Lifting a large, plush monogrammed towel off the shelf and wrapping myself in the cozy Egyptian cotton, I couldn’t avoid my BlackBerry lying near the sink—blinking, blinking, blinking. Taunting me. Knowing that it was going to give me bad news, I picked it up and prepared for the inevitable.
To: Mackenzie Corbett
From: Sarah Clarke
You should have let us know right away that the document production was lacking. We need to see the litigation documents. I will get in touch with Seller’s lawyers. Do not leave Dallas until we sort this out.
I had just started to write back when a second email from Sarah popped up on my BlackBerry.
To: Mackenzie Corbett
From: Sarah Clarke
The documents we need to review have been tracked down. They are in a warehouse in their offices in Canada. Take your flight home as booked and plan to go to Edmonton ASAP.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
12
“OH MY GOD—IF I have to work another day for that woman, I’m going to go insane,” I complained to Jason, as he stood in my bedroom watching me unpack and repack. I had returned to New York for eight hours—just long enough to wash some clothes, pack for my next trip, and have a fight with Jason.
I’d been surprised to see Jason when I stumbled into my lobby, bone tired and semi-dehydrated from the plane ride. I even stood still for a moment, my mind too fuzzy to process that it was him. But there he was, engaged in a hushed and, what looked like, heated conversation with Eddie. Jason looked equally surprised to see me and frankly so did Eddie, who looked at me like I’d just risen from the grave. In his defense, I probably did look worse than death.
Jason explained he had just come by to pick up some clothes he’d left at my apartment, but Eddie was giving him a hard time about entering my apartment when I wasn’t home. This was totally baffling to me because Eddie knew the schedules, significant others, one night stands, and fast food preferences of everyone in the building. He rarely even used the buzzer because he knew who to send up. And he was the type of guy who’d probably send up Jack the Ripper if he slipped him a Benjamin. I wasn’t exactly sure when my apartment security had begun rivaling Fort Knox, but Jason whisked me into the elevator before I had the chance to ask Eddie why he’d been so strict.
“She’s going to seriously send me to the nut house,” I said now, grabbing a handful of socks from my top drawer.
“You and me both if I have to keep hearing about her,” he mumbled almost inaudibly, as he picked up an old Cosmopolitan magazine lying beside my bed and thumbed through it.
I stared at him in disbelief. It seemed so selfish that he was picking a fight now, during our brief time together and just as I was being banished from the country for an indeterminate amount of time. I couldn’t understand it—Jason had always been loving and considerate, but lately he was dismissive when I needed an empathetic ear. Clearly I was having a rough time here. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how frustrated I’d become with him. I put down the socks I was stuffing into my suitcase, my frustration boiling over in one clipped question. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“All I’m saying is you’re not exactly the most fun to be around these days.” He threw the magazine on my bed. “I mean, I’m hoping when we move in together your life is a little more …” He trailed off, seemingly searching for the right word, before adding “balanced.”
“Is that what this is about? Moving in together? Because I have absolutely no idea why Eddie grilled you today.”
His forehead creased. “That’s not the problem, Mac. Even on the few times we’re alone together, your head is somewhere else. You’re so caught up in F&D and when you’re not working, you’re complaining about work. You do realize that I work at the same firm, right?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry—has my complaining been bothering you?” I asked sarcastically, my tone more cutting than intended. “When was the last time you had to work on the weekend? Or the last time you had to pull an all-nighter? We may work at the same firm, but we are living in two completely different worlds! I HAVE to work hard. I don’t have a father who can bail me out if I get fired.” I could hear my voice growing shrill, but I didn’t care. After so many days of quietly stewing with resentment, the yelling felt cathartic.
“Wait.” Jason lifted his hand to stop me. “Just stop right there.” He looked incredulous. I instantly regretted bringing up his father.
