Um, I mean fake wedding dress.
“That is not a problem,” Monique says, smoothing the muslin out, “I am unconcerned.”
“Well,” I say, this time even more slowly, “the lead attorney on the case seems to be Jack Solomon.” I give a nervous laugh which Monique does not even seem to notice. She’s busy studying the muslin she’s just put me into before grabbing some pins. I’m tempted to remind her that this is just a fake dress that we’re working on here, but then I decide that I should at least get to enjoy the experience of Monique making a wedding dress for me, faux or not. “My fiancé, Jack Solomon.”
Monique laughs, careful not to disturb the pins she’s put in her mouth as she begins to work on my faux dress. She’s about to say something as we are interrupted again, this time by a chef, coming into the studio with a small tasting. I love that he is decked out in full chef regalia—the white jacket, the white hat and black and white checkered pants—thus giving the occasion all of the pageantry it deserves. I try to place the chef’s face, since I’m sure that I’ve seen him before on the Food Network. His jacket is embroidered with simply his first name: Daniel.
“Madame and mademoiselle,” he says dramatically in a French accent that’s even thicker than Monique’s, “may I interrupt?”
“You may,” Monique says, now looking at my dress through the mirror.
“The Dover sole,” he announces, placing the tray on a nearby table with a dramatic flair, as if he were presenting us to the royal family. Or presenting us to the royal family’s dinner, as the case may be. “I would be honored if you would take a taste.”
Monique walks over to the table and I’m unsure of what to do. I’m pinned into this muslin and the bottom part of the dress is a straight line from my hips to my ankles. I can barely breathe in it, much less walk. With the line she’s given the skirt, I’m not really sure if my legs have enough room to actually get off of this elevated stand to get myself over to the Dover sole. But the smell—the smell is simply delicious. It’s lemon and butter and basil and all of a sudden, I absolutely, positively must have a taste. I turn to the chef, ever so slightly, so as not to fall, and try to take a step in my muslin.
As I move my right leg to walk, the dress catches on my left and I stumble a bit in my effort to move. I straighten myself up a bit—good, no one seems to have noticed my little near slip—and I try to regain my composure. I smile and gather a bit of the fabric in my hands so that I’ll be able to walk. There, now that’s it. I’ll just take teensy tiny little baby steps and make my way off of the stand slowly. When I get to the end of the stand, I’ll just gracefully ask Monique for a bit of help and then they’ll ask me if I’d like a taste of the Dover sole. You know, just to be polite. In all of my time around Monique, one thing I’ve learned is that French people are exceedingly polite, contrary to the stereotype. I begin shuffling my feet, centimeter by centimeter, inch by inch, and as I get closer and closer to the edge, I can practically taste the Dover sole on my tongue. Just as I near the edge of the stand, Monique turns to Daniel and says, “Daniel, I’d like to introduce you to Brooke Miller. She is one of my brides.”
And then I fall face-first off the stand, smack in the middle of Monique and Daniel.
How do you say “Timber!” in French? Well, that’s okay if you don’t know. It really was more of a SPLAT! than anything else and I’m pretty sure that SPLAT! is universal.
“Ah, Brooke!” Monique says, as she and Daniel both lean down to me to help me up, “are you all right? My goodness, Brooke, did the pins get you?”
“No, they didn’t.” Yes, they did. All twenty-two of them, in fact. But when you’re at your client’s office pretending to be a bride and you fall off a stand because you’re salivating over a piece of fish, you tend to lie to save face. Better late than never, I always say. “I’m okay. Absolutely fine.” Monique and Daniel have to team up to lift me together. They grab me under my armpits and raise me upright like a stiff board since I still can’t really move my legs in the dress.
“Let me just get this one for you,” Monique says, gently taking out a few of the pins that have lodged themselves into my thighs.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” I say to Daniel once I’m upright, putting my hand out for him to shake.
“You are a very lucky girl to be having your wedding dress designed by Monique,” he says, kissing the top of my hand.
“Yes, I’m very lucky,” I say, and feel an expected gush of sadness as I say it.
“Now, please,” he says, “try the Dover sole.”
With all of the tiny pin pricks still stinging on my legs, I don’t even want to try the fish anymore. I should just let Monique do her tasting quickly so that we can get back to business and start discussing our case.
Okay, I didn’t even convince myself on that one. It literally takes all of my self control not to dive right onto the plate. Daniel takes a fork and puts a bite onto it.
I take a bite and it melts in my mouth. Everything about it—the taste, the consistency—is absolutely perfect. There are so many different flavors exploding on my palate, one by one, that can only be described as deliciously complex. Now I finally know what they’re talking about on Top Chef!
