The Love Wars

by Heller, L. Alison

  I e-mail Henry SOS. A few minutes later, he appears in my doorway.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Shut the door,” I say, dropping my head in my hands. I tell him about the conflict.

  “Hmmm. Well, maybe the lunch won’t go that late.”

  “I know, but if it does…”

  “What if you just don’t go to the lunch?”

  I shake my head. “As of this moment, I’m still below radar. If I don’t go to the lunch, I’ll get on the shit list and that means—”

  “Yeah. You’ve been lucky so far. You wouldn’t last a week with anyone scrutinizing your schedule. Okay, let’s think. Did you try Risa?”

  “Yep, she is not amenable to an adjournment or delay,” I say in an atrocious British accent.

  “What happened there? Did you just go on vacation to Austria in your head?”

  “Nah—bad imitation of her horrid receptionist.”

  “So what’s the plan now?”

  “Um. Hope that lunch doesn’t go too long. Maybe I can choke on something while eating.” Someone knocks on the door. I grimace and nod at Henry, who leans back in his chair, stretches out his arm and pushes open the door with a casual flick of his wrist that evokes a Frisbee toss.

  “Oh, hey, guys.” Rachel looks back and forth from me to Henry. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “Oh, no interruption. I just closed the door to show Henry a loud YouTube video.”

  Rachel steps backward in mock surprise. “Henry wanted to see a YouTube video?”

  Henry nods. “Nothing I love more than a good YouTube video.”

  “Which one? I wanna see.” Rachel starts to walk around my desk to see my computer.

  “Oh, I couldn’t get it to work. It was one with a baby. And music. Totally adorable.” I figure that’s a safe bet. Seventy percent of YouTube videos are some sort of baby action set to music.

  “Dancing baby or guitar baby?”

  “Guitar,” I say.

  Henry looks at me, eyebrows raised. I am getting better at serial lying.

  “Oh,” Rachel says, disappointed. She sits down in the guest chair next to Henry. “So, are you feeling girlie enough for this lunch we’ve got?”

  Henry stands up. “That’s my cue.” He looks at me. “So, as far as your custody question, let me think about it and see what I come up with.”

  Rachel watches him leave and then turns toward me. “What’s up with you two?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Really? You’re always…fraternizing.”

  “We’ve just become buds,” I say, opening my bottom drawer to pretend to look for something as I feel the beginning prickles of a blush on my cheeks. I bend down, moving things around until I feel my cheeks cool. It shouldn’t surprise me that Rachel has noticed the amount of time Henry and I spend in each other’s office; increasingly, I treat his couch like my own personal lounge chair. What Rachel doesn’t know is that the office visits are the tip of the iceberg; throughout the workweek, Henry and I volley a steady banter of texts and e-mails, one long-running conversation without salutations or sign-offs.

  I scowl at Rachel. “Seriously, we’re work buddies. I ask him a lot of questions and he gives good advice. He’s really nice.”

  “I know. He’s just always kept to himself.”

  I shrug, rather than remind Rachel that Henry has a girlfriend. I know—because Duck and I have had this conversation no fewer than ten times—that when I say these words, I will whine like a fifteen-year-old whose parents just don’t get it, a tone that only seems to invite further speculation. The whole thing is ridiculous, as though just because Henry is male, he and I can’t be friends without there being romantic subtext. I laugh at Rachel, making sure to meet her eyes. “Well, he’s probably never seen anyone in such dire need of assistance.” At least that’s not a lie.

  “If you say so. Want to leave at ten after twelve? That way we can see enough of the talk but not too much.”

  “Okay.”

  Rachel examines me closely. “You all right?”

  “Um, yeah, just stressed about an annoying call I have to make.”

  “Oh, good luck. See you in a few.”

  __________

  At twelve o’clock, ten minutes before my march toward the gallows, Kim buzzes me to say “Lunchisoff” in a quick, monotone delivery that does not do justice to the dramatics of the moment. She hangs up before I manage to ask her why.

  Shaking with excitement, I go find Liz next door.

  “Our lunch is off?”

  “Yeah, apparently.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, Lillian has an important client call.”

