__________
After Fern leaves, I take a moment to collect myself. Then I surprise myself by going straight into Henry’s office.
He looks up and raises his eyebrows without smiling. “Molly. Again. What now?”
I turn around to leave. “Never mind.”
“No, no. Come on in. Sorry to be abrupt.”
“Okay.” I plop down in his guest chair. “Well, this one is truly over my head.” I recap my conversation with Fern. I don’t think that I can adequately convey her desperation, but by the end of my narration, his face, normally affectless, is grave.
“Shit. That sounds like textbook parental alienation.”
“I was wondering.” Alienation is when one parent pits a child against the other parent, force-feeding her horrible stories, and basically brainwashing the child against her father or mother. The courts consider it a type of child abuse. “Does she have a case?”
“Assuming she’s telling you the truth, yes. He could lose custody. Courts have been pretty clear on it.”
“What’s involved with proving a case?”
“A lot. It’s somewhat evident from the kids’ behavior, but you’ll need a forensic expert. And, of course, it’s really expensive and very involved. I’ll get you some names of files to pull that will give you a good idea of where to start.” He rolls his chair in front of the computer screen, starts typing and then stops. “Hey. Wait a second. Why did you have a consult alone? You’re like an infant, experience-wise.”
“Yeah. That’s the other thing. Lillian told me to get rid of the case because of Robert Walker. But don’t you think when she hears the story—”
“Oh no. Stop right there. To Lillian, sending you into the consult is tantamount to tossing the case in the trash.”
“Well, thanks.”
“I just mean that if Lillian wants the case even a little, you can be sure she’ll take the consult and establish a relationship from the get-go.” He looks at me. “Don’t bring this up with Lillian. Kamikaze mission.”
“Okay, I won’t. It’s heartbreaking, though.”
“It sounds bad. What did you tell her?”
“I gave her a list of referrals.”
“Well, that’s all you can do. If she calls, you have to refer her elsewhere or”—he slices his finger across his throat—“professional suicide.”
8
____
the girls and the twirls
As it turns out, Lillian’s “girls” are Liz, Rachel and Hope, the group with which I already spend most of my waking hours. We’ve never hung out at the bar at the Four Seasons, though. I love the Four Seasons. The extra-large windows are covered by dramatic curtains made of thousands of tiny pewter-colored beads that ripple like water. There’s a pool in the center of the room, and delicate trees placed around the borders of the dining room, decorated to sync with the season outside. It’s exactly what you imagine a fancy New York restaurant to be when you’re growing up in North Carolina.
After Lillian ordered a car—so we wouldn’t have to walk the three blocks from the office—we rode over and commandeered a table at the bar. It feels clubby and rich, with warm wooden walls and a dramatic stalactite chandelier dominating the ceiling.
As Lillian orders a round of Kir royales, I lean over to Rachel.
“Where’s Hope?”
She glances quickly at Lillian and whispers back, “Client drama. She’ll be late.”
“So, Lillian, how did the Linden four-way meeting go today?” Liz asks. Liz has an astonishing memory for Lillian’s schedule.
Lillian sips her drink. “Oh, it was fine. Suzie Linden kept her mouth shut, thank God. That woman is so annoying—she’s so concerned about holding on to her vacation home that she’s not focusing on anything else. It drives me crazy: ‘the Vermont house, the Vermont house.’” She pitches her voice even higher, presumably to imitate Suzie. I wonder if Suzie is a helium addict.
Lillian looks at Rachel. “I told her to call you tomorrow to discuss it. We have to get her to realize she can’t afford the upkeep on the Vermont house and the Tribeca loft without dipping into the mutual fund that she’ll need for retirement, okay?”
Rachel nods. “I’ll work on her tomorrow.”
Lillian continues. “And Greg Hertslitz is a schmuck. That guy lawyers by brute force. I mean, Suzie is a stupid nag, but she’s nervous. And he came on like a tornado. Did I ever tell you guys about the time Greg and I got into a screaming match in the lobby of the First Department Appellate Division?” She tells a story that sounds familiar, except that when I had heard it before, maybe the screaming match was between Lillian and Bonnie Werther in the rotunda at Sixty Centre Street. Or maybe it was in the library with Colonel Mustard. The Kir royales are clearly starting to have an effect.
