Scot on the Rocks

by Brenda Janowitz

  “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.

  “Try to look Scottish American,” I said, ignoring her and taking a spin toward the buffet.

  “Hi, I’m Duncan,” a man said to me in line at the buffet as I tried to remember from my outline what haggis was made from.

  “Brooke,” I said and smiled. He smiled back, followed by an uncomfortable silence. We both reached for plates. I never did well with the whole uncomfortable silence thing. I’m not the type of girl who can just let the silence lie and be quiet. It always seemed to make me talk more, whether or not I actually had anything to say. “You know, Aberdeen is where Paris ought to be,” I said, quoting Robert Louis Stevenson. He nodded without smiling and then muttered something about having to tend to his girlfriend.

  “Do you want me to throw pearls like that into conversation at Trip’s wedding?” Jack asked me over my shoulder.

  “Robert Louis Stevenson said that,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said.

  “He wrote Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” I said, defending myself with Stevenson’s literary pedigree.

  “And Tre
asure Island,” Jack replied. “I know. I read your outline while you were getting your hair done. I also know that the thistle is the symbol of all things Scottish. Actually a weed, the thistle is both a legend and a symbol —”

  “Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone,” Vanessa said, coming from the opposite end of the buffet, “and Alexander Fleming invented penicillin. Both Scottish born.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Oh,” she replied. “I thought we were just quoting random bits of information from your outline.” I sighed as we took our plates of food and found a little place to stand around and eat.

  I hate when people at parties stay clustered together with only the people they came to the party with, but really, what are you supposed to do when you don’t know anyone but your two friends? Vanessa, Jack and I wound up standing in a corner, balancing our plates filled with various Scottish delicacies (and also some cocktail franks) and glasses of wine in the other hand.

  “We have to make it more natural at the wedding,” I instructed Jack and Vanessa.

  “Spouting out random bits of information on Scotland is never going to sound natural,” Vanessa said.

  “Yeah,” Jack said, “let’s only use the information defensively. Only if someone asks.”

  “Agreed,” I said, leaning back toward the wall.

  All of the sudden, the lights went out. It wasn’t entirely dark, since the room was filled with candles all over, but the crowd began to murmur.

  “What was that?” Jack said, looking around.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “Maybe it’s some sort of Scottish tradition! And you two thought we wouldn’t learn anything here. I guess it’s something where halfway through the party, they turn out the lights. I wonder what happens when the lights go out?”

  I was thrilled. Even though the place was crawling with Scottish Americans and not actual, real live Scots, we would still get some quality research done. See, this was exactly the sort of thing we would need to know for the wedding that you can’t learn from Internet research alone!

  “Um, Brooke,” Vanessa said. “What’s that behind your elbow?” I looked behind me and lo and behold, what was behind my elbow was a light switch.

  “Oh, my God,” I whispered, “I just turned off the lights!”

  “Turn them back on,” Jack said through clenched teeth.

  “I can’t!” I said. “I’m too embarrassed!” The murmur of the crowd began to get louder. Everyone seemed totally disoriented, and I saw some of the party planners scurrying about, trying to fix the lighting situation.

  “Just do it,” Vanessa said. “Standing here in the dark is worse. Eventually, someone’s going to tell everyone where the light switch is.”

  As swiftly as I’d accidentally turned them off, I lifted my elbow, quickly hit the light switch while still balancing my plate and my glass and the lights came back on. Only, the light switch must have been a dimmer switch, because it got very, very bright. Uncomfortably bright.

  “Turn them down,” Jack said, teeth still slightly clenched. The murmur of the crowd got louder, still. Everyone continued to look around and just generally act confused.

  “I can’t,” I said. “Then everyone will know it was me!”

  “I think they know already,” Vanessa said and she was right. The entire crowd began staring at me, waiting for me to rearrange the lights.

  “Sorry!” I said, as I turned around and readjusted the dimmer.

  “So much for learning about Scotland,” Vanessa said, looking for a place to put down her plate and glass.

  “Yes,” I said, “our work here is done.” I then made a hasty exit toward the door, without making eye contact with any of the other party guests, with Jack and Vanessa following closely in my wake.

  10

  “I don’t think that anyone is going to see your bikini line,” Vanessa called in to me as the hair was being ripped from my flesh at the nail place around the corner from our office.

  “You never know,” I called back in between rips. I was raised to believe that a woman must always be ready for battle, no matter what. Manicures and haircuts even when you don’t have any plans and pedicures and bikini waxes in the winter because you just “never knew” when some dashing gentleman caller might come around and whisk you off to an exotic weekend in Rio. Okay, granted, that has never happened to me or anyone that I’ve ever met, but isn’t that the point of the whole “you never know” thing?

  “I don’t even want to know who you think is going to see your bikini line,” Vanessa said to me as we walked over to the pedicure chairs.

  “Well, now,” I assured Vanessa, “anyone who wants to.” Vanessa sighed.