  “What case?”

  “What do you think? Another fire drill in Murty.”

  “Really?”

  Liz laughs, “Wow—you look so happy. You didn’t want to go that bad? I was looking forward to it, as pathetic as that might sound.”

  “Oh, me too. I’m just really busy.”

  With Murty, I know I’m safe. Adam Murty is a U.S. senator from New York who last summer had checked into the Hay-Adams, a swank Washington hotel, with his twenty-seven-year-old legislative correspondent. He certainly was not the first politician to have an affair with a comely employee, but he was one of the few about whom Celeb-dirty magazine had published an exposé. An amateur photographer, rumored to be a Republican lackey, trailed him to the hotel and somehow caught pictures of “the Senator and His Staffer” (the scandal’s media moniker) entering the room, midnuzzle, his left hand grabbing her “heart-shaped ass” (to use Howard Stern’s poetic description).

  The picture was splashed everywhere and it would have remained a mere political scandal, except that Adam Murty’s wife is Francine Claste, a film actress with a severe bob, an intense gaze and a recurring role in award-nominated period films. When Francine opted against standing by her man and filed for divorce immediately after the pictures were published, their split became the story. Since then, the case has eclipsed the tabloid level of press; it’s been followed by even The New Yorker and the New York Times, both of which usually ignore our cases in favor of the First Amendment ones.

  The Murtys are rich, but Adam certainly isn’t our richest client. All the press surrounding the case, however, makes everything about it—each motion, each deposition, each phone call—huge; it is probably the most important in our department. Lillian does not want Adam Murty to fire her, because that will make the evening news. As a consequence, she bends over backward to make sure Murty is a happy client.

  I leave Liz’s office incredulous; this is the type of deus ex machina that happens in the movies, not real life. Not stopping to question my luck, I hurriedly pack for court.

  __________

  By the time I emerge from the Borough Hall subway stop, my nerves have settled. I check in with Fern, who is camped out on our bench, and then make mildly successful small talk with Mike, Justice Strand’s law clerk, who apparently travels the eastern seaboard participating in barbecue cook-offs. He’s walking me through how he changed his spice rub from last year (more turbinado brown sugar!) when Roland Williams shows up.

  “Ah, we were just talking about Walker,” says Mike.

  I introduce myself to Roland, who gives me a warm enough smile. “It’s nice to see you.”

  “Did you receive the letter from Emily Freed?” I ask. She had written a brief recommendation that Fern’s visitation be increased and unsupervised.

  He nods, the smile freezing on his face. “I’m sure we’ll all have a chance to discuss it with the judge,” he says, walking away toward a bench across the hall.

  By ten after three, there is still no sign of Robert Walker or his attorneys. Roland sits across from us, frowning over a brief but not looking up. I walk over. “Excuse me, Mr. Williams. I was just wondering whether you’ve received any word from Ms. McDunn.”

  “No,” he says, looking at his watch. “I do have a four o’clock, though.”


  I tell Mike with a sigh that everyone else is here, but we’re missing the defendant and his attorney.

  He gives me a forgiving look and smiles. “Oh, it’s no problem. The judge has a busy schedule this afternoon, so he won’t be waiting. Just let me know when they get here.”

  For the love of barbecue, Mike, come on. I press forward. “Well, defendant’s attorney is actually forty minutes late. Neither of us has heard from her.”

  “Ah, okay. Well, if she’s not here in a little bit, we can always call her.” Mike shrugs, making clear that this is not going to be his problem. Had I been late, Risa would be screaming to the entire hallway about my tardiness and unprofessionalism. She would force Mike to make it his problem. I open my mouth, trying to conjure a fight, but I end up smiling at Mike and retreating. I just can’t bring myself to channel Risa, which makes me feel guilty, as though I’m not fighting hard enough for Fern. Increasingly, I wonder if I have what it takes—do you have to be a sociopath to be a really good divorce lawyer?