“All right. Enough work chat.” She turns to Rachel. “Where did you get those shoes? And your nail polish is cute. Hey, did you see what Svetlana did with my nails?” Lillian holds up her French manicure and wiggles her fingers. “We all have to go to her again.”
“Oh, is that the light pink on top of that glossy nude again? I love that combination. It looks great,” says Rachel.
Lillian beams thanks and turns to the rest of us. “So how’s everyone? Give me the update. Liz. What’s going on with you? How’s Adam?”
Liz has been living with Adam, an accountant, for the past three years. She barely sees him during the week, but their relationship appears stable and boring nonetheless. Lots of Chinese takeout and recorded television shows.
“Fine. Everything’s good. He’s working hard.”
“Is he coming tonight?”
“No, he has to work late.” Liz pouts but I know it’s an act. Earlier, she had told me that after his third Bacon Payne holiday party, Adam had sworn off attending any more.
Lillian nods. “Rachel? Did you and your mother make up?”
Rachel sighs. “Yes. I promised that I wouldn’t be late to Thanksgiving next year and she promised not to log in to my Facebook account as me. And I changed my password so she can’t even if she wants to. Balance is restored…for now.”
“Let’s talk about men! Any dating news?”
Rachel shakes her head and pumps her fists. “JDate reject!”
I laugh. Rachel and I have commiserated about the hopelessness of being single in the city and working around the clock.
Lillian tilts her glass toward me. “And Molly?” She squints her eyes. “I bet you’re a heartbreaker.”
I shake my head vigorously. “No broken hearts in my wake.”
Lillian leans toward me. “Oh, come on. What’s your most recent romantic conquest? Dish! We’re all family here.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hope rushing toward the table. I say a silent prayer of thanks to be out of the hot seat as we all turn toward her.
“Sorry I’m late.” Hope’s eyes dart toward Lillian. “I finished the draft of the Statement of Proposed Disposition. We can submit it tomorrow.”
Lillian barely makes eye contact. “So glad you could join us.” I think she’s sneering.
Hope stands uncomfortably for a moment. Liz secures a chair from another table and pushes it next to hers, squeezing Hope’s shoulder. Hope looks at her gratefully, gives a half smile and sits down. I’ve never seen Hope so uncomfortable in her own skin.
Lillian peers at her phone. “Oh. I missed a call from Roger. We’re supposed to meet in the lobby now and go over to the Palace together. Anyone who wants to come in our car, let’s go.”
Rachel gets up and runs to catch up to Lillian, laughing as she says something that I can’t hear. Liz and Hope stay at the table, Hope whispering and gesturing, Liz listening and nodding. Neither of them looks at me, so I walk down the stairs and catch up with Lillian, Roger and Rachel.
__________
Every year, Bacon Payne holds its Christmas Gala at one of the grand New York hotels. This year, one of the ballrooms at the New York Palace has been taken over
by the party-hungry lawyers of Bacon Payne.
The room is extremely dark, but after a few minutes, my eyes adjust enough to see the outline of a buffet in one corner of the room. People are lined up waiting for what I imagine is the usual ballroom fare—slightly soggy chicken Marsala, overcooked new potatoes and rice pilaf.
The gala is never about the food, though. The bar, the axis mundi of all Bacon Payne events, commands the opposite corner, already crowded even though it’s still early. In a third corner of the room, a DJ in an all-white suit and dancing enthusiastically blares ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.”
The whole event is a dangerous trap: there’s a river of alcohol and music with great beats. You have to participate, but if you indulge too much, you will be the star of your very own Bacon Payne legend and the whole firm will snicker about your foibles until the following summer, when some tanked summer associate will do something to take away your title.
