Jack with a Twist (22 page)

“O
ops, she did it again!” Esther sings to me as she comes sailing into my office.

“Did what?” I say, barely looking up from my research on dissolution of partnership. “Who?”

“Miranda!” Esther says, clearly enjoying the delivery of this news way too much.

“What did she do?” I ask, barely able to choke the words out.

“What does she always do?” Esther says.

But, I don’t have to ask because I already know what Miranda always does.

Sleep with partners. That’s what Miranda does.

I just hope that she hasn’t slept with
my
partner.

“Who was it?” I say, just as the phone begins to ring.

“Come to my office when you’re off,” Esther whispers, and then disappears before I even have a chance to tell her that I’ll let the call go to voice-mail.

I don’t pick the phone up anyway, and instead choose to just stare at my computer screen blankly. Out of habit, I go onto the Internet and pull up the Gilson, Hecht Web site. First, as I always do, I type in Vanessa’s name, as if that’s the real reason I’m there. From there, it’s just a few clicks over to the S section of the “Our Attorneys” page and I’m at Jack’s profile.

I remember the day he got the picture taken for the Web site. Even though the Gilson, Hecht attorneys get photographs taken every year for the firm Web site, this was the first year he’d be getting his done as a partner. We obsessed the whole week before over what Jack should wear in his photo. Should he wear his navy single-breasted suit, so as to denote “serious junior partner on the fast track to becoming an equity partner?” Or, should he instead go simply with a shirt and a tie, so as to denote “serious junior partner who’s just too busy working hard to worry about dressing up all fancy for a silly firm photo?” In the end, we’d decided on the navy suit, since his shaggy brown hair was always mussed, denoting the “too busy working hard to worry about my appearance” thing all on its own. He wore a pink Chanel tie that I’d bought for him as a gift when he made partner. I put my finger up to the computer screen just as my intercom begins to buzz.

“Excuse me,” my assistant says over my intercom, “Monique deVouvray is on the line for you.”

“Thank you,” I say, and pick up my phone to speak to Monique.

“We had plans to discuss settlement,” Monique says in her thick French accent. “Am I calling at the right time?”

“Yes, of course,” I say, minimizing my computer screen so that I can focus solely on Monique. “What were your thoughts?”

After speaking with Monique for almost an hour, I can barely wait to call Vanessa. At least three different times during my phone call to Monique, I was tempted to e-mail Vanessa to ask her about Miranda. In the end, I decided to wait until my phone conference was over to call her, in case she had bad news to share. Bad news is one thing, but getting bad news over e-mail would just be too much to bear.

“Break it to me gently,” I say to Vanessa, practically closing my eyes to prepare for the news. I had to have Vanessa’s assistant pull her out of a meeting with a new client in order to speak with her, but I simply couldn’t wait another second to hear about what happened with Miranda.

“Break what to you?” Vanessa says back quickly, sounding strangely like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She was clearly glad to have been sprung from her meeting. “What did you hear?”

“Miranda,” I whisper into my phone. I consider closing my door for a second, but then remember that since no one at SGR ever closes their door, it will actually attract more attention if it’s closed. I whisper: “Please tell me it’s not Jack.
Please
tell me that she didn’t sleep with Jack.”

“I thought you said that you don’t even care about Jack anymore,” Vanessa says.

“I don’t,” I say back a little too quickly.

“Haven’t your parents been canceling deposits all over town?” she asks. “First the Pierre, then Maximo Floral—”

Why is Vanessa torturing me like this? On the one hand, I’m probably in the clear, since she wouldn’t be goading me if she was about to tell me some horrible news. On the other hand, she just got divorced and maybe now she’s taking her bitterness and angriness out on me.

But, she didn’t sound bitter or angry. She actually sounded rather playful, which is odd, seeing as usually Vanessa doesn’t do playful. Maybe this new guy she’s seeing is making her soft. (I never did find out who it was that day at Saks—I blame this on the fact that the café was only selling blueberry scones that day and was sold out of the chocolate chip. If they’d had chocolate chip, I would’ve been set.)

