Scot on the Rocks Page 11

  “So, this is some exhibit,” Christian said and everyone quickly nodded their heads and brought their drinks to their mouths for a sip. “Jack, we’ve all been talking about what we think this exhibit means. What do you think the exhibit’s all about?”

  “Oh, yes. The exhibit,” he said, looking around quickly at all of the paintings. “It just looks like kids growing up in Texas to me.”

  Christian and I laughed at Jack’s pedestrian interpretation as Millie introduced the artist — a twenty-something woman with her hair tied into a loose ponytail and ripped jeans. She had long bangs that fell into her eyes and a piercing just below her lower lip.

  “When I began creating this collection,” she said, “I was looking to make a statement.”

  “Good thing you didn’t embarrass me,” Vanessa said through clenched teeth as the artist spoke. I wanted to apologize to her for making a huge scene at her mother’s art-exhibit opening, but all I could think about was: Please say peace in the Middle East. Please say peace in the Middle East.

  “It’s really just all about my upbringing in Texas back in the eighties,” the artist said. “The pure unadulterated childhood I had before computers ruled the world and everyone had a cell phone.”

  “Did you ever study art history?” Christian asked Jack.

  “Afraid not,” Jack replied.

  “Then how did you know what the artist was trying to say?”

  “Some things are just up-front and uncomplicated,” Jack replied as Christian nodded his head.

  “And, of course,” the artist said, concluding her speech, “it’s a statement about peace in the Middle East.”

  I smiled to myself and grabbed a tiny piece of caviar on a potato pancake to reward myself for being so damn smart.

  “You’re getting back together with him?” Jack asked me in a whisper.

  “Of course I am,” I said, dabbing my cocktail napkin at the sides of my mouth.

  “But I thought that I was coming with you to Trip’s wedding?” he said, brushing his shaggy brown hair from his eyes. His eyes seemed bluer than usual.

  “You are,” I said, and he looked back with a puzzled look.

  “So, I thought that meant that you changed your mind,” he said.

  “About what?” I asked, tearing the cocktail napkin in my hand into two pieces.

  “About getting back together with Douglas. I thought, I mean — the costume shop — wasn’t something going on there? You know, between us? Why are you still talking about getting back together with him?”

  “You’re coming with me to the wedding, Jack, but it’s not like I’m ready to throw away two years of my life just like that.”

  “He did,” he said.

  “I know that, Jack,” I replied, pulling him closer to me so that the people around us wouldn’t hear. “You think I don’t know that?”

  “Does he want to get back together with you?” he asked.

  “He does,” I said. Jack looked back at me, expecting me to say more. “He does. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

  “He doesn’t know it yet?” Jack asked.

  “So, are you two enjoying the show?” Millie asked, swooping in from behind us, glass of champagne in her hands.

  “It’s really amazing,” Jack said.

  “Peace in the Middle East,” I said.

  “That’s what I love about art,” Millie said, her eyes melting into the painting we were standing in front of. “Just when you think it’s one thing, it merges into something else. Something familiar can become something entirely different right before your eyes.”

  “My first impressions are usually dead on,” I told Millie. I mean, come on — peace in the Middle East, people! “And I find that I usually don’t change them.”

  “Well, sweetheart,” Millie said, slowly sipping her drink, “then you probably miss a whole lot.”

  12

  “You need to turn off all mechanical devices so that we can be cleared for takeoff,” the stewardess said, leaning over Jack. He turned off the DVD player that he was playing Trainspotting on and I handed him a book on Scottish royalty.

  “Hand me that movie and I’ll put it away with Rob Roy and the Sean Connery DVDs,” I said, reaching down to put them away.

  “Why are you putting those in that?” Vanessa asked, referring to the litigation bag I was using. A litigation bag is not really a bag, and it’s certainly not your typical carry-on luggage. Rather, it’s a hard case used by litigators when they go to court. Now, the casual observer may have thought she was asking me this because junior associates at a big firm, even those who are litigators, rarely, if ever, go to court, but I knew that she meant, “Why do you have that large eyesore on a plane?”

