countless times over, and like every single man whose path you cross wishes you were with a fervency that takes his breath away.’

Thatearns her a smile.

Tonight’s pleasant soirée in the spectacular surroundings of the Musée Rodin comes courtesy of Swiss bank Loeb, who’s hired the place out at no small cost to woo thecrème de la crèmeof The Sorbonne’s current MBA class. Alas, it’s too cold to avail of the pristinely manicured gardens, but I’ve enjoyed them plenty of times before. The museum is a favourite of consultancy firms and investment banks looking to put on an uncompromising display of the wealth, the luxury, that awaits us if only we choose to sign our lives away to them.

This woman, Camille, is, I assume, part of the Loeb delegation. She’s probably flown in from London or Zurich or Geneva to have a crack at us. She looks just as much at home here as I feel. When you’ve grown up in the embassies of Europe, polished floors and gleaming crystal and sparkling conversation that goes precisely nowhere are second nature to you.

I’m lessinterestedin working for Loeb, or any other bank for that matter, thanwilling to consider it. Really, I want to endup in industry. I want to call the shots, not advise people on what shots to call or help them to fund those shots. I put in a management consultant stint at Bain after finishing my degree a year early, and now that I have some consulting experience under my belt, it’s time to pivot.

That’s what an MBA represents to most of my peers: the vehicle through which they can pivot to a new and equally gruelling sub-sector of the finance industry.

Investment banking is dull and rigidly, endlessly hierarchical, but there’s no denying it gives you a solid grounding in the nuts and bolts of how companies work and how their financial systems run. I can put my head down for a year or two if it means arming myself with the tools for a quick ascension elsewhere.

As we size each other up, I take a moment to appreciate how sophisticated Camille looks, how poised against the backdrop of the museum foyer’s iconic wrought-iron staircase and monochrome floor. I nod at her shift dress—black and simple, just like mine.

‘Celine? That’s a Phoebe Philo, surely?’

She may not have a bona fide Parisian accent, but she certainly has the discernment of a local. Many a chic Parisienne will refuse to touch anything designed by the house’s subsequent creative director, Hedi Slimane, staying loyal instead to its Philo-era vintage.

She smiles, approving. ‘You know your Celine. I’m impressed.’

I shrug self-deprecatingly. ‘You can’t see a Phoebe Philo piece and not recognise it. It’s beautiful.’

‘And yet you want to bag a job at Loeb and bury yourself in a grey cubicle twenty hours a day?’

‘You’re a better ambassador for Celine than you are for Loeb,’ I observe, taking a ladylike sip of my champagne. It’s non-vintage, but decent. Probably from one of the smaller grower vineyards.

Her laugh is a tinkle. ‘Oh, darling, I don’t work for Loeb.’

This is surprising. ‘Don’t you?’ I leave the less polite question hanging.What the hell are you doing here, then?

‘They’re…’ She glances around the throng of people before lowering her voice. ‘They’re a client of mine, but that’s not why I’m here.’

Again, I stay silent. If she has an agenda, she’ll push it.

‘I work for an agency. We place people in very senior positions at firms like Loeb.’

Ugh. She’s a recruitment consultant. A necessary evil in this world, but horrific all the same. I smile politely. ‘C-suite executives, you mean?’ CEOs, CFOs, COOs—all roles far too senior to be appropriate for MBA students.

‘Executive assistants.’ She watches me as she says it.

It takes all my experience of working diplomatic circles not to sneer. If she’s sniffing around the soon-to-be graduates of one of Europe’s finest business schools, she’s wasting her time. ‘This crowd may be a little…’

Overeducated.I swallow the word before I can say it, because it smacks of intellectual snobbery.

---