You know those big revolving glass doors in high-rise buildings? They really aren’t built for people in a hurry. Like a crowded roundabout, you’ve got to slow down to merge with them, and in three-inch heels, that’s not easy. In my case, I don’t so much merge as slam straight into it. The glass thrums and vibrates, and I find myself pressed against it, palms flat like I’m being arrested by the police.

Mistake 1: I should have gone for some flatter shoes on my first day.

The glass is remarkably clean - I guess they have someone who does nothing but clean all of it - and from my vantage point, stuck flat against the door, I can see inside, across the lobby to where, twenty feet away, a group of men and women mill around nervously in front of a staircase. There aren’t any signs or directions, but the aura of new suit and nervousness is visible from even this distance. Yep, those are the other trainees alright. As the door continues its glacially slow rotation, I watch some of them break off into small groups, pull out papers and pore over them, scribble notes and then rejoin the mass again. They’re like fish waiting to be fed.

Or scooped up in a net. Or eaten by a large predator. And you, Ronnie Haas, are about to join the school.

“Need some help?” A deep voice sounds behind me, faintly amused. I turn my head with as much aplomb as I can summon up while stuck to a door. It’s a guy, and my first thought is wow, he’s a hottie. All finely-cut suit and carefully cropped hair, lean and tall. My second thought is damn, I run into a super-hot guy on my first day, and I’m pinned to a revolving door. Great timing.

“I’m, uh, okay. I think.” The door revolves, slowly, taking me with it.

“Good. These doors can be treacherous if you’re not used to them. Excuse me.” Reaching past me, he gives the door a gentle push, setting me free. I catch the scent of his cologne, deep and masculine.

“Thanks.” I try to sound as relaxed as I can, despite being late, in the wrong shoes, and seriously wanting to take another sniff of that cologne.

“Don’t mention it. Take care, now.”

* * *

I walk as fast as possible while trying to remain inconspicuous—also not easy in three-inch heels—toward the group. From the way they’re talking, it looks like some of the trainees here know each other, but coming to the big city from Lowell College means that I’m an outsider right from the start. A couple of young guys look up, and nod briefly before going back to scribbling notes, then one of them looks back up again.

“Are you looking for something, ma’am? I mean, uh, this is…”

I roll my eyes and remind myself he’s only trying to be helpful. “Yeah, I’m looking for the same thing you are. This is the first day intake for the Walters Capital trainees, right?”

To his credit, he flushes, and starts stammering an apology. “Yes, that’s..sure, I mean, of course you are. I didn’t think—that is, I wasn’t meaning you weren’t, uh—” His glasses slip down his nose and he tries to push them back up. Unfortunately he’s still holding his ball-point pen, and the motion puts a large pen mark from the bottom of his nose to the top.

I try not to smile—we’ve all done it—and decide to let him off the hook. “Hey, it’s okay. Don’t let the shoes fool you. I’m Ronnie.” The look of pure relief on his face when he realizes he’s not going to get cut from the program on the first day for sexist behavior is heartwarming.

“I’m Errol. It’s nice to meet you, Ronnie. This is, uh, Adam.” He gestures to the guy next to him, skinny with a mass of frizzy hair that he’s tried unsuccessfully to stick into place with hair product. He looks like Krusty the Klown would look if he bought a three-piece suit off the Internet. Back in college, I would be staging a fashion intervention for these young men, but here and now, out of college and in the big bad world of finance, they are my esteemed colleagues.

Young men, wow. They’re not really much younger than you. I guess it’s all part of growing up, though; everyone young starts to look younger and younger. Dad always said that one day you look up, and the police look like teenagers. Huh.

“So what did you guys study? You know each other from college, right?” They nod quickly and Adam answers, evidently grateful to be able to talk about something.

“Yeah, we studied biocomputation at MIT. We wanted to go overseas, but one day the recruiter for Walters came to our class, and talked about how finance needed more people from outside the usual courses, so we took the exam, and did okay, I guess.” He shrugs, and I raise an eyebrow.

“Okay? That exam was hellish. Four hours, no books, no Internet access? I don’t want to be doing that again.” They break into broad grins, and Errol laughs.

“Yeah, it was pretty sucky. What about you?”

“I studied data science at Lowell. Didn’t know what I wanted to do, and when I heard about the exam I was curious. I didn’t think I’d do well enough to get in, but I guess I must have gotten lucky. Do you know anyone else here?”

