By Tatiana Boncompagni
In case you like books skewering the super-rich (and who doesn't?) this can be for you. It jogged my memory loads of intercourse within the City-- juicy, scandalous, glitzy and addictive. The heroine Marcy is an unintentional Hedge Fund spouse (there are seven varieties of HFWs) and through a long way the main sympathetic personality within the publication. She's the proper narrator for a narrative approximately what occurs while Wall highway is going bust. (Answer: every body makes like ostriches and places their heads within the sand.) My basically criticism is that i wanted the booklet used to be longer. a true page-turner. plenty of enjoyable. the type of booklet you could learn in an afternoon.
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Additional resources for Hedge Fund Wives
Exports received as a result of the weak dollar was far smaller than previously an ticipated or hoped for, and the president’s pro-ethanol policy was making the cost of all food higher as Midwestern farmers ditched less proﬁtable crops in order to grow corn. To top it all off the Sau dis were once again raising the price of crude, mainly because of the weakening dollar. The long run of American prosperity was coming to an end. But not for us. Ours was just starting. Although we were lucky, I didn’t feel like it.
Gigi handed me her card in case I had to cancel—which I promised her I wouldn’t, my agenda being completely empty and all—and we walked back toward the living room, where the party was just starting to pick up steam. The music had gotten louder and drinks stiffer. At around eleven, Gigi bade us all goodbye—she’d promised her babysitter it wouldn’t be a late night—but before she left she introduced me to Peter Partridge, who immediately plunked a pair of felt antlers on my head and asked me to pose with Ainsley in front of their ﬁfteen-foot Christ mas tree.
I harrumphed, unimpressed. “We haven’t been out in months. ” Thus reminded that I, baby or no baby, still had some wifely responsibilities to perform, I pried myself off the couch and let him prod me into our bedroom in the direction of our walk-in Hedge Fund Wives 27 closet, where I squirmed into my trusty Spanx, a pair of stock ings, and that stupid dress. And although I had resigned myself to spending the night quietly sipping champagne in a corner, hoping that no one noticed what a big, friendless loser I was, I actually ended up having a good time.
Hedge Fund Wives by Tatiana Boncompagni