“And the bane of Jack’s existence,” Vanessa said. Healthy Foods was, in fact, the firm’s biggest new client, having just been sued in a sixty-million dollar false advertising class action lawsuit claiming that Healthy Foods coffee was not, in fact, healthy, as the name might suggest. The firm now stocked Healthy Foods brand coffee in all of its kitchens and, of course, in the twelfth-floor cafeteria. Jack, up for partner in six months, was put on the case, since the powers-that-be knew that he would do anything for the firm in a year that the firm was voting on his partnership. As per our usual assignment, I was the junior associate on the matter. I didn’t know if Healthy Foods coffee was healthy or not, but it was pretty darn good either way. Especially when someone hand delivered it right into my hot little hands. Then it was tasty and convenient.
Jack was always doing sweet things like that. Last June, Jack and I were supposed to take summer associates out to lunch to our favorite midtown restaurant. With my feet practically out the door, I was called into a meeting and was unable to attend the lunch. I sat in my meeting pouting for upward of two hours, all the while fantasizing about the delicious time Jack and the summers were having without me. When I got back to my office, as if on cue, Jack swept in with a doggy bag — my favorite chocolate dessert from said favorite restaurant. We could barely see each other across my desk because the files on it were piled up so high, but even through the haze of discovery documents, Jack could see me smiling from ear to ear.
It’s hard to believe that I only met Jack when I came to the firm as a summer associate myself a few years ago. I feel as if I’ve known him forever. There I was, the summer after my second year of law school: one of the elite few walking the halls of Gilson, Hecht and Trattner, one of New York City’s largest and most prestigious law firms. Okay, so it wasn’t really an elite few since the firm boasts over four hundred attorneys in its New York City office alone, over six hundred worldwide, but you get the general point I’m trying to make. I was one of the elite four hundred some odd people walking those halls.
With a twenty-four-hour command center including a word-processing center, mailroom, cafeteria and supply room (not supply closet, mind you, an actual room dedicated solely to the mission of ordering and giving associates whatever supplies their hearts desired), the twelfth floor should have its own postal code. It even has a cash machine. There is a staff of eight whose sole responsibility is to send and receive faxes (all of which makes it even more shocking when your faxes are actually not sent or lost entirely). When you’re a summer associate, you think that these facts are very cool and glamorous. You don’t seem to realize that if the firm has the capacity to run twenty-four hours a day, that the associates, likewise, are expected to have the capacity to run those same twenty-four hours a day.
Which, incidentally, explains why I didn’t know that my ex-boyfriend was dating one of the most famous movie stars in the world. I’ve been doing a motion for summary judgment for the last six months. I won’t bore you with the details of what a motion for summary judgment entails — suffice it to say, a motion for summary judgment means fourteen-to sixteen-hour days, six to seven days a week. Sleep is a luxury that even on our six-figure big-time lawyer salaries, we cannot afford. Wow, didn’t that sound, like, totally dramatic?
Can that also be my excuse for why I didn’t realize that my boyfriend was cheating on me? Okay, yes, that’s good. Remind me to tell my mother/best friend/boss/therapist that later. And since you’re so chummy with my grandmother, would you be a dear and tell her that very thing, too?
When I interview unsuspecting law students interested in coming to Gilson Hecht for the summer after their second year of law school, the question I am most often asked is “What is your favorite thing about Gilson Hecht?” I love being asked that question because it is the one point in the interview where I can just be myself and not deliver the firm’s party line about the training (so-so), the mentoring program (my partner-mentor got drunk the first time he took me for lunch), and the amount of experience junior associates get early on in their careers (is that what they call the fourteen-to sixteen-hour days?). Sometimes I fantasize about just telling them the truth — that the associates at Gilson Hecht seem to want to kill themselves ever-so-slightly less than the associates at most other major New York City law firms. And that’s saying a lot. But saying that sort of thing is very much discouraged in interviews.
