Jack With a Twist bm-2 Page 3

  “Magic 8 Ball,” I say, shaking the pink globe around. “Will Jack get the big new case coming into the firm?”

  “It’s not a real Magic 8 Ball,” Jack says, swiping it away from my grasp, “it says right here that it is a Love Magic 8 Ball, so it can really only tell the future of your love life.”

  “Humor me anyway. What does it say?” I ask.

  Jack turns it over to read the response: “It says, You may get lucky.”

  “See?” I say, “it does work! You’re going to get lucky! The case is as good as yours! Fame and riches await!”

  “No,” he says, sidling up to me, “It’s a Love Magic 8 Ball, so I think it means that I’m going to get lucky.” And with that, he throws me onto the couch and showers me with kisses.

  “Lucky, indeed,” I say and sink into his kiss. This sort of thing never happened back at the firm with the old Magic 8 Ball.

  Back then, Vanessa, Jack and I were the Three Musketeers. Since Vanessa and I were the same class year, we seldom worked together—it was usually just Jack and me. Jack was the senior associate on all of our cases, with me as the junior associate for five years running, but nothing ever happened between us during that time. Okay, okay, a few things happened during that time—a massive flirtation and a handful of unbelievable, monumental kisses (the kind they write love songs about)—but in an effort to keep our jobs, we didn’t really pursue things.

  The story of how we finally got together is really terribly romantic—after being the best of friends for years, he came with me as a fake date to my ex-boyfriend’s wedding and we fell completely, madly, desperately in love right that very evening! Well, actually, it wasn’t quite that simple, since that evening ended with us getting into a huge fight and not speaking for three weeks afterwards, but after those three weeks, we fell completely, madly, desperately in love. But it just sounds more romantic to make it seem like it all happened that same night.

  (Note to self: must read and approve all wedding speeches and make sure there is no mention of any fighting and only a focus on falling completely, madly, desperately in love….)

  What? Any good bride worth her taffeta maintains creative control of the wedding speeches.

  3

  Back when I was single, I would do crazy things like bring fake dates to my ex’s weddings and obsess endlessly about shopping and how much I hated work. But, in my new incarnation as a mature engaged woman, I find myself acting like a mentor to some of the younger women in my new law firm, Smith, Goldberg and Reede. I offer them sage advice about love, relationships and making the time for a career while having a life. We talk about the serious issues facing young women in the world today and we, like, totally love our jobs.

  “Ohmigod, I cannot believe you are having Monique deVouvray design your wedding dress for you,” Esther Rhee, my favorite second-year associate says to me. “The Monique deVouvray!”

  “I know, right?” I say, leaning back in my office chair. The offices at SGR are all equipped with enormous, ergonomically correct chairs that have the ability to lean back almost a foot. Which, ironically, is probably not so good for your back.

  “Did you get to meet her husband?” Esther asks. “They’re in the gossip pages all the time together and he is almost as gorgeous as she is.”

  “I didn’t get to meet him,” I say.

  “Actually,” Esther reconsiders, “he’s more gorgeous than she is. Did you see them at the premiere for the new Robert DeNiro film? He was so dreamy.”

  “Jean Luc does sort of have that Clive Owen thing going on, doesn’t he?” I say.

  “No,” she corrects, “Clive Owen sort of has that Jean Luc Renault thing going on.”

  “True,” I say, doing a quick Google search on Monique and her husband, resulting in approximately one million hits. I find the picture of them at the DeNiro premiere and turn my computer screen around to show Esther.

  “They are so fabulous. You can only eat salad with balsamic vinegar, grilled chicken and grilled salmon until the wedding,” Esther says, leaning onto my desk.

  “I know,” I say gravely, turning my computer screen back to center and then flipping my chair back to a seated position.

