Well, I’d better get to it.
There’s a neat stack of buff-colored case files sitting on my desk in front of an oversized silver Mac desktop computer. I open the first one. It’s an insurance defense file. This one is typical. Mr. Smith bought a washing machine two years ago. He left it running when he went out to dinner and returned to find his condo flooded. The insurance company paid out tens of thousands of dollars to repair the damage, and now it wants to sue the washing machine’s manufacturer to recoup its payout. Yawn.
I sift through the pile. All of the cases follow this fact pattern. Apparently there’s an epidemic of badly manufactured washing machines out there. Fantastic.
“E.W. Great to see you back!”
I swivel my chair toward the door. The Initial Brigade is standing there with bright grins on their preppy faces. I. William Stone, J. Perry Irving, and K. R. Monty, three associates in their early thirties who always seem to travel in a pack. Somehow, one of them found out my middle name is Wendy, and I’ve been “E.W.” ever since. They must get their suits in three-for-one specials, or maybe it’s just that all navy pin-striped suits look the same.
“How you doing, boys?”
“Same old, same old,” I. William drawls in his coastal accent. He has light-brown hair cut in a right-of-center part. He looks like an advertising salesman from the early sixties.
“I see they put you in the Ejector,” Monty says. He has washed-out blue eyes and medium-brown hair.
“Still pointing out the obvious, Monty?”
J.P. guffaws and slaps Monty hard on the back. He’s a head taller than the other two, and he doesn’t always know his own strength. He likes to assert his individuality by wearing suspenders. Today’s are bright red.
“Of course he is. Nothing around here ever changes.”
I try not to sigh. “Seems like some things do.”
I. William looks sympathetic. “I told Craig to stay away from that grasping bitch.”
“Careful, dude, Matt might hear you.” Monty’s eyes shift nervously.
J.P. lowers his voice. “If you need our help with anything in that department, you just let us know.”
“Thanks, J.P. I’m touched.”
“No worries. We’re tom-tomming for cocktails. You’ll get an email with the details later.”
“Sounds great.”
I. William glances at the files behind me. “Have fun slogging through the shit pile.”
I give them a little wave as they push off, on to the next stop on their morning tour. I know they’ll be back after lunch. I’m already kind of looking forward to it. None of their billable hours are what they should be, but they make up for it in entertainment value.
I begin dictating a model action for the stack of files so my assistant can plug in the details. The sooner I get through these, the sooner I can do more important things, like filing my too-long-delayed action against Pedro.
Speaking of which, where is my assistant? Or better question, who?
I walk tentatively toward the cream fabric divider that forms the walls of the Ejector’s secretarial station. All I can see are two long, spray-tanned legs that end in a pair of very high strappy sandals. The owner’s toenails are painted bright red.
I feel a little bubble of thankfulness as I peek around the divider, because it’s Jenny, chewing gum and squinting at her computer screen. She’s messaging with someone called PLAYR. I’ve never quite figured out how she manages to be as competent as she is while simultaneously carrying on at least three social-networking conversations at all times. Must be a generational thing.
“Hi, Jenny.”
Her baby-blue eyes drift up toward mine. “Hi, Emma!”
“What are you doing here?”
She pops up and gives me a quick hug. “We’re going to work together again! I insisted.”
“Hey, that’s great.” I pat her on the back a few times, and she lets me go.
“Is there anything you need me to do?”
“I’m dictating some proceedings. I’ll need you to issue them later today.”
She cracks her gum. “Of course.” Her computer emits a pinging sound. PLAYR wants to know if she wants to hook up 2nite? Her eyes trail toward the computer screen. She’s clearly itching to give PLAYR a meeting time. “But don’t you want to take it easy on your first day back?”
“I’m not sure that’s an option.”
“Gotcha.”
I close my door and sit down at my desk. I stare out the window at the urban landscape, feeling sorry for myself.
Shit files. The Ejector. Matt’s pitying looks. All I need to complete this crap fest is an altercation with Sophie, and Craig telling me he misses me again. Of course, now that I’ve put that out there, it’s probably what’s coming next.
Needing to hear a friendly voice, I call Stephanie. She agrees to meet me at the apartment after work. Feeling reassured by the normalcy of our conversation, I return to my files. At noon, I send Jenny out for a sandwich rather than face the curious stares in the cafeteria. True to his word, Matt checks in/up on me several times, always arriving with his arms full of files, saying something like, “I thought you could help me with this [fill in really boring task, like organizing exhibits or summarizing depositions],” or “You don’t mind doing some research on [fill in really basic research mandate that would normally have been given to a first-year].” By the late afternoon, my office is full of boxes, and I’ve got enough work to keep me occupied for months.
This is why no one survives the Ejector. They crumble under the stress of unreasonable expectations. The thought of having to spend a whole year, maybe longer, dealing with this kind of shit has me surfing the Internet for graduate school programs.