“Just tell me, already!” I say. It comes out sounding a bit crosser than I had intended.

“You’re stealing his grandmother’s ring,” Vanessa says, “Can’t you at least let the man have a few kicks with a junior associate?”

“Oh, my God,” I say, practically dropping the phone into my lap. “So, then, it’s true. Jack slept with Miranda.”

“Of course it’s not true!” Vanessa says. “Are you insane? Why on earth would Jack sleep with Miranda? A delicate Southern belle? You know his tastes skew more toward neurotic Jewish girls from Long Island.”

“Do you find this funny?” I say, taking a sip of water from a bottle at the end of my desk.

“Actually,” she says, “I do. I cannot believe you called me out of a meeting for this.”

“It was an emergency,” I say.

“It really would be much easier to help get you and Jack back together if you were living in my apartment like last time.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” I say. “I’m not getting back together with Jack.”

“And you said that you’d never get together with Jack in the first place,” she says, “but, you did. And then when you guys had that fight and didn’t speak for three weeks, you said you’d never talk to him again. But, you did. And then you moved in with him. And then you got engaged to him.”

“But last time was different because
I
was the one who’d screwed things up. This time, it wasn’t me, it was Jack.”

“Is that what your emergency was?” she asks. “To tell me all that stuff? Because all that stuff, I already knew.”

“No,” I say. “The scandal with Miranda is the emergency.”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, “Well, Miranda is, in fact, in yet another scandal with a partner. But it’s not Jack. She got caught in a compromising position in the fourteenth-floor men’s room with the head of the bankruptcy department.”

“Will Peters?” I say.

“Yup.”

“Ew.”

“Yup,” she says. “Classy. She could at least have done it in one of the bathrooms on a reception floor. Those are marble. Much nicer.”

“Ew,” I say, “you just gave me a really disgusting visual.”

Vanessa laughs. “So, can you please get back together with Jack now?”

“No, Vanessa,” I say, “I’m not getting back together with Jack.”

“Why not?” Vanessa asks, “that whole Miranda obsession was completely in your head.”

“I know, Vanessa. I know that. But that wasn’t the real problem, anyway,” I say. “The problem is that Jack isn’t the man that I thought he was.”

“Yes, he is, Brooke,” Vanessa says. “He is.”

“No, he’s not,” I say. “And I would expect you of all people to understand where I’m coming from. It’s the same thing with you and Marcus. Isn’t that what happened? You found out that he wasn’t the man you thought he was?”

“I guess so,” she says, her voice a notch softer than before.

“That’s exactly what happened,” I say. “But, now it seems like you’ve found someone even better, right?”

“Actually, yes,” Vanessa says. I can hear her voice begin to lighten at the mere mention of her mystery man.

“So,” I say slowly, as if approaching a tiny puppy that I don’t want to scare away, “do I get to hear about him?”

“You know, if you were this tenacious in the courtroom—” Vanessa begins.

“Please?” I say, still treading lightly. I’ve almost got her, I can tell. “Hearing about your mystery man will totally cheer me up.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, laughing on the other end of the phone.

“Is he as handsome as—” I begin, before catching myself from finishing the thought. I shouldn’t be comparing Vanessa’s new man to Marcus. For one, most men couldn’t possibly compete with Marcus, but also, I don’t want thoughts of her ex to cast a pall on the new love she’s got brewing. “I mean, what I meant to say was, is he handsome?”

“Yes,” she says, “he’s as handsome as Marcus. Even more so, actually. In fact, he’s just like Marcus. Only much, much better.”

“Oh,” I say, unsure of what to say next. If her mystery man knew that she was comparing him to her ex, he would be very unhappy. I puzzle over how to tell that to Vanessa. More importantly, I need to remind her to be careful in bed—nothing would quash her new love affair faster than calling out her ex’s name in the heat of passion.

Not like I know about that from past experience or anything.

“It’s like he’s got everything that Marcus had that I fell in love with, but he’s also got so much more.”

