Scot on the Rocks (9 page)

“Bet I know what you’re thinking about,” our friend Sandy whispered to me from across the table. I smiled and tried not to react, instead feigning interest in the Great Fat-Free Balsamic Dressing Debate. Sandy could be such a troublemaker when her billables were low and she didn’t have a lot of work to do. “
Who
you’re thinking about, I should say.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I whispered back and put my head down into my salad. I took a bite and determined that Vanessa was right — there was no possible way that the dressing could actually be fat free.

“Jack,” Sandy said out loud and the entire table turned to look at us. Everyone except for Vanessa.

“What about Jack?” I said, tearing my whole wheat roll in half. I dipped it into my dressing and took a bite.

“It’s too late, Brooke,” Sandy said, “everyone’s talking about it.”

“Talking about what?” I asked, looking her dead in the eye. When the vicious Denise Rosen turned her sights on me in the first grade, my father told me that the best way to get a bully to back down was to stare her dead in the eye and fight back.

“You and Jack,” Sandy said simply, not backing down one iota. I then realized that it would take more than a firm stare to get a first-year litigator to back down as opposed to an insecure first grader. “Keith in the file room told Ilene in corporate that you guys were totally making eyes at each other when you brought your documents back from South Carolina on Saturday afternoon. And then Ben Harper’s secretary saw you having a lover’s quarrel in your office this morning.”

“A what?” I said. “That’s ridiculous.” I couldn’t believe how fast the gossip was circulating around the firm. At this rate, people in our San Diego office would know the news by 4:00 p.m., their time. Who else knew and how were people finding out so fast? Was this information up on the firm’s Web site under the “What’s New at the Firm” section or something?

“You know what?” Vanessa asked from the other side of the table. “We should have the dressing sent out to a lab for testing so that we can figure it out for once and for all. Then we could bring it up as a topic at the next associate’s meeting.” I looked at Vanessa and for a second, actually deluded myself into thinking that the conversation could turn back to condiments.

“I can’t believe you told Vanessa and you didn’t tell us!” one of the girls yelled out. I can’t remember who it was. The entire table turned toward Vanessa like an angry mob.

“Well, there isn’t anything to tell right now,” I said.

“Don’t listen to them,” Renee said from two seats down from me. “I think it’s great. Who cares if this stupid firm has a policy or whatever? It’s your life.” Renee had recently told me that, despite the fact that we had only been at the firm for seven months, she was two months pregnant and planned to leave the firm entirely after she had her baby.

“That would be so embarrassing to be fired,” another girl said.

“No one’s getting fired,” Vanessa said.

“Or, worse yet, you could end up like Cheryl in tax,” Sandy said. I looked up and she was smiling slyly, like an arsonist about to light a match. Someone has
got
to get that girl some billable work. “When she broke up with Henry Kaplan in litigation, she had to see him every day. And now he’s married with two kids and she’s still single. And she still has to see him every day.”

“She’s not going to end up like Cheryl in tax!” Vanessa said. “Honey,” she said, turning to me, “you’re not going to end up like Cheryl in tax.”

“Well, I, for one, think it’s a bad idea,” Lori said. “Remember when we went to that women’s luncheon? All of the female partners said that you have to work very hard to be taken seriously when you’re a woman.”

“Only two people said that,” a voice from the other side of the table said.

“That’s because there are only four female partners at the firm,” another voice replied. Everyone was speaking so quickly, I could barely tell who was saying what.

“You really should try to keep things secret with him for a while, though,” another voice offered.

“But you can tell us, of course,” another voice said. “We won’t tell anyone.”

The whole table kept talking, giving their opinions, until they all turned into a blur. “I think you should.” “I think you shouldn’t.” “Who cares what you think!” They all spoke over each other, louder and louder, all the voices melting into one. The room began to spin.

“Everyone, stop it!” I said. The table became silent. It was just like in a movie. I spoke and everyone listened. It felt good to take charge of the situation. I would just tell everyone to calm down and to keep things quiet, and no one else would know a thing as I figured it all out for myself. I could make a clear, well thought out decision without the interference of any outside opinions.

As a smile crept onto my lips, I felt a presence behind me. Everyone at the table was staring, fake smiles frozen on their faces. I turned around to find Danielle Lewis, the head of the corporate department, standing behind my chair.

