Jack With a Twist bm-2 Page 15
I’ll also have time to work out and finally start that wedding diet everyone tells me I should be on. Maybe I can even start taking tennis lessons like my mom! Then, by the time Jack and I get to Hawaii for our honeymoon, I’ll already have a killer backhand! (And much tighter glutes….)
While contemplating how much one can reasonably expect to make on unemployment and how many hours of tennis practice I’d need before I would look totally cute in a tennis skirt, I grab the paper from the kitchen counter and rip off the rubber band. I’m immediately relieved that the article is not about Monique and Jean Luc at all, so I can rest easy. I will not be getting fired today. Unemployment would have been nice, but it’s not happening for me.
Not today, at least.
Instead, right there, on the front page, for all the world to see, is the headline: Move over Hepburn and Tracy: It’s a Real Life Battle of the Sexes!
“Oh, my God,” I say into the phone and almost drop the receiver.
“I told you not to look!” Vanessa says, her voice an octave higher than usual.
“Then you shouldn’t have told me not to look!” I say, “don’t you know anything about rearing children?”
“I’m your maid of honor,” she says, “not your babysitter!”
“Same thing!” I yell into the phone.
“What are you looking at?” Jack says, coming out of the shower. He’s draped in just a towel, and using another to dry off his shaggy brown hair, and I momentarily forget that I’m still angry at him because of what happened at the Pierre.
“Nothing,” I say, trying hard to keep my eyes fixated on his baby blues, but instead just staring at his hairy chest and freckly arms.
“So, you saw it?” he asks, coming over to the kitchen counter. He drops the towel he was using to dry off his hair onto a kitchen stool and uses his other hand to pull up the towel that’s around his waist. My eyes are firmly glued to that other hand. “Brooke?”
You are still angry with your fiancé, I remind myself. Stop staring at his towel. Stop staring at his towel.
“Oh, yes,” I say, eyes flying back up to his face with a “Who, me?” expression on my own, “Vanessa just called me about it.”
“Don’t blame me!” I can vaguely hear Vanessa screaming into the phone. “Tell him that I told you not to look at it!”
“Van,” I say into the phone, “I’ll call you back.”
“So, I guess that you already saw it?” I ask Jack.
“I did,” he says, “but I thought you’d get upset, so I was hoping that you wouldn’t see it. And you’ve been running off with the Times lately, anyway, so I thought that maybe you’d miss it.”
Um, hello? As if I don’t go to www.nypost.com every day to read Column Five?
“Sorry,” I say, “did you want the Times?” I take the paper out from under my arm and hand it to Jack.
“I don’t want the Times,” he says, pulling me toward him, “I want to start having breakfast with you every day while we’re reading the Times. Like we used to. I don’t want you to run out of the apartment every day while I’m in the shower.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, as Jack sits down at one of the kitchen stools, his arms still holding mine. Then he drops his arms so that his hands are holding mine. “I’m just under a lot of stress here. I have a ton of work. Which you should know, since you assigned it to me.”
“I don’t think it counts as me assigning it to you since we don’t work at the same law firm anymore,” Jack says, baby blues smiling.
“And I’ve got wedding plans to think about,” I say, looking down at the kitchen counter.
“I’m sorry about the Pierre,” Jack says, putting one finger under my chin and lifting it up so that our eyes meet. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want us to fight,” I say.
“Me, neither,” he says, pulling me in for a hug. “I’ll talk to my parents.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling my eyes begin to tear up for a minute, but then smiling through it. I can smell his aftershave and it gives me a tiny shiver. “Thank you.”
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Jack asks.
“I’d love one,” I say, and Jack jumps up from his seat and tends to the coffee. I look down again at the front page of the Post. I hate the picture that they’ve got printed. Is there any chance that they’ve used a different picture of us for the online version of the paper? Maybe I should e-mail them a copy of one of our engagement pictures to use online. In the print edition, they’ve got a shot of the two of us leaving the federal courthouse on the day of our initial court conference. For a second, I wish that I had worn a sexy Nanette Lepore suit just like Miranda had that day, with a camisole that was too low-cut for a court appearance, instead of the conservative dark suit and turtleneck that I actually chose. Then I begin to wish that I even owned a sexy Nanette Lepore suit with matching camisole.