Jason lived under the long shadow of his successful father, who made Kermode a household name. Every time someone asked “Jason Kermode? As in Kermode GPS?” he was reminded that he would never have the opportunity to blaze his own path. And even if the world didn’t point that out to him, his father would. Jason had once confided in me that his biggest fear was never being able to carve out his own identity separate from his father.
“Jason,” I started before he cut in.
“I don’t know why you seem to carry around this idea that I somehow don’t have to work as hard as you do, that I have some sort of inside track. Well, here’s a newsflash for you. Just because I don’t drink the F&D Kool-Aid doesn’t mean I don’t work hard. These guys will shit in a bowl and tell you it’s ice cream, Mac. You think busting your ass is going to make you more successful, but that’s just not how the world works.”
“Then please enlighten me. How does it work?” My voice was dripping with sarcasm.
He shook his head and pursed his lips as if trying to physically prevent himself from saying what was really on his mind. After a beat of thoughtful silence he said, “You just assume I’ll be at your beck and call, day and night, rearranging any plans I have just to catch a glimpse of you.”
“You know as well as I do that having plans doesn’t mean anything to those guys. There was an associate who missed his own honeymoon last month because he had to work. Do you really think I can say ‘oh, sorry, gotta go! I have dinner plans with my boyfriend’?”
He glared at me for a moment. “I think you can take me into consideration, yes.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” I screeched, before taking a deep breath and softening my tone. “In my department you can’t just …”
He waved his hands, indicating he’d heard enough. “For the love of God, Mac, spare me another one of your ‘in the corporate department’ lectures. Your department isn’t an island, you know. Those of us in other departments do actual work too.”
I stared silently, knowing that if I opened my mouth right now it would only be to point out that most nights when he’s leaving the office, I have at least five more hours of work ahead of me. Or that I’m the one who hasn’t had a weekend off in months. Or that he’s never been called a fuckwit by his superior. But my expression must have given me away because his face contorted angrily.
“Okay, okay.” He threw his hands up in surrender. “Your work is CLEARLY more stressful than mine! And sooooo much more IMPORTANT. So I should just camp out here.” He slumped down on the bed. “You tell me when you can fit me into your busy, important schedule.”
“I didn’t say that. Now you’re just putting words in my mouth!” My voice had turned flustered.
“Newsflash, Mac.” He leapt up from the bed, pointing his finger at me angrily. “My work IS stressful and I DO work hard, I just don’t BITCH and BITCH and BITCH about it like you do.”
“Oh, you don’t?” I crossed my arms over my chest, glaring at him.
He raked both hands through his hair, looking exasperated. For a moment we were both silent. I could see his chest rising and falling with each irate breath. I thought that might be the end of it, but then his face contorted again.
“Damn it, Mac,” he fumed, grabbing his coat off my bed, not even looking at me on his way out.
“So I should just pretend to be HAPPY that I’m on my way to Edmonton per that she-devil’s instructions?” I called, but all I heard was the door slam behind him. “Great,” I muttered, closing my suitcase. “Just fucking great.”
I stepped out into the cold, November evening and hailed a cab for the airport. Veering across two lanes of traffic and narrowly missing a pedestrian, a taxi stopped in front of me the instant my hand shot up. I guess I’m not the only one who doesn’t like to waste time. I got in and sunk down into the grey vinyl seat, simmering with anger and misery as the cab turned on to 96th Street, barreling towards JFK airport. The taxi driver aggressively cut in front of two cars, jarring me back and forth in my seat. I grabbed the passenger handle next to the window, as horns honked loudly around me. Overcome by nausea from the erratic driving, I opened my window, letting in a rush of cold air. I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, and let the wind hit my face, hoping to keep my motion sickness in check.
“Fucking asshole!” The taxi driver rolled down his window and waved his fist menacingly at the driver in front of him.
