Jack With a Twist bm-2

by Brenda Janowitz

  “Whatever you want to call it,” Jay says, looking at the door as someone walks in. “Where does he work?”

  “He’s a lawyer,” I say, “He’s a partner at Gilson, Hecht and Trattner.”

  “Fancy,” he says, taking one more swig of his espresso and finishing it. “Isn’t that the firm that represents Jean Luc Renault?” I’m momentarily taken off guard by this question, since Jay doesn’t really look like the type to cover couture fashion.

  “I believe so,” I say, “Why? Do you follow fashion?”

  “Are they going to be covering Monique and Jean Luc’s big divorce? I’m not a pap, don’t think I’m one of those scum-suckers, but when that whole thing goes down, details about the divorce are going to be selling for a fortune.”

  “No, they’re not getting divorced,” I say, ever the protector of attorney-client privilege.

  “Well, smart money’s on the rumors that say that they are,” he says.

  “Well, they’re not,” I say, grabbing my Sweet-n-Low packet and tearing it in half. And then into fours.

  “How do you know?” he asks.

  “I just know,” I say, looking back up at him. “So, do you think you’ll want to do my wedding video?”

  Jay looks at the door again as another person walks in. Even though he’s had nothing to eat, he takes out a toothpick and puts it into his mouth. He flips the toothpick to the side of his mouth with his tongue and says: “You’re on.”

  “Great!” I say.

  “Let’s go to your fiancé’s office first.”

  “Great!” I say, taking another bite of cannoli. “Now?”

  “No time like the present,” he says and I stuff the rest of the cannoli into my mouth, followed by a big swig of my cappuccino. “I’ve got my camera in the car. I’ll drive you into the city.”

  Now, my mother always taught me that I shouldn’t get into a car with a stranger. But, surely a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend of my father would not be considered a stranger, now, would he? Even if he may or may not have the capacity, connections and mental wherewithal to fit me for concrete shoes and then drop me into the Hudson.

  Forty-five minutes later, we’ve listened to the entire side A of Frank Sinatra’s Ring a Ding Ding album, on tape cassette, natch, and we’re pulling into a parking garage a block away from the Gilson, Hecht offices. Normally, parking in midtown costs more than most people in America would pay for a down payment on a house, but Jay seems to know the manager of the garage.

  “This is a surprise,” Jack says, as he looks up from his desk to find Jay and me at his office door.

  I walk into Jack’s office first, with Jay following me with his camera on his shoulder, as if I’m Ed McMahon coming with an oversized check.

  “We just thought we’d get some footage of you at work,” I say, giving him a peck on the lips. “You know, for the wedding video.”

  “Great,” he says, getting up from his desk. “Have you eaten yet? I can take a break right now and we can run down to the cafeteria for something to eat.”

  “Keep filming,” I say to Jay. And then, to Jack: “No, honey, I just had a quick bite. And, anyway, I want Jay to get some footage of you working for the wedding video.”

  “You want footage of my office for the wedding video?” Jack asks, brushing his hand through his shaggy brown hair.

  “Why, of course!” I say, as if to say: “Doesn’t everybody have footage of their fiancés working at their offices on their wedding videos?”

  “Okay,” Jack says, reluctantly going back behind his desk.

  “Just look natural,” I tell him.

  “Right,” Jack says, looking around his office, no doubt, for Alan Funt to jump out from behind his potted plant. Or at the very least Ashton Kutcher.

  “Anyway, I have way too much work to do today to stay here,” I tell Jack, already kissing him lightly on the lips and heading out to leave. “That you assigned to me.”

  Jack laughs and tells me that he loves me as I walk out. I grab Jay and whisper to him that if he just so happens to see a red-headed Southern belle who looks as though she has a penchant for married men, he should feel free to tail her for a little bit. I leave out saying the more dramatic: “If you do, I’ll make it worth your while,” since that part’s really implied and I’m not actually an extra in an episode of The Sopranos. I’ll just be referring to the show later purely for research purposes.

  As I hit the button for the elevator, I wonder if I have time to make a quick visit to Vanessa’s office. I turn around, about to make my way down the hallway, and see an old junior partner I used to work for.

  “Hi there, Larry,” I say with a forced smile. I never liked him much when I was an associate at Gilson, Hecht, and my absence from the firm most certainly has not made my heart grow any fonder.

  “Miller,” he says, “Just who I wanted to see. Are you available for a meeting right this minute? Go grab a legal pad, I need you.”

  “What?” I say. What on earth is he talking about? Did this guy actually miss the fact that I left the firm almost a year ago? Did he really not notice? And if so, why did Jack force me to spend days working on a carefully worded politically correct Exit E-mail Memo that ensured that I didn’t anger anyone/piss anyone off/get me disbarred?

  Make no mistake: the Exit E-mail Memo is a true art. When associates at large Manhattan law firms leave, what they really want to say is:

  From: “Brooke Miller”

  To: “NYC office”

  Subject: I am so out of here, SUCKERS!!!