“Brooke,” she asked, “are you free for lunch tomorrow? We should go for lunch.”

And just as easily as it had begun, it was over. Five months later, Jack was engaged to a girl he met at a Knicks game the week after our trip to South Carolina.

Jack and Mr. Mohawk were still quietly whispering. Mr. Mohawk winked at Jack as he walked away from us.

“How come no one ever mistook Douglas and I for married when we were together?” I asked Jack. “We were together for two years.”

“Maybe that’s because you two never really made a very good couple.”

“But tell me, Jack, how do you really feel?”

“They’re all crap. I’m taking this one off,” Jack said, turning on his heel.

“No!” I protested.

“Yes!” he said. “None of these are any good. Why are we shopping for this at a costume shop?” he asked.

“You know why,” I said, making sure I was speaking softly enough that I would not offend Mr. Mohawk. “The kilts in the tuxedo rental place cost a fortune. This way is so much cheaper.”

“Well, it certainly feels cheaper,” he said, pulling the kilt off, revealing his boxers. They were faded blue chambray and they reminded me of a guy that I’d had a crush on in college. I felt as if I were staring, so I fixed my eyes on the various angel costumes hanging on the wall.

“Who cares what it feels like?” I said, pretending to be interested in a marabou halo. “It looks fine, and that’s all that matters. Let’s just pick a color.”

“Maybe you should focus on what things really are and not just what they look like.”

“What did you just say?” I asked, turning around to face him.

“Nothing. I’m putting on the navy one again,” he said, disappearing into the fitting room. I walked past the angel costumes into the “Corner of Terror” and looked at the various instruments of torture.

“How’s this one?” Jack asked. As I turned around, he struck his best Marilyn Monroe
Seven Year Itch
pose. A fan that had been put on the floor to blow air into a ghost’s sails provided the gust of air he needed to make the kilt pop up as he held it down with his hands. I laughed.

“I think I like the red. Would you mind throwing that one on again?”

“Your wish is my command,” Jack said. Hmmm. Maybe
that’s
why he always has so many girlfriends. I mean, Jack isn’t exactly the best-looking man in Manhattan, yet women always flock to him. He does have a good job, though, and anyone who can read can find out how much he makes since they print the salaries big firms pay every year in the
Law Journal.
Okay, I mean, he’s not
bad
looking. I’m not saying he’s bad looking. He has the kind of looks that grow on you. He’s tall, so that’s good, but it’s not like he’s movie star handsome or anything.

Douglas was movie star handsome. Not was, is. I mean, it’s not as if he’s dead or something. I only wished he were dead. When I wasn’t wishing he’d get back together with me, that is.

I walked over to a lightsaber from the
Star Wars
display and picked it up.

“That’s a Jedi lightsaber,” a woman with a shaved head and a massive tattoo creeping up her neck said to me. “Leia never carried a Jedi lightsaber.” She was wearing combat boots, a black wife beater and a camouflage skirt. The fishnet stockings and bloodred lipstick completed the look. Her name tag said Jennie.

As I turned to her, ready to give her my best “Luke, I am your father,” Jack walked out of the dressing room with the red kilt on. And a gorilla mask on his head — one of those big ones that cover your head and neck completely. I practically fell over I was laughing so hard. Jack grabbed me and threw me over his left shoulder, making gorilla noises all the while. Jennie laughed like a schoolgirl. She must’ve heard the whole “your wish is my command” thing.

Jack’s cell phone began to ring, and he rushed to pick it up with me still over his shoulder. Putting me and the gorilla head down, he answered the phone while I began to talk to Mr. Mohawk about price.

“Healthy Foods,” Jack said, coming out of the dressing room fully dressed and throwing the navy kilt onto the counter with a half smile. “I’ve gotta get back to the office.”

“Do I have to get back to the office, too?” I asked, praying that he would say no.

He hesitated. Never a good sign.

“But it’s Saturday,” I whined.

“A lawyer’s work is never done,” Jack said.

“You’re a lawyer?” Jennie asked Jack. She had put a hot-pink boa around her shoulders and was working it for all it was worth.