Just when I’m thinking of packing it in, there’s a soft rap on the door. I turn my chair with trepidation. Craig is standing in the doorway in a three-piece suit with a sheepish look on his face.
“Hi. Can I come in?”
Every bone in my body is screaming no, no, no! But a little part of my brain (probably the same part that agreed to come back to work under these ridiculous conditions) is curious about what he has to say.
“Yeah, all right.”
He closes the door behind him and takes a seat on the chaise longue, placing a thick file next to him.
“How’s your day going?”
“Fine.”
He eyes the overflowing boxes on the floor. “Matt give you something to work on?”
“A few things. Insurance files.”
“I guess that’s to be expected.” He looks around. “You know, they did a good job in here.”
“Sure. I guess.”
“It doesn’t seem right, though, putting you in the Ejector.”
“I can handle it.”
He meets my gaze. “I know you can, but still, it’s not right.”
I look away. “It’s no big deal.”
“You going to that drinks thing the Initial Brigade is organizing?”
“I’m not sure. I thought I might head out early.”
“Really? You?”
“It’s this thing I’m trying.”
He smiles. “Let me know how that works out.”
“Sure.”
He leans forward, his hands on his thighs. “Emma . . .”
Oh no, you don’t, buddy. You lost the right to “Emma” me in that tone when you started believing I was dead because Sophie told you so.
“Seriously, Craig? Is this what we’re doing now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Making idle chitchat like we’re colleagues who haven’t seen each other in a while? Like I’ve only been away on a long vacation?”
“I’m sorry. I thought it might be easier if . . . I mean, bringing up all that stuff, I don’t see where it would get us.”
It might get us closure. Or then again, it might get me arrested for attempted murder. At this point, it could go either way.
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Don’t you think it would be better if we started over? As friends?”
Someday, someone will explain to men that this is always the wrong thing to say.
“Imagine the possibilities,” I mutter.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Just something Dominic said.”
“Who’s Dominic?”
“A friend. No one.”
His face clouds. “Is he that guy living in your apartment?”
“What does it matter?”
“Don’t say that. I still care about you. Very much.”
“Yeah, well, don’t, okay?”
“Emma, please—”
“No, I mean it, Craig. I really can’t handle this today.”
He sighs. “All right, if that’s what you want.”
He stands but makes no move to leave. Instead, he stares at me like too many people have in the last few weeks. Like I need saving.
And I’m so sick of that look, that pitying, “poor Emma” look.
I march to my door and wrench it open, possibly dislocating my shoulder. Two female students are standing outside, whispering. They look fresh-faced and curious.
“If you don’t want to end up in here next, I suggest you beat it.”
Their eyes turn panicked and they can’t get away fast enough.
I turn back to Craig. “You can follow them anytime you like.”
Craig puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“What’s going on here?” Sophie says.
Craig drops his hand as we both turn toward her. She’s standing in front of my door, looking pissed. And strangely, seeing her there makes the day feel complete somehow.
Completely fucked up, but complete nonetheless.
“It’s nothing,” Craig says in a conciliatory tone.
Her thin lips get thinner. “Having a little reunion, are we?”
“Sophie, we talked about this.”
Her eyes narrow and release. I can almost hear her mentally counting to ten.
“I just wanted to welcome Emma back,” she says through tightly clenched teeth.
Interesting. Sophie’s jealous. Of me. That’s almost funny.
“Thanks, Sophie,” I say as neutrally as I can. No need to fuel her jealousy other than petty satisfaction. Besides, it’s not like I have the upper hand here in the Ejector and all.
“Craig, can I talk to you in my office?” Sophie says.
The tips of his ears go pink like they always do when he’s embarrassed. Craig doesn’t like scenes, especially not public ones. But he’s made his choice. Good luck to him.
“Sure. See you later, Emma.”
They leave. I sit in my chair and twist it slowly toward the window. The sun has set and the city’s lights twinkle past the reflection of my desk lamp. It’s pretty, but my brain is whirring too quickly to appreciate it.
I’m back in the saddle, all right.
Chapter 15: That’s the Idea
I don’t know what it is that propels me to the Initial Brigade’s drinks-I’d-normally-skip. All I know is that when I leave the office, fully intending to head straight home, I end up in the trendy bar two blocks away where half the associates have gathered to wage a campaign on several bottles of vodka.
Craig arrives solo about fifteen minutes later. He keeps his distance, mixing with lawyers from the corporate department while I try to concentrate on the I’m-sure-they’re-hilarious stories being told by I. William in a loud voice. When I glance toward his side of the room, I catch Craig watching me. He looks away before I can be sure, but he seems sad, wistful.
Part of me wants to march the drink I’m nursing across the room and throw it in his face, but all that would do is waste a good drink. Besides, I’ve never been about big, dramatic gestures in my personal life. I leave those for the courtroom.
When the I.B. start talking about moving to a different venue, I decide to head home, thoughts of slumping into bed and pulling the covers over my head forefront in my mind. As I take off my coat in the entryway, I hear the sound of voices in the distance.
