The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (12 page)

Carol grabs the monitor from New Girl’s desk without unplugging it. Sparks fly from the surge protector and scatter on the carpet. The screen goes dark. Carol grunts as she carries the seven-year-old relic and slams it down next to Marvin’s sleek flat screen. The new people always get stuck with the oldest computers. She snaps at Marvin to make himself useful and switch the boxes, by which she means the actual computers, which reside under our desks. Marvin obediently drops to his hands and knees and begins sorting through the cables and wires.

I glance at my own computer screen. There’s a new message from Oscar. I feel my face break into a smile before I even read the contents. “What the heck are you people doing?” he wants to know. I look for him in the window but he’s not there.

Before I can sit down and write back, Carol appears behind me. “Zoë! Switch desks with the Town Crier.”

I was afraid this would happen. Not only am I losing my view, which recently improved with the addition of Oscar, but now I’ll sit closest to the Boss Lady. Which means she’ll come tearing out of her office about seven hundred times a day, to “bounce things” off me. It doesn’t sound so terrible, but truly, it is. Because if she flies out of her office to tell me something, and I happen to be away from my desk, something bad will happen. I’m not sure exactly what, but I know that when Marvin sat there, she actually gave him a twitch. It only went away after three months of therapy.

By eleven, my files, my hard drive, and I are installed at my new desk. I tell myself it could be worse. I still have a window, and I’m looking down on 64th Street, which, while not Madison Avenue, is far from the end of the earth. At quarter past, Carol calls me into her office.

“Close the door,” she says, without looking up.

I obediently shut the door and sit in one of her visitor chairs. “How’s Niles Townsend? Is he close?”

“I think so. If he doesn’t get totally distracted by their IVF treatments, I think it’ll be okay. And he’ll want to move quickly, so you’d collect the fee by February, or March, at the latest.” I’m always careful to refer to all commissions as Carol’s, even though my contract entitles me to half the money I generate for the office.

“Well, let’s hope his wife is preggers this month, and then we won’t have to worry about it. You just let me know if you need help closing him.”

“Of course.” I’m starting to wonder what she really wants. It’s unlike Carol to call one of us into her office to discuss anything but an imminent crisis.

Fortunately, Carol’s not the type to let her audience sit in suspense for long.

“Zoë, I need you to do a very special assignment for me.”

Not good. Last time I got a “special assignment,” it involved looking for an intellectual property lawyer who spoke Hungarian, and who was willing to move to Los Angeles. They don’t exactly grow on signposts in Lower Manhattan. Special assignments like that always take at least three or four full days, and they rarely result in a red cent of remuneration. But I’m not an idiot, so I say, “My pleasure.”

“You’re going to help Janice get into college.”

“Excuse me?”

“My daughter needs to get into the Ivy League, and she doesn’t have time to write the essays. Did you know Harvard requires
four
these days? In any event, you were an English major at Princeton, so I assume you can write serviceably well.”

“My degree is actually in art history. I only minored in English.”

“Whatever,” Carol sniffs. She reaches into one of her drawers and produces an overflowing manila folder. She slams it on her desk and pushes it in my direction. A few stray sheets fall out in transit. I don’t immediately reach for the file. Maybe I’m too dumbfounded.

“Oh, come on,” Carol says. “It’s not like you don’t have your nights and weekends free, and I suspect you need the extra money. So I’m going to give you a thousand dollars for each school, and then an incentive payment of $5,000 for each acceptance, which I’m prepared to double if Janice is accepted, early-decision, to Yale.”

“Carol, I don’t know anything about your daughter. How do you expect...”

“My Janice is as qualified as any other Spence graduate!” Carol hisses. I strongly suspect she doesn’t want this conversation overheard. “Like I said, her schedule is busier than that of most professionals.”

She pauses and raises her eyebrows pointedly at me to make doubly sure I register the dig. I sometimes wonder whether she was born mean, or if some traumatizing event in her past soured her previously sunny disposition. “Everything you need to know about her grades and hobbies is already in the file.”

I try a different tack. “I’m not sure it’s in Janice’s best interest to have someone she’s never met write her applications.”

