Jack with a Twist (8 page)

What could possibly go wrong?

I
n my next life, I’ve decided that I’d like to come back as Monique deVouvray. Not only is she beautiful and glamorous, but she is also the epitome of grace under fire. In the face of intense media scrutiny, she doesn’t cower. She’s not bothered at the line-up of paparazzi outside her home, nor is she concerned with gossip columnist after gossip columnist calling her to find out why her husband Jean Luc is registered as a long-term guest at the Lowell Hotel. She doesn’t care that her publicist gets called three to four times an hour to give a statement about the fact that her husband’s stay at the Lowell has become public and she doesn’t even appear fazed that this little tidbit of information seems to be the top story on
Entertainment Tonight
for four nights running. (Which I find especially impressive, considering she designed Mary Hart’s wedding dress for her back in 1989.) Monique didn’t even bat an eyelash at the fact that gossip blogger extraordinaire Perez Hilton himself flew into town from L.A. just to be blogging from a coffee shop that’s closer to the action.

No, in the face of her world seemingly falling apart, Monique deVouvray is throwing a party. And I feel like I’ve walked into the pages of
Mrs. Dalloway
as I come to her townhouse to meet with her after my initial conference in court. People are scurrying about—florists, chefs, photographers and musicians—and there is a party planner standing in the eye of the storm, barking out order after order to prepare for what will be, no doubt, the party of the season: the renewal of the vows of Monique deVouvray and Jean Luc Renault. I walk through the entranceway of their Upper East Side townhouse, wide-eyed, just gazing at the spectacle before me.

“Brooke,” Monique calls to me from the stairway across the main foyer, “come with me upstairs. I am ready for you.” I rush through the crowd to Monique and we walk up the stairs, arm in arm like little French schoolgirls. We go up to her studio, not her office, since she doesn’t want the press—or any of her party planners, for that matter—to find out that I’m actually her lawyer. Instead, today I am playing the part of Monique’s 3:00 p.m. bridal appointment.

To make this ruse work, she’s insisted that I come to her townhouse carrying only my pocketbook, not a briefcase, and that I bring only a tote bag with high-heeled shoes and a strapless bra, no legal files. The plan seemed to work perfectly as I slipped by the paparazzi undetected, but let’s face it, it’s only a matter of time before I appear in court and pull a strapless bra out of my work bag. Monique still has no idea how her husband’s stay at the Lowell got leaked to the press, but she seems certain that it wasn’t anyone at the Lowell. I get the distinct feeling when she tells me this that she is sure of this hunch based on past experience with Jean Luc staying at the Lowell (but I dare not ask her if I’m right). Instead, Monique guesses that it was one of her staff at the townhouse. Since she employs a staff of over twenty people at her townhouse, she can’t be too sure of where the leak came from, and to this end, she has insisted that we pretend that I am one of her brides and that she fit me for a gown each time I come to her to discuss the case.

“We may have hit a tiny stumbling block on this case, but it’s nothing I want you to worry about,” I say, as Monique brings out the muslin I’ll be trying on for fit today. I can’t help but wonder if she’ll be pretending to fit me with one of her real brides’ muslins, or if she’s actually creating a new dress for me to make this ploy seem real.

“So, then, why are you telling me?” Monique asks me, as we are interrupted by a florist coming in with a sample floral arrangement: white and baby-pink hydrangeas, white roses and fuchsia orchids. Absolutely breathtaking. And appropriate for the occasion—the white and pastel colors give that bridal feel you’d want for a ceremony celebrating a marriage, but then the fuchsia mixes things up enough to make you remember that this is a vow renewal, and not a first wedding. Monique looks at the flowers critically before nodding her head in approval, signaling the florist to scurry off.

“Well,” I slowly say as Monique helps me slip into a decoy muslin, “it seems that your husband has hired my old law firm.” Monique slides the muslin onto my body and then helps me up onto a small round stand that’s set up right in front of the three-way mirror. It’s like a tiny stage for me and my wedding dress and I love it—the dress drapes over the stand, and the six inches that the stand lifts me off the ground makes me look tall and thin, as if I were wearing nine-inch heels. It is the perfect vantage point for me to stare at myself in my wedding dress.