  At twenty minutes after three, nearly an hour after our scheduled call time, they finally arrive. Today, Risa’s look is an homage to Victorian equestrian fashion, hold the riding crop. She’s got a full sky blue skirt down to the tops of her laced-up tan ankle boots and a white high-necked shirt with epaulet shoulders. The shirt is tucked into a light blue cummerbund that provides a tiny indentation of cinching around her waist. And her hair! Red ringlets gathered in an elaborately woven braid that must have taken hours and could easily explain her late arrival.

  I’m halfway through the door, with Roland behind me, when Risa nods to Graham and he lugs out of his bag a thick document.

  “Justice Strand, we have an emergency order for your signature.” Graham holds the document out to the judge. When Strand doesn’t reach for it, Graham drops the papers on Strand’s desk, where they land with a thud.

  Justice Strand blinks a few times. “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He holds up his hands, frozen in a pause. After a while, he smiles, as though an invisible hand pressed a reboot button on his back. “Good afternoon, counselors. We’ve crammed more chairs in here for you. Please have a seat.”

  We all sit. And he nods again, secure in the return of civility to his courtroom.

  “So, Ms. McDunn, what is the big emergency?”

  No way she’s going to grab the floor like last time. I lean forward.

  “Well, before she tells you, Your Honor,” I say, channeling Kim and speaking as quickly as I can, “I want to bring a letter to your attention. We all received it.”

  Risa parries. “Your Honor, with all respect. You need to hear about my motion first. It pertains directly to this inappropriate and unethical letter—”

  “Ms. McDunn just interrupted me, Your Honor. In your court. We established last time that interrupting is not appropriate. May I finish?” God, I feel like a shrill first-grader. But I was playing with Custodial Parent Barbie first, Mr. Strand.

  “No, Your Honor, I was interrupted. I was telling you about the motion when—”

  Justice Strand screws his eyes shut. He opens them and focuses in on Roland, who is sitting there unruffled, in great contrast to us mannerless womenfolk. “Do you have a copy of the letter, Mr. Williams?”

  Roland hands it over, above Risa’s objections, and Justice Strand reads it.

  “Mr. Williams, what are your thoughts on this whole…visitation issue?” Justice Strand wipes his hands together as though he doesn’t want to get them dirty.

  “I think there is no reason to disagree with increased and unsupervised visitation for Ms. Walker, as long as it’s temporary.”

  Risa is outraged. “If he were a true advocate for his clients’ interests, he wouldn’t let them anywhere near Ms. Walker. She’s dangerous.”

  I clear my throat and note that Emily’s recommendation is in line with the minimum schedule in Fern and Robert’s existing separation agreement.

  Justice Strand holds up his copy of the letter. “Ms. McDunn, if you need me to order it, I will, but I would advise your client to agree to the increase. The more he argues about whether his ex-wife is fit to see her children, the more he looks like he’s withholding the children without regard for their best interests.”

  __________

  According to Factsination! Nine out of ten doctors say balance is the key to a happy life! I blink my eyes and reread, more than a little surprised that nugget got past the Bacon Payne Politburo. The elevator doors open on the thirty-seventh floor and I walk down the hall, clutching to my side a file folder, Fern’s new visitation order safely contained within. Her time with them has been officially expanded to include alternate weekends and three midweek visits.

  Henry is leaning against the wall, talking to an associate from the tax group, Ed Something.

  Just then it hits me. Of course—Henry is on the Murty matter. He is my deus ex machina.

  “Hey.” He and Ed Something both turn toward me. “How was your meeting?”

  “Great. How was your call?”

  “What?”

  “Your midday call? On Murty? I heard it was a really big deal.” I blink innocently.

  The tax associate continues to smile politely, nodding impatiently in the hopes that I’ll hurry up and end this generic exchange so he and Henry can resume their conversation.

  “Oh, that.” Henry smiles, caught. “Yeah, I talked to the client this morning and reminded him of some of the things he needed to discuss with Lillian, so we were able to schedule a time the whole team could talk for midday.”

  “I bet the client is eternally grateful.”

  “Don’t know. I haven’t heard from him, but I agree with you. He should be terribly grateful,” says Henry. “He should give me a medal for my efforts to make his life easier.”

  “Isn’t the real gift that you won’t have to visit him in the mental institution, which is where he was headed without your help?”

