The Love Wars (3 page)

At the memory of this, I smiled sheepishly across the table at Liz and Rachel. “Did I say appeal? To be honest, it was a flat-out genuflect.”

“Now I get it.” Liz grinned and pointed at me with her fork. “You’re the perfect hire. You fed her ego, plus she gets to stick it to corporate.”

“What, like an East Coast/West Coast thing? The gang warfare of Bacon Payne?”

Rachel laughed. “More like a one-sided inferiority complex thing. You know how corporate deals are constantly paraded in front of hires, clients, summer associates? Well, Lillian hates being a little fish in a big pond. A chance to steal an associate from corporate is vindication.”

I thought of Kevin’s words from earlier that morning. “I can’t believe you’re actually going to become a divorce lawyer,” he had said as I gently placed my ill-fated ficus in the Bankers Box. “Have you no ambition?”

“Plus the timing was right because Denise had just given notice,” I said. “Why did she leave, by the way?”

Rachel dropped her head, suddenly focused on locating the remaining chickpeas in her salad, and Liz squinted and twisted her mouth. “She and Lillian had some differences. Lillian didn’t really think she was”—she paused, searching for the right word—“committed to the practice and the clients.”

“Any advice for how I can appear committed?” Even as I asked, I wasn’t really concerned. I had already proven myself, literally doubling my workload as a sign of my interest.

“Just be available to her,” said Liz. “You’ll figure it out.”

“I’m still trying to figure it out,” Rachel half laughed. “Hey,” she said to a woman approaching our table.

It was the lawyer from the elevator; my memory had not exaggerated her crispness. She was one of those glossy and elegant women native to Manhattan but rare in a law firm: shiny chestnut-colored hair, clear blemish-free skin, groomed eyebrows and nails. Her body was narrow and lean without being bony and I was sure all her clothing looked perfectly put together, with no wrinkles, sweater pills or pet hair to be found.

Women like her had been making me feel rumpled and sweaty since I had moved to New York, like they had the answer to some question I didn’t even know how to ask. Usually these insecurities were subterranean, of the low-grade, nagging variety, but that day in the elevator, seeing her had pushed them center stage, under a spotlight.

I looked down at my nails—they were shapeless but clean. I probably wasn’t sweating, given that there wasn’t a partner in sight and, as always, all thirteen floors of Bacon Payne were set to a freezing sixty-eight degrees.

“Uh-oh. Are you scaring the new kid?” Crisp lawyer glided into the booth and smiled at me. “Don’t get caught up in any of this drama. But definitely let us know if you have any questions along the way. I’m Hope,” she said, extending her hand.

“Hi. Molly.”

Liz raised one eyebrow and sipped at the straw of her soda. “And that’s your advice? So too-cool-for-school. Hey, listen. I need to brainstorm with you guys about the Landing case. Did you get my e-mail? How much support would you offer if the husband has made one million eight for the last two years but is on track for two million three this year? The wife has a medical degree but quit to raise the kids—”

“Which really means supervise the nanny.” Hope directed this to me.

“Hey, there’s a lot of coordination involved in supervising a nanny,” Rachel said, and they all nodded seriously for a minute before bursting into laughter.

“Anyway,” said Liz, “the kids are ten and thirteen….”

And then they were off, heatedly discussing alimony scenarios for the rest of lunch as I tried to follow along.

__________

I
was back in my office, reading a support motion, marveling at the numerous expenses required to maintain the Husband’s bonsai garden, when my phone rang.

“Hi.” I picked up on the first ring.

“Molly,” my dad whispered. “We just wanted to say good luck.”

“Thanks.” I lowered my voice to match his. “Are you whispering because you’re finally going to tell me where you buried the gold?”

There was a pause that I correctly interpreted as my mom pulling the phone away from him.

“Sorry if we’re interrupting, but we waited until lunchtime so we wouldn’t get you in trouble by calling.” No dramatic whispering from her; her voice was standard “business brisk,” as it always was when she was at their shop.

“I won’t get in trouble for talking on the phone, Mom. Lawyers are supposed to talk on the phone.”

“So, how’s day one?”

