A car brings Davis and me to Davenport-Ridgeway’s London office, but we don’t spend much of the morning there. It ends up being akin to a drive by, where two men in suits both rush out of the building as soon as Davis and I pull up outside. They join us in the vehicle and we take off as quickly as we arrived.
The two men don’t even have their seatbelts on when Davis starts rattling off instructions to the both of them. One of them, who I think is called Marvin, appears to be a financial analyst. The other (whose name is still a mystery to me) is apparently a change management expert. Both of them are older than Davis and me—I can tell by their graying temples and the emergence of wrinkles in their skin. Still, they both hang on his every word in that deferential way that I still find oddly sexy.
Stop it, I order myself. Today is about work, not about Davis.
“And this is Olivia Nolan,” Davis comments when he ceases his endless stream of instructions, gesturing at me. “She’s going to handle questions about culture fit and synergies.”
My stomach nearly bottoms out because this was absolutely not what Davis and I discussed before. Sure, on the plane he asked me to take a more active role in the meeting, but I didn’t realize that meant I would be taking the lead on asking these critical questions.
The two men nod, as expected, and don’t protest. Although, I can feel them both staring at me hard—probably wondering why they haven’t heard about me until today.
Luckily, Davis doesn’t mention that. He simply takes out his laptop and proceeds to work for the rest of the short car ride, leaving me to look at the passing London scenery as I try to keep my heart rate steady.
On the plane ride over, while Davis was deep in his other work, I was reading up on Gus Winter, the CEO of FundRight. I learned that he’s an enigmatic, if not downright mysterious man who built his career as an American in London—a feat that apparently is few and far between. His most notable quality is his temper though: If most of the men in his industry are wolves, Gus is a grizzly bear. He’s the kind of apex predator that kills other apex predators for sustenance and for sport, and he’s not shy about it.
The few accounts that exist about Gus Winter tell a story of a boy who grew up too poor to afford dirt. He scrimped and scrounged to raise himself up from nothing by sheer will and talent, and managed to build a tidy financial empire with unparalleled market appeal.
According to Lana, FundRight has received countless offers from major corporations over the years—from major banks to tech companies to holding companies. The fact that he’s willing to meet with Davis is monumental, and apparently the closest any company has ever gotten to acquiring FundRight.
My stomach churns from thinking about how easily I could screw this up. Hell, I couldn’t even speak to Davis when I walked into his office six weeks ago.
In a moment of panic, I grip the armrest on my seat and inhale heavily before measuring out my exhale. Gus Winter is going to see right through me. I know it. He’s going to know that I’m not even done with business school and that I didn’t even know how to calculate synergies until Davis showed me how. He’s going to know that I got rejected from Harvard Business School and Stanford and every other top business school, and that getting into Wharton was a miracle. He’s going to know that I had to pull countless all-nighters back in undergrad just to finish and submit mediocre work on my problem sets because none of the econ study groups would let me join.
He's going to know it all—and I’m going to ruin this for Davis. Not just for Davis, but for myself and for Charlie.
When we finally arrive outside FundRight’s offices, the car pulls up to the front to drop us off. Marvin and…whatever his name is…get out first. I’m ready to follow, but to my surprise, Davis holds me back.
“Go ahead and check in,” Davis instructs the other two men. “We’ll be inside in a second.”
Once we’re alone, he dips close and says to me, “I know I just threw you in the deep end, but you’re going to be fine. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t trust you.”
“But—”
“But fuck it,” he replies knowingly, still speaking in a hushed whisper so our driver can’t hear us. “I’m indescribably nervous about this meeting, sure, but I can’t let that show. That’s not my job. My job is to say fuck it and to represent myself and my company to the best of my ability. Half of the time when I’ve needed to get out of my own head, the answer was to say fuck it and to take a Xanax. Lucky for you, you don’t need the Xanax. Remember: be confident, be cutting, and be an asshole. And don’t be offended when I say that it should come easily to you. It’s why I like you, Olivia.”
I let out a sigh, holding back indicators that show how relieved I am to hear his advice. I could hug him. However, I say, “Screw you for not telling me that before.”
He gives me a rare laugh. “Look, I don’t often surprise you these days. I take my opportunities where I can find them.”
Shortly thereafter, we enter the building together. Marvin and…Stephen (whose name I learn from the visitor’s badge that he now wears) are waiting for us by the elevators.
When we arrive on the building’s seventh floor where our meeting is scheduled, there’s a man waiting. He’s tall and anything but unassuming, even in the plain black t-shirt and jeans that he wears. There’s an intensity to his visage that triggers my defenses immediately. He looks like he walks into rooms, saps up all of the attention, and then leaves with it. He’s also strikingly handsome, not in the classical way that Davis is, but in the jarring, almost unusual way that runway models are: high cheekbones, a prominent nose, and jet-black hair that grays lightly at the temples where it’s cut closer to his scalp. Even if I hadn’t seen pictures before, I would have easily been able to guess that this is FundRight’s CEO.
Davis strides out of the elevator first, hand extended. “Gus, it’s nice to finally meet in-person.”
Gus Winter doesn’t shake Davis’s hand. He offers him a sort of fluid high-five handshake instead, which clearly jars Davis.
“Likewise,” Gus says before he drops Davis’s hand.
Davis quickly catches his bearings and clears his throat, motioning us forward. “This is the team,” he says. “You’ve been on calls with Marvin Guthrie and Stephen Brown before. And this is Olivia Nolan, who’s working with me on financial research and analysis, as well as culture considerations.”
Gus goes down the line, greeting Marvin and Stephen first before he gets to me. When he shakes (or doesn’t shake) my hand, his blue eyes land on mine and he gives me this hard, assessing once-over. It’s both nonchalant and filled with scrutiny all at once, a distinctive juxtaposition that leaves my gut at the bottom of my esophagus and my hands unsteady.
Already, I’m pushing aside thoughts that imperil my confidence: He’s going to figure out you’re an intern. He’s going to know that you’re not qualified for this. Davis is going to blame you when the deal tanks.
These thoughts swirl around as Gus brings us to a conference room a few doors down from the elevators, where coffee and tea are waiting. Immediately, the first conundrum strikes: I have no idea where I’m supposed to sit.
“Here,” Davis instructs, glancing at the seat to his left as he settles in at the head of the table opposite Gus, who has taken up the head on the other side. It’s a simple, one-word command, but he knows that I need it.
“I would ask you how the flight over went, but I would rather jump into the business. How does that sound?” Gus asks as he helps himself to a cup of coffee. He flicks a packet of sugar in between his fingers, shifting the granules down to the bottom of the packet. “I’ve been here for twenty years, but I still don’t get the whole tea thing.”
Davis blinks quickly as he watches Gus prepare his coffee. “I agree. Let’s get right into it,” he finally says before he reaches for the pot of hot water and begins to pour himself a cup of tea.
I recognize that as a power move as soon as I see it. I know Davis; Davis loves coffee. He lives off of it. He would attach his vein to a steady drip of it if he could. The only reason he would drink a cup of tea right now is to directly contradict what Gus has said.