Um, I mean fake wedding dress.

“That is not a problem,” Monique says, smoothing the muslin out, “I am unconcerned.”

“Well,” I say, this time even more slowly, “the lead attorney on the case seems to be Jack Solomon.” I give a nervous laugh which Monique does not even seem to notice. She’s busy studying the muslin she’s just put me into before grabbing some pins. I’m tempted to remind her that this is just a fake dress that we’re working on here, but then I decide that I should at least get to enjoy the experience of Monique making a wedding dress for me, faux or not. “My fiancé, Jack Solomon.”

Monique laughs, careful not to disturb the pins she’s put in her mouth as she begins to work on my faux dress. She’s about to say something as we are interrupted again, this time by a chef, coming into the studio with a small tasting. I love that he is decked out in full chef regalia—the white jacket, the white hat and black and white checkered pants—thus giving the occasion all of the pageantry it deserves. I try to place the chef’s face, since I’m sure that I’ve seen him before on the Food Network. His jacket is embroidered with simply his first name: Daniel.

“Madame and mademoiselle,” he says dramatically in a French accent that’s even thicker than Monique’s, “may I interrupt?”

“You may,” Monique says, now looking at my dress through the mirror.

“The Dover sole,” he announces, placing the tray on a nearby table with a dramatic flair, as if he were presenting us to the royal family. Or presenting us to the royal family’s dinner, as the case may be. “I would be honored if you would take a taste.”

Monique walks over to the table and I’m unsure of what to do. I’m pinned into this muslin and the bottom part of the dress is a straight line from my hips to my ankles. I can barely breathe in it, much less walk. With the line she’s given the skirt, I’m not really sure if my legs have enough room to actually get off of this elevated stand to get myself over to the Dover sole. But the smell—the smell is simply delicious. It’s lemon and butter and basil and all of a sudden, I absolutely, positively
must
have a taste. I turn to the chef, ever so slightly, so as not to fall, and try to take a step in my muslin.

As I move my right leg to walk, the dress catches on my left and I stumble a bit in my effort to move. I straighten myself up a bit—good, no one seems to have noticed my little near slip—and I try to regain my composure. I smile and gather a bit of the fabric in my hands so that I’ll be able to walk. There, now that’s it. I’ll just take teensy tiny little baby steps and make my way off of the stand slowly. When I get to the end of the stand, I’ll just gracefully ask Monique for a bit of help and then they’ll ask me if I’d like a taste of the Dover sole. You know, just to be polite. In all of my time around Monique, one thing I’ve learned is that French people are exceedingly polite, contrary to the stereotype. I begin shuffling my feet, centimeter by centimeter, inch by inch, and as I get closer and closer to the edge, I can practically taste the Dover sole on my tongue. Just as I near the edge of the stand, Monique turns to Daniel and says, “Daniel, I’d like to introduce you to Brooke Miller. She is one of my brides.”

And then I fall face-first off the stand, smack in the middle of Monique and Daniel.

How do you say “Timber!” in French? Well, that’s okay if you don’t know. It really was more of a SPLAT! than anything else and I’m pretty sure that SPLAT! is universal.

“Ah, Brooke!” Monique says, as she and Daniel both lean down to me to help me up, “are you all right? My goodness, Brooke, did the pins get you?”

“No, they didn’t.” Yes, they did. All twenty-two of them, in fact. But when you’re at your client’s office pretending to be a bride and you fall off a stand because you’re salivating over a piece of fish, you tend to lie to save face. Better late than never, I always say. “I’m okay. Absolutely fine.” Monique and Daniel have to team up to lift me together. They grab me under my armpits and raise me upright like a stiff board since I still can’t really move my legs in the dress.

“Let me just get this one for you,” Monique says, gently taking out a few of the pins that have lodged themselves into my thighs.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” I say to Daniel once I’m upright, putting my hand out for him to shake.

“You are a very lucky girl to be having your wedding dress designed by Monique,” he says, kissing the top of my hand.

“Yes, I’m very lucky,” I say, and feel an expected gush of sadness as I say it.

“Now, please,” he says, “try the Dover sole.”

