This story is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any real person are entirely coincidental.
*
I had started at Branson, Bosworth & Roberts straight out of law school. It paid well, but not as well as they tell me that it used to. In the old days, if you could survive seven or eight years at the same firm, you were pretty much assured of a partnership and job security for the rest of your career. Most of the people not deemed "suitable" for partnership were washed out in the first three or four years. That has changed too. Now, only about twenty percent of the associates will ever make partner, and even partners are let go with some frequency. In other words, you spend your whole career working like a dog trying to bill hours and bring in business so that the eight or so people on the executive committee will decide to let you work another year. You also suck up to them in a major way.
I had been at the firm for seven years. The major mitigating factor was that, a couple of years ago, I had met Gwen. Gwen worked at a bank which we represented. She was my age and was in a similar situation, trying to impress her bosses to get promoted and make the real money. Gwen was also drop-dead beautiful. She had a perfectly proportioned figure. She had long smooth legs which connected to a firm and perfectly shaped ass. She had a face that looked a bit like a young Diana Rigg (if you've ever seen The Avengers re-runs) with some very faint freckles. Her most immediately noticeable physical feature was her rich, deep red hair. She also had the sexiest laugh I have ever heard.
Beyond her stunning appearance, Gwen was smart, funny, and very easy-going. I'm not sure how I summoned the courage to ask her out and understand even less why she said yes. Some inexplicable chemistry developed between us on that first date. Very soon we were spending almost all of our scarce free time together and, within a month, we were lovers. We were, however, pretty mundane lovers. Our idea of adventuresome was for Gwen to be on top. On those rare occasions when we went to the lake or, even rarer, to a pool party hosted by one of our bosses, we stayed pretty covered. Gwen would not wear a bikini, although her one-piece suits looked great on her.
It was mid-February, if I recall correctly, when I received a still envelope in my mail at home. It looked like a formal invitation to something, which was odd. No one I knew was getting married and my friends don't send out formal invitations anyway. Opening it, I saw that it was an engraved invitation for Harrison Stone and Gwendolyn Spencer to attend a reception at the home of S. Robert Bartlett, my firm's managing partner, at 8:000 p.m. the Saturday after next. Black tie was required.
The invitation was strange on a couple of levels. First, S. Robert Bartlett and I were not social friends. I could imagine him summoning me to his house to cut his lawn, but invite me to a social event? Second, I had no idea that S. Robert knew about me and Gwen.
The next day, I went to Abbie Long, one of my best friends in the firm, who had made partner two years ago. I asked her about the invitation.
Abbie gave a sigh. "Well, Harry, on one level it is a good sign because S. Robert only invites associates who are still on partnership track. On the other hand, it is a very disconcerting event. As you know, anything S. Robert does for someone has strings attached." Abbie went on to explain to me what made the managing partner's reception unique.
When she finished, I was troubled. The invitation was made to me and Gwen. I'd have to tell Gwen what went on at the reception and Gwen would never agree to participate in something like that.
I asked Abbie, "When you went did you have to, uh...?"
"No," Abbie explained. "I got lucky. I was one of three associates invited. John Ross and his wife got chosen instead of me and Bill."
I was still in turmoil about the reception when I got home from work that night. Not long after I walked in the apartment, Gwen called.
"Harry, did you receive an invitation to a reception at your managing partner's house?"
"Yes, how did you know?"
"The bank president's secretary called me today and told me that we had been invited. Apparently, he organizes the event with your managing partner. But, she also told me what they do there. Did you know that...."
I cut Gwen off. "I know," I said.
"Harry, what do we do? Neither of us can afford to piss off our bosses. I guess that they think this is an amusing game."
"Well, we can't go, that's for certain." I said. "I'll tell Bartlett tomorrow that we appreciate the invitation very much but we would not feel right participating."
"Good luck," Gwen said and sent the sound of a kiss down the phone line.
My meeting with S. Robert did not go well. I'll spare you his exact language. Suffice to say that he made it quite clear that Gwen and I both were attending the reception, on the same terms as other guests, or I was looking for a new job.
Gwen called again that night. I infer that S. Robert had called the president of her bank, William Jackson Sturdivant, after I met with S. Robert. Gwen was summoned to Sturdivant's office late that day. She was given the same explicit message: attend the reception or find a new job. I wasn't sure why they were so adamant about us going to their reception, but I had a suspicion.
