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As for skiing—Yeah. I ski every chance I get. I’m into sports, not just as an observer but as a doer. I was Jerome High School’s quarterback; I played midfield on Jerome’s soccer team. I ran, I swam, I surfed—bet you didn’t know we surf here on the East coast—and I still love all that stuff, but I also have a functional brain. That’s what got me into NYU on a full scholarship and into a high-profile job with a hedge fund called Hinchley-Finch.
I stayed with them for three years.
Three endless, agonizing years because it took me that long to finally figure out that no matter how much money I made—and, trust me, I made lots—I was never going to be happy managing the portfolios of rich dudes who drank fifty-year-old Scotch in the evenings and played endless rounds of golf on the weekends.
Three years in, I took a deep breath, quit my job, went back to school for some courses in architectural design and opened O’Malley Design and Construction.
Of course, I’m glossing over the scary spots.
Like cashing in what I’d invested in stocks in those three years. It was—to me, anyway—a small fortune, but I needed the money to buy two incredibly expensive acres of land in Rye—that’s an upscale town outside New York City—and put up a four bedroom, five bathroom contemporary complete with gardens and an infinity pool, all on spec. Spec is shorthand for sinking money into a house nobody’s asked you to build, meaning you put it up, cross your fingers and hope like hell somebody’s gonna come along and fall in love with the place because if nobody does…
But someone did. And that’s how I started O’Malley Design and Construction.
With those first bucks safely in the bank, I drew up plans for my headquarters building—and phoned Bailey, who had been my PA at Hinchley-Finch.
“I need a personal assistant,” I told her, and before I had the chance to finish explaining my new life and the fact that, for now, I could only afford to pay her half what she was worth, she interrupted and said yes, fine, she’d take the job.
And she’s perfect for it. She’s organized. Smart. Dedicated. Even better, she doesn’t find me intimidating—some people do. She doesn’t, you know, drool over me either. She doesn’t see me as a guy. And I don’t see her as a woman.
I’m getting sidetracked here.
Why was Bailey exactly what I needed? Because she’s a levelheaded, work-oriented person. We have an excellent relationship. She’s a nice girl, she’s bright and quick, and—let me get this out of the way even if it’s gonna tick off some of you—she’s not any kind of distraction for me. How could she be? She’s not tall and stacked; she’s petite and, well, let’s just say she’s not at all sexy—and I mean that in the best possible way.
She’s definitely not my type of woman, but she’s definitely my type of PA.
She has a degree in business from Columbia; she’s a model of efficiency; she’s always the center of calm in what can often be a frazzled world, and she’s completely dedicated to O’Malley Design and Construction.
She is, well, she’s Bailey. What more could a man want? And—a quick side-note here—I can now pay her what she’s worth to me, which is about four times what she earned on Wall Street.
Bottom line: we’re both happy.
We reach the door to my office. I open it and step inside.
Bailey’s right on my heels.
“The Schecter problem,” she says.
I sigh. “What is it?”
“Bob Emanuel ate some bad clams.”
I look at her. Bob Emanuel is the chief carpenter on a job we’re doing. Four acres. Low slung house. Eight bedrooms. Nine baths. A Zen garden. A pool with a waterfall. A pool house with an attached yoga room. The place is a blend of Asian and contemporary. It’s gonna be spectacular.
“And?”
“And, he spent the night puking up his guts.”
I take off my suit jacket. Bailey takes it from me the way she always does, opens the closet door, whisks the jacket onto a hanger, gives the jacket a quick workover with a brush—did I mention I have a dog? A one hundred and fifty pound mastiff that sheds almost that much fur every day. And then Bailey hangs the jacket in the closet.
Efficient. Always.
I sit down at my desk. My mug of coffee, black, two sugars, is positioned just where it always is.
I take a sip.
“And I need to know this happy detail because…?”
“Because he’s the teak guy.”
