Toronto. Friday, November 23.
Late November was traditionally crunch time for associate lawyers at the huge and prestigious law firm of Anderson, McPherson and White. It was time for the underlings to endure their annual performance reviews, a tension filled show and tell session for the firm's best and brightest. Having gambled their youth and a fortune in education expenses, this was potentially the payoff. Each had done at least a year of working eighty to ninety hours a week for slave wages while articling and preparing to write the bar administration exams. Each had passed, but continued to work absurd hours. The difference was that they now enjoyed a decent income, enough to buy a sports car, a nice condo, maybe a cottage in Muskoka. Their elevated status was comfortable, but the big casino was to become a full equity partner, and to do it before the age of thirty-two, a hypothetical precipice. A full equity partner in Anderson, McPherson and White made an annual income, including bonus, of between one and three million. It was a generally accepted fact that if an associate failed to become a partner by that age, he or she just didn't have what it takes.
It was gut check time for Christine Stewart, now thirty-two. For her, becoming a full equity partner wasn't just important, it was crucial. The alternative was unthinkable. Blessed with a near photographic memory, making it through Wellesley College and Harvard Law was a walk in the park for her. Her ability to cram and regurgitate had made her a legend among her classmates, particularly those with memories possessed by mere mortals. Christine had worked her heart out in anticipation of this occasion. She had been disappointed twice, mildly on her first, devastated on her second. This had to be the one.
Christine wore her heart on her sleeve. From early childhood she had been extraordinarily outspoken. At the risk of being classified as a rebel, she never missed an opportunity to take a strong verbal position on virtually any issue. She couldn't help herself, even though she knew that too often, she allowed her mouth to move faster than her brain.
In addition to being an excellent student, she was athletic. It was apparent at Branksome Hall, a Toronto private school for girls, then became obvious at Wellesley College. She took to team sports with an aggression that bordered on fanaticism. Winning wasn't good enough for her, she needed to crush her opposition, blow them away. Her prowess and determination on the soccer field and the volleyball court frequently made that happen, but when it didn't, she lapsed into what could best be described as a manic depressive state. Anyone who watched her play would state, categorically, that she was largely responsible for the success of Wellesley blue against NCAA, seven sisters, and Newmac rivals.
Drop dead gorgeous, a magnetic personality, a brilliant student, and money to burn, her life appeared perfect. None of her friends could understand or diagnose the cause of her competitive nature. There was no justification for it. From the day she was born, wealth had satisfied her every need and want. She had relative ability, they said. How could there be any pain? Never in denial, she attempted to explain that she had spent a lifetime watching what wealth had done to her father and his marriages. She insisted that her motivation was to prove to her father and everyone who knew her that she could make it on her own. She neglected to mention that she not only wanted to make it, she needed to be the best.
She had a dirty little secret, however, a fact known only by her father, Jennifer Adams, her close friend and classmate at Harvard, and the staff at Manhattan Female Medical Clinic. It all started in June of 1993, the end of her second year at Harvard. To celebrate the end of exams, Christine and five of her female classmates rented a beachfront home for a week of fun and relaxation in East Hampton. All six were enjoying dinner and drinks on their first evening at Rowdy Hall on Main Street when Christine met Paul Donahue, a recently minted Harvard M.B.A. Six foot two, a shock of pure blond hair, deep blue eyes, and an alluring smile were some of the attributes that melted her resistance. His affect on her was like flicking a switch. She was instantly captivated. The two became inseparable, partying and sleeping together for the remainder of the week, nauseating Christine's girl friends.
In keeping with the usual behavioral pattern of summer flash romances, the two promised undying devotion to one another prior to parting. Donahue went to work for a high tech startup in silicon valley, and Christine returned to Toronto to work as an intern for Anderson, McPherson and White.
A month later, she missed her period. In addition to being horrified and scared, she hated herself for missing so many of her birth control pills while studying for her final exams. A positive pregnancy test result ignited an avalanche of troubling implications.
She confided in her father and Jennifer Adams. Both strongly suggested that she should discuss the matter with Paul Donahue. Following their advice, she flew to San Francisco, intent on surprising Donahue with her 'good' news. She rented a red Mustang convertible and followed her map to the address Donahue had given her before leaving East Hampton. He lived in an upscale town home in Palo Alto.
She was greeted at the door by a twenty something, well tanned and proportioned blond, dressed in a skimpy peach colored bikini.
"Does Paul Donahue live here?" Christine asked, shocked.
The blond nodded. "He's at work," she said.
"Who are you?"
"Paul's girl friend. Who are you?"
"A friend from Harvard," Christine replied, then turned and ran to her car, fighting tears and the explosion of disappointment. In spite of the pain, she felt a strange surge of relief as she descended into the driver's seat. She was now free to do what she had wanted to do from the moment her pregnancy was confirmed.
A weekend visit to Manhattan Female Medical Clinic, funded and endorsed by her father, terminated the pregnancy. She never saw Paul Donahue again, nor did he contact her.
Entering the firm's stately board room, A.K.A. The Forum, she was confident, certain that exiting as a full partner was a slam dunk. Largely as a result of her father's connections, her billings had exceeded those of most of her peers. Her hours were in the top decile. In her mind, there was no way she could be refused a third time.
In the end, the review committee concluded that while she was a valued associate and her career was on the verge of greatness, she needed to become less abrasive in her inter-personal relationships. Once again, they denied her a full equity partnership. As a consolation, they made her a senior associate with an appropriate increase in salary.