With all of the tiny pin pricks still stinging on my legs, I don’t even want to try the fish anymore. I should just let Monique do her tasting quickly so that we can get back to business and start discussing our case.

Okay, I didn’t even convince myself on that one. It literally takes all of my self control not to dive right onto the plate. Daniel takes a fork and puts a bite onto it.

I take a bite and it melts in my mouth. Everything about it—the taste, the consistency—is absolutely perfect. There are so many different flavors exploding on my palate, one by one, that can only be described as deliciously complex. Now I finally know what they’re talking about on
Top Chef!

“It’s perfect,” Monique says to Daniel and I nod my head in agreement. All I can think is,
would it be rude to take another bite?
Thankfully, Monique takes another forkful and motions for me to do the same. The second bite is just as close to pure heaven as the first one and we both let out an “Mmm!” at the same time. Daniel beams back at us.

Would it be a breach of ethics to try to get myself invited to the party tonight? After all, if I don’t get to have the gorgeous wedding dress of my dreams, I should at least get to attend the most fabulous party of the season, right? Okay, the truth is that I just can’t wait to taste all of the other courses this chef has got up his sleeve. And the hors d’oeuvres. I can only imagine what he would come up with. But that’s as good a reason as any to want to attend a party, right?

I’ll definitely start my wedding diet…tomorrow. This weekend at the latest.

“Now, we must get back to work,” Monique says as Daniel walks out of the studio. She helps me back onto the stand and then continues pinning the dress again, which I take as a cue to start discussing the case.

“Did you know about this?” I ask. “That Jean Luc would hire my old firm? You don’t seem surprised at all.”

“No, I did not know,” she says, “but that was the reason I didn’t want to use Gilson, Hecht—Jean Luc does use them on quite a few corporate matters of his own. Will it be a problem?”

“It won’t be a problem for me,” I say, “but you need to think about whether or not it will be a problem for you. If you are at all uncomfortable with this, we can discuss it more.”

“I have faith in you, Brooke,” Monique says, now examining the bodice of the dress, “I just want
you
to think about if you really want to do this.”

“I do,” I say, as Monique pins the bodice, lowering the neckline. It highlights that part of my body that I hate most—where my arms meet my torso—and makes me look like I have chicken fat protruding from my armpits. Not my best look. Not
any
woman’s best look, is it?

Okay. So I understand that this isn’t really my wedding dress that she’s working on. Really I do. But would it kill her to put me in a style that’s more flattering to my figure?

“Monique, I just want you to know how much I appreciate this opportunity. I’m going to work so hard for you on this case.”

“I know you will,” she says, smiling at me gently. “But, I suppose I don’t have to tell you my own personal opinion on what it’s like to work with the man you love.”

“Well,” I say, the lawyer in me coming up with a rationalization before I even have a chance to fully think my response through, “we won’t actually be working together. We’ll be adversaries.”

“But, isn’t that worse?” Monique says, tilting her head to the side.

“Jack and I have worked together before,” I explain, “and the truth is, it’s never been a problem for us before. So, it won’t be a problem now.”

“Good,” Monique says, “Now let me help you out of this muslin.”

“Let’s talk spin,” I say, as Monique helps me get out of the dress. It’s like an obstacle course with the millions of pins that she’s put all over the fabric, but she holds the dress at just the right angles for me to take it off unscathed. Well, more unscathed than I already am. “That blind item in the
Post.
Do you want to sue?”

“I think that would make it more conspicuous,” Monique says, putting the muslin back in the closet and then sitting down on the couch as I put my clothes back on. “This party tonight should put everyone’s suspicions to rest, once and for all. After tonight, there will be no doubt in anyone’s mind how committed Jean Luc and I are to each other. The funny thing is that Jean Luc and I thought of the idea together. I guess there are still some decisions we can make as a team.”

I see Monique’s eyes begin to tear up at the edges, and I look away to pretend not to see.

“I agree,” I say, walking to the window where I look down at the swarm of reporters waiting by the door, “I think you’re making the right decision.”

“Then, it’s time for me to get ready for my party,” Monique says, and stands up from the couch where she’d been sitting.