“Tell you what,” Jack said to me, “to make up for having to go to work, let me buy you a present. After all, we’ve forgotten the most important part of the costume.” He reached over to a display of “Fun Rings” and started to sift through them. He first pulled out a ring that looked like a skeleton’s head, shook his head
no
and continued to sift. Finding what he wanted, he handed it to Mr. Mohawk.

“On me,” Jack said as he looked at me and handed the ring over to Mr. Mohawk. It was a silver ring with a round faux diamond. It even had tiny fake baguettes. Putting it on my finger, he said, “Consider yourself engaged.”

“That’s so romantic,” Jennie swooned. Truth be told, I kind of swooned, too.

“T
his newfound stalking obsession of yours is going to get very costly,” Vanessa said, putting a piece of grilled salmon in her mouth.

Vanessa and I were in the Grill Room at the Four Seasons, the fabulously fancy midtown institution where I knew Douglas took a lot of business contacts for lunch. I had called the restaurant earlier that morning, under the guise of being Douglas’s secretary, to “confirm” his reservation, and then took the liberty of making a reservation for Vanessa and myself for thirty minutes before his reservation so that I could pretend that we
just so happened
to be there and bump into him. A dramatic reconciliation would then surely ensue.

“He’s going to walk in any second. Try to act normal,” I said, “and anyway, I’m paying, so what do you care?”

“You wouldn’t let me order an appetizer,” she said, as I tried to remember how that expression about a gift horse went.

“That’s forty-three-dollar salmon you’re eating,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “Try it, it’s divine.”

“Divine?” I said as she stuck a forkful into my mouth. “Who says
divine?
”

I took a moment to savor Vanessa’s dish. The mustard crust gave just the perfect amount of spicy kick to the fish, which remained moist, even though it was cooked through completely.

It was divine. As was my braised beef, which I ate carefully, so as not to get any in my teeth. Vanessa was devouring her salmon, barely even bothering to look up at me as we spoke.

“What?” she said, as I gave her a not-so-subtle look. “I’m training for the marathon. I need my protein.”

“The marathon’s in November,” I said.

“So?”

“It’s April.”

I was straining my neck to get a glimpse of everyone who walked in. I had flirted shamelessly with the maître d’ to get a table angled just so, all the better with which to get a great view of the doorway. I’d then appealed to the girliness of our hostess to try to get her to tell me when Douglas’s party walked in, goading her with details of his gorgeousness and how we were about to get back together and dramatically reconcile that very day.

I took another ladylike bite of my beef just as two fake blondes walked in. They were total throwbacks to the 1980s — big hair, long red acrylic nails and both simultaneously chewing and cracking their gum. They looked as if they could be extras in a Whitesnake video. I could hear their nasal voices from where I sat.

They were both wearing jeans, which was totally inappropriate for the Grill Room, where everyone else was in a suit. Granted, they were wearing $250 True Religion jeans, but it was still inappropriate. The older of the two, who wore her bangs low around the sides of her eyes so as to cover her crow’s-feet, was wearing the pair with the rhinestones all over the backside, while the younger of the two, who wore an excessive amount of makeup that created a dark tan line around her ghastly white jawline, was wearing the pair that were ripped to shreds. I’d tried them on at Saks (for Saturday nights out at clubs, not to wear to the Four Seasons) and couldn’t get my legs inside because my feet keep coming out of the ripped knee holes. I took that as a sign that I should not be wearing such jeans.

The hostess rushed over to our table to announce that the MacGregor party had arrived.

Of course they had. That was Beryl and her mother. As upset as I was that I wouldn’t be seeing Douglas, all I could think was:
He never sent my mother and me to the Four Seasons!

“While I respect your lifestyle choice,” the hostess said to me in a whisper, “I don’t think that they’re Scottish.”

“That’s not him,” I said, crouching down into my seat. Vanessa continued making love to her salmon, completely oblivious to the carnage that was about to unfold before her.

I crouched farther down in my seat as the maître d’ walked by with Beryl and her mother.

“We have to get the check,” I whispered to Vanessa as I tried to subtly cover my face with my napkin.

“Why?” Vanessa said, still looking at her salmon.

“Beryl and her mother just walked in,” I said, leaning into her. “They took Douglas’s reservation. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“I’m not done with my salmon yet,” Vanessa said, looking up at me for the first time since her food had arrived. “And, anyway, how would she know what you even look like?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, “perhaps it’s because she threw out the picture of me and Douglas that was on his windowsill a week ago?” I vowed right then and there that if Vanessa dared to say, “Well, maybe she didn’t look at it,” I would spit right onto her beloved salmon.

