Page 4 of I'm Looking for a Man in Finance
The lobby ofSophisticatewas always buzzing—sleek black-and-white marble floors, artfully arranged florals, and a rotating collection of cover stories displayed in gold frames near the elevators. Roxie’s words rang in my head as I stepped through the revolving doors. I was immediately greeted by the scent of espresso and expensive perfume, the hum of heels on tile, and the distant ding of the elevator arriving. There was a certain magic in walking into a building that felt like the nerve center of modern womanhood.
I rode the elevator up with a group of writers and staff, all in various stages of caffeine dependence. One of the girls from the fashion team complimented my boots, and I made a mental note to text Roxie a thank-you—she’d convinced me to splurge on them during a sample sale last month.
When I reached our floor, the open-concept office hummed with energy. There were half-eaten croissants on the community kitchen counter, mood boards pinned upon the walls, and a fashion assistant dragging a rolling rack of outfits behind her like it was her oxygen tank. Someone in editorial shouted about a missed deadline while another person ran past holding three coffee cups like a juggler in the circus. It was a chaotic, caffeinated dream, and I loved every inch of it.
I dropped my tote on my desk and booted my computer, sipped the last of my bodega coffee and snacked on the last few bites of my bagel. My desk was small, tucked between two other junior writers, but it was mine. A framed photo of Roxie and me at graduation sat beside my monitor, next to a stack of colorful notebooks and a candle I wasn’ttechnicallyallowed to burn.
“Morning, Hallie,” came a voice from the desk beside mine. It was Janelle, one of the other junior writers, typing furiously with one hand and balancing a blueberry muffin in the other. Her oversized glasses slipped down her nose as she glanced at me. “Tell me you saw Anthea’s heels today. God, I want to be her.”
I laughed, setting my coffee down. “I haven’t yet. But I can imagine. I swear she floats instead of walks.”
Janelle leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Okay but real talk—did you see the job board this morning? Everyone’s buzzing about Victoria’s position opening up.”
I nodded slowly, the glow of my computer screen reflecting in my eyes. “Yeah. I was thinking of applying.”
Janelle froze mid-bite, muffin halfway to her mouth. “No. Way. Hallie! That’s huge! Wait—do we celebrate this with lunch, drinks, or those cupcakes from that bakery in Chelsea?”
“Maybe all three? But only if I work up enough courage to submit it.”
She grinned. “You’ve got this. You’re basically the only one in here who could write a review that makes me want to lick my screen.”
I smiled at her, the nerves in my stomach calming just a little.
I had an article to finish—something I’d overheard this weekend from an heiress discussing an exclusive club in Hell’s Kitchen—but I kept glancing toward the top corner of my screen, where the company’s internal job board icon glowed like a neon sign.
Maybe Roxie and Janelle are right. Maybe I am just as qualified as the next person. What’s the worst that can happen? They say “no”?
Without a second thought, I logged onto the job board and pulled up my updated résumé. I moved to this city for college to chase my dreams. How was I ever going to reach them if I never took chances?
Victoria’s open position was sitting at the top of the list as the newest opening and before I could change my mind, I clicked into it and applied. Taped to my computer screen sat a picture of my family. I traced my fingers across my mother’s soft smile, then my father’s sun-worn face, and finally my younger sister, grinning wide on her wedding day. They hadn’t understood my enthrallment with New York when I first told them of my dream of moving to the city—they all still lived in the small town in Ohio I’d grown up in, just down the street from each other. To them, life was a quiet neighborhood where everyone knew your name, and Fridaynights were reserved for potlucks or high school football games.
But I craved the unfamiliar. The kaleidoscope of languages on the subway. The pulse of yellow cabs and flickering crosswalks. The smell of halal carts and roasted peanuts wafting through every other block. I wanted more than comfort—I wanted color. Energy. Flavor.
They might not have understood my new life, but they were still proud. My very first published column inSophisticate—a two-paragraph “Overheard in NYC” piece about a woman breaking up with her boyfriend over a taco truck order—was framed in my parents’ living room, right next to my sister’s ultrasound picture. That’s how much it mattered.
And now … maybe this next step could be even bigger.
Still buzzing from the decision, I clicked over to my current column draft. Deadline looming, lunch forgotten, I chewed nervously on a pen cap and reread the opening paragraph. Last week’s piece had gone unexpectedly viral—and by viral, I mean our traffic spiked just over 3,000 more clicks than usual. But in digital publishing? That was basically a cultural moment.
I had been on my way to pick up a coffee last Wednesday morning when I overheard this twenty-something corporate girl talking to her friend outside the coffee shop near my apartment, while they sipped on their matcha lattes.
“I just go to Whiskey Locker; you know, the bar on West 55th Street? Down in the Financial District?”
Her friend nodded enthusiastically, dressed head to toe inLululemon. They were clearly on their way to a Pilates class or coming from it.
“And I wait for any guy in a vest and a button up to ask me out. Financial analyst, investment banker, you know, I’m not picky.” The girl flipped her perfectly highlighted blonde hair over her shoulder. “Sure, they all have been fuckboys so far, but eventually one of these finance bros has got to stick around long enough to buy me a Birkin …”
After the “Overheard” article went live, ourSophisticatenotifications had lit up.
@nycchronicles: I heard this exact convo outside Devocio in FiDi. She was serious as hell. But I can’t blame her. Those finance guys are HOT! #OverheardinNYC
@financebrosanonymous: Whiskey Locker is where careers go to thrive, and dignity goes to die LOL
@lululemonwarrior: Was she telling the truth? Asking for a friend.