“Fine. I’ll make sure you have dinner with my daughter this week.” Carol turns to the intercom on her phone. She jams down on the buttons with such force that she breaks a nail. Once she’s done yowling in pain, she barks at her secretary to email her daughter’s schedule for the next two weeks.

She disconnects and hands me a spreadsheet. I know before I look that it shows my commissions for the year. I had a great spring, but I’ve produced virtually nothing since the break-up. Even if the Niles deal closes, I won’t see money until late in the first quarter of next year. And all I’ve got besides him are some junior litigators, who, if all goes well, will barely cover my expenses, and that’s if I go extralean on Christmas.

“Unless accounting fucked up, you’re not in a position to say no. I’m offering you practically free money, Zoë. Don’t be an idiot.”

Although I fervently wish I could point my finger at inept accounting, the chart doesn’t lie. I wordlessly collect Janice’s college application file and ask if there’s anything else.

“No, that’s all for now. Just make sure her applications are mailed with plenty of time to spare, and make me copies of everything. Oh, and obviously this will be our little secret. You don’t want any of the rest of them getting jealous over your little side deal, right?”

She’s back on the phone before I can get myself out of her office. Back in the bull pen, somebody’s left a certified letter from an unfamiliar address in Lower Manhattan on my desk. I tear off the green label where Sybil signed, and rip the envelope open to reveal a one-page document called “Notice of Amendment to Lease Agreement.” It explains, in two fairly short paragraphs that Landlord, meaning a trust controlled by my ex-fiancé’s father, is exercising the right to amend our lease agreement, and this letter serves as my 30-day notice.

I skip over some legalese until I find the important part. As of December 1, my rent will increase to a nausea-inducing $3,800 per month. Furthermore, I am hereby instructed to transfer all utilities to my name before such date as they are no longer included in my rent.

And then there’s the
coup de grace
: Landlord expects me to forward an additional $2,600 within ten days, to cover the “proportionate increase” to my security deposit and final month’s rent.

The world starts spinning faster. Why is Brendan’s father doing this to me? His family doesn’t need the money. The only explanation I can think of, is that he’s so upset about his son that he needs someone to blame. And I’m a convenient target. Whatever the rationale, the bottom line is that now I have to move. The increase is too steep, even if I could manage to wedge another person in there. I’m so wrapped up in my fury and indignation that I don’t notice the Town Crier skulking behind me.

“Unpleasant news?” she asks with a malignant smile. Today, in addition to her not-long-enough pants, she’s sporting a fuchsia scarf that only serves to accentuate her pasty complexion.

Instead of dignifying her question with an answer, I say, “Didn’t you move on up to the Madison side of the office this morning?”

“I have important business to discuss with Carol,” she sniffs, and clutches the folder she’s carrying to her chest, as if I’m about to wrestle it from her grasp. “But what’s in the letter?”

“None of your business,” I snap. “And if you’ll excuse me, I need to do some real work now.” I’m too angry to remember that I have to be nice to my co-workers. It’s actually in my inch-think employment contract. Something about not fighting, bickering, yelling, or even swearing. Which is a real hoot, coming from Carol.

The Town Crier skulks off, in the direction of her new desk, not Carol’s office, as I put on my headset and dial my voicemail.

“Hi Zoë, this is Laura Reynolds. I just finished up at Freedman Zucker.”

I hold my breath. Laura is a great candidate and she wants this job. The only problem is that she’s about eight months pregnant, but the partners at Freedman swear they’re okay with that. She says she wants to start work there after her maternity leave. And I’m not worried about Laura deciding to opt out in favor of raising her kids. She’s got two degrees from Harvard, a D.C. Circuit clerkship, and four years in one of the toughest firms in the city under her belt. She wants to be a federal judge. She’s what Carol would call a Grand Slam Home Run.

Except now she’s telling me, or my voicemail, rather, that her water broke in Lawrence Zucker’s office and she’s calling from the hospital. Her contractions are “only” six minutes apart, so she wants to know if she should ring Mr. Zucker’s secretary and offer to pay for his carpet to be cleaned. Because she really wants the job.