They look around and shake their heads. The murmur of conversation ebbs and flows around us, and another girl—one of the few—comes and stands next to us while she’s talking on her phone. From what I can hear of her half of the conversation, it sounds like she’s buying something.

“Yeah, I need them sooner than that. Three weeks is no good; most of these people aren’t going to be here in three weeks, so my market is just going to dry up. You need to do better for me. Hold on, I’ve got some more right here.” Phone still pressed to her ear, she looks at us. “Hey, you guys want a deal on suits? I can get you three for a thousand bucks, but you gotta say you want them right now.” She glances at me, appraisingly. “I can do women’s too. Power suits, just what you need to get you in the door here. You won’t make the cut without a suit. Come on, you know it makes sense.”

Adam stammers. “Well, uh, thanks, but I’ve already got a suit.” The girl gives him a pitying look.

“One suit? You think you’re going to make the cut at Walters Capital with one suit? What do you think this is, community college where you can come to work wearing the same clothes every day? You’ve got no chance, man. You need this deal or you’re dead. No team is going to pick you up if you don’t look like you belong here.”

Confronted by this barrage, Adam and Errol look at each other, and then, pleadingly, at me. I shrug, and the gesture seems to piss the girl off. She makes a face at me and then goes back to her phone.

“Look, one week, minimum. I’ll get you the orders in half an hour, and then you need to have these suits ready for me in one week. I don’t care how many people you need to hire, just make it happen.” Apparently deciding that we aren’t high-value targets any more, she wanders off and is swallowed up by the crowd. Errol turns to me, a look of horror on his face.

“Do we really need a different suit for every day?” Evidently the idea of wearing a different outfit every day of the week is a new and challenging one for him, and I really don’t want to make this harder for him than it is.

“Look, maybe. I don’t know, Errol. Let’s not worry about it right now, though.” Before I can placate him further, there’s a buzz from the front of the crowd, as people turn to watch a tall, broad-shouldered woman coming down the steps holding a clipboard. She looks like Anna Wintour, if Anna Wintour were nearly six feet in height and built like a linebacker. Stopping on the second-to-bottom step, she clears her throat, and the crowd falls silent.

“Attention trainees: welcome to your first day at Walters Capital.” Somehow she manages to make the word “welcome” sound like an accusation. “You are fortunate to have been selected from among a very large group of applicants from some of the most prestigious institutions across the country in a very competitive selection process.” Fortunate, prestigious, competitive. The words rain down on us like judgments, even though we haven’t done anything yet. “Over the next few weeks, you will be interviewed and evaluated to determine your fitness for work in this firm. Trainees who receive an offer from a group in the firm will receive a generous compensation package. Trainees who do not,” she pauses, “will leave with the satisfaction that they have had a brief experience of the very best of this nation’s investment activity.”

Wow, talk about a booby prize. Okay.

“Trainees are expected to uphold the reputation of the firm and conduct themselves at all times with dignity, discretion and integrity. This means adhering to standards of behavior and dress,” her eyes sweep over the crowd like Sauron overlooking Mordor, “which meet our expectations.”

From Clipboard Lady’s tone, it’s clear that these expectations are pretty damn firmly unmet at this point. The crowd does its best to simultaneously press forward and shrink back, anxious to be seen to be keenly paying attention, but equally anxious to not actually be seen. Suddenly, her eyes settle on Adam in front of me.

“You. Yes, you. Where did you get that,”—there’s a pause, and I can hear the air-quotes snapping into place—“suit?”.

“I, uh, that is, I don’t, I…” As the rest of the crowd subtly shuffles away from him, Adam’s face reminds me of one of those slow-loris memes on the Internet.

“Do you think that suit is appropriate attire for a principal at Walters Capital?”

Adam gibbers with fear. “I just, I…”

“Do you expect that the very busy individuals with extremely high expectations of their staff who conduct this firm’s business will regard your outfit as appropriate?”

Adam, unable to speak at this point, makes only a gargling sound. A ripple of laughter runs through the crowd, mostly relieved that it’s not happening to them.

This isn’t really fair. I clear my throat, “Hey, ma’am. This isn’t really fair.”

Turning from the unfortunate Adam, Clipboard Lady looks directly at me, and I get the full force of her stare. I must admit, it’s pretty frightening. I swallow, but no-one sees.

“Do you have something to say,”—she clearly pauses in an attempt to find a criticism of my dress sense, and I offer up a silent prayer of thanks to the God of Fashion that told me to wear the Louboutins today—“young lady?”