“Hello?”
“We’re in here,” Dominic answers from the kitchen.
We? Oh, right. I invited Stephanie over for dinner. At eight. I check my watch. It’s eight thirty. Damn.
“Be there in a sec.”
I go to my room and change into comfy clothes (black leggings and a bright green hoodie that called to me from the teen section despite Dominic’s warnings), the next best thing to hiding in bed. I pull my hair back into a ponytail, apply some Chap Stick, and go to the kitchen.
Stephanie’s perched on the counter next to the stove wearing a black one-piece flight suit that has a silver zipper running up the middle. She’s wearing sparkly silver eye shadow and her cheeks are flushed like they get when she’s speaking passionately about something. Dominic’s leaning against the fridge wearing jeans and the old fisherman’s sweater I wore for a couple of days. There’s a pizza crust full of tomato sauce and chopped-up sausage on the counter.
“Yeah, totally,” Stephanie says, her legs dangling off the counter. “She always does that.”
“Any idea why?” Dominic says.
“I always do what?”
Stephanie turns toward me with a wide grin. “You always sneak up on people when they’re dissecting your personality.”
“I was hardly sneaking. I called out ‘Hello’ and everything.”
Dominic bends his head toward the pizza, applying pieces of fresh mozzarella. “We weren’t really talking about you.”
“Nice try, Dominic, but Stephanie always tells the absolute truth.”
“It’s true. I cannot tell a lie.”
“How . . . unfortunate.”
“How annoying is more like it. What aspect of my scintillating personality were you guys dissecting, anyway?”
“How you’re generally always on time,” Stephanie says. “Where were you, anyway?”
“The Initial Brigade organized some drinks after work. I lost track of time. Sorry.”
“What’s the Initial Brigade?” Dominic asks.
“These guys at work.”
“I see.” He adds circles of green pepper on top of the cheese.
“Those guys are a bunch of tools,” Stephanie says.
“They’re not that bad.”
“They’re personality-defective. Which gives me an idea.”
I shake my head. “Here we go.”
Dominic looks up. “Here we go what?”
“Stephanie makes a living coming up with ideas.”
“That doesn’t sound like a real job.”
“It’s not,” Stephanie replies. “But the pay is fabulous.”
We laugh, but she’s telling the truth. Stephanie’s made a small fortune coming up with ideas for a technology company with a fruity logo, a television studio, and more than one bestselling, but writer’s-blocked, author. Of course, not all her ideas have panned out, particularly when she keeps them for herself. She’s great with ideas but terrible at business, and the last time I checked she’d lost all the fruit money on an ill-advised investment in a microbrewery.
“What’s your idea?”
“Book dating.”
“What’s that?”
She tucks her hands under her thighs. “I’m thinking about adapting the software I wrote for that arranged-marriage service to books. You know, you take the personality test, and instead of matching you to a man, it matches you to books.”
Dominic gives her a sharp look. “An arranged-what service?”
“Arranged marriage.”
“That exists? For normal people?”
“Yup.”
“That’s crazy.” He slips the pizza into the oven and sets the timer for thirty minutes.
“But what does that have to do with the Initial Brigade?” I ask.
“Oh, I was just thinking that those guys are like the guy the heroine starts out with in a romantic comedy,
but he isn’t the real guy, you know?”
“The way your brain works sometimes freaks me out.” A thought pops into my own brain. “Hey, we should give Dominic that personality test.”
“Yeah, that’d be fun.”
Dominic’s whole aspect says no fucking way. “Forget it.”
I lay my hand on his shoulder. “Oh, come on. Don’t you want to know what kind of woman you should be looking for?”
“Or book?” Stephanie adds.
Dominic’s cell phone starts to vibrate insistently on the counter.
“Saved by the bell.” He picks it up and holds it to his ear.
“Momentary reprieve,” I warn him.
“Hello?”
An indistinct, high voice says something in reply to his greeting, and Dominic’s face contorts in pain, like he’s been punched in the stomach.
“No.” Pause. “I said no.” Pause. “Because I don’t want to hear it.”
He clicks the phone off and slams it onto the counter. His left hand is shaking and there’s a vein pulsing in his temple.
“What was that all about?”
Instead of answering me, he raises his right hand and punches it hard into the kitchen cabinets. Wham!
He winces in pain as blood appears on his knuckles. “Motherfucker!”
He goes to the sink and turns on the cold water, placing his hand underneath it. I follow him to inspect the damage. The blood is flowing freely from his knuckles. The water in the sink is turning pink.
“Do you want me to take a look at that?”
“No,” Stephanie says. “He wants to feel every second of it.”
Dominic’s mouth twists. “Truth telling and perceptive. Quite the combo.”
“You have no idea.” I grab a tea towel and turn off the water. “Here, give me your hand.” I wrap his dripping hand in the towel. “Sit down and hold it tight. I’ll be right back.”
“Hurry back, Nurse Emma,” Stephanie calls after me. “I think the patient might faint.”
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