“We’ll get the check.” Vanessa looked around for our waiter and made the international symbol for “get me my check, stat” to any waitstaff that walked by. Within minutes, our check had arrived, I’d paid it and we were ready to go.

Keeping my head down as I quietly got up from my seat, our waiter swept in and gave us pretty little boxes that contained the desserts we’d forgotten that we’d ordered. I whispered thanks to our waiter and in one fell swoop, grabbed my bag, my dessert and my jacket and swung my body around toward the door. I planned to skulk out quietly and completely undetected, head down even as I walked so that if anyone did happen to look my way, I couldn’t be seen. What I didn’t anticipate was that another waiter would be walking right behind me at that exact moment in time with a tray filled with dirty dishes.

Crash! Leftover salmon, chicken and beef were strewn across the floor. Their sauces had splashed all over the place and had even gotten the pant leg of the man sitting at the table next to ours.

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry,” I whispered, crouching down to help the waiter with his dishes. I was partially down on the ground in an effort to help, but I must admit that a teensy-tiny bit of me wanted to get down on the floor so that when the crowd of people eating in the Grill Room (read: Beryl and her mother) turned around to see who had caused all the ruckus, I would be out of sight.

“We’re so sorry!” Vanessa said as five busboys rushed to the scene of the crime.

“Please, miss, let me help you,” one of them said to me as he helped me to my feet. I couldn’t figure out a classy way to say, “No, really, I’ll just crawl out of the restaurant on my hands and knees,” so I let him help me up.

Vanessa grabbed me by the arm and led me out. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Beryl talking to her mother and pointing at me.

“So, how did the stalking go?” Jack asked me as he stood in my doorway after Vanessa and I got back to the office from lunch.

“Stalking?” I said. “Whatever do you mean?”

“The Four Seasons, Brooke?” Jack said. “You normally would only go to the Four Seasons when the summer associates are here and the firm is paying.” True.

“Not very well,” I said, “but I brought you my dessert.” I handed him the fancy box filled with carrot cake, his favorite.

“Thanks,” he said, sitting down in my visitor’s chair. I opened my desk drawer and took out a plastic fork for him. “Now, that’s what I call service. So, what are you working on?”

“Nothing,” I said, turning my computer screen, as quickly as a thief who was about to be caught, “absolutely nothing.”

“How are those discovery requests going?” he asked in between forkfuls.

“Well,” I said, “I haven’t exactly gotten to them yet. But I did find tons of awesome information about Scotland.”

“Scotland?” he asked as I reached for the Redweld folder where I’d put all my work.

“Research, silly,” I said, “for the wedding.”

“What about research, silly,” Jack said, “for our case?”

“Did you know that Scotland is composed of over 790 islands?”

“No,” Jack said, “I did not know that.”

“Well, it is,” I said. “I put some of the info I found on index cards for you. They’re color coded based on category — history, arts and culture, food and drink, places of interest and geography.”

“Thanks,” Jack said, leafing through the cards, “but maybe we should do the discovery requests before we research Scotland.”

“And here’s an outline of some info you’ll need to know,” I said, handing him a fifteen-page outline on all things Scotland, with the little Post-it flags I used to use on my casebooks in law school placed strategically on each section in the same palette as the index cards.

“I can’t believe how much time you’ve wasted on this,” he said, grabbing the outline and putting it in his lap, but not flipping through it.

“It’s not a waste of time,” I said. And I didn’t think that it was. I was quite certain that in my quest to get back Douglas, random facts about his homeland would be helpful. I bet that Beryl didn’t know the first thing about Scotland. “And anyway, this information will make you a more informed New Yorker.”

“I’m informed enough,” he said, putting his fork down to leaf through the pages upon pages of research. “I’d like to be a New Yorker with all of his discovery requests drafted.”

“Did you know that April 6 is National Tartan Day?” I asked, as Jack turned to the section of the outline dedicated to history.

“No,” he said, “I did not. Do you think that someone’s going to quiz me on that at the wedding next week?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “The Scottish Declaration of Independence was signed that day. The Declaration of Arbroath. Remember that.”