  The tubs beneath the pedicure chairs had already been filled with hot water and honey-lemon-scented bubbles. I took off my shoes, pulled my hair out of its bun, put my feet in and closed my eyes. The hot water felt like a warm blanket and I melted into the pedicure chair. I took a deep breath and tried to relax for the first time in two weeks. Who knew that perpetrating a fraud on the entire Scottish community would be so stressful? With my eyes shut, I tried to forget about everything — about work, about Douglas, about…

  “I brought you some of my old research on likelihood of confusion,” I heard someone say. I was pretty sure it was not the nail technician who was removing the polish from my toes. I opened one eye to find Vanessa thrusting hundreds of pages of case law into my hands. “I thought it might be a good jumping-off point for you,” she said. She took out her own work — piles and piles of documents she was reviewing on another case to get ready for a round of depositions, all color coded to indicate whether they would help or hurt her client.

  “So tall, so thin,” Vanessa’s nail technician commented as she massaged Vanessa’s long lean legs — the product of two New York City Marathons and six-mile runs through Central Park each day.

  “Thanks,” Vanessa said back, brushing a nonexistent hair behind her ear. Her hand brushed her drop earrings, making a tiny sound like a set of elegant wind chimes. Vanessa wore her hair incredibly short, like Halle Berry circa 2002, and always wore long drop earrings to fill in the space between her ears and shoulders.

  “Beautiful shoes,” the nail technician said to Vanessa as she picked up one of Vanessa’s tan Chanel ballet slippers. “So pretty.” Vanessa smoothed her hair again as she smiled, careful not to hit her earrings again and draw even more attention to herself.

  “Can you just tell me what these cases say?” I asked Vanessa.

  “I took notes in the margins,” Vanessa said, “and I put the holding of each case on the top so that you can quickly tell what proposition of law each case stands for.”

  I put the cases in my lap while I took my BlackBerry out of my pants pocket. I’d taken to carrying my BlackBerry everywhere I went (even attaching it to my pajama bottoms as I lounged around at night) in case Douglas called or e-mailed me. I checked for missed calls or e-mails from Douglas, but he still hadn’t tried to contact me.

  I sent an e-mail to Jack:

  From: “Brooke Miller”

  To: “Jack Solomon”

  Subject: pop quiz

  when are the highland games played each year?

  Brooke Miller

  Sent from my wireless handheld

  A moment later, he e-mailed back:

  From: “Jack Solomon”

  To: “Brooke Miller”

  Subject: Re: pop quiz

  Does Douglas even know this stuff?

  Jack Solomon

  Gilson, Hecht and Trattner

  425 Park Avenue

  11th Floor

  New York, New York 10022

  *****CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE*****

  The information contained in this e-mail message is confidential and is intended only for the use of the individual or entity named above. If you are not the intended recipient, we would request yo
u delete this communication without reading it or any attachment, not forward or otherwise distribute it, and kindly advise Gilson, Hecht and Trattner by return e-mail to the sender or a telephone call to 1 (800) GILSON. Thank you in advance.

  A smile came to my lips.

  I began to shuffle through the cases Vanessa had given to me and marveled at the detail of her work. I looked up to tell her what a great job she had done, and in so doing, let half of the cases slide off my lap and fall into the pedicure tub. My nail technician and I gasped simultaneously and began frantically fishing for the papers, as Vanessa looked up from her own work, balanced perfectly in her lap.

  “Gee, your cases smell terrific,” she said.

  “I think that this is a sign from God that I shouldn’t be doing work right now. Is it really ethical to bill at the nail salon, anyway?”

  “Of course it is,” Vanessa said, looking down at her work and pursing her lips for emphasis.

  “Men have it so easy, don’t they,” I said. “They just wash and go. If you’re lucky, you get them to shave.” Vanessa nodded her head as if she was listening, so I kept going. “Just to go to this stupid wedding, I have to get waxed, manicured, pedicured, visit the skin doctor, and take over an hour doing my hair and makeup.”

  “I’m very interested to see how your dress will reveal your freshly waxed bikini line,” Vanessa said.

  “I hope that Marcus appreciates all that you have to do just to get gorgeous.”

  “I seriously doubt that he does,” she said, head still buried in her work.

  “Well, then I hope that he appreciates all that I have to do just to get gorgeous,” I said, lifting the foot that the nail technician was not filing to show Vanessa just how hard I was working.

  “I’m sure he will.”

  “I still can’t believe that Trip has never met Marcus,” I said. Vanessa had missed her own law-school graduation because Marcus had been asked to scrub in on his first major surgery that day and Vanessa had gone to watch.

  “Such is the life of a surgical resident,” she said, as she continued to review her documents. “Now, can we try to get some work done? It’s only ethical to bill at the nail salon if you actually do work.” I nodded, making a mental note to myself to bill Healthy Foods for the six-tenths of an hour that I actually attempted to read the cases that Vanessa had given me. Even if I did spill half of them into a pedicure tub, I still thought I should get the credit.