“Just be careful,” I say. And then, as a self-conscious afterthought: “Just don’t call him Marcus!”

“I’m fine,” she says, “this time I actually think I know what I’m doing.”

We hang up and I can’t help but smile. I’m so thrilled for Vanessa. She deserves some happiness after all that she’s gone through lately. Going through a divorce while your best friend is planning her wedding can’t be easy. I truly am happy that she’s figured things out and knows what she’s doing.

I just wish that I did, too.

C
anceling your own wedding has got to be one of the most humiliating and humbling experiences a girl can ever have. It’s pure torture telling your friends and family the news, trying to explain what happened, and that’s all before you’ve even thought about having to return all of the presents. Then, you’re faced with the worst part of it all—having to call each and every one of the vendors and losing your deposit as you cancel the most important day of your life. Even when your mother and father do most of the actual canceling for you, it’s still pretty awful.

The process began for me with my mother stoically packing up all of my engagement and wedding presents, one by one, and then shipping them back to their respective senders with a kind note. Next, my father called the Pierre Hotel to tell them that the whole thing was off. It pained my father to call the Pierre to cancel his little girl’s wedding. It truly killed him to give up on the plan for my wedding day—a day he and my mother had dreamed about since the day I was born. And even more so to actually lose the twenty percent deposit he’d put down on the whole thing. When he made the call, he had that expression on his face that he reserves only for impromptu visits from the health department, tax audits or a particularly bad New York Jets game loss. Actually, I’m not really sure what he was more upset about: losing the deposit money itself, or that he was unable to “chisel them” down to a smaller amount the way he’d bragged to my mother and me that he could.

Most of the wedding vendors have been nothing short of kind and understanding. I’m sure I’m not the first person in the world to have had second thoughts and cancel her wedding—they’ve been through this before. Most of the people we spoke to were absolutely professional and appropriate. For example, when my mother called Maximo the florist to call off the wedding, he told her, in his charming Spanish (or definitely Italian) accent, that she needn’t worry—a woman as enchanting as her daughter was sure to find another man immediately. In fact, he explained (or, she
thinks
he explained—this was over the phone and his accent is really very thick) that while he had to keep the deposit money as per the contract, he would use the deposit money for my next wedding, which undoubtedly would be coming up very soon. My hairdresser, Starleen, after bursting into hysterical tears when I told her the news and then composing herself because she “wanted to be strong” for me, was very supportive of my decision to cancel the wedding and agreed not to keep the deposit. And that’s not just because I hadn’t actually
given
her a deposit yet. She truly meant it from the bottom of her heart. And even Savannah Moore, the bandleader (who, it bears mentioning, I didn’t want to use in the first place), refunded all of the deposit money to my father, saying that she wouldn’t feel right keeping it, since she had a wait list in place for our wedding date and would definitely be rebooking a different party for the night. Probably within the hour.

Yes, all of the vendors we’d used had been a pleasure to deal with, even in the darkest hours of my life. Or my parents’ lives, as the case may be. They made this very difficult time for me and my family easier, and the transition from bride-to-be back to single girl as painless as they could.

But not Jay Conte. Not my wedding videographer to the mob. You’d think that after you bail a guy out of jail—well, technically a detention center, but close enough—you’d have formed a bond with him. But, no. Even after your father calls him to explain to him that your wedding is off, he will still track you down like the rat that you are in your place of business.

“Brooke,” my assistant says over the intercom. “Your wedding videographer is here to see you.” I can hear her faintly giggling in the background.

My wedding
what?
Did she not get the memo that my wedding was off? Clearly, I no longer have a wedding
anything
anymore. Jay Conte, of all people, should not be here at my office. As I try to articulate this to my assistant, I hear more giggling over the line.

Oh, God,
I think.
What on earth is going on out there?
Has he threatened her life? Has he threatened
my
life? Is he already trying to kill her or something? But then I hear more giggling. This is worse than I could have imagined. There’s a lot of giggling going on out there. Is my assistant—dare I say it—
flirting
with him?

