There was only one good thing that came out of those lost years: I met Betsy Power.

Jack had apparently placed an ad in a French expat newspaper looking for young women to work in Paris. Ignoring the request for a photo in a bathing suit, Betsy applied. A few weeks later, I was back in the Paris office and met this scrawny girl with curly hair dressed in a miniskirt with dark green tights, combat boots, and an old army jacket. She was manhandling a massive Excel spreadsheet like I had never seen before.

“You must be Kathleen,” she said.