  He pretends to consider that. “True. However much of a pain it was to have the call, it was nothing compared to the pain of listening to my client lose it. I’ve seen that and it’s a horror show.”

  Ed Something pivots his head back and forth, trying to follow along.

  “Your client owes you a lunch.”

  “I don’t know. My client will probably just use the lunch to talk about his case some more. He’s kind of one-note. I would love more than anything to expand his mind, get him to talk or think about something else, you know?”

  “Well, you’re incredibly well-rounded,” I say, looking at him pointedly. “Maybe you could ask this client to join you in one of your many time-intensive hobbies. Macramé? Sea monkeys? Gardening? So many to choose from.”

  By this point, Ed Something looks upset and confused, so I squeeze Henry’s arm. Grinning, I walk back to my office and the fifty-five e-mails that have accumulated in my absence.

  24

  ____

  ms. longstocking’s very adult adventures

  On the way over to Duck’s annual Halloween party, I run into one of those Halloween express pop-up stores. I did not have energy to plan my costume this year, what with all my telenovela-esque lies and subterfuge on behalf of the Walker case. Alas, looking for a costume at six o’clock on Halloween is like going grocery shopping right before the first snowstorm of the season—bare, picked-over shelves—any remaining loaf of bread, no matter how fresh and soft, is going to be mashed and misshapen into something unappealing.

  Instead of one of those harmless, no-thought-required, costume-in-a-plastic-bag options, all I see is the slutty trifecta: slutty nurse, slutty pirate and slutty go-go dancer. I refuse to wear something so short that I won’t be able to sit down or so low cut that I can’t bend over, so I rummage around and leave with a motley assortment: a Groucho Marx disguise, a bright red wig, a bandanna, some face paint.

  Duck opens her front door with a grimace. “You’re going to kill me. I let slip to Caleb that we were having a big Halloween party.”


  “And?”

  “And he said he wasn’t doing anything and wanted to come, so I had to invite him. I’m so sorry.”

  I shrug, but my heartbeat kicks up a notch.

  “I just assumed he’d be going somewhere else fabulous, so I thought it was safe to mention.”

  “It’s fine.” I feel a junkie’s itch crawl up my fingers and think fast. “Seriously, not an issue. I have to send a quick e-mail for work, though.”

  “Of course you do.” Duck opens her chrome refrigerator and, holding the door with her hip, starts unloading bottles of wine and beer onto the kitchen counter.

  I sit down at the table and pull out my BlackBerry. I type in Anastasia’s name first, as I always do—she gets more press. She’s been active since spring: summer parties in the Hamptons, Edinburgh and the Mediterranean and fall stops in New York, London and Miami. I find no pictures of her with Caleb, but several with a long-haired man named Bertrand Mallet. A Page Six blurb from mid-October reports canoodling between “our favorite Peppercorn party princess and her dashing Parisian pal.”

  A little too enthusiastically, I do my Caleb due diligence. I find nothing, save a brief note of his attendance at the Friends of the High Line benefit.

  I kick myself for opportunities lost. Maybe Caleb was free to flirt with me in June; maybe that charity event he and Anastasia jointly donated to meant nothing, or was a relic from happier times. In an instant, my expectations for the evening elevate. But, oh, crap, my costume. I wonder whether I have enough time to run out and grab one of the slutty options.

  I dump my bag of foraging spoils out on Duck’s kitchen table. “Help.”

  “Um, so what’s the theme here?” She touches the bandanna.

  “Chaos and uncertainty?” I say.

  “Well done, well done.” She holds up the wig. “Hey, how about good ol’ Pippi Longstocking?”

  When I first emerge from the bathroom fully dressed, Duck and I laugh until my tears leave a smear line through my apple red cheeks. Along with legions of seven-year-olds across the city, I am clad in my red wig, sloppy braids wrapped around those red sandwich Baggie ties so that they defy gravity, red circles on my cheeks and confetti-sized freckles dotted across my nose. I am in Duck’s denim skirt—too short for me, so somehow, after all the avoidance, I am Slutty Pippi.