  I hate you. All of you. You have truly made my life a living hell from the minute I walked in the door here, and, while I learned a lot, I would much rather have been working as a gas station attendant at some gas station in God’s Country, USA. Which, come to think of it, is really how most of you made me feel most of the time, so I guess I broke even.

  I really only ever worked here because you paid me so darn much as a first year and I had massive student loans to pay. Now that I’ve dug myself out of debt, if I have to look at any of your ugly faces for another second, I might actually have to stab myself in the eye.

  Signing off,

  Faceless associate #536

  Brooke Miller

  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 you 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.

  What I actually said was:

  From: “Brooke Miller”
  To: “NYC office”
  Subject: a fond farewell to everyone at Gilson, Hecht and Trattner

  As many of you know, today is my last day at Gilson, Hecht and Trattner. It has been an amazing five years here, and in the time that I’ve been at the Firm, I have had the honor to work with some of the most outstanding attorneys practicing law in New York City today. I’ve made some of my best friends in the world here and I truly treasured my time spent here at the Firm.

  It may be time for me to move on to a new adventure, but I will always look back on my time at Gilson, Hecht fondly.

  Best regards,

  Brooke

  Brooke Miller

  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 you 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.

  The “Thank God I at least met my fiancé here so it wasn’t a complete, total, utter waste of time” part was implied. As was the “I hate you. All of you.” part.

  “I’ve got a meeting with Janobuilder Corp. Didn’t you use to work on their matters when you were a first year?” Larry says to me, seemingly out of breath. Or at the very least out of patience.

  “Yes,” I say, “but I don’t work here anymore.”

  Clearly, Larry did not get my carefully worded politically correct Exit E-mail Memo. An argument for sending the “I hate you” e-mail?

  Larry doesn’t respond. He merely turns on his heel and begins muttering angrily.

  I turn around and begin pushing the button for the elevator furiously. My pulse begins to climb as I realize that I must get out of this building immediately before someone else tries to assign me more work. Vanessa will just have to understand. I’m sure that this sort of situation is covered by her maid of honor duties.

  Anyway, it’s time to get back to my own law firm. Where I can be accosted with work by partners in my own hallways.

  16

  Do not cry. Do. Not. Cry. You are not going to cry. You are a tough, no-nonsense attorney who can handle anything. Even the twenty boxes of documents that Jack just sent you to review. Piece of cake, right? After all, each box should take approximately four to five hours to review, so it’s not that big a deal. That’s only, well, let’s see, eighty to one hundred hours of work ahead of you.

  Eighty to one hundred hours of work. That is, like, so not a piece of cake.

  And I’m due at the Pierre in forty-five minutes.

  There’s only one thing that I can do now—only one thing that anyone in my position would do, really—feign illness to get out of this afternoon’s festivities. Which is absolutely fine by me. After all, I don’t even want to get married at the Pierre. The wedding’s only there since Jack’s parents bullied my parents into it. And, I don’t really care what they serve for dinner. My father’s going to dominate the day anyway with his talk of his beloved meats and I’m sure they’ll serve the glass of obligatory champagne to celebrate, so my mother should be prancing around with a lampshade on her head in no time flat. And I’m sure my father’s already worked out some sort of side deal with the chef, so, why should they need little old me to help with menu selection? They probably won’t even notice if I don’t show up!

  I practice my cough and slouch down in my chair—method acting at its best to sound fatigued—as I dial the number for my mother’s cell phone. As it rings, I practice a lame, “Hello?” into the air and it’s perfect. Which makes sense, since when the twenty boxes of discovery documents were delivered to my office just a moment ago, it actually made me feel physically ill.

  “Knock, knock,” a voice announces at the door. I hang up the phone quickly and sit up in my chair. “It looks like someone has got quite a bit of work cut out for her.”

  “Jack,” I say as I get up from my chair to greet him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d pick you up to take you to the Pierre,” he says, baby blues gleaming. I smile and forget about my work for a moment. Work that he assigned to me. But that’s not what’s important. What’s important is my relationship with Jack. This is the man that I fell in love with. This is the man that I want to spend the rest of my life with. I knew it all along. Turns out I can do it all—I can have the perfect fiancé, work hard and win my case. All in three-and-a-half-inch heels. “And, of course,” Jack continues, gazing over at the stack of boxes he’s messengered to me, “I wanted to see the look on your face when you got our documents.”

  This is the man who is making my life a living hell. This is the man I am going to decimate in court.

  “Is this your idea of a joke?” I ask, holding up a handful of documents.

  “These are the documents you requested,” he says.

  “I just took a quick look at the first box, and already there are tons of duplicates,” I say. “That’s going to make it take me twice as long to go through this as it should.”

  “The Federal Rules of Civil Procedure don’t say anything about having to mine the documents for duplicates. And there was a tight turnaround time on these, so it’s not like we had time to have a paralegal check for dupes, anyway.” Jack is smiling as he says it.

  I am not smiling. “And there are tons of documents in here that aren’t even responsive to my requests.”

