The Love Wars

by Heller, L. Alison

  “I did, but she’s not moving.”

  Aaron, clearly the font of cater-waiter wisdom, shrugs. “There are a lot of weirdos in New York. Sometimes it’s better not to incite them.”

  Eric isn’t happy with this response. “Even if she’s been harassing me all night?”

  Aaron considers this.

  “All right, all right,” I say, pushing out my chair. “For chrissakes, I’m leaving.”

  I slink out of the door and down the hall to the bathroom. I jiggle the door—locked—and then feel someone turning the knob from the inside. She emerges, an apologetic smile on her face. It’s Claire. Recognizing me, her smile hardens and freezes off her face.

  “Hello,” I say.

  She stalks away, slanting forward on the pitch of her heels, grabs her coat off the rack and then hurries out into the night, without, thank heavens, stopping to say good-bye to anyone.

  Oh my God. I have got to tell Henry this. He hasn’t been picking up his cell lately, so I dial his office line.

  “Aha,” I say, when he picks up after the second ring. “I finally reach you. What wonderful case are you working on?”

  “Mercer.”

  “I won’t keep you, I promise, but I have the craziest story.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at this holiday party with all these fancy people who I have nothing in common with. Guess who was here.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, a guess, please.”

  “The British royals.”

  “What are you saying? You don’t think I have anything in common with the British royal family?”

  “I don’t. Are you truly as surprised as you sound?”

  I consider. “No, I’ll concede that. Can I tell you my story?”

  “Out with it already.”

  “Claire was here.”

  “Awkward. What happened?”

  “She gave me the full-on stink-eye and stormed out of the party. But before that, it was even weirder because she was talking to Caleb and I could see that he wanted to introduce her to me, and—”

  “What party are you at?”

  “Caleb’s office one.”

  “That all sounds really nuts, Molly. I have the Mercer hearing first thing Monday, so I better get cracking on it if I want to ever get home.” Henry’s tone is brusque, as it’s been on and off for the past several weeks. I chalk his grouchiness up to stress: the Bacon Payne partnership committee meets this month.

  “Henry?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t need to stress so much. You’re totally going to make it.”

  “Make what?”

  “Partner, Henry. I know you’ve been nervous.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been the most worried about locking down the disgruntled-associate vote, so your support is very comforting.” He hangs up without even waiting to hear my laugh.

  When I return to my perch in the corner, the party, blessedly, has broken up. Even the waiters are leaving. Eric has his coat on and, with one wary backward glance, shoots out of the door.

  “Hey,” Caleb says, coming over and holding up my hand in his as though I’m a debutante and he’s my escort, “did you have fun?”

  “It was great.”

  “I was looking for you before.”

  “You were?”

  “I wanted to introduce you to this woman I know. She’s in the middle of this horrible custody thing. It sounds awful. Her boyfriend was married to some insane lunatic who keeps hurting her kids and trying to get them back. Is that the kind of case you work on?”

  “It’s exactly the kind of case I work on. Did you give her my name?”

  He scrunches his face, trying to remember. “I don’t think so.”

  Despite my relief, I can’t help myself. “You know, she might not have been telling you the whole story. Custody is a very complex thing.”

  “Okay, but I doubt it. She’s pretty down-to-earth. Always seems to have her shit together.”

  “How do you know her anyway?”

  “We sat on a board together and have some mutual friends.”

  “Like how many?”

  He puts his arm around me. “Why are we still talking about her? I’ve met her all of six times.”

  “There are a lot of weirdos in New York,” I say. “It’s entirely possible she’s one of them.”

  “I will readily agree that she is the queen of all weirdos if it means that we can move on to another topic.”

  I nod. “Deal.”

  “Have you seen this room?” Caleb propels me toward good old Sierra Nevada. “There’s a mountain range theme to all the meeting spaces.”

  “Neat.”