“No one’s going to ask stuff like that. They’ll ask me about where I’m from and things like that,” he said, grabbing the map I’d printed out from www.visitscotland.com that I’d clipped to the front of the outline. “What city should I pick?”

“Douglas is from Perth,” I said, “So, let’s stick with that. The less lies, the better.”

“Perth?” he asked. “Isn’t there a Perth in Australia? Hey, it’s located right near Dundee! Check that out!”

“Keep your eye on the ball, Jackie,” I said. “We’re only trying to master one country here.”

“G’day mate!” he said, smiling like a little boy who had just told a little girl that her epidermis was showing.

“Don’t say that at the wedding.”

“What is this about the St. Andrews Society?” he asked, his finger on the Arts and Culture tab.

“Oh!” I said, excited that Jack had found the pièce de résistance. “It’s a Scottish society, right here in New York!”

“I’m not joining a Scottish society,” Jack said. “First of all, I’m not Scottish. I’m Jewish.”

“Scots can be Jews. Anyway, you’re not going to join,” I said with a laugh. “We’re going to go to their Cocktail Reception. Every year they have a reception just before the parade for Tartan Day.”

“What?” Jack said. “Are you actually serious?” I could have sworn I saw him looking around my office for a hidden camera.

“Well, I really wanted to go to the Kirkin O’Tartan Ball, but there’s no time. The St. Andrew’s thing is tonight!”

“We have to work late tonight,” Jack said.

“We’ll stop by this thing, we’ll meet a few people. You can totally learn about Scotland and brush up on your Scottish accent. Think of all the Scottish people who will be there!”

“You can tell me about it,” Jack said. “I’m going to be drafting those discovery requests you neglected all week.”

Oh, please. Was he trying to give
me
guilt? Was that his plan to get out of this? Rookie mistake.

A few hours later, Jack and I, against Jack’s better judgment, were walking into the St. Andrews Society Cocktail Reception. Or, crashing, I should say, but no one seemed to mind. Vanessa was running late because she went home first to change. Even though I’d run to the cheap hair place around the corner from the firm to have my hair blown out straight on the off chance we’d run into Douglas, I was still back at the firm in time to walk over to the St. Andrews Society with Jack.

The Society was housed in an old prewar building with original marble and various Scottish artifacts encased in impressive-looking glass armoires everywhere you looked. The ceilings seemed to be three stories high, and various flags and tartans hung from sconces all along the walls. Douglas had never taken me to Scotland, but I presumed that the whole place was very Scottish.

“Gaelic name for Scotland?” I asked Jack as we grabbed two glasses of wine from a passing waiter.

“Alba,” Jack said.

“Where is the stone of destiny?” I asked.

“Edinburgh Castle,” he said. “What time did Vanessa say she’d be here?”

“Are you
not
enjoying my company?” I asked.

“No, I love being quizzed when I’m out at night,” he said. “Did you bring the index cards, too?”

I knew he was making fun of me, so I said
no
even though I had stuffed them into my pocketbook before we left the firm.

“What Scottish sport is similar to the sport we know here in the States as hockey?” I asked.

“In the States?” Jack said.

“I’m very international,” I said. “Do you know the answer?”

“Shinty,” Jack said. “Here comes Vanessa.”

Vanessa walked in, making an entrance as she did. Jack and I had, in the short time we were at the reception, realized that there were no actual Scotsmen at the St. Andrew’s Society, rather, it was a society comprised entirely of Scottish Americans. So much for our evening of research. Vanessa was clearly as unaware of this fact as Jack and I were: heads turned as Vanessa walked in wearing an immense Vivienne Westwood skirt — layers upon layers of bright red tartan with strands of gold — with black platform Jimmy Choos that had a long satin ribbon that tied around her ankles.

“I’ll have a water of life,” Vanessa said to a passing waiter. Then, to us she whispered with a smile, “That’s what the Scots call whiskey.”

“Are
you
trying to pass yourself off as Scottish or something?” I asked.

“I’m just trying to embrace the culture, Brooke!” she said. “Are you getting good research on your accent, Jack?”

“Everyone here’s American,” he said.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Vanessa said.

“Look, guys,” I said, “let’s just have a drink, have a quick bite to eat, and then we can go home.”

“So, Douglas isn’t here?” Vanessa said.