  “Because I narrowly escaped death trying to get out of the office tonight,” I explained.

  It was a little trick Jack had taught Vanessa and me when we were first-year associates. Whenever you are sneaking out of the office early (read: anytime before 9:00 p.m.), do so with a legal folder or large box of documents or even a litigation bag in your hand, so as to give off the appearance of your intention to work at home. I had used this trick mere hours earlier on my way out of work and discovered that my litigation bag actually made a very handy carry-on bag for the flight.

  There I was with my suitcase in my hand, trying to make my escape for the weekend, when one of the partners on the Healthy Foods case came to my office to ask me to do some research that he needed for Tuesday morning. (He thought he was being a hero by making it due on a Tuesday instead of a Monday. As if I couldn’t figure out that the assignment entailed weekend work either way.) I told him that I could not do it since I was traveling out of town, thus, the suitcase in my hand. He explained to me my duty to the firm and to the case and a whole host of other things that I didn’t hear because I was already tuning him out. When he finally started to tell me how I was the only person who could do this assignment, I managed to grab a litigation bag that was filled with papers (from my last narrow escape from the office a week and a half earlier) to show him that even though I was going out of town for the weekend, I would actually be doing work on another case the whole time, so even if I really, really wanted to, I was not going to be able to get his work done for him by Tuesday. He grumbled something about “Wednesday, then,” and left my office.

  Vanessa got off from work scot-free, but as she suspected, her husband got stuck at the hospital on an emergency shift.

  Once we got in the air, it was back to all things Scotland. Jack watched DVD upon DVD to start perfecting his accent while Vanessa and I brushed up on our research, finding out more things about Scotland and Scottish culture in general. Vanessa was really focused on learning all that she could and I wasn’t sure why. Other than the fact that she’s a great friend, that is. And a kick-ass researcher, I might add. One time, a partner called her from oral argument in federal court to get contrary authority for a case that opposing counsel had just cited. Before the judge’s ten-minute recess was over, Vanessa had five cases for the partner that enabled her to win her oral argument. See, that’s the difference between Vanessa and me: a partner calls screaming and demanding case law on a ten-minute deadline and Vanessa is completely unfazed, whereas I would have been — well, completely fazed.

  I myself was using my credit card to call Douglas in his office from the airplane phone in the seat in front of me. I had to lie to Jack and Vanessa and tell them that I was calling into office voice mail, so when Douglas’s secretary picked up, I had no choice but to dial random numbers into the phone as if I were entering my security code. It was then that I realized that one could not fake a phone call to her ex from a middle seat.

  Our plane touched down in L.A. five hours and twenty-seven minutes after takeoff. We were all exhausted, and looking forward to getting to our hotel as quickly as we could. Vanessa’s mammoth Louis Vuitton case was the first to come off the conveyor belt at baggage claim, with Jack’s army-green duffel following close behind. I
hate it when my bag doesn’t immediately come off the conveyor belt. I always get that overwhelming feeling of complete dread.

  “Oh, my God, my bags are lost,” I said to Jack and Vanessa. Vanessa was so tired that she was sitting on top of her suitcase.

  “Your bags are not lost,” Jack said matter-of-factly, while his eyes betrayed him, darting around the baggage-claim area furiously. “They just haven’t come off of the plane yet.”

  “Yeah,” Vanessa chimed in, “the laws of karma would not allow it. There is no way in hell that, on the way to your ex-boyfriend’s wedding, your bags could possibly get lost.”

  Vanessa was right. I was overreacting. I was probably just jittery and nervous about the whole perpetrating a fraud on the Scottish community thing. Which is totally natural.

  One hour later, two flights from Houston and one from Miami had already landed and gotten their luggage. Vanessa told me that I must have been a very bad person in my former life.

  “Thank you for flying Northeastern Airlines. How can I help you?” an airport employee asked me as if reading off a script. Her monotone voice matched her monotone…well, everything else. She wore the blankest expression I had ever seen.