  “Neater still, there’s some leftover champagne bottles in here that I thought we should open. You ready to have fun?”

  “I am,” I say.

  We can always count on each other for that.

  29

  ____

  congratulationshenry

  The large conference room on the thirty-seventh floor has been transformed into Bacon Payne’s version of a party room. Paper-doily-topped black plastic circular trays cover the conference table, dotted with the usual corporate catered fare: little sandwiches, cookies, cheese cubes, textured crackers and plastic-looking fruit. The wooden cabinet against the wall is the makeshift bar, offering a choice of champagne, individual Poland Spring bottles or Pepsi cans. In the center of the table is a personalized cake that reads “CongratulationsHenry!” with no space between the words. Kim’s work, obviously.

  I raise my glass as instructed by Lillian and clink it against Rachel’s.

  “To Henry.” Lillian beams as we all cheer and Warren Jacobs, a shaggy-haired litigation partner with an office on our floor, starts an off-tune version of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Rachel, a former member of her college a cappella group and not shy about bursting into song, jumps in as the rest of us celebrants—too self-conscious and sober to be on singing terms with one another—gulp our champagne and clap along. They trail off after the first “which nobody can deny.”

  There are about twenty people here feting Henry—the entire matrimonial department, plus some “department friends”—i.e., people with offices on our floor. I can’t help but compare it with Caleb’s office party. It’s not as jazzed up, sure, but at least there are people I want to talk to. There’s no need to run for the Sierra Nevadas.

  I sip my drink, pick at raisin nut bread topped with Brie and watch as Henry is swarmed by Lillian, Warren Jacobs and Everett. There’s a lot of hand shaking, back patting and knowing chuckles.

  Kim opens the door to the conference room and pokes her head in. Once she spots Lillian, she race-walks over and whispers something in her ear. In an impressively believable display of phony affection, Lillian throws her arms around Henry, kisses him on the cheek and excuses herself, running out of the room. After Lillian leaves, Warren wanders away from the group and I walk over.

  “So, can you believe our boy?” asks Everett.

  I smile, mainly because a year ago I would’ve choked at hearing Everett refer to Henry that way. “Actually, yes. He’s worked really hard for this.” I raise my glass at Henry. “Official congratulations, though.”

  He smiles. “Thanks.”

  “Well, I’m just glad not to be the only male partner now,” says Everett. “We needed a little testosterone in here. I mean, obviously you were here before, but at the partnership level.”

  I nod. “Oh, yes. That’s just what Bacon Payne needs. Score one for diversity, Henry. You go bust through that white-male glass ceiling and shake up that boardroom.”

  Henry laughs and I point at the conference room table. “The cake is so good. Have you had it?”

  “Really?” says Everett. “Okay, I’ll go get a piece. Be right back.”

  “So, is this the only celebration?” I ask.

  “Well, there are some dinners out, but it’s all classified information. I reall
y can’t divulge details to a mere associate.”

  “Oh, I see. So that’s how it is now. Seriously, though, Henry—are you going to disappear and go all antisocial on me again? Your door is always closed.”

  “Nah. Of course not. Just a particularly bad end of the year. And beginning.”

  Henry and I haven’t really talked since last month. I had hoped he’d be less stressed after the partnership announcement, but I’ve felt something increasingly stilted and awkward between us. I heard that he made partner the way the rest of the department did, yesterday, through a group e-mail blast. And while we had exchanged text messages of congratulations and thanks, I hadn’t seen him in person until today.

  I had been a little hurt, actually, until I sat down and thought about it. He’s now my boss. Just knowing what he does about Walker v. Walker must stress him out; his best bet is to keep his distance from the madness of my involvement with it. But still, I miss him.

  “So, how have you been?” He looks as though he really does want to know.

  “Fine. You?”

  “Fine, overworked. I’ve basically been caught up in all this.” He motions around the conference room.

  I nod appraisingly. “Be proud. This is a great party. You have a great future in planning intimate corporate events.”