“Great.” From years of receiving that same answer to this question, my parents thought Bacon Payne was the Best! Place! To Work! Ever! Such were the implicit terms of our family arrangement: my parents had gone above and beyond to provide me with opportunity beyond their means, and in exchange, I did not squander, eschew or complain (to them) about same opportunity. Today, though, I felt a little more honest than I usually did.

“Can’t
wait to hear about it. Oh, honey, I have to go. There’s a scramble with the register tape.”

“Can’t the cashier fix it?”

“Frank’s on the register today.” She said this as though it meant something to me.

“What’s wrong with Frank?”

“Nothing. It’s just his second day. Here, talk to your father. Oh, wait, no, he’s disappeared. Frank?” She raised her voice thirty decibels. “Don’t touch that. No, just. No, Frank, just leave it alone. I’m coming. Oh, wait—”

“I’ll call tonight.” As I replaced the receiver, my intercom buzzed, making me jump.

“EverettBunchwantstoseeyou.Hisoffice.” Click.

I had forgotten to ask Liz, Rachel and Hope about the other members of the group. Everett was a relatively recent partner in the matrimonial group and when I had researched him online, all I found was a note in the Cornell Law alumni magazine from several years ago about how Everett Bunch, New York alumnus, “was working and playing hard in the Big Apple,” and a PDF document from some time ago listing him as one of the members of a dangerous-sounding organization called “the Lawyers Basketball Pub Madness League.”

I peeked into his office. He was on the phone, facing away from me and reclining in his chair, giving me a perfect view of his peach-fuzz crew cut that showed the exact breadth between each of his hair follicles. At my tentative knock, Everett did not turn around but waved his hand in a vague gesture that I assumed was an invitation to enter, so I did, perching on one of the black leather chairs opposite his desk in standard associate pose: pitched forward in my seat, legs crossed, legal pad poised on lap.

From what I could tell from his side of the conversation, Everett was reminiscing about some evening, the highlights of which involved a “smoking” waitress named Eileen and an overindulgence
of Absolut Vodka. The exhaustion of those topics eventually led to a work discussion, allowing me to conclude that I was not, despite my suspicions, bearing witness to a conversation about new pledge brothers.

“So, dude, did you do the enhanced earnings analysis yet?” Everett said, still turned away from me. “Okay, so what’s the thumbnail sketch on the practice? Uh-huh. Yep.” He scribbled something on a piece of paper next to his phone. “Oh, she’s going to be pissed.” After several more minutes of lengthy good-byes and promises to “catch you later,” he hung up and looked at me.

“Do you know who Noah Wasserman is?”

I racked my brain, the anxiety rising. Was he a partner at the firm? A huge client? Who was Noah Wasserman? Who?

“No,” I said slowly, after it became clear that Everett was not going to volunteer the answer.

He narrowed his eyes until they were two little slits behind his glasses. “He is a forensic accountant. One of the best. He has valued assets of several clients for us. Learn his name if you want to work in this department.”

“Okay.”

“Another thing you should know if you want to work here is how things work. I am a partner.” He raised his eyebrows. “It’s your job to impress me. Not the other way around. You should have introduced yourself.”

Was he kidding? I felt my cheeks flush. “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to offend you. I just started and I have been unpacking and trying to figure things out….” I trailed off, uncertain.

He stared me down for several seconds before responding. “We expect a lot of our associates here. Lillian and I both like things done a certain way. So, what cases have you been put on?”

Still stunned, I managed to recall the names of a few of the files on my desk.

He nodded. “Okay. Nothing big-league. I’ll probably have
something for you to do within the next week, so look out for my call.” He picked up his phone receiver. “You can go now.”

I started to limp back to my office, but then I remembered that there was one more lawyer in the matrimonial group, Henry Something—still an associate, but senior enough that I didn’t want to risk having another conversation like the one I just had. I circled the hallways on the thirty-seventh floor until I found his nameplate,
HENRY BENNETT
.

He was at his desk, head down, poring over financial statements.

I knocked gently on his doorframe. He gave no sign of having heard me, so I knocked again a little louder. Nothing. I took a few small steps into his office. “Hi, Henry. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Molly Grant.”

“Okay.” He didn’t look up.

Was he already pissed? I spoke a little louder. “I just started today. I’m really looking forward to working with you.”

Nothing. How much ass-kissing did this guy need? “It’s an honor.”