Last year, Anthony Cooper, a young tax partner, did the worm on the dance floor for thirty minutes, after which he puked on the head of the litigation department, after which he passed out. And don’t get me started on the dirty-dancing older lawyers, usually married, who feel no compunction about grinding on female employees decades younger than they are. The wisest strategy is to lie low and blend in.
I am still feeling the effects of my Kir royales. Lillian and Roger have disappeared to schmooze and Hope and Liz are nowhere to be found. Rachel pulls my arm. “Let’s go to the bar,” she shouts, pointing exaggeratedly to it, in case I have missed her meaning.
I order a whiskey sour and Rachel and I clutch green and red cocktail napkins, sip our cocktails and scan the dark room. The DJ has worked up to “Brick House” and more people are dancing.
“Who’s that with Henry?” He’s ushering an attractive woman toward the buffet, his hand on the small of her back.
Rachel shakes her head, indicating she didn’t hear me, and pushes her ear toward my mouth.
I repeat the question and gesture toward them.
She looks and nods. I miss a lot of what she says but hear “Julie.”
“What department is she in?”
Rachel laughs, shakes her head and shouts directly in my ear, “JULIE. Henry’s GIRLFRIEND.”
I give her a surprised look, which Rachel correctly interprets as a request for more information.
“Glamour job. Something at a gallery.”
Henry has a girlfriend? It’s hard to picture. I try to imagine them brushing their teeth together. “Julie, you forgot to floss,” he’d say with an eye roll, pushing the container in front of her and stalking out of the bathroom.
And how on earth does Henry act when deciding how to spend a Sunday off? “Sure, let’s see that Bruce Willis movie with all the other idiots,” I can imagine him saying in an expressionless monotone, absorbed in his BlackBerry. “And then wait on a long line for overrated brunch. You go right ahead. Yep. Right behind you.”
Poor Julie. Well, on the plus side for her, she probably gets to leave work at five o’clock and do things like exercise, go out during the week and have standard mani/pedi appointments. I watch as they navigate the buffet. She doesn’t look bored and miserable. She’s clutching his shirt and whispering something to him. He laughs in response.
Rachel grabs me and shouts in my ear, pointing wildly to the left. “Oh my God—Kim’s doing the robot. Let’s go.”
“I’ll meet you.” I see Kevin, my former office mate from the corporate group, across the room, animatedly telling a story to a group of corporate associates, and make my way there. We hug as though we haven’t since each other in months, even though we still keep close tabs on each other. Soon after switching departments, I realized that Kevin somehow possessed a rock-solid understanding of the politics in the matrimonial group.
“So, is Everett Butt-Munch still giving you a hard time?” I haven’t seen Everett yet tonight and look around to make sure he isn’t in earshot. No, he’s far across the room, deep in conversation with Liam, one of the paralegals. Poor Liam.
“You were right—Lillian keeps him on a pretty tight leash.”
Now we both look around, to make sure she’s not in earshot. Kevin nods with his chin. “There she is, by the door.”
Lillian is talking to Dominic Pizaro, listening intently. They are both miniature—probably about five feet two—but because of the angle at which she’s leaning forward toward him, she appears shorter. Whatever he’s saying must be funny because Lillian keeps laughing and touching his arm.
Roger stands behind her holding two drinks and staring into space. Poor Roger.
“Ah, good ol’ kiss up, piss down,” says Kevin.
“She’s not that bad,” I say. “She just took us all out for drinks.”
“Whatever,” he says.
“No, seriously. She’s actually good to work for.” I lower my voice. “Between you and me, I’m kind of thinking that this is where I could be for a while.”
He looks at me in mock shock. “No more five-year plan?”
I shake my head. “Nope, I’m thinking long-term.”
He shakes his head. “I guess that make sense—all the people drama. You like that stuff. Hey—guess how much I billed last month? Really, it’s insane.”
About twenty Motown hits later, the DJ has worked up to eighties pop and is bopping his head to “Take on Me.” I have checked my inhibitions and am dancing with Rachel, Kevin and some assorted corporate associates.