  “Because you wouldn’t want to offend Monique—can I call her Monique?—by getting fat and then not fitting into the dress she made especially for you,” she says. Has Esther been talking to my mother? If she calls my arms fleshy, I’m kicking her out of my office right now. “Maybe if everything goes well with Monique—I can call her that, now, right?—designing your dress for you, maybe there’s a chance that she’ll design mine for me!”

  “You’re not even engaged yet, Esther.”

  “I know, but I like to plan ahead,” she says. “And I had a very promising blind date last week.”

  “Has he called yet?” I ask, eyes widening. I love a good blind date story. Especially now that I’m engaged and don’t have to go on them anymore.

  “Well, no,” she says, putting her head down into the set of documents she carried into my office. “But it’s only been a week and two days. So, he’s probably just really busy with work.”

  “Definitely,” I say, trying to think of what Vanessa used to say to me after a promising blind date failed to call me.

  We sit in silence for a moment before we are interrupted by Rosalyn Ford, one of the partners at the firm.

  “I’m so glad the two of you are together,” she says, leaning against the door frame of my office. “Were you two just working on our case?”

  “Yes,” I say, nodding. “We were.”

  “Of course,” Esther says, holding up her stack of documents and waving them around as proof.

  “Well, stop everything you’re doing,” Rosalyn says, her booming voice as loud as ever, “because they’re about to cave.”

  “I thought that this case was going straight to trial?” I asked, furrowing my brow as if I really, really cared about the case. It was a joke I shared with Vanessa. As a lawyer, you are frequently in situations where partners dramatically pause while they’re talking to you, just waiting for your reaction. It’s not until well into your first year that you learn to master the various expressions you are expected to give back: the “I’m so horrified that opposing counsel would do that” face, the “I’m so excited to work on this lame-ass case with you” face, and the classic “you are so funny and clever in the way that you handled that judge/witness/child under the age of five!” face. Here, I was using the old “I am so interested in this case that I’m hanging on your every word” face and I could see over my desk that Esther was doing the same.

  I’ve taught her so well.

  “Well, it’s not,” Rosalyn says, her face lighting up as she gets ready to tell us the rest. “Opposing counsel called me and wants to meet me this afternoon. They’re about to cave, I just know it.”

  “Congratulations,” I say. “You’ve worked so hard on this case.”

  “Go get ’em!” Esther says, balling her hand up in a fist and raising her arm just like Rosie the Riveter. We all smile as Rosalyn leaves my office.

  “Thank God,” Esther says once Rosalyn is out of earshot, throwing her pile of documents down onto the floor of my office, “I totally did not want to have to read all of these documents.”

  “Ms. Miller,” my assistant says, her velvety voice smooth even over my intercom, “Ms. deVouvray is here to see you. May I send her in?”

  “Monique deVouvray?” I say, stalling for time.

  “Yes,” my assistant confirms.

  “Um,” I say, “Don’t send her in. I’ll come out and get her.”

  “She’s here?” Esther asks, eyes popping out of her head like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.

  “Apparently,” I say, getting up from my desk.

  “You can’t let Monique deVouvray come in here,” Esther says, standing up and blocking my path to the door. “She is an icon of style, beauty and grace. This place is neither stylish nor beautiful nor graceful. If she sees it,
she may not want to design your wedding dress for you anymore!”

  “You’re right,” I say, grabbing boxes of documents and trying to stuff them into the drawers of my credenza.

  “And then my chances with her will be gone!” she says.

  “A little help here,” I say, pointing over at the corner, where there’s a huge stack of fake Levi’s that I’m using as evidence in a trade dress infringement case I’ve been working on.

  “The documents and boxes are the least of your problems. Start with the desk,” Esther says to me, taking her right arm and sweeping all of the junk that was sitting on my desk into a drawer. The effect is striking—for the first time since I began working at SGR, you can actually see the deep cherry-red wood of my desk. My in and out trays sit quietly on the right corner of my desk, with my computer on the left. For a lawyer’s office, it looks pretty darn elegant and refined.

