Phil knew that this was more than just a threat. In all the years they’d been living together, he’d never seen her so mad, not even after she’d discovered he’d been hawking her vintage Hermes scarves for cash last summer. No, she’d really had it with him this time. It’d been more than three years since she’d been able hold her annual Christmas party, the social event of the season that people had done unspeakable things to score an invite to in the past and her patience had long since whittled down to that of a toothpick.
If she wasn’t able to throw it the way she liked– Swarovski-encrusted invitations, go-go dancers dressed as Romans flanking the pool room, ice sculptures done in the family’s likeness, individual raw-bars at dinner, a ‘Maids-a-Milking’ themed after hours– then she wasn’t going to throw it at all. Better to make ‘em wait and come back with a vengeance then serve up a watered down, less hot version of what she was capable of. So they’d agreed on a deadline: Christmas 2014. She’d started working on preliminary plans in August and, yet, as of last month, not one penny had been deposited into her ‘Travel and Entertainment’ fund.
She’d sent emails about it marked ‘high importance,’ pestered his secretary, and finally stormed his office earlier in the week, where she found him doing little more than raking sand back and forth on of those desk trays, rather than hustling to get the money together. She exploded then and she exploded this morning, following him to the front door of the townhouse in her robe and shouting in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t come home with the money that night, he needn’t come home at all. And, honestly? As of lunchtime he was trying to figure out if he had any buddies left who’d let him sleep on the couch, just for a night or two until he’d found something more permanent. And then he remembered something. Page 741 of his employment agreement. Not with Harbinger Capital Partners. Not with HC2. Not with LightSquared. But with the Harbinger Group. Read more »