“Amen,” I mumbled, my mind wandering back to Jason. What was the fight even about anyway? Sure, I’ve been complaining a lot lately, but anyone in my position would be doing the same. Did he really need to bring it up during what amounted to an eight hour layover in New York? Grudgingly, I started to consider his point of view. I guess I’m not the most pleasant person these days, I thought, realizing how short I’d been with everyone who crossed my path lately. Just this morning I’d snapped at the Starbucks barista when she asked me to repeat my order, which I’m sure I mumbled the first time. And I was pretty sure I knocked over an old lady in the airport, but there wasn’t time to turn around and check. When had I become this harried and agitated? I tried to remember the last time I’d really relaxed. There just wasn’t the time. Just as I was analyzing my depleted social life, my phone rang. I exhaled a deep sigh of relief. Jason wasn’t going to let me go all the way to Edmonton without talking this out first. This is the guy who didn’t get off the phone without saying I love you. Of course, he was going to apologize for picking a fight during our brief time together. I’d already decided I was going to forgive him when I saw that it was Kim calling.
“Hey, are you on your way?” she asked, sounding cheerful. I searched my tired mind to figure out where she thought I would be on my way to. Then it hit me—the season premiere of The Bachelor. Ever since freshman year of college, Kim and I had a ritual. She mixed the drinks, I baked the goodies, and we watched twenty-five desperate, single ladies with biological clocks thumping fight it out for one supposedly desirable, but definitely vacuous, bachelor. Sometimes we did theme nights based on where the episode took place—mai tais and macadamia nut cookies for Hawaii, margaritas and churros for Cancun, or sangria and flan for Spain. Sometimes we played drinking games—a shot every time someone says the word “journey.” Our Bachelor nights had seen us through exams, messy break-ups, and broken hearts. We looked forward to them when there was something to celebrate and sought comfort in them when we were feeling down. The newest season of The Bachelor was premiering tonight and I was stuck in this stupid taxi.
“I completely forgot, Kim. I’m really sorry, but I can’t come over tonight.”
“Seriously?” Her voice was full of disappointment. “You can’t bail on the first episode. That’s when all the crazies get cut!”
“You won’t believe this, but the she-devil has managed to exile me to Edmonton. I’m in a taxi on my way to the airport right now.”
“The bitchy mentor? You mean you haven’t just told her to screw off by now?”
“You know how bad I am about confrontation! I’m attempting the ‘kill her with kindness’ method instead.”
“Wouldn’t a kitchen knife be so much more efficient?”
“Well, then there’s the whole murder charge and prison thing to think about.” The taxi driver peered at me in the rear view mirror and I flashed a sheepish smile in his direction. No need to call the police, sir. Fantasizing is not a crime.
“I guess I’ll have to watch the post-rose ceremony break-downs all alone then.” She let out a long sigh. “But if I get drunk and call ABC to apply to be a bachelorette it’s on your hands,” she said, a note of pique running through her voice.
After assuring her that I would not let that happen, I apologized again and hung up.
I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes. I started to imagine the plane skidding off the runway and me being knocked into a coma, finally able to catch up on much needed sleep. Two straight weeks of sleep and I’d be good. A teeny tiny voice in the back of my mind was telling me that was a tad crazy. A sane person doesn’t hope for a plane crash.
My cab screeched to a stop at a red light, sending my Marc Jacobs purse sliding wildly across the seat. I snagged it before it fell into the mysterious sludge on the floor of the taxi. Hugging it against me, I gave silent thanks that we both survived this trip to the airport. The soft leather in my hands conjured up another memory, from earlier this year: It was my sister’s birthday and I’d planned on taking the train up to Boston and surprising her. But Russ emailed the deal team on Thursday, letting us know we’d need to be in the office most of the weekend. Wanting to still do something special for Margaret, I’d gone onto Saks.com and picked out a leather Marc Jacobs tote, clicked gift wrap and overnight shipping, relishing the feeling of being able to solve a problem with money. I knew it would be the nicest gift she’d receive. Margaret had parlayed her athletic ability into a full scholarship to Duke, but in her third year she tore her ACL, meaning the funds instantly dried up. Mom and Dad took out a second mortgage on the house so she could graduate. She’d used her bachelor’s in education to get a teaching job at the school where Dad was a principal. She’d met her husband Luke there. But with twin five-year old boys on two teachers’ salaries, money was tight.
