Gallagher shot me a look that suggested he wished looks could, in fact, kill before changing the subject. A few minutes later he was chummily walking Perry down the hall to the elevators.

Gallagher had, of course, guaranteed Perry we’d have a revised set of numbers ready the next day, which meant that the rest of today and much of the evening were shot. I knew I couldn’t face diving back into work without a short break-preferably one involving food-and Jake and Mark concurred. We agreed to reconvene in ten minutes for a quick lunch and headed downstairs to our offices.

I was at Jessica’s desk, retrieving messages, when I heard the panicked voice of Bert, the guy who manned reception, from across the floor.

“Ma’am? Ma’am? You can’t go in there! I need to make sure you’re expected-”

Jessica and I both turned to stare. The woman Bert was trailing ignored his protests. “Don’t worry-I’ll find my way, thanks.”

She was average height and in her late forties, with the sort of face people describe as striking rather than pretty. Her dark hair was pulled back into a neat chignon, and she was wearing a smart navy pantsuit. We watched, curious, as she surveyed the open space of the floor, its center crammed with the low-walled cubicles that housed junior bankers and assistants, and the offices for more senior bankers lining the perimeter. Her eyes landed on Dahlia, seated at her station in front of Gallagher’s own corner office.

“Hello, Dahlia,” she called, threading her way through the maze of cubes.

“Naomi!” Dahlia’s tone was surprised. Bert hesitated but seemed to take the greeting as proof of the intruder’s legitimacy. With a shrug he retreated to reception.

“It’s been a long time,” said Naomi as she reached Dahlia. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since Glenn and I signed the divorce papers. Is he in?”

“He had a meeting, but he should be back soon. I didn’t know you were-I mean, do you have an appointment? Did he know that you were coming to see him?” Dahlia’s polite smile began to give way to a more apprehensive expression.

“I think we’re both aware that he would never agree to see me in person.” By this point the two women had the attention of everyone within earshot. There wasn’t much drama during the course of a normal day at Winslow, Brown, but it looked like we were all in for an unexpected treat.

“Oh. He’s not going to like this,” said Dahlia.

Naomi shrugged. “Too bad, isn’t it? Look, here he comes now.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” The acoustics on the floor were pretty good, but it still may have been a strain for some of the eavesdroppers to make out what Dahlia and Naomi had been saying. Gallagher, however, could be heard easily since he was shouting.

“I was getting sick of my lawyer racking up fees talking to your lawyer,” his ex-wife answered. She followed him into his office.

“He wouldn’t be racking up fees if you weren’t being so unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable? Unreasonable?” Naomi’s voice rose to match Gallagher’s own, and while nobody could see them now, everybody could still hear them. “I hardly see how it’s unreasonable to expect you to live up to your legal obligation to pay your daughter’s tuition.”

“I don’t know why she has to go to that fancy school. What can they possibly teach her that costs thirty grand a year?”

“You listen here, Glenn Gallagher. If I’d known when I met you what a stingy schmuck you’d turn out to be, I would never have had anything to do with you. Beth is the one good thing that came out of our marriage, and I’m not going to let you stint on her education. It’s the least you can do. I can’t remember the last time you saw her. She probably can’t, either.”

Jessica looked up at me, bemused. “Stingy schmuck?” she mouthed. I shrugged.

“Can’t we talk about this later?” Gallagher said. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“No, we cannot talk about it later. I’m not leaving here without a check. And don’t even try to cry poor. Your new apartment’s the lead spread in this month’s Architectural Digest. Little Annabel probably spent more on each square foot of that place than the school costs.”

“There’s no need to drag Annabel into this.”

“I could care less about dear Annabel. All I want is for you to pry open your checkbook and write the check. Make it out directly to the school. If they don’t get it in the next two days, Beth’s going to lose her spot for next year. Or perhaps I should write a letter to the editor of Architectural Digest? I’m sure they’d be interested to learn all about how you managed to find the money to pay for your swanky penthouse but can’t seem to scrounge up your daughter’s tuition.”

“I’ll write the check. Just shut up already.”

There was silence, and then the sound of a check being ripped from a ledger.

“This better not bounce.”

“You’re psycho. A real head case. Now get out of here before I call security.”

“Gladly.” Naomi reappeared at the door then turned back for one last parting shot. “You know, you’d be of more use to your daughter dead. Pull any more of this crap, and I’ll kill you myself.”

She walked calmly out of her former husband’s office, and everyone who’d been listening hurriedly began shuffling papers or typing at their computers, feigning utter absorption in work. I stifled the urge to clap.

“I’m off,” Naomi said to Dahlia. “But I have the feeling that he’s not going to be much fun to deal with for the rest of the day.”

The women’s eyes met. Then Gallagher began yelling for Dahlia from his office.

N aomi was still waiting for an elevator when I went out to the lobby a moment later to meet Jake and Mark. Listening to her let Gallagher have it had been almost as cathartic as if I’d done it myself, and it had definitely been more cathartic than my blunt-object fantasy. I wanted to thank her, but even I knew that probably wouldn’t be appropriate.

She appeared preoccupied anyway, tapping her foot and checking her watch as she waited. My colleagues sat on the other side of the floor so had missed the entire scene-I was already looking forward to filling them in over lunch.

An elevator finally announced its arrival with a digital beep. The doors slid apart, framing another woman in the opening.

“Figures,” I heard Naomi say under her breath.

The woman was about my age and roughly the same size, but that was where any resemblance ended. With her golden highlights and glossy manicure, not to mention the enormous diamond on her ring finger and matching studs in her ears, she was pretty much the illustrated dictionary definition of socialite-slash-trophy-wife. The Gucci jacket, Prada skirt, Manolo Blahnik heels, and Louis Vuitton purse did nothing to contradict the image, although I did find myself wondering if it was wise to mix so many brands at once. I also felt suddenly self-conscious. It must be nice to have the funds and leisure time to support such perfect grooming and over-the-top wardrobe selection. In fact, it must be nice simply to get enough sleep.

She and Naomi were standing face-to-face, and together they were blocking the elevator entrance, but it seemed rude to push past them.

The socialite-slash-trophy-wife heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Hello, Naomi.”

“Well, hello, Annabel. You’re looking coiffed. Here to see Glenn?” Naomi’s voice dripped acid.

It wasn’t just an image, then. This woman was, in fact, a trophy wife. Glenn Gallagher’s trophy wife, to be exact. What could she possibly be thinking, marrying a weasel like him? But the outfit answered that question nicely-the jewelry alone likely added up to more than the annual income of your average top-tax-bracket American household.

Annabel sighed again and indicated a garment bag she had slung over one arm. The bag bore a Brioni logo, as if it needed a label to join the rest of her ensemble. “I’m bringing him his tux. We’re going to a benefit tonight, and he won’t have time to stop home to change.”