"It's because I'm pregnant. Isn't it?" she shouted, enraged by the rejection, the third in a row. "You conveniently omitted that fact because you wanted to be politically correct, and didn't want to be sued. So you trumped up some other excuse."
Warren Anderson, grandson of one of the founders, and head of the committee, displayed a forced smile. "With respect, Miss Stewart, your pregnancy has nothing to do with our decision," he lied. "Indeed you have once again displayed the abrasiveness to which we have referred."
Christine leveled her brown eyes at Anderson's, her expression revealing a contempt she had often displayed. "Fuck you!" she said, then stood and left The Forum.
Toronto. Friday, November 30.
In response to an urgent call from Christine, Jennifer Adams flew to Toronto for the weekend. Doing what friends do for each other, she took time out from her promising law career with Benjamin and Cordoba, a high end legal boutique in Manhattan. Jennifer was everybody's girl next door, a flaming redhead, tall, her body slightly out of proportion, nice looking, but not a raving beauty. In spite of a burning desire to marry and have a family, she remained single, insisting that she was still looking for mister right. Christine was delighted to have her as a friend, but still had not, as Jennifer had expected, asked her to be her maid of honor.
To free up her weekend with Jennifer, Christine had told Steve that her workload was "off the Richter Scale," and that she was not feeling all that well. In spite of the disappointment, he welcomed the extra time to to work on The Monster, and avoid having to do the work when the inevitable snows returned to Muskoka.
She had told her father the entire ugly story of her failure to become a partner. Out of sympathy he had allowed the girls to use his driver and his black Bentley Azure for the evening. The driver dropped the two off at the front entrance to The Four Seasons Hotel on Avenue Road. They headed inside and to The Avenue Bar and Lounge, where they planned to begin their pub crawl. Both were dressed in designer jeans and ultra high heels. Christine's blazer was white, Jennifer's was powder blue.
Christine tapped a young waiter on the shoulder and pointed to an empty table for two. "We'll sit there and bring me a vodka on the rocks." She turned to Jennifer. "Give him your drink order," she prompted.
Jennifer ordered a pinot grigio, took her seat, then leveled a scornful stare at Christine. "You know you shouldn't be drinking."
Christine nodded, lips tightened. "I do, but I don't care."
"I don't understand you. How could you not care? You're engaged to marry one of nicest, best looking men I've ever seen, and you're carrying his child. What's going on, Christine?"
"It's what's not going on that's bothering me," Christine replied with a forlorn expression, anxious to make her friend understand, and to purge her mind of too many pent up emotions. For her entire life she had enjoyed the benefits of having a rich father, but now that was what concerned her more than anything else. She wanted to free herself from her reliance on her father's money, to make it on her own, and prove to herself, her father and the world that she was more than another rich man's daughter. It was no longer just important, it had become an obsession. "I didn't make it, Jennifer, and I know why. Anderson tried to give me this bullshit about inter-personal relationships, but I know it was because I'm pregnant."
"You poor dear. You've got everything most girls would kill for, and here you are, whining and sniveling about being pregnant...Suck it up, sweetie. Get a life."
"You still don't get it. I don't have a life. All I've got is an expensive education and a future husband who doesn't have any money."
"So what are you trying to tell me?"
"I'm trying to tell you that I can't do this. The timing's all wrong...I'm going to terminate this pregnancy."
Jennifer's eyebrows went north and her jaw went south. "You can't be serious!" she said, horrified.
"Very serious. I've come too far, and there's no way I'm going to settle for being a poor little rich girl with a house full of kids."
It was the second time Jennifer had seen the look of determination Christine was now displaying. She had tried and failed to convince Christine not to abort Paul Donahue's child. This time, she didn't even try. "I assume you're going to tell Steve," she said.
Christine flushed to red. "Eventually," she replied, unwilling or too embarrassed to disclose her plan to marry Steve, then employing some brilliantly conceived excuse, tell him she miscarried. Her pregnancy was what had changed his mind about getting married sooner, rather than later, but it was a major obstacle to her career plans. "I have an appointment at Toronto Women's Care Clinic tomorrow morning at ten. You don't have to, but I'd really appreciate it if you went with me. I did the last one alone, and when it was over I really wished I had someone with me."
"Aren't you afraid of something going wrong, like maybe the doctor tells you there were complications and you can't have kids anymore?"
Christine smiled, attempting to show confidence. "I'm not worried at all. They told me their success rate is close to a hundred percent, if they terminate within four to seven weeks. I'm in my seventh week. We'll be in and out of there in three hours."
"What's the procedure? Do you know?"
Christine nodded and smiled like a seasoned veteran. "It's called Manual Vacuum Aspiration. They give you a local anesthetic and a sedative, then they do it. It's painless...Will you go with me?"
"Sure. What else is a friend for?" Jennifer said, worried about Christine's reckless disregard for life, and even more worried about her health.
The driver dropped the girls off in front of Christine's elegant Cumberland Avenue townhouse shortly after midnight. At nine the following morning, Jennifer, at the wheel of Christine's black Mercedes SLK 320, drove her to Women's Care Clinic on Lawrence Avenue, in time for her appointment. While reading in the clinic's comfortable waiting room, she worried more about Christine's operation. Should she ever be fortunate enough to become pregnant by mister right, the last thing she would ever do is terminate. Never a table thumping pro-lifer, she accepted the need to terminate pregnancy on the grounds of health concerns, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't understand how Christine would terminate because having a child was inconvenient for her career.