  “Well,” Jack says, his smile sort of turning into a smirk, “I just wanted to make sure that we didn’t leave anything out. The judge would be furious if he thought that we weren’t giving you exactly what you deserve, sweetie.”

  As we walk out of my office and down the hall, Jack starts telling me about our wedding videographer, Jay.

  “So, is he supposed to be taking video of my filing cabinets?” Jack asks as we walk toward the elevator banks. “Is there going to be attorney-client privileged information on our wedding video?”

  “Well, Jackie,” I say, “we just want to get footage of you in your natural habitat.”

  “But, my natural habitat isn’t at the office,” he says.

  “It isn’t?” I ask, with an innocent look on my face, as the elevator doors open up for us.

  “No,” he says, walking into the elevator with me and then kissing me as the doors close. “My natural habitat is anywhere that you are.”

  Swoon.

  Jack and I kiss the rest of the way down the elevator, and then hop into the first taxicab we see. Fifteen minutes later, we are rounding the corner to the Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue, just across the street from Central Park. A uniformed doorman opens our taxi door and I walk out slowly.

  The lobby is grand and lush and looks every bit the “testament to understated elegance” that their Web site promises, with its original 1930s detailing still on glorious display.

  As soon as I walk in, I feel instantly reminded of something. From the black-and-white marble entranceway to the exquisite crown moldings on the wall to the lush royal-blue carpeting, I get the distinct feeling of déjà vu. And it’s not because I’ve been here before for events. There is something about the Pierre that reminds me of somewhere else.

  Jack’s parents’ house.

  And Jack’s parents look right at home, seated in chairs on the landing in the near right corner, talking quietly as they wait for us. My parents, on the other hand, stand out like a stripper in church (or pair of strippers, as the case may be), milling about toward the far left corner of the lobby, looking around curiously and waiting for us. The lobby is so large that they haven’t even seen each other yet.

  Ladies and gentlemen, on one side of the lobby, we bring you Barry “the Butcher” Miller, who hails from the South Shore of Long Island, measuring five foot nine inches and weighing in at 250 pounds, 360 if you also count his wife, Mimi. On the other side of the lobby, we’ve got Edward “the Judge” Solomon, who comes to us from the mean streets of Philadelphia, measuring six foot two inches and weighing in at 225, and a hell of a lot more if you count his wife, too, since she’s wearing palazzo pants today.

  It’s the clash of the parents: Round Two. Ding!

  Now, I know what you’re thinking—the first meeting of the parents didn’t exactly go as planned. So, why on earth would I be bringing them all back together again? Well, I seemed to have this crazy notion that inviting everyone would be a good way to get the families to start getting along better.

  And why should that be so difficult? After all, we’re here to celebrate a joyous occasion—the marriage of the Solomons’ youngest and my parents’ only—so of course everyone will soon come around and iron out their differences. Just being here all together t
oday at the Pierre is the first step in becoming a big happy family. The type of big happy family an only child like myself has always dreamed of.

  As I stand between the two sets of parents, in the middle of the lobby of the Pierre, a thought crosses my mind for the very first time—this might not work out the way I had originally planned.

  Thank God I didn’t invite the siblings.

  Both sets of parents meet Jack and I in the center of the lobby and we all awkwardly greet each other. The wedding coordinator spots us and waves. When I found out we’d be working with one of the Pierre’s wedding coordinators, I had this vision of our wedding coordinator being some hilarious European gay man, straight out of Father of the Bride (Steve Martin incarnation, of course). Or even J. Lo in The Wedding Planner with her totally fabulous hair and makeup (but without the whole stealing the fiancé thing). What the families really need now is an outrageous personality who can take our minds off our differences and get us to focus on what’s important. We need someone who can take the emphasis off the families and put it where it belongs: onto the bride and groom. Well, really just the bride, because, let’s face it, weddings are really all about the bride.

  Oh, please! As if you wouldn’t want the world to revolve around you when you’re planning your very own wedding?

  So, what we need is someone to defuse this time bomb of a situation we’ve got going here. We need a referee, a distraction, or, at the very least, someone to gang up on. In a word, we need Martin Short speaking with an unintelligible faux Euro accent. What we’ve got instead is Catherine Glass. Shiny blond hair swept up into a French twist, pearl earrings and a navy-blue suit, she looks entirely nondescript, nonoffensive, and just plain old non. Isn’t the wedding coordinator supposed to be some crazy colorful character? Or at the very least as fabulous as J. Lo? What a disappointment.

  Catherine shows us to her office, where she has a conference room table set up with nine different types of table linens, four different menus, dozens of photo albums of past events at the Pierre piled up high, and seven chairs going around it. She sits at the head of the table, where her oversized leather notebook is placed, and my family files onto one side of the table with Jack’s family across from us. I consider, for a moment, asking everyone to get up and all sit randomly, the way we all sat at the Solomons’ house for that fateful dinner, but then I think better of it, hoping instead that no one will notice that we are lined up as if we were contestants on The People’s Court.