The reason why the “favorite thing about Gilson Hecht” question is so easy for me to answer is that the best part of working at Gilson Hecht is, by far, the friends I have made here.
Jack was already a first-year associate at the firm when I started. I was in the self-serve photocopy room up on the eighth floor, having a total Nine to Five moment — paper flying every which way — clueless as to what I should do to make the copy machine behave and stop simultaneously spewing out and chewing up paper, when Jack swept in and saved the day. And saved the memo I had been photocopying at the time.
“Consider me your knight in shining armor. Or khakis, as the case may be,” he said, introducing himself, baby-blue eyes gleaming. He’s been saving me ever since.
“You can stop obsessing about your ex-boyfriend’s wedding,” Jack declared. “Your problem is solved. I’ll go with you to the wedding.”
“Thanks, but I already told Trip about Douglas,” I explained, putting my head down into my coffee.
“And warned him that he’d be wearing a kilt,” Vanessa explained, finishing my thought for me.
“Yes, and told him that my date would be in a skirt,” I agreed.
“Kilt, Brooke, it’s a kilt,” Jack said. “Not a skirt. I’m beginning to see why Douglas broke up with you.”
“Et tu, Brute?” I said, looking up from my coffee. “Anyway, I mentioned the kilt thing to Trip last time I spoke to him because I just didn’t want him to be all surprised about it at the wedding. I didn’t want to make a whole scene on his big day.”
“Because,” Vanessa explained, “we all know that Trip’s wedding is really all about you.”
“Thank you for that very sensitive commentary. You just don’t understand. You’ve been married since you were twelve.”
“And exactly what does that have to do with it?” she demanded.
“Should boys leave for this part of the conversation?” Jack asked, smoothing his shaggy brown hair from his eyes.
“You’ve just never been in my shoes,” I explained, the coffee suddenly too hot for my hands. I set it down on Vanessa’s desk. “You don’t know how hard it all is. You’ve never been thirty years old and recently dumped by the man you thought you were going to marry. You’ve never been invited to an ex-boyfriend’s wedding. You’ve never made plans to go to an ex-boyfriend’s wedding only to have your whole world fall apart two weeks before you were set to go. Look, I told Trip that I was coming to his wedding with my gorgeous Scottish fiancé, and that is what I’m doing. I will just have to get Douglas back in time for the wedding.”
“Boys should definitely leave,” Jack said, making a hasty exit without even grabbing his coffee.
“It has to work. At this point,” I explained, “it’s either bring Douglas or bust.”
“Well,” Vanessa said, stirring her coffee, “then, I guess you’re busted.”
7
Having only two weeks to go before the wedding in which to win Douglas back, I got to work immediately the following morning. Douglas hadn’t e-mailed me back yet from the other day, but that didn’t matter. First order of business — call him at work, tell him I forgive him and I am ready to move on. A phone call would be much better than sending an e-mail I wouldn’t even know if he ever received. For all I know, that last e-mail could be lost somewhere in cyberspace.
I picked up the phone and, as it began to ring, a smile came to my face. This was easy. Now, why hadn’t I thought of this sooner? It felt good to be proactive. Peace and order would be restored to the universe, at this pace, by lunchtime — 1:00 p.m., the latest.
God, I’m good.
“This is Brooke calling,” I said to Douglas’s secretary. Dead silence on the line. “Brooke Miller,” I explained, “his girl friend.” Close enough, right? “What’s that?” I asked. “He’s in a meeting? All right then. When do you expect him to be back?…Oh, you’re not sure…. Okay.”
So, he was in a meeting. A minor glitch. That was all right, though, Rome wasn’t built in a day. And it most certainly wasn’t built in two hours. I could wait.
When I hadn’t heard back by eleven, I decided to give him a call again. After all, how long could his meeting really take? In the course of the two years that I’d been with Douglas, I never really figured out precisely what it was that he did for a living. I just knew that it was something financial that entailed the wearing of expensive custom-made Italian suits.
