Jack with a Twist (16 page)

“N
othing?” 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 for 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.

But then the waiter brings me my iced coffee (my fourth of the day so far), with two Sweet-n-Lows and skim milk, just the way I like it, and I love her again. I love my best friend. I drink the iced coffee in two big slurps, careful not to spill any onto my white shift dress, and then move in on the ice water at my table setting. Picking it up (I was instructed by Vanessa that I cannot walk around with anything but clear-colored beverages while wearing a white dress), I walk over to Vanessa and Elizabeth, ready to start acting like the charming bride-to-be that I know I can be. If only I weren’t quite so tired.

I notice that Vanessa is smiling at Elizabeth with her lawyerly I’m-so-excited-to-work-on-this-lame-ass-case-with-you face and I realize that she’s just making nice with Jack’s family for me. I guess she really does deserve to be my maid of honor. Or matron. Whatever.

“We worked really hard on those,” Elizabeth is saying to Vanessa, just as Lisa, the youngest sister walks over to join us.

“Yes,” Lisa says, “we wanted them to be evocative of the flowers we’ll be having at the wedding, but not the same exact ones, so that the real flowers will be a big surprise!”

Vanessa already knows, in painstaking detail, what flowers I’ve picked out for my wedding. She’s segued into the classic you-are-so-funny-and-clever-in-the-way-that-you-handled-that-judge/witness/child-under-the-age-of-five! face and I do the same.
Yes, you were so clever with the flowers, sisters Solomon!

“Are you Lisa?” Vanessa says, eyes squinting as she waits to hear if she’s guessed right.

“Yes!” Lisa says, “you must be Vanessa.” Vanessa will later tell me that everyone guessed she was Vanessa since she was one of the only black people there. I will take this not as an indictment on me and the types of friends that I have, but as an indictment of Gilson, Hecht, and law firms in general, and how they really need to make more affirmative action initiatives in terms of hiring.

“
There
you are!” my mother says, rushing over to Vanessa and me. “I’ve been looking
all over
for you!”

I suppose that I don’t have to mention here that my mother is wearing a crisp white linen suit.

“Love your suit,” I say to my mother, in much the same tone that Hannibal Lecter uses when he says that very line to the Senator.

“Why, thank you, BB!” my mother cries, oblivious to my tone, “I saw it at Saks and I just couldn’t resist! How often do you get to be the mother of the bride at your own daughter’s bridal shower?”

Jack’s two sisters shrug and smile. My mother either doesn’t realize or doesn’t care that Jack’s mother actually got to do that very thing on three separate occasions.

“Well, you look fabulous, Mimi,” Vanessa says, giving my mom a hug.

“If you wear white to my wedding,” I say, drawing my mother in for a hug and then whispering directly into her ear, “you are dead to me.”

“You preapproved this outfit, BB,” my mother says, trying to release herself from my grasp.

“You tried it on for me in Saks in blue,” I say, “this is not blue.”

“Oh, BB, you’re so funny,” my mother says, laughing like a crazy person, “that’s my BB. What a nervous little bride-to-be! Oh, Joan, I didn’t even see you walking over here! Hell-o!”

“So lovely to see you,” Jack’s mother says to us, giving us both a hug and a peck on the cheek. “What a wonderful day, isn’t it?”

My mother and I both smile and try not to laugh. I know exactly what my mother is thinking right now because Joan is wearing, yet again, palazzo pants.

Did they have a fire sale on these things at Armani or something? This pair is navy, and she’s wearing them with navy sling-backs and a light-blue cropped jacket with three-quarter sleeves.

“My cousin made these delightful cards for us to put on the table,” my mother tells Joan, taking pale-pink index cards out of her pocketbook. “You put them on the table and everyone writes down marital advice for BB. Then, BB reads them aloud when she’s opening her gifts.”

“Oh, Mimi,” Joan says, feigning disappointment. “We won’t be playing any games at the shower. The girls and I figured there were simply too many guests for such things.”

“Oh,” my mother says, keeping her smile glued to her lips, “of course. But…”

Joan walks away, Jack’s sisters in tow, toward the front of the room before my mother can finish her thought. Or maybe it was the back of the room. It’s hard to tell which end is which with all of the brightly colored ribbons floating down from the forty-foot ceiling.

“That’s an adorable idea,” Vanessa says in a hushed voice. “Why don’t we do these at our tables and at your family’s tables?”

Vanessa is referring to the fact that even though, I, myself, am an only child like my mother, my father’s family is actually quite large. So large that he has seven aunts. His father’s family was a traditional eastern European family with the eight children to back it up. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to remember who is who and which cousins correspond to which aunt. I definitely have Aunt Devorah and Aunt Jean’s families figured out, but as for the other five that don’t live in New York, I’m completely hopeless. Every once in a while, I’ll have dinner with one of Aunt Devorah’s brood and we’ll outline an ornate plan to create a massive Miller family tree, but that plan usually falls by the wayside by the following Tuesday.