  “My bag never came off the conveyor belt,” I explained, smiling a big smile. (The same look you employ at the post office can also be conveniently used at the airport.)

  “So your bag is lost,” she droned, seemingly on autopilot, “You can fill out —”

  “No, it’s not lost,” I explained like a kindergarten teacher to her four-year-old students. “Of course, it just hasn’t come off the conveyor belt. It can’t be lost. It must be somewhere. Could you please just help me find it?” Don’t these people know anything about customer service?

  “So your bag is lost. You can fill out —” she repeated. I guess they don’t. Perhaps the look is better kept for post-office use only.

  “No,” I said, pushing away the paperwork, “I don’t need to fill that out. My bag cannot be lost. It cannot. My ex-boyfriend’s wedding is tomorrow night and I need my dress and shoes, not to mention my makeup and hair stuff….”

  She looked back at me with that same blank stare. Judging by her own lack of makeup and hair, I could tell that this was not a compelling argument for her.

  “See, this is why people hate L.A.,” I said to Jack and Vanessa. Jack shook his head in an “I told you so” manner.

  This cannot be happening to me. This. Cannot. Be happening. To me. Okay, be cool. You can make this happen. You’re a big-time lawyer at a big-time law firm. You’ve faced much tougher foes. In litigation, you always need to know what the other party needs in order to give you what you want. Now, this should be easy enough. This is clearly a very disgruntled airport employee. She just needs someone to be nice to her. And give her a makeover, but let’s fight the battles that we can fight, shall we? Just be kind to her and watch how you get more flies with honey than vinegar.

  “Listen to me, lady,” I said. “I am not fooling around here. Let me make one thing clear — I’m not leaving this airport until I have my suitcase in my hot little hands.”

  13

  “No, I do not have any bags,” I said to a very blond, very tan, very smiley man behind the reception desk of the Beverly Wilshire. “No bags at all.”

  “We have two bags here,” Vanessa chimed in.

  “And we are very hopeful that the airline will recover the third bag shortly,” Jack said. Very optimistically, I might add. Unfortunately, I was in no mood for optimism. Optimistic people suck. I never had that problem with Douglas.

  “The airline lost mine,” I explained to the Ken doll at reception, “on the eve of my ex-boyfriend’s wedding. Can you believe that?”

  “And we were escorted out of the airport by security,” Vanessa added. “Can you believe that?” I guess she’s still upset about the whole me threatening the airport employee, jumping over the counter in an alleged play for her neck, getting escorted out of the airport by security, and then getting a police escort to the hotel thing. You think she would have been more appreciative about getting a free ride to our hotel.

  “Well, miss, that is absolutely terrible, but I am sure that they will locate your bag for you,” Ken doll said to me. That optimism thing rears its ugly head again. Is everyone going to be like this in L.A.? “And I can assure you,” Ken doll continued, “that we will take very good care of you at the hotel. Are we still four in the suite?”

  “No, actually, we’re three,” I explained to Ken. “My friend’s husband had to work this weekend. Is that going to be a problem?” Take that, Ken. You see, in the real world, real people have real problems. The real world isn’t beautiful and blond and tanned and buff and smiley with really, really white teeth and…. Where was I? Oh, yes, the real world. Take that, Ken. We are real people here with real problems. And we have real spouses who have to do real work over the weekend. Really.

  “It’s no problem at all,” Ken said, smiling back at me, typing furiously into his computer. “But,” he said, leaning over the counter in a whisper, “I’m still going to give you a suite big enough for four, and only charge you for three.” He is?

  “You are? Thank you so much,” I gushed. Ken’s so nice. Now I feel bad that I said all that mean stuff to him. Well, I didn’t say it to him — I only thought it — but still.