Note to self: must pick up sexier suits next time I’m at Saks if I’m going to make a habit out of being photographed while leaving court.
Jack and I aren’t the main headline of the paper today, but we’re the big inset on the lower right-hand corner of the front page. Either way, you can’t miss us. The teaser tells me to flip to page nine, so I do. The same headline leads the full page article:
Move Over Hepburn and Tracy: It’s a Real Live Battle of the Sexes!
By Shawn Morgan (AP Press)
Forget the movies: it’s a real life case of Adam’s Rib in the Southern District of New York as Manhattan lawyers Brooke Miller and Jack Solomon, who are engaged to be married next spring, showed up in federal court yesterday to fight on opposite sides of a tightly sealed federal litigation. Why are the papers so tightly sealed? What’s at stake? And more importantly, who will win—the women or the men?—when this litigation finally becomes public and the trial date is set?
I allow myself to exhale as I realize that the court records were sealed before the press could get wind of the fact that the case is about Monique and Jean Luc dissolving their business partnership. I glance down at the photo that accompanies the story: Jack and I kissing in front of the federal courthouse, standing smack dab in the middle of Foley Square without any regard whatsoever to the people walking by. My ego loves it, but the rest of me can’t help but wonder: how on earth is this news?
I’m momentarily distracted by the photo credit—Jay Conte, aka our wedding videographer—as my BlackBerry begins to vibrate. I pick it up and see an e-mail from Judge Martin’s courtroom deputy.
From: “Judge Martin’s Chambers 2”
To: “Brooke Miller”
Cc: “Judge Martin”
Subject: Today’s NYPost
Counselors:
In light of the media frenzy you were trying to avoid in your matter appearing before Judge Martin, when reporters came to the courthouse to try to find out the identity of the parties litigating in our sealed litigation, we thought it prudent to pretend to “leak” information about the case so that they would stop digging for information. As such, we had Judge Martin’s assistant “accidentally” tell the press that the reason this case was sealed was because the lead lawyers on either side were actually an engaged couple.
If you look at today’s New York Post, you will see that this story has appeared on page nine.
Best,
Brandon William
Courtroom Deputy to Judge Martin
*****CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE*****
The information contained in this e-mail message is the property of the United States Federal Government. If you are not the intended recipient, we would request you delete this communication without reading it or any attachment, not forward or otherwise distribute it, and kindly advise the Southern District of New York by
return e-mail to webmaster@sdny.uscourts.gov. Thank you in advance.
Jack’s BlackBerry begins to buzz next, so I read him the e-mail.
“See,” he says, returning to the kitchen counter with our coffees. “All’s well that ends well. And our case is still firmly under lock and key.”
“But, what if they keep digging for dirt?” I ask.
“Don’t worry,” Jack says, taking a sip of coffee. “It will be some other story tomorrow. I’m sure some reality show reject will be involved in some scandal and we’ll be yesterday’s news. Maybe even before today’s over.”
I can’t help but smile. I can never stay mad at Jack for too long.
“Well, for today, I hate the way I look in this photo,” I say to Jack as I sip my coffee. “So conservative and stodgy.”
“Conservative and stodgy?” Jack says, “Nah, you look just like Jackie O in the White House.”
My fiancé is well trained to know that anytime I’m feeling insecure, a reference to a fabulous celebrity is just what I need to get my confidence back. And, for me, it’s got to be a classic, old-time star—no Julia Roberts or Reese Witherspoon comparisons for me. He has his pick of the sixties icons: Jackie O (too conservative), Audrey Hepburn (too plain) or Marilyn Monroe (too fat). Even a fleeting Lauren Bacall comment (too sharp) is enough to turn my day back around.
