Free The Partner Track: A Novel by Helen Wan Page A

the other hand, showing too much skin wasn’t a good idea, either. Not if you ever expected to be taken seriously again. I watched the male attorneys on line at the bar surreptitiously smirk and nudge each other. People pretended to return to their momentarily abandoned conversations but continued to stare in her direction.
    Unflustered, Cameron stood alone at the water’s edge. She raised one perfect, Pilates-toned leg and dipped a pointed toe into the water.
    “Still pretty cold,” she announced, loud enough for all of us to hear. “I think I’ll wait a bit.”
    Steinberg didn’t seem disappointed to hear this. His objective had been achieved.
    “Fine with me,” he said, shaking his pineapple drink at her. “I’m out. Let’s go get something else to drink.”
    Cameron shrugged and walked with Steinberg to the back of the drinks line, where they were joined by—I should say she was joined by—two male partners who were suddenly extremely interested in striking up a conversation with the summer associates. Before long, Cameron and Steinberg’s group of friends had joined them, too, forming a large gaggle in front of the bar.
    All the summers were trying to schmooze the partners, but none succeeded like Cameron Alexander. She looked almost queenly, wearing a beneficent smile and occasionally throwing her head back with laughter, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be standing around barefoot with the Corporate Tax partners, chatting animatedly about the latest summer action flick, while wearing a white string bikini and gesturing with your mojito for emphasis.
    I was, if I’m being honest, jealous. Of course I was—but not of the way Cameron looked in her white string bikini. Instead, I was jealous of her confidence and her utter unself-consciousness. What would it be like, I marveled, to go through life so utterly unwary? So wholly certain of your belonging to a place that it was never necessary to consider how your next move would be perceived?
    Making partner at Parsons Valentine felt like a big final exam to which a select few held the answer key. While the rest of us schmucks had to study.
    But you’re getting there, too, Ingrid! I quickly reminded myself. Hadn’t Tim Hollister just personally congratulated me on the great work I’d been doing? Hadn’t Marty Adler called me Slugger? Today was not the day for a pity party. I decided to treat myself to a celebratory margarita or two. I stood up and walked over to join the drinks line.
    *   *   *
    Just before dusk, having passed a pleasant afternoon of schmoozing and socializing, watching a little tennis and strolling around the grounds, I made my way over to the clubhouse to get ready for dinner. I slipped into the dress I’d brought—a slim white linen sheath with a simple scalloped neckline—along with a pair of strappy alligator slingbacks. I brushed my hair into place, stepped back, and surveyed the effect in the mirror. Elegant, yet effortless. This was what we were expected to channel all the time. If only it were as easy as Cameron Alexander made it look.
    I had a pleasant buzz as I crossed the lawns to the area where dinner would be served. The tent looked lovely, like an oasis. It was a perfect summer evening, the sun had just dipped below the treeline, and the first stars would soon be visible in the night sky. Across the lawn, the stone path near the clubhouse had been lit up with hundreds of tiny tea lights, and the tent itself was adorned with little paper lanterns. Everything felt cozy and festive.
    This had been the best firm-outing day I could remember from my eight years at Parsons Valentine. With the buzz from the tequila, and the high from Tim’s compliment, I was the happiest, most relaxed I’d been in a very long time.
    Under the canopy, the dinner was set up like a stylish wedding reception—twenty round tables set with china and crystal, floral centerpieces glowing in the candlelight. Elegant ivory name