The DJ starts playing KC and the Sunshine Band and cranks up the volume so I can barely hear anything else; more people crowd the dance floor. I haven’t noticed any overt displays of inappropriateness so far. Someone must have slipped the DJ some cash to create the perfect environment for the birth of this year’s legend. Who could resist KC and the Sunshine Band? Way to up the ante, Mr. DJ.
Obviously a little wasted, Rachel and Kevin start bumping hips.
I turn to Rachel. “I used to go dancing all the time, but now it’s only at weddings. I miss dancing!”
“What?” She smiles and leans closer.
I lean in to repeat my brilliant observation.
As Kevin shimmies over to me, the DJ puts on some Kool and the Gang. I’ve been to enough of these things to recognize that this means the party will end soon.
I’ve had a genuinely good time tonight—a first for a Bacon Payne party. What’s even more notable, I realize, is that for the past—I don’t even know how long—I’ve actually been in a good mood. I bathe in the great-feeling combination of alcohol and good cheer and feel myself grinning as Kevin twirls me around.
Finally, finally, finally. My life feels like it’s falling into place: I like what I do. I feel competent, useful. I can’t believe how simple it all was: going to the matrimonial group is the best move I’ve made.
9
____
elf and other tearjerkers
For the first time since graduating law school, I have managed to escape Bacon Payne for four full days to spend the holidays with my family. Of course, my parents, the exhausted owners of Cheddar and Better—Hillsborough’s premier kitchen supply and specialty foods shop!—expend so much energy hawking the fantasy of a picture-perfect Christmas dinner for their customers that they have no interest in trying to achieve one themselves. Tomorrow will be as it is every year: the Grant family, clad in pajamas, periodically shuffling from the couch to the table to grab a handful of gourmet caramel butter-crunch popcorn or spread some duck pâté on an artisanal rosemary focaccia crisp. Our dining room already looks like the lobby at the annual convention for gift basket treats—delegates from the vacuum-sealed meat category clustered in conversations with boxed pears and chocolate-dipped shortbreads.
I scope the offerings. There’s some maple-honey ham in a clear bag that I know my mom will try to crown tomorrow’s “entrée,” so I bypass it and grab a tin of pimento cheese straws. I pop off the top, grab the remote and settle in on the couch.
I am exha
usted, having spent the day at the store. Ostensibly I was there playing the part of stock girl, unpacking boxes in the back room with the goal of shelving the last-minute gift items—single-serve French presses, prewrapped boxes of chocolate caramels—that we were trying to push out the door before the holidays.
I was slicing packing tape with a paring knife when my dad pushed against the swinging door. A tower of boxes stacked too close stopped him from opening the door all the way, so he stuck his mouth and nose through the sliver of space.
“Hey,” he said, talking loudly, as though into a cave. “You there? Come to the floor for a sec.”
So I had stopped unpacking, shifting the boxes to create a small path, and followed him out to where a woman with blond waves pulled back in a sloppy bun was waiting, a Cheddar and Better tote bag stuffed with paper-wrapped deli items slung over her shoulder.
“Here”—my dad put his arm around my shoulder as I wiped my dusty hands on my jeans—“she is.”
“Hi.” I smiled politely.
“Your dad is so proud of you,” said the woman, glancing at my father. Indeed, his eyes, a green so sharp that the color is visible behind his glasses, reflected this. She continued. “I hear all about your achievements, so I had to meet you in person. And Bacon Payne! The big leagues, huh? I’ve gotta go prepare.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s a whopper of a meal tonight—but so, so great to meet you.” She nodded at my dad. “Just one cup of milk? You sure?”
“No more,” my dad said, nodding. “You’ll be fine.”
“Nice to meet you too. Merry Christmas,” I called after her, turning to my dad. “And that was?”
“Gertie Manning,” he said, as though it explained everything. “She’s a professor at the law school, so naturally, we talk about you.”
“Naturally,” I said.
As it turned out, Professor Manning was just the first through the receiving line. My dad pulled me out of the storage room six times—approximately once every hour, to meet all the customers shopping on Christmas Eve who had—to his knowledge—ever been, known or needed a lawyer.
The Love Wars Page 6