“Mac, this is the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen!” she’d squealed with delight, and then, away from the phone, whispered, “Baby, can you help Evan in the potty? I’ll be there in just a minute.”
“Is the color okay?” I’d asked, knowing it would be. I’d bought the black one, adhering to her belief that everything goes with black.
“It’s perfect!” she’d gushed excitedly. “The leather is as smooth as a baby’s butt. And I should know!”
I’d felt a swell of pride hearing the joy in her voice. Somewhere along the way, I think my relentless desire to achieve became less about a desire to outshine her and more that I wanted so badly to succeed for both of us. The life I was living, pursuing the goals I’d set out for myself, was somehow keeping her dreams alive too.
“Which airline, lady?” the driver asked, jarring me back to the present.
“Delta.” I hugged my purse tighter. And this was the problem: every time that teeny tiny voice questioned why I stayed in Biglaw, it was silenced and replaced by an overwhelming sense that working in Biglaw was a mark of success—and fear that anything outside Biglaw’s doors was failure, a cruddy participation ribbon. The job might be rough, but it was what it was. It was the nature of the beast. So, I sucked it up and boarded my flight to Edmonton.
“I’m surprised there’s only one of you—there’s a lot of boxes here. I’m pretty sure I told the other girl that on the phone,” the assistant assigned to look after me fussed as he escorted me through the dungeon-like warehouse to the Falcon storage locker. “Sarah, I think her name was? She said it wouldn’t be a problem, so I figured you guys were sending a whole team.”
I mentally rolled my eyes. Did she also request that I be locked inside the storage locker without food or water? I wouldn’t be surprised.
“Nope, just me.” I tried to muster as much friendliness as I could. Four years of college, three years of law school, and the hardest bar exam in the country and this is where I wound up: in a dreary storage locker somewhere close to the Arctic under the direct orders of a sadist. I tried to channel some positive thoughts, but the best I could come up with was it can’t get any worse.
The assistant pulled the sliding door, revealing the contents of the storage locker. Dozens of boxes were piled up high to the ceili
ng, each covered with sloppy, black marker notations—“November 2013” or “Contracts 2010.” They didn’t even appear to be in any particular order. “Ummm … these don’t all belong to Falcon, do they?”
He nodded. “Yuuuuuup, all Falcon. This just sort of became the repository for the ‘where the hell should we stick this box?’ boxes. I’m not even really sure what we have in here.” His eyes darted around the poorly ventilated locker. “Anyway, let me know if you need anything,” he said empathetically and walked away.
I scanned the multiple piles of disorganized banker’s boxes in disbelief, realizing I’d been wrong. In Biglaw, it can always get worse.
Five days later, boarding the Death Star elevator, two bulging bags in hand, I noticed the grey suit beside me peering at the large bag of M&Ms poking out from under the tissue paper I’d used to hide my wares. I couldn’t fault him for being nosey. He was used to seeing people carrying briefcases or having their arms full of files. He was not used to seeing someone carrying bags full of the contents of an entire hotel mini bar. My suite at the Fairmont Hotel in Edmonton had come complete with a ridiculously overpriced, fully stocked mini bar. While digging into a king sized Toblerone bar and a bag of gummy bears that substituted for dinner the first night, it occurred to me that it would be just one more charge that disappeared in the black hole of my mounting travel expenses. This gave me an idea. I did a quick calculation of the total cost of the items in the mini bar—$290. A small price for a multibillion dollar client. So, every night when I returned to my room after twelve hours in the storage locker, I emptied everything out and dumped it all in my suitcase. Like magic, the mini bar was fully restocked every day. After ten days I’d built up a fairly substantial stash. And judging from the weight of my bags, a very heavy stash too.
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