“Oh, he’ll be back at one?” I said, tapping my pen on the tip of my desk. “I’ll call him then.”
Back at one? That was okay. It would be a good opportunity to get some work done. What with the stress of the whole breakup and all, my billables really had been quite low. Time for the big-time lawyer to earn her big-time salary. First order of business, some computer research for the Healthy Foods case. I was such a woman of the millennium — multitasking at its best. I would get back my man and get some quality billable hours in. All in one morning. God, I’m good.
Two hours later, I hadn’t done an ounce of billable work, but I did manage to pick up some killer boots on sale at Saks. What? If I was going to get back my man, I’d have to look good!
“Oh, he’s out to lunch now?” I said to Douglas’s secretary at 1:00 p.m. “Got it. And, when do you expect him back exactly?” Tap, tap, tap.
“What has that pen ever done to you?” Jack asked, appearing in my doorway just as I slammed the phone down. “Let’s go pick up something for lunch.”
“Okay,” I said, “but only if it’s quick. I have a lot of work to do. Which you should know, since you assigned it to me.”
“And who do we bill shopping at Saks to these days?” he asked. Note to self: must seriously consider moving computer screen so that it is out of the eyeshot of office visitors. Have been meaning to do so ever since a partner caught me reading a forwarded e-mail entitled: Ladies, Learn to Love Your Fat Rolls, but I forgot. Now, moving the computer screen was definitely in order.
“I wasn’t shopping at Saks,” I informed Jack, minimizing the screen as I did. “I was at Saks dot com. Big difference. In fact, sometimes there is entirely different merchandise on the Web site. You really need to be more precise if you want to be a good litigator, you know.”
“Duly noted,” he said as he motioned for me to come with him with a flick of his wrist.
“And anyway,” I said, grabbing my pocketbook from underneath my desk, “I suppose that it would be the same billing code that you and your friends use for your fantasy football league.” (Because I already was a good litigator.)
“Clever,” Jack said, opening the door to my office for me and following me out. “But the relationships I foster with my colleagues will pay off later tenfold. A fantasy football league is the equivalent of playing golf with your business contacts. You see, all of those lawyers at various large firms throughout the city will someday be CEOs, CFOs and in-house counsel to some of the country’s largest and most important corporations. And when the time comes, I won’t even need to go out looking for business — the business will simply come to me. All because of my fantasy football league. So, I should really be billing that to client development.”
“Wow,” I said as Jack stuck his arm out to hold the elevator door open for me.
“You see, Brooke, I already am an excellent litigator,” he said, and pressed the button for the lobby. Touché. “So, what do you feel like eating?”
“I’ll have whatever you want,” I replied. “I’m easy.”
“I was going to get a chicken parm sub at the pub around the corner. You feel like a sub?”
“How about sushi?” I asked.
We walked into the sushi place around the corner and I promptly informed Jack that I did not have time to eat there — we would have to get our orders to go — because I had so much work to do. That he had assigned me. (Read: go back to the office and call Douglas again.) But then Jack pointed out that sushi really is best when it’s fresh. Which is totally true. So, we got a table near the window and sat down to eat. But I ate very, very quickly because, as I told Jack, I really, truly, deeply wanted to get back to the office to get my work done. That he had assigned me. Because really, I can be very conscientious when I want to be.
After a much-needed lunch break with Jack (What? Getting back your man can be hard work!), I got back to my desk at 2:00 p.m., and Douglas’s secretary’s story had not changed. I was perplexed. If Douglas had so many meetings, how did the man find the time to meet another woman, start dating said other woman, fall in love and get engaged? That guy really knew how to manage his time.
As I plotted out my next move, the phone rang. I checked the caller ID and it came up as Anonymous. I normally don’t pick up the telephone at work unless I recognize the number, preferring instead to let my secretary pick it up and announce the caller, but Douglas’s calls usually came in as Anonymous, so I dove for the phone.
“Brooke Miller,” I said, trying to sound sweet and professional, like the kind of woman a man would most definitely want to get back together with and take to her ex-boyfriend’s wedding.