  He laughs. “You know what I mean. You have the pretrial coming up, right?”

  I nod. “Next week.”

  “Hey, listen—,” he says as I simultaneously say, “Aaand Everett’s back with the cake.”

  He leans close and speaks in a low voice, directly in my ear. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around. I promise things will normalize. Let’s try to get together this weekend. I can help you prep.”

  “That would be great, but not if it’s weird.”

  He knits his brows, puzzled. “Why would it be weird?”

  “I understand, you know, if things are different now. If you can’t get too close.”

  He still looks a little confused, but then he shakes his head.

  Everett walks up to us, plate in hand, a spot of icing on his lip.

  “So, man, is it good?” Henry asks him.

  “Strong, dude.” He nods. “Second piece.”

  I slip out of the conference room feeling hopeful and head back to my office.

  30

  ____

  tfe mythss of bleckk coffeey

  Rachel leans her head in my office. “Lillian’s left for her lunch, but there’s leftover champagne.”

  My expression, I hope, reads, What’s your point? As is the norm this time of year, I have Bacon Payne party fatigue. Henry’s partnership fete in late January was the kick-off, followed by celebrations for Groundhog Day, President’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day and the Winter Equinox. Two weeks ago, Rachel declared it “Papercut Friday” and the floater secretary ran downstairs for cupcakes.

  I was already done, stress-dreaming about exploding communal sheet cakes when, during a girls’ coffee in Lillian’s office yesterday, she had demurred that today would be her fortieth anniversary of being a matrimonial lawyer. We had squealed—not stopping to question the date’s validity or her values in choosing to honor this anniversary as opposed to, say, her wedding anniversary—and Lillian then faux-bashfully let slip that a few of her attorney friends had planned a day of fun for her: a luncheon, cocktails and pampering.

  Liz, Rachel and I looked at one another nervously—something in Lillian’s tone let us know that we were not to let the day pass without a celebration of some sort. With the assistance of the dining staff, we scrambled together a “surprise” breakfast, decorated her office with balloons and streamers and chipped in on an expensive silk scarf and a gushing greeting card. Then we had arrived early, waiting in her office so that when she strolled in at eight o’clock, we could jump up, applauding. Lillian was touched, we could tell, but wondered out loud, innocently enough, whether clinking glasses with only orange juice counted as a legitimate toast.

  Rachel said something about it being a workday morning and Lillian had winked. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” she said. “If you can’t drink up on your fortieth anniversary, when can you?”

  Liz and I had looked at each other, panicked, and she had fled, returning somehow fifteen minutes later with four bottles of orange-labeled champagne.

  Rachel, still in my doorway, has started to mime clinking imaginary glasses, smiling invitingly.

  I groan. “Don’t make me go back in there.”

  Rachel drums her fingers dramatically on her chin. “Do you have to be sober for anything today?”

  I look at my calendar, even as I know the answer. “Nope.” This is the silver lining to Lillian’s anniversary: a full Friday, no court appearances, no conferences, no Lillian.

  Rachel’s eyebrows arch wickedly. “Me neither. Even Liz is still in there. And we’ve decided, after that fire drill this morning, we need our own fucking anniversary party.”

  It is an appealing thought, seizing the moment, this springtime hall pass of a day, to just let loose.

  Rachel senses that I’m weakening. “We’ll just finish up the bottles that are in there and then I’m cutting out early. Like”—she leans her head in the doorway, ready to shock me—“four o’clock. Because I can.”

  “I’m in.” I follow her to Lillian’s office.

  __________

  I had four more. Four of those fancy, fancy drinks and I’m back in my office, my spinning, spinning, spinning office. It was fun, it was so much fun, and I didn’t know that Rachel can do good impressions, like really good impressions, of that woman from that show with the nasal voice and, oh, also of that cartoon character with the skateboard. I love Rachel. She’s so helpful and funny, she got the bathroom door closed for me because I couldn’t figure it out, the lock thingy was all stuck, and now we’re getting quiet time. Shhh. Everybody quiet for nap time. I’m gonna close my office door here, tiptoe over and close it and close my eyes and let things spin and the floor, this carpet, this gray is soft and nice.