He looked up from his documents. “It’s an honor?”

I nodded uncertainly. “Yes, I’m really happy to be here.”

“An honor?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” he said in a genuine tone of voice. “Thank you for interrupting my workday with that proclamation.” He was straight-faced, but his eyes betrayed utter ridicule. “Will you be sharing such meaningful sentiments on a daily basis, or just when you’re moved to do so?”

I did not answer, just slowly backed out of his office, hell-bent on retreating to mine.

____

I
surreptitiously check my BlackBerry. Two new messages; one is from an anxious client. A wave of stress makes my stomach clench. I pick nervously at the bent cardboard corner of my legal pad.

I try to remember the elements of false imprisonment from Criminal Law and wonder whether I have enough for a successful claim against Everett, who is lounged in his chair, making small talk on an interminable phone call with someone named Jim.

Twenty minutes ago, when Everett started the call—which has nothing to do with any of the mindless assignments he has pelted me with—I tried tiptoeing out of the office. He had put the call on hold and motioned to the chair, telling me to “sit down, Molly, and wait until I’m done.”

“Oh, I’ll come back as soon as you’re done. I have to—”

“Sit down. I’ll be off soon.”

But of course he wasn’t.

I am certain Everett doesn’t like me, so it never ceases to amaze me how much time he makes us spend together. Now that I am starting to get more substantive work, this togetherness is torture. Every hour I spend with Everett translates into an hour that I will have to stay late at the office, catching up on actual, billable work.

From my peripheral vision, I see someone stick a head in the doorway. It’s Kim. “Lilliannow.”

Everett jumps to his feet. “Hey, man, Jim, gotta run, talk soon.” He slams down the receiver, rummages through the piles of paper on his desk to find a notepad and races out of the door, stopping only to turn back to me. “I’ll find you after.”

“Okay,” I say, silently debating whether I should hide from him in the library or an empty conference room. Before I can decide, Kim nods at me.

“Sheshouldcometoo.”

Curious, I follow Everett and Kim next door to Lillian’s office, which anchors the southwest corner of the floor and is the size of two partners’ offices combined. There are huge windows, with city views, and despite its grandeur, Lillian has prioritized the room’s comfort. “Make my guests feel cradled,” I have imagined her directing, pinning the interior decorator’s gaze with the sharpness of her own. And, like everyone else in Lillian’s life, the decorator had complied. It is a place where clients can, over a cup of hot tea, be lulled into telling their deepest secrets.

Two silver floor lamps with ecru lampshades emit a cozy yellow glow. A plush ivory throw rug cuddles the industrial gray carpet that covers the rest of the law firm. The walls have tasteful prints with safe illustrations of pretty, nonthreatening things found in nature: beaches and mountains, flowers and leaves. Opposite Lillian’s big desk are two guest chairs with garnet-colored seats and backs, and behind them is a beige suede couch with deep cushions and a garnet chenille throw blanket. Hope occasionally naps there while pulling all-nighters and swears by its comfort.

Lillian sits at her desk peering over chic circular glasses at some papers. She looks up when we come in and pushes her glasses to the top of her head, where they teeter precariously on her expertly blown-out hair.

“Molly.” She nods to the chair and I sit. “Are you free for lunch after I finish up with Everett?”

“Of course.”

Lillian turns to Everett, unsmiling. “Bruce at the Bar Group called. He didn’t get the materials.”

Everett turns red. “I thought we had until the sixteenth. Your talk’s not until the twenty-third, right?”

“Well, he needs them now, Everett. Now.”

He stands uncertainly.

She waves her hands toward the door. “Go. Do it. All the materials, six copies and the outline.”

Everett scurries out of the room and Lillian rolls her eyes at me. “Why do boys always need so much direction?” She grabs a fancy-looking olive green bag and a winter white jacket from the coatrack by her door. “I was thinking the Modern.”

“Okay, great. Let me just get my things.”

I had been to the Modern my first year for a summer associate event called “Wine, Dine and Refine” that involved a multicourse tasting menu, several rounds of a delicious drink that mixed Pimm’s and apricot liqueur and a tipsy, loopy private tour around the museum and sculpture garden. I round the corner toward my office wondering whether they still have the house-cured salmon on the menu. It had been delicious, delicate and velvety and—