Oh, God. This is the first thing they teach you in the movies. Do not flirt with the mobster. Do. Not. Flirt with the Mobster! Have we learned nothing from
Scarface?

“Uh,” I babble into the intercom, “who?”

“Me,” Jay says, materializing in my doorway. “I brought you flowers, but your assistant loved them, so I gave them to her.”

“You brought me flowers?” I ask.

Oh, no! Is he hitting on
me?
Has he come here to ask me out? I should have seen this one coming—I guess he was secretly
thrilled
when he heard the news that Jack and I split up and ran down here as quickly as he could to profess his love for me! I had a feeling that I’d seen him trailing me when I went to Monique’s brownstone for meetings. Vanessa said I was crazy, but I knew that I was right! Damn it—why am I so darned irresistible?

“Yes, flowers. Roses, actually. Because I knew you’d be in mourning,” he says, taking his fedora off and holding it across his chest, as if he was about to recite the National Anthem. Or the pledge of allegiance. “For the death of your relationship.”

Whaaa?

“Well, thanks,” I say, “I guess. But, really, that was unnecessary.”

“Good,” he says. “Because your assistant out there really is quite a looker.”

“She’s my secretary,” I say, sitting down behind my desk. Jay takes that as a cue to sit down in one of my visitor’s chairs.

“So, I spoke to your father,” he says. “I really am sorry about what happened with you and Joe.”

“Jack,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, “Jack. What did I say?”

“It’s not important,” I say. I lean back in my chair as I puzzle over how to ask him why he’s actually here if the wedding is off.

“Well, there’s another reason for my visit here today,” Jay says, taking a toothpick out of his jacket pocket and sticking it into his mouth. He moves it to one side of his mouth with his tongue, where it sits for the whole time he’s talking. “I know that you’ve called your nuptials off, but we have a contract.”

How come when Jay says the word
contract
the
on your life
part sounds like it’s implied?

“Yes,” I say, sitting up straight in my chair as I shift it back to the regular seated position, “I understand. You keep the deposit money. Didn’t you speak with my father about this?”

“Yes,” he says, toothpick still firmly placed in the side of his mouth. “I did speak to your father. But you do realize that you can’t just cancel on me, don’t you? That’s not how it works.”

Oh, God. I have a mobster in my office and he’s pissed at me for canceling on him. Any minute he’s going to tell me: “Say hel-lo to my little friend….” And I’m too young to die!

“Can I get you two some coffee?” my assistant says into the intercom. Ah, saved by the bell. Or assistant, as the case may be. “That was so rude of me not to ask earlier.”

“I’d love some, sweetheart,” Jay says. “Black.”

Now, I suppose that I don’t have to tell you here that if any attorney ever used the term
sweetheart
on his or her assistant, that attorney and that attorney’s law firm would immediately be slapped with a million-dollar lawsuit for sexual harassment. They give us lectures and workshops about this sort of thing constantly, so I really know what I’m talking about. But using such unpolitically-correct terms of affection apparently works for Jay, since my assistant giggles and says: “Coming right up!”

“Brooke?” she asks. “Anything for you?”

“May I please have a glass of water?” I say, barely choking out the words.
And a cigarette,
I think. Now, I know that I don’t smoke, but since that’s what they give prisoners before they get executed, I figure that now’s as good of a time as any to get started.

“So, our contract,” Jay says.
On your life…

“You know what?” I say, using my best negotiation techniques. “Why don’t we do this—how about you just keep the full amount of the contract? I’ll get you a check tomorrow.”

Jay shakes his head “no.”

“Bank check?” I offer. More head-shaking. “Certified check?”

Jay shakes his head “no” again and flicks the little toothpick over to the other side of his mouth.

“I’ll get you cash,” I say. “How’s cash?”

“You know, this really isn’t all about the money,” Jay says. I will later find out that my dad actually already paid him in full. Cold hard cash. “The damage here extends well beyond the amount of the contract.”

There’s that contract again.
On my life.