  I could have sworn that I had also had a half-finished cup of coffee on my desk, but when I open the drawer where Esther’s thrown my things, I can’t find it. There’s just a huge pile of junk.

  “I’d better go get her,” I say as Esther shakes her head furiously, clutching her documents to her chest. I know that she is thinking the same thing that I am: I am so lucky to have a wedding dress designer who is so dedicated to creating the perfect wedding dress for me that she even visits me at work!

  I guess this is why her dresses are so expensive.

  “Well, this is a surprise!” I say with a smile as I approach the set of couches where Monique is sitting. SGR’s offices are very understated and I hoped that to Monique, they seem elegant and refined, and not boring.

  “Ah, bon jour, Brooke,” Monique says as she kisses me on both cheeks.

  We settle in to my office and I notice that Monique has in her hands an antique handkerchief with subtle embroidery. See, now this is the sort of accessory I should be adding to my wardrobe. Now that I am a newly engaged mature woman, I, too, should be running around midtown holding antique hankies like a socialite. Although I guess socialites don’t work in law offices in midtown. But, nevertheless, I must remember to check with my mother to see if my grandmother has any old handkerchiefs lying around from her childhood. Before she fled Poland, that is.

  “I suppose you are wondering why I am here,” Monique says, raising the handkerchief to her left eye and dabbing lightly.

  “Well, yes,” I say, “I know that you wanted to get to know me a bit better, but—”

  “It’s Jean Luc,” Monique says, cutting me off, her eyes welling up with tears. I wonder why the mention of her fabulous husband would make her cry. Those don’t exactly look like tears of joy…. I reach for a tissue, but then remember that Esther’s dumped the entire contents of my desk into a drawer, so I grab a deli napkin out of my purse instead. “Things are not working out,” Monique blurts out.

  And with this, she begins to cry. Delicately. Lightly. Like a lady, barely making a sound. I’m marveling at the fact that she can cry in such a feminine manner. When I cry, it sounds like a foghorn and my nose begins running like a sieve. It must be because she’s French.

  “Oh, Monique,” I say, as I open the drawer to look for some real tissues to offer the poor woman—clearly, deli napkins are not going to cut it here. As I open the drawer, I feel something extremely hot drip onto my legs.

  “I don’t really handle divorce,” I explain, “I’m more of a commercial litigator, but I can certainly help you find someone great who can help you.”

  “I’m sorry, Brooke,” Monique says as I locate the tissues and pass a few to her. “It’s not that I want a divorce…. It’s not the marriage. Yes, the marriage isn’t going too well, either, but I think that the problem is that we work together, live together, do everything together. That’s why I’m here. I’m looking to dissolve the business partnership I have with my husband.”

  “Monique, I’m so sorry,” I say, as the coffee continues to drip onto my leg. I subtly try to find the offending cup, but can’t figure out how to do so without appearing like I’m not listening to Monique.

  “You did say that you specialize in commercial litigation, yes?” she says.

  “Yes,” I say, taking a few tissues from the drawer and draping them over my legs, which are beginning to sting.

  “I thought that maybe by coming to you we could keep this out of the press?” she says, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “That’s why I thought it would be wise to come here.” I wonder why she hasn’t gone to Vanessa at Gilson, Hecht, seeing as she is friends with her mother, but I decide not to press my luck. Especially since the piping-hot coffee is beginning to hurt my legs. Is that the smell of burning flesh?

  As Monique fills me in on the background of her business with her husband, I try to take notes even though all I can think is: That blue good luck ribbon that she sews into every dress must not really work.

  Twenty minutes later, we wrap up our meeting and I’ve officially secured my first client. I hope that when I stand up from my desk, Monique won’t notice the huge puddle of coffee that has gathered in my lap and is now dripping all the way down to my ankles.

  “I cannot thank you enough, Brooke,” Monique says as we walk out of my office, me brushing off my skirt and dripping brown liquid all over the carpet, “and of course, your discretion in this matter is very much appreciated.”