  A bellhop appeared out of nowhere with our two bags and whisked us to our suite. Now, I fancy myself a real tough New Yorker. Completely jaded, unimpressed by most everything. But, when Jack opened the door to that suite, I gasped. I actually gasped. An actual sucking in of my breath and uncontrollably moving my hand to my chest. Everyone did. The suite was absolutely breathtaking.

  “Welcome to the Vice Presidential suite,” the bellhop said, with the requisite pageantry such an announcement deserved.

  “Do you think we could have gotten the Presidential suite if all three of us had lost our bags?” Vanessa asked.

  “Vice Presidential. Sweet,” Jack said, in full surfer mode. He even made some strange hand gesture when he said it.

  It looked fit for a queen. Or a vice president, as the case may be. The white columns in the entranceway served as the perfect invitation to the suite’s living room, beckoning you to come in. As you did, you couldn’t help but be struck by the windows that reached all the way to the ten-foot ceiling, framed by drapes with fabric so rich, they practically poured onto the tan marble floor. It felt as if you looked out those windows you could probably see the whole world.

  It was just as perfectly regal as the lobby. Well, I didn’t actually see the lobby, what with being all infuriated about my bags and all, but I remember the lobby from the pictures I saw of it on the Internet when I booked the hotel. And it was very regal, I assure you.

  The living room itself was bigger than the first apartment I had in New York. I practically fell over myself in my rush to see the bedrooms. As I walked toward door number one, Jack was already behind the mahogany bar, taking drink orders from Vanessa. He popped the bottle of champagne that was the centerpiece of our complimentary fruit basket and I could tell that it was expensive from its very pop — a polite pop that sounded like a delicate song.

  “What can I get ’cha, little lady?” he asked me, already pouring champagne and orange juice into a glass for Vanessa. Vanessa started downing her mimosa, picking up the phone on the bar to call Marcus.

  “What have you got?” I asked him.

  “For you?” he asked. “Anything.” The phone rang as Jack and I locked eyes.

  “Our hotel room has two phone lines,” Vanessa informed me, downing her mimosa as she spoke to her husband. She pushed the glass over to Jack for a refill.

  “How freaking cool is that?” I asked, turning to her. She put Marcus on hold and picked up line two.

  “The airline is on two for you,” she said. I ran to the sofa to pick up line two. The furniture was all deep reds and navy with just the right amount of gold strewn in, set in dark mahogany. I
melted into the pillows and, for a moment, forgot that I was there to pick up the phone.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “She’s living in our apartment and now she has to be on our calls, too?” Marcus said. Holy bad mood, Batman. I slammed down the phone and shot Vanessa an apologetic look.

  “Just ignore him, Brooke,” Vanessa said into the phone. “It’s what I do.” I picked up line two.

  “This is Brooke Miller,” I said, brushing my hands across the sofa’s fabric. “Oh, my God, you did? That’s fabulous! I can come over right now to pick it up!” I practically cried. My bags! My beloved bags! They’re here! Come to mama!

  “Shall we deliver them to your hotel, Ms. Miller?” a decidedly nondisgruntled airport employee asked me.

  “Deliver it? Why, yes, that’s right,” I said, suddenly becoming more articulate with each passing moment I spent in the suite and its luxurious surroundings. “You certainly should deliver it after all that I have been through.”

  “In the past sixty-five minutes…” Jack said, joining me on the sofa with a mimosa and a beer in his hands.

  “It was a very traumatic sixty-five minutes, thank you very much,” I whispered to Jack, holding my hand over the phone. “That would be fine,” I said in a very ladylike manner after removing my hand from the receiver. “Thank you very much.” This joint was really classing me up.

  Vanessa and I hung up our phones at the same time. We did a little dance and started to cheer.

  “Delivering the bag first thing in the morning!” I said.

  “Phew!” Vanessa said, dramatically brushing her hand across her forehead. “That would have really sucked if we had to run around L.A. like complete idiots looking for a new dress and shoes!”

  “Not to mention hair products and makeup,” I added. “My God, if my bag had actually been lost, it would have taken me a week just to get ready for this stupid wedding!”