“It does?” I ask. I’m terrified to have him tell me what this actually
is
about, and why the damage well exceeds the amount of the contract, but I figure the sooner I find out, the sooner I can get him out of my office. Or the sooner they take me out of my office in a body bag. Either way, mission accomplished.

“But the way I figure it,” he says, “there’s a way for you and I to make things right.”

“There is?” I ask. Do I really want to hear more?

“I want the exclusive deets on your girl Monique and her idiot husband Jean Luc,” he says, leaning back in his chair. My visitor chairs are really not meant to be leaned back in. All I can think is,
if he breaks the chair’s legs and falls down, RUN!

“Jean Luc’s not an idiot,” I say, even though I’ve never actually met him.

“I don’t really care whether he is or isn’t one. What I care about is getting an exclusive on any dirt,” Jay says, as my assistant comes back in with Jay’s coffee and my water. We both thank her simultaneously and she gives another gratuitous giggle before exiting my office.

“There’s no dirt,” I tell Jay as soon as the coast is clear. “There’s nothing to get. And anyway, I thought you weren’t a pap?”

“I’m not a pap,” he says, “those guys are disgusting.
I
am an artist. But a guy’s gotta eat. If the pictures I take and the stories I tell just so happen to get printed somewhere, and
I just so happen
to get paid for it, well, then, that’s that. But, I’m no pap. Paps are the scum of the earth, as far as I’m concerned.”

Okay, taking pictures and getting the inside scoop on celebs and then accepting money for them. Um, so then, doesn’t that mean he’s a pap? I’m so confused.

“There’s nothing for me to get for you,” I say.

“I can get you outfitted with a tiny little camera that she wouldn’t even see,” he says. “I know how much you love the world of surveillance.”

“I do not want to be outfitted with a camera,” I say. “And that was not surveillance we were doing. That was background footage of the groom!”

“Whatever, hon. We could put it into a pair of earrings for you,” he says. “You like earrings, don’t you? Tell you what, you think about it.”

“I don’t have to think about it because there’s nothing to find out. The pictures wouldn’t be anything more exciting than the inside of any bridal salon. Muslins, fabrics, dresses. A bridal magazine or two. That’s it.”

“Do you ever see Jean Luc?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “Why would he be there? I’m there for a wedding dress. I try on muslins and Monique fits them. He’s never around for that.”

“He’s never around?” Jay asks, leaning forward in his chair.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say, leaning back in my own chair. “He just isn’t at the bridal studio.”

“I see.”

“There’s nothing to see!” I say, and then take a sip of my water.

“Well, when there is,” he says, “you keep me in mind. And I’ll keep you in mind.”

Now, I know I should just let him leave my office at this point. It doesn’t really matter what he thinks he’s going to keep me in mind for. It doesn’t. Nothing more could be gained by continuing this conversation. The goal was to settle my business with the mobster and then get said mobster out of my office. My assistant would have to be on her own once he got out there. So, even though it seemed like he was close to leaving my office, I inexplicably ask: “Keep me in mind for what?”

“Well, I’m saying that you can just owe me,” he says, and then shrugs. “I could use a lawyer on retainer. My usual guy’s been giving me trouble lately.”

“Um, no, thank you,” I say.

A lawyer for the mob? Somehow I just know that when my parents sent me to law school, this was not what they had in mind. And at any rate, who really remembers the lawyer in
The Godfather?
I think I’d actually rather be Jimmy Caan, if anything. Not that I want to be on retainer for a mobster in any capacity. And more importantly, does this mean that Jay’s been promoted from soldier? I didn’t hear anything about that from my father. Is there, like, a Facebook for the Five Families you can look stuff like this up on?

“Why wouldn’t you want to be my lawyer?” he asks. “I can introduce you to friends. Drum up some business.”

Great, I can just see it now in my law school’s alumni newsletter:

“I don’t—” I say, only to be interrupted by Jay.

“And I’ll be your photographer on retainer,” he says. Visions of beautiful Kennedy-like portraits of me and my family for the rest of my life fill my head…. Only, I’m not going to have family any time soon, since I just called off my wedding. “So, we’ve got a deal?”