“Hi, is this Brooke Miller?” a voice asked. I didn’t recognize it. I couldn’t believe I’d wasted a good “Brooke Miller” on a voice I didn’t recognize.
“Yes,” I said, already flipping my computer screen back on and checking my e-mail.
“My name is Jessica Shevitz Rauch and I do attorney placement. Do you have some time now to talk?”
It’s such a funny question to ask a litigator when she’s at work. Time to talk. A litigator never has time to talk unless it’s billable. Granted, I hadn’t done any billable work all day, but the point was that I did not, in fact, have time to talk to this woman. My nonbillable time today was being spent on plotting ways to get back my man and shopping online for outfits that would assist me in getting back said man.
And I love the term attorney placement. It’s as if they think that even though you’re smart enough to graduate law school, pass the New York bar and become an attorney, you won’t get the fact that they’re headhunters. Headhunters start calling attorneys at big firms the minute you walk in the door, offering promises of smaller firms with better hours and perfect in-house counsel positions at prestigious corporations. It’s good to know there are options, but more often than not the headhunters just want to move you to some other big firm and take their thirty-percent cut of your vastly overblown salary.
“Sorry, I don’t have the time,” I said, picking up a nail file from my desk and fixing a crack in my thumbnail.
“Maybe some other time?” she asked. “Let me ask you, are you still happy at Gilson Hecht?”
“Yes,” I said, “for now I am. But, I suppose you can always hold on to my number. Thanks for calling.”
I hung up the phone and realized that I filed my thumbnail into a strange hexagonal shape. Figuring that I had the rest of the evening to get some really good billable work done/get back my man, I dashed out to the nail place around the corner from my office.
Five o’clock — one manicure, pedicure and ten-minute mini-massage later — and Douglas’s secretary was still standing firm. I should never have encouraged him to get her such an expensive Christmas gift last year. If I’d let him give her the $10 Godiva truffles he wanted to give instead of insisting on the $100 facial gift certificate at Elizabeth Arden, I’d be talking to Douglas right now.
Tap, tap, tap.
Tap, tap, tap, splat! All over my best going out/getting back your man pants. Ugh. No wonder my dry cleaner wears a fur coat in the winter. It’s not what you’re thinking, though. It was one
of those fancy desk pens. I think that they are, by their very nature, much more delicate than those regular pens.
Six o’clock and at last, I got a different story from the gate-keeper. Douglas was (finally!) not in another meeting. He had left for the day. I threw a Bic across my office, hitting the door. (It didn’t break. I told you so.)
One more nonbillable hour later, at 7:00 p.m., I decided to call him at home. That was it! I would leave him a sweet, sexy message saying that I forgave him, and suggest that to celebrate, we should go to California for Trip’s wedding. Perfect. I shut the door to my office and practiced what I would say to the answering machine.
I dialed the number — my old phone number — and waited for the answering machine to pick up. I knew that he wouldn’t be home since he usually met up with clients for drinks after work. He didn’t have a cell phone that I could call because he didn’t own one. Douglas considered using cell phones rude. Now, I can’t help but laugh — apparently for Douglas, speaking on a cell phone in public is rude, but sleeping with another woman when you’re living with someone else is, on the other hand, perfectly acceptable in polite society.
“Hello?” a female voice answered. Who the hell was picking up our telephone? Someone had broken into our apartment. I had to call the police! “Police, a cat burglar has broken into my old apartment, and is answering the phone!”
“Gilson Hecht?” the cat burglar asked into the phone. How did she know where I was calling from? My goodness, the burglar was psychic! “Police, a psychic cat burglar has broken into my old apartment!”
Using my superlitigator powers of deduction, I soon realized that the firm’s name and number must have come up on caller ID. I quickly hung up the phone as Beryl was still saying “Hello? Hello?” (Yes, my super litigator skills told me that, too.)
Scot on the Rocks Page 5