  __________

  I hear a loud buzz. And again. And again. And it’s a noise I recognize. It means something. So I get up from the floor and go to my desk and it’s my phone, my secret Fern batphone, and she’s texted me, so I squint and peer closer and it says:

  You know how long court will take today?

  And I know I’m a little buzzed from before, but Fern must be more, because we don’t have court today. My fingers, which are not hitting the keys easily—small keys! so very small! why have I ever texted on this thing?—manage to write back, though, because it’s important for Fern to know this: Cpurrt is 2norow! I blank on the day and look at my calendar for tomorrow, where it says, there it is, “Wv.W compliance conference 2:30, March 27th.”

  Fern is right there and she buzzes the batphone again:

  Ha! Ha!

  Hs! Ga! I write back, and it’s funny. It’s so funny, her joke, but then I realize I don’t know why it’s funny. Why is it funny? I should know why. I’m getting a little sad because I don’t understand the joke and I should, we’re tight, me and Fern, and I should be in on the joke, so I squint at my calendar. Tomorrow is Saturday. I put the Walker conference down for Saturday and I’m not sure how this happened. I remember Mike the Clerk calling and changing the date because, what was it? Strand was having a procedure and I was worried about him, what if it’s serious and something happened to Strand?—and I put it in my calendar and said, no problem, Mike, I have no conflicts, because of course it wasn’t a problem, I wouldn’t have any conflicts if I thought it was Saturday and fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  And now, focus, where’s my watch or something—it’s one o’clock, which means I need to be downtown soon, really soon. I have to figure out how much time I have, and my stuff is in my apartment and I’m still a little buzzed. But I can sober up in an hour, I’m sure. I know I can. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

  Somehow, I’m walking down the hall toward the eleva
tor. One step in front of the other. One step per foot. I am looking at my feet, focusing on my feet.

  “Molly?” Henry’s voice floats from somewhere by the printer. “Why are you tiptoeing?”

  “Court. I have court,” I whisper. “For Fern.”

  His face swims above me. Stern expression, stern face saying something about canceling.

  I make the stern face back at him and he says, “You’re not going to court like this.”

  How does he know something’s wrong just by looking at me? I look down and don’t see how he knows. “I can’t. Wrong date, scheduling snafu, screwup, yadda yadda. So I should just get some black coffee and do. This. Thing.” I hit his chest as I say this and it makes a really funny noise, hollow, like he’s a drum. “Did you know you could make that noise?”

  He ignores me. “You need more than black coffee. Black coffee is kind of a myth.”

  I make a gesture to show my competence—arms forward-marching—and start off toward the elevator.

  “Slow down,” he says, and catches my arm. “You might want to check your outfit.”

  My shirt is untucked from my pants and unbuttoned and holy crap, my belly button is visible. I try to cover it, but my shirt and my pants seem all twisted and stuck, and it’s really, really, really hard. I don’t get it, this thing with my shirt, but it’s so weird, but funny too, so I laugh, and punch Henry on the arm.

  Henry’s head is in his hands and then he’s pushing me back down the hall to my office. “Figure out what’s going on with your shirt,” he says. “I’ll be back with coffee.”

  “See? It’ll work,” I say to him, but he is gone.

  I manage to stuff my shirt ends into my pants and all of a sudden Henry’s there with some coffee.

  “Superfast,” I say, reaching forward to take it. I snap my fingers for emphasis, but they don’t make a good enough noise, so I say it too. “ZZZZip.”

  He takes a step back from me. “You’re going to need some mints.”

  “I gottem, I gottem.”

  He sighs. “Come with me.”