This last statement should be music to my ears, but I’m wondering if Lawrence Zucker, a 65-year-old stickler for propriety, will recover from the shock of having his floor drenched with amniotic fluid. Even if it’s the amniotic fluid of a former Federal Circuit clerk, who might, for all we know, be about to give birth to a future Supreme Court Justice.

Carol says Lawrence Zucker used to boast that he never hired women. Even though he’s come around a bit, he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who wants “female issues” thrust upon him, particularly in the sanctuary of his private, professionally decorated office.

I groan and save the message. The next one brings brighter news. Jordan McWendell, a baby corporate associate, has accepted an offer he’s been mulling for over a week. He told his firm today, and he starts in two weeks. Which means I’ll get my share of the fee in about ten to twelve weeks. So that’s good. Even though it’s a small commission by the lofty standards of Broadwick & Associates, it’ll put something on my blank spreadsheet for the first time in four months.

The rest of my messages involve more mundane matters. I try to call Laura Reynolds, but her cell phone is off. The nurses must have confiscated it. I leave a brief message, wishing her luck and telling her not to stress about the carpet.

Before I hang up, Carol is shrieking, “Zoë! ZOE!”

I dash into her office.

“Call Lawrence Zucker’s office and tell them I’ll pay to have the rug cleaned.”

“Wow. I guess news travels fast.” I know Carol makes it her business to be informed, but this time the grapevine seems to have moved at almost super-natural speed.

“Well, don’t just stand there, for God’s sake, Zoë, get on the fucking phone and fucking fix this.”

For a second I feel a rush of misplaced gratitude. Carol’s going out of her way to save my (to her) piddly little deal. But of course that’s not it. She merely desires to stay in the good graces of the firm’s senior management.

Lawrence Zucker’s assistant thanks me profusely for the kind offer, before reminding me that, if the cleaning fails to meet Mr. Zucker’s expectations, he will expect our firm to replace his irreplaceable, hand-knotted Persian area rug. Which has over a hundred knots per square inch, in case I didn’t know.

She calls me back an hour later to say that regardless of the “little incident” this morning, the firm would like to extend Ms. Reynolds an offer. The hiring partner wants to know which room at which hospital she’s in, so he can call her to discuss it. I think this is a lousy idea, seeing as Laura could be giving birth as we speak, but I don’t dare say so. Let him call and leave a message.

I waste a half hour on hold with our preferred florist, attempting to send Laura and Jordan flowers from Broadwick & Associates. Carol likes to send flowers to our clients for babies, deaths, and successful placements. Then I throw myself into my work for the rest of the day.

Maybe it’s fear of bankruptcy that motivates me, or maybe placing Jordan has given me a much-needed boost, but I don’t even realize I’ve skipped lunch until Carol’s assistant emails me, from ten feet away, to inform me that I am to take Janice Broadwick for dinner next Wednesday. Of course, she doesn’t bother to ask if it works for me, and it really doesn’t. I have a once-a-month book group that night, and it’s my turn to host, but I know better than to ask her to reschedule.

At half past eight that night, Kevin appears at my door with a pizza, half pepperoni for him, and half anchovy for me. It’s one of my secret quirks, which most of my friends refuse to indulge. He’s also toting a six-pack of Sam Light. “Have you eaten?” he asks. He hasn’t even bothered to go home long enough to change out of his suit. “I need a break before tackling the Councilman’s speech for the Chamber of Commerce tomorrow.”

In a few more days, Kevin will probably disappear until after the election. The Councilman has a comfortable lead, but that means Kevin has to worry about turning out complacent voters. It’s the phase of the campaign where he lives on pizza, blows off the gym, and worries about the consequences after the ballots are counted. He snivels about it, but he secretly gets off on the adrenalin.

“I just walked in the door, but I’m famished.” I reach for a slice of pizza as Kevin flips the tops off two beers and hands me one. “Thanks. You’re the best.”

“I know.” He dives into the pizza himself.

“So I’ve got a question for you. Do guys ever think long term when they first start dating someone?”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night, Oscar made some reference to meeting my extended family, months down the line. Does that mean he’s already planning a future with me?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he wants to sleep with you. Unless of course, you’ve already slept with him. In which case it could still mean nothing more than he wants to keep sleeping with you. Which I suppose you should take as a compliment.”