Is it any wonder that we end up back in bed?
18
“Nothing?” I say to Vanessa as soon as we’re alone in the bathroom at Mega, a monstrosity of a restaurant in midtown. “You’ve got nothing?”
“Not a thing,” Vanessa says as she applies lipgloss while looking in the mirror. “Mainly, he just assigns her work and then they go work in their respective offices.”
Even though Jack spent the last two weeks making up the Pierre debacle to me (“What do you not understand about agreeing with everything I say in front of your parents?” [rest of scene deleted, as unsuitable for children under the age of seventeen]), I still have Vanessa, my darling matron/maid of honor checking up on him. I even made Vanessa take Miranda out for frozen yogurt in an effort to keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. All Vanessa really learned from that scouting expedition was that Miranda prefers chocolate to vanilla, but even that seemingly innocuous information could turn out to be very valuable some day.
Oh, please. As if you wouldn’t defend your man, too.
“How can that be? She’s the man stealer extraordinaire! No late-night rendezvousing in the tenth-floor library?” I ask, looking at Vanessa out of the corner of my eye.
“Wait, did you ever have a late-night rendezvous with Jack in the tenth-floor library?”
“No!” I say, laughing.
“You did, too!” Vanessa says, “I can tell!” She begins laughing while simultaneously staring me down.
“Let’s just say, don’t go near the treatises on real property law,” I say, eyebrow raised for effect, “if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” Vanessa says, putting her lipgloss back into her gold Chanel clutch. “And, ew.”
“Don’t hate,” I say, touching up my own pout in the mirror. “Appreciate.”
“You’re not allowed to use that expression if you’re over the age of twenty-two,” Vanessa says.
“Don’t try to change the subject,” I say, turning to face Vanessa, “you’re supposed to be getting me dirt on Jack and Miranda. Now, spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill, Brooke,” Vanessa says. I pause for a second, waiting for the inevitable yet.
“So, you mean to tell me that you’ve got nothing,” I say, smoothing out my skirt and adjusting the sling-back of my left shoe.
“That would be correct,” Vanessa says.
“Then what am I paying you for?” I ask, as we start walking to the door.
“You’re not paying me,” Vanessa reminds me.
“It’s just an expression,” I say. “I just can’t believe you don’t have any dirt at all.”
“What am I paying you for is not an expression,” Vanessa says to me as she holds the door open for me to leave the ladies’ room. “It’s a nasty way of saying—”
“Well, hiya, ladies!” Miranda says, her Southern accent milked for full effect, strolling into the ladies’ room. “How are y’all doing? This is quite a bridal shower, Brooke. Where I come from we don’t have bridal showers like this.”
“Me, neither,” I mumble under my breath. I wanted my bridal shower to be small, but Jack’s family insisted on inviting nearly every woman that’s invited to the wedding to the shower. We either had to hold it here at Mega, or at Madison Square Garden.
“Jack’s sisters must really love Brooke if they threw a shower like this for her,” Vanessa says with a smile. “We really should be getting out of here, though. We’ll see you out there!” Vanessa grabs me by the elbow and leads me out to the party room.
“Here she is,” Jack’s sister, Lisa, announces as soon as Vanessa and I enter the room, “the woman of the hour, Brooke!”
Everyone turns around and oohs and aahs at me, and all I can think is, who are half of these people? My idea of the perfect bridal shower is a couple of friends and tons of family gathered together in someone’s home. Vanessa had wanted to throw a small tasteful shower in her apartment, but that idea was quickly vetoed by the sisters Solomon. Instead, in grand Solomon tradition, they have made for me the mother of all bridal showers, the bridal shower that ate Cleveland. Actually, the party room here at Mega is so incredibly large that most of Cleveland could probably fit inside. When I first walked into the party room, I noticed a sign announcing that the room’s capacity is 325. I’m quite certain that we are pushing that limit today.