Now I’m a little bit annoyed. “Yes, I do have something to say. This is our first day, and we didn’t know anything about how to dress other than what we read on the corporate website. I don’t think it’s fair to blame us for something we couldn’t reasonably predict, okay?”

The horrified hush around me and the expression on her face suggest that talking back on Day 1 of your trainee period is not part of the standard procedure at Walters Capital. Ronnie, you may have bitten off more than you can chew here. Clipboard Lady takes a deep breath, and I suddenly think of Popeye the Sailor man winding up to hit someone.

“Fair? What part of this process, precisely, do you imagine is going to be fair? Do you think that the financial markets in which we trade operate according to principles of,” another pause, “fairness?”

I’m about to argue more, and I remember my mother’s phone call to me yesterday morning. Her words play in my head, as clearly as if she were standing next to me.

Veronica Haas, do not get yourself into trouble on your first day. You know what you’re like. You’re always doing something irresponsible and silly, and ending up in situations because of it. That might have been okay while you were at college, but now it’s time you grew up. It’s time you started acting like a responsible adult. This job is a big opportunity for you, and your father and I want you to make the best of it.

Dammit. Ja, moeder. Momma always thinks these things are simple, but somehow when you’re in the middle of them, they don’t seem so simple. I stay quiet.

Clipboard Lady fixes me with a triumphant stare. “You have a lot to learn, young lady, if you think that trying to argue with the system upon which this firm is built on your very first day is a good decision.” Again, I say nothing, and seethe quietly. She raises her voice and addresses the crowd. “In fact, you all have a lot to learn. Starting now, and for each day of your trainee period, you will report to Conference Room 4A at 7am every morning for your assignments. Anyone who is not there by 7am will not be admitted. Now, follow me, and I’ll show you where it is.” She turns on her heel and sweeps back up the stairs, the crowd trailing after her.

At the back of the group, Adam and Errol shuffle past me sympathetically. “Hey, uh, thanks.” Adam offers the words up like he’s consoling someone. “I mean, I appreciate you sticking up for me, I just wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

I smile. “Thanks, Adam. It’ll be okay.” Just like me. In trouble on Day 1.

I fiddle with my bag and turn to follow the group. As I do, I catch sight of Hot Salesman from the rotating door. He’s sitting on one of the expensive metal sculptures in the lobby, watching the whole process. They look pretty damn uncomfortable, but he seems to have found a perch where he’s settled in and unconcerned by all the sharp angles and metal around him. He sees me looking at him, and raises his eyebrows.

“That was pretty brave of you.” I look back.

“Was it?”

He shrugs, sliding long legs down off the metal plinth of the sculpture and walking across the floor towards me. “Well, Barbara gives that speech to all the trainees. Every intake. And it scares the crap out of them. Every intake. I haven’t seen anyone interrupt her before.” He’s obviously one of the bond salesmen in a suit like that; all polish and flash, whose job it is to entertain clients, get them nodding their heads and handing over their money. “It was interesting to watch.” He seems obviously enjoying the scene, and I feel a flash of irritation. It’s fine for you, buddy.

“Interesting? What’s interesting about picking on people when they don’t know what the rules are, hey?” He smiles and nods, conceding the point.

“Fair enough. Barbara usually makes an example of one of the trainees so the others don’t act up. But, you’re right; it can’t be much fun if you’re that one person. Veronica, isn’t it?” I shake my head.

“It’s Ronnie. Not Veronica.” I hate being called Veronica.

Deep green eyes fix me briefly, calculating. “Okay, Ronnie it is then. I admire your conviction, but you’re going to have to learn to pick your battles if you want to play this game. You need to survey the landscape before you go wading into a fight.”

I open my mouth to say something cutting, then decide to take his advice, and close it again. “Uh-huh.” I look at him evenly for a moment, studying his face. Is that enough surveying for you, Mr. Hot Salesman?

Suddenly, he breaks into a smile. “Very good! You’re a fast learner. However, right now, you,” he indicates the door to the conference room, “should be in there with the other trainees.” I start. Shit, he’s right. Being late at this stage wouldn’t be smart. Walking up the steps behind him, I have just enough time to admire his figure in that suit—damn, that is a nice suit, and a nice ass underneath it—before he turns suddenly.

Did he catch me looking at his, ermm…suit? If he did, he doesn’t show it. We get to the conference door, and he opens it for me. In the moment before I step through it, those green eyes catch me again, and I get a flash of the faintly amused smile, like nothing is ever very serious for him.

“See you in the game, Ronnie Haas.”