We were sitting in Gwen's apartment that night, having told each other about our meetings with our respective bosses. "Shit, Harry, what do we do?" Gwen asked
"Start looking for other jobs?" I replied.
"No, that doesn't work. Sturdivant said in so many words that I'd be leaving with a negative reference if we don't go. That would mean that I'm unemployable in financial services anywhere. I don't get why they're being so heavy-handed about this, but I don't think that we have any choice but to go. Maybe we won't get chosen. I understand that there will be a lot of guests. The odds should be heavily in our favor."
I thought that Gwen's stated optimism was wishful thinking. However, the longer I argued that we were being manipulated and shouldn't submit, the more entrenched she became.
"I've put a lot of time and effort into building a career at the Bank," Gwen said. "If I have to tolerate some juvenile pranks from the top dog to hold onto that, so be it." I finally capitulated and agreed that we were going.
"Don't forget that you need a tux," Gwen reminded me.
I picked up my rented tux on the Saturday morning of the reception. Although the reception didn't start for another ten hours, I was already so nervous I was dropping my keys and forgetting my wallet. I made a point of not eating in order to avoid nausea or diarrhea. Although it took me a lot longer than it should have, I managed to fumble the tux on and get it straightened around until it didn't look too bad.
I picked Gwen up just after 7:00 p.m. She had bought a new dark green dress that went very well with her hair. The dress was low-cut in front to show a tantalizing amount of cleavage. The top was held up by two straps that came together behind her neck, leaving her upper back bare. While the dress was long, it had a high slit on one side that showed a lot of leg when Gwen walked. She looked exquisite and I told her so.
"Thank you Harry," Gwen said. "Uh, just in case, you see where the zipper is, don't you?" Gwen gave a nervous laugh.
We drove to S. Robert's house in my rather worn VW. I say "house," but "mansion" would be more accurate. The structure was positioned atop a small hill about a quarter mile off of the road. As we came up the driveway that night, the front of the mansion was brightly lit. The valet who took my car keys made his distaste for having to sit in my car very clear.
Holding hands, Gwen and I walked in the front door. Just inside was a cute girl wearing a white shirt, black bowtie, and black slacks. She handed me a slip of paper, saying "Your number, Sir."
Gwen grabbed the paper from my hand and looked at it. "Twenty-eight," she said nervously. "Please do not call twenty-eight." The girl who had given us the slip just smiled.
A young lady dressed identically to the first took Gwen's and my coats and pointed us towards the "drawing room." I could hear chamber music. Standing in the doorway to the drawing room were S. Robert, an older woman whom I knew to be his wife, and a much younger-looking woman in a bright yellow gown.
As S. Robert extended his hand, he said, "Miss Spencer. Mr. Stone. I'm so glad that you are kind enough to join us this evening." That, of course, was very hypocritical because he had ordered us to be there. S. Robert went on, "This is my wife Miriam and our daughter Yvette." We all shook hands.
As Gwen and I started to walk further into the room, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned. Yvette had a stern expression on her face. "What number do you have?" she asked.
Before I could decide whether to make up a number, Gwen blurted out "twenty-eight."
Yvette nodded, and said "thank you. I have number five."
We walked on into the drawing room. It was huge, with a very high ceiling and a highly polished wooden floor. The chamber music I had heard was coming from a string quartet set up in one corner of the room. Another young lady dressed like the ones outside came up with a tray of glasses. "Champagne?" she asked. We each took a glass. The drink server was swiftly followed by another server with a tray of hor d'oeurves. Gwen took something, but I passed. We walked around the room together. The room was already full of people. There was no one there whom we knew personally, but a lot of people whom we recognized. Along with Sturdivant and his wife, there were a number of prominent people from business and finance in the city. "All the movers and shakers,' Gwen quipped.
While most of the guests were older, there was a smattering of people whom I guessed to be roughly our age. I assumed that these people were in a similar situation to us, present because their careers demanded it and fearful of making a wrong move. I suspected that, like us, they were also half scared to death of what they might have to do. Sturdivant saw Gwen and walked up to us with, I assume, his wife. In a surprisingly high-pitched, whiney voice, he said "Ms. Spencer, it is so good to see you. I am glad that you could make it. I take it that this young man is Mr. Stone?"