  “Think nothing of it,” I say, hoping she doesn’t draw me in for a hug. The ivory-colored pants she’s wearing are no match for my coffee-infused skirt. And it would be a shame to lose a potential client over a dry-cleaning emergency.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “There is just one more thing, Monique,” I say, as I walk her to the elevator banks. I’m rubbing my legs together to evaporate the coffee that’s dripping down them, my hand placed over the spot on my skirt where it’s all spilled, “and, I mean, this is just strictly business. I mean, this is something that the partners would want to know, you know, inasmuch as it may relate to your case.”

  “But, of course, Brooke,” Monique says, “whatever you need to know.”

  “You’re still going to design my wedding dress, right?”

  “And the best part is,” I tell Noah Goldberg, one of the founding members of the firm and the “G” in the SGR, “she’s still designing my dress!”

  “Well, she can’t design your dress if you’re representing her,” Noah says with a laugh.

  She can’t? Why can’t she? Should I have consulted the rules of ethics before I came into this meeting? Surely there’s some provision about associates and their wedding dresses? “But, I am thrilled for you. Your first case!”

  My wedding dress, is all I can think. I love that dress more than anything in the world. More than the French love Jerry Lewis. More than the Germans love David Hasselhoff. I manage to eke out: “My first case!”

  “I’m really excited for you, Brooke,” Noah says, “you remind me of myself when I got my first big case.” It’s never a good sign when a partner, founding or otherwise, tells you that you remind him of him. That can only mean one thing—you’re about to be slammed with more work than you ever thought possible. “And I think you’re ready.”

  “For what?” I ask. More traumatic trips to wedding boutiques with my mother? I know that Noah sees me as a big-time lawyer who can handle anything, but I am so not ready for that.

  “To take the lead on this case.”

  “What an honor,” I say. “What a thrill! Who will be working with me on it?” I’m secretly hoping that he’ll say that Esther can work on the case with me, but I don’t want to sound as if I don’t appreciate the opportunity. I will just act thrilled and enthused no matter what associate he tells me he’s going to assign to this case. There are five different first years that I’d be happy to work with—Jordan, Ethan, Spencer, Oliver and Ruby are all great, and there are four other second years that wouldn’t be bad, either—Stacey, Jon, Jen or Lee have great reputations, too. Maybe I’ll even get t
wo junior associates to work with! And I won’t complain or say a word if one of them’s not Esther.

  “I don’t know if you need any more manpower on the case just yet,” he says. “Let’s start off by staffing it lean and mean and take it from there, okay?”

  Um, that is so not okay.

  “Okay,” I say, trying to hide the look of horror that is no doubt crossing my face at this very instant. At my old law firm, Gilson, Hecht, such a case—a complicated commercial litigation with a fabulously famous client—would have been staffed by at least four attorneys. And Noah wants me to go it alone?

  I immediately rush back to my office and start researching the cause of action of dissolution of partnership. Next, I draft a very professional e-mail thanking Monique for her business and asking her to gather the partnership contract and various non-compete agreements that she had with her husband, and then arrange for a messenger service to pick all of it up from her brownstone. After that, I pick up the phone to call Vanessa.

  What? After getting all that work done, I think I deserve a little work break, don’t I?

  “There’s no such thing,” Vanessa interrupts.

  “There is, too,” I say in a stage whisper, careful not to let any partners walking through the halls hear me.

  “Brooke,” Vanessa says, “there is no such thing as ‘wedding dress law.’”

  “Could you please just research it for me?” I ask, eyes darting furtively to my office door.

  “And what client should I bill this to?” she asks. I can’t see her since we’re on the phone, but I get the distinct sense that she’s tapping her foot at me as she says this.

  “Healthy Foods,” I say, invoking one of Gilson, Hecht’s biggest clients, and one that I worked for almost exclusively when I was still at the firm, “I don’t care!”