So, I didn’t exactly get the shower I wanted, and I most certainly didn’t get the guest list that I wanted. When Jack realized what a large-scale affair the shower was becoming, he quickly decided that he had to make sure that his female work colleagues were invited so that no one would take offense. Which really makes no sense to me since Jack’s already a partner and once you’re a partner in a law firm, can’t you just do as you please?
Well, Jack doesn’t seem to think so. Which is why Miranda Foxley, the man stealer, was invited (and had the nerve to show up and no, I do not think that she came just to try to be my friend, I think that she came because she is undoubtedly trying to steal my man and lull me into a false sense of security just before she pounces on said man). Along with a bunch of other female partners and associates who I really wish weren’t here, either.
I survey the twenty-something tables that have been set up, each with an ornate floral arrangement floating on top.
It is a total and complete sensory overload. The smell of the peonies overpowers me and makes me sneeze. Vanessa doesn’t seem to notice as she meets and greets various Gilson, Hecht associates and partners, along with some of our girlfriends from law school. But for me, the room is a swirly mess, from the forty-foot-high ceilings, to the bright orange linens dressing the tables, to the massive table of multicolored presents. I can barely get my eyes to focus.
Mega’s party room has a Cirque de Soleil theme, so the chairs are dressed in a deep magenta and the carpet is purple and yellow. At the end of the bar, there is a giant martini glass (with the requisite giant olive placed inside) and the wait staff are all dressed as court jesters in hot pink and teal.
“Let’s leave our bags on our chairs,” Vanessa says, “okay, Brooke?”
As Vanessa leads me toward our table, my eyelids begin to droop. It dawns on me that for the last two weeks, the most sleep I’ve gotten on any one given night was about three to four hours. Now, this should have been because Jack and I were making up the whole time after the debacle at the Pierre, and to be sure, that’s partly it, but what’s really drawing my eyes downward is the fact that I’ve been working nonstop. I’ve been working on the Monique case for fourteen hours a day, weekends included. I’m exhausted all day long, just praying, waiting f
or the moment when I can get into bed, but then when I finally get under the covers, I’m too exhausted to actually go to sleep.
Even Vanessa noticed it this morning, when she picked me up for our hair appointments, not-so-subtly suggesting that I get my makeup done to hide the circles under my eyes. (“You can’t show up at your own bridal shower looking like the Bride of Frankenstein.”)
We get to our table and Vanessa puts her place card on top of her plate and her gold Chanel clutch on her chair. I pull my chair out and plop down in it.
“Are you okay?” Vanessa asks, leaning down to whisper into my ear.
“I’m just so tired,” I say, putting my hands over my eyes. “And this Technicolor Dreamcoat mess is not helping me to relax.”
“It’s fun,” Vanessa says, trying to sound optimistic. “The decor is fun.”
With my eyes still closed, hands over my eyes, I hear Vanessa call over a waiter and order an iced coffee for me. So, basically now, in addition to her maid of honor duties of spying on the groom, Vanessa also has to rally the bride at her own shower. I’m sure at Vanessa’s own shower she was a happy, well-rested bride who did not look like she was about to pass out. I’m sure she was a gracious bride who knew all of her guests.
“Rocket fuel is on its way,” Vanessa whispers and I hear her pull out her chair and sit down next to me. She takes my place card out of my limp hand and puts it onto the table.
“So, you must be Vanessa,” Jack’s middle sister, Elizabeth, says. I manage to pull my head off my hands and open my eyes.
“I am,” Vanessa says, with a smile, standing to shake Elizabeth’s hand.
“I’m Elizabeth,” she says, “Jack’s sister.”
“Yes,” Vanessa says, “Middle sister, married to Alan. Did I get that right?”
As I look over at Vanessa in her bright orange Milly dress chatting effortlessly with Jack’s sister, actually remembering who she is and which brother-in-law she corresponds to, I realize that I hate Vanessa. I hate my best friend. Jack’s been briefing me on who’s who for months now, and I still can’t get it straight. Jack told Vanessa who everyone was last night at dinner and she’s already a pro.