With their game faces off, the commuters look positively miserable. They are die-hard junior execs with their eyes still on the prize, feverishly making love to their Blackberries and Dell Inspirons and Motorola RAZRs.
I make my way up to the bar.
"Two Absoluts in a cup, straight, wedge of lime."
Just as I get my cocktail, the train pitches suddenly to the left, and someone collides with me, nearly upending my double-shot.
A striking blonde girl in a pastel sun-dress murmurs an apology around a dazzling smile. "So sorry."
I'm taken aback. This is a radiant burst of genuine friendliness, and I have an instant attraction to this girl. It's more that she seems a beacon of positive energy on a suddenly very hostile planet. She makes me think of lemon meringue pie.
“It was my fault, actually,” I offer.
“I suppose it doesn't matter much either way, does it?” The girl holds my eyes for a moment while I try to place the accent -- Australian, I guess, with the vanishing 'r's'. I’m intrigued.
"My name's Mark," I say, surprised at my own cojones.
"Fiona."
"Ah. Can I get you a drink, Fiona? A Coke?"
"I'd much prefer a Foster's, actually. With a vodka chaser." With that, Fiona flips open her cellphone to smile and dial. When I return with the drinks, I tune in to bits of her conversation. It is peppered with an exotic slang, putting me in mind of A Clockwork Orange. "It's choice . . . That's spot-on. . . Did you dip-out for a moment or what? . . . What a complete saddo she turned out to be. . . Ah, Viv, Ranieri can be such a drongo sometimes . . ."
Ranieri. Could it be?
And now I realize I've seen her somewhere before—on the trading floor, maybe. But how?
Fiona accepts the shot and the beer and slugs down four quick throatfuls — we have a party girl here.
"Kia ora, baby" she says. She snaps the cellphone shut, and turns to me. "That was my mate, Vivica. She's my cozziebro. I trust her with my deepest secrets." Fiona hoists her beer in a toast. "Thanks for your kindness. I'm not used to that, especially in New York."
"It's nothing really. Are you from Australia?"
"Australia? How insulting.”
“I didn't mean any offense -- “
“No worries, I'm from New Zealand originally. But for the last year, I've lived in Greenwich."
"I live in Greenwich also." I struggle to sound casual. "I couldn't help hear the name 'Ranieri'. Would that happen to be Howard Ranieri?"
"Yes," she says in amazement. "I live with Mr. Ranieri."
"You what?"
She choke-laughs, and a geyser of imported beer spews forth, making her laugh even harder. "That came out completely wrong. His family, I should say, I live with his family. I'm an au pair. The Ranieris are my host-family in America."

More to follow tomorrow…

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