“It’s perfect,” Monique says to Daniel and I nod my head in agreement. All I can think is, would it be rude to take another bite? Thankfully, Monique takes another forkful and motions for me to do the same. The second bite is just as close to pure heaven as the first one and we both let out an “Mmm!” at the same time. Daniel beams back at us.
Would it be a breach of ethics to try to get myself invited to the party tonight? After all, if I don’t get to have the gorgeous wedding dress of my dreams, I should at least get to attend the most fabulous party of the season, right? Okay, the truth is that I just can’t wait to taste all of the other courses this chef has got up his sleeve. And the hors d’oeuvres. I can only imagine what he would come up with. But that’s as good a reason as any to want to attend a party, right?
I’ll definitely start my wedding diet…tomorrow. This weekend at the latest.
“Now, we must get back to work,” Monique says as Daniel walks out of the studio. She helps me back onto the stand and then continues pinning the dress again, which I take as a cue to start discussing the case.
“Did you know about this?” I ask. “That Jean Luc would hire my old firm? You don’t seem surprised at all.”
“No, I did not know,” she says, “but that was the reason I didn’t want to use Gilson, Hecht—Jean Luc does use them on quite a few corporate matters of his own. Will it be a problem?”
“It won’t be a problem for me,” I say, “but you need to think about whether or not it will be a problem for you. If you are at all uncomfortable with this, we can discuss it more.”
“I have faith in you, Brooke,” Monique says, now examining the bodice of the dress, “I just want you to think about if you really want to do this.”
“I do,” I say, as Monique pins the bodice, lowering the neckline. It highlights that part of my body that I hate most—where my arms meet my torso—and makes me look like I have chicken fat protruding from my armpits. Not my best look. Not any woman’s best look, is it?
Okay. So I understand that this isn’t really my wedding dress that she’s working on. Really I do. But would it kill her to put me in a style that’s more flattering to my figure?
“Monique, I just want you to know how much I appreciate this opportunity. I’m going to work so hard for you on this case.”
“I know you will,” she says, smiling at me gently. “But, I suppose I don’t have to tell you my own personal opinion on what it’s like to work with the man you love.”
“Well,” I say, the lawyer in me coming up with a rationalization before I even have a chance to fully think my response through, “we won’t actually be working together. We’ll be adversaries.”
“But, isn’t that worse?” Monique says, tilting her head to the side.
“Jack and I have worked together before,” I explain, “and the truth is, it’s never been a problem for us before. So, it won’t be a problem now.”
“Good,” Monique says, “Now let me help you out of this muslin.”
“Let’s talk spin,” I say, as Monique helps me get out of the dress. It’s like an obstacle course with the millions of pins that she’s put all over the fabric, but she holds the dress at just the right angles for me to take it off unscathed. Well, more unscathed than I already am. “That blind item in the Post. Do you want to sue?”
“I think that would make it more conspicuous,” Monique says, putting the muslin back in the closet and then sitting down on the couch as I put my clothes back on. “This party tonight should put everyone’s suspicions to rest, once and for all. After tonight, there will be no doubt in anyone’s mind how committed Jean Luc and I are to each other. The funny thing is that Jean Luc and I thought of the idea together. I guess there are still some decisions we can make as a team.”
I see Monique’s eyes begin to tear up at the edges, and I look away to pretend not to see.
“I agree,” I say, walking to the window where I look down at the swarm of reporters waiting by the door, “I think you’re making the right decision.”
“Then, it’s time for me to get ready for my party,” Monique says, and stands up from the couch where she’d been sitting.
“Well, have a wonderful time tonight,” I say. “Do you need me to be here for anything? You know, in case any legal issues pop up.”
“You are so funny, Brooke,” Monique says with a laugh. “How would it look to the reporters if one of my brides were to be here? The one who is a lawyer?”
“You can also invite a bride who is an accountant,” I offer. “Or a banker. Do you have any brides who work in investment banking?”
Monique laughs loudly and I laugh along, too, trying to pretend that I’m not desperate for a piece of free fish.
“Well, have fun,” I say, conceding defeat. “I just know it will be a huge success.”
“And so will your case,” Monique says as she walks me to the stairs. “Speaking of which, what comes next?”
“Discovery,” I explain. “It’s the part of the case where each side gets to ask the other side for information—questions, documents, depositions—they’re all part of the pretrial process that the federal court calls discovery.”
“What a funny name for it,” Monique says as we stop at the top of the stairway.
“I never really thought about it before,” I say, “but, I suppose it is.”
“I guess it’s because I’ll be discovering a lot of things about my husband?” she asks with a laugh. “Things that the court assumes that I don’t already know? Well, Brooke, I can assure you—after over thirty years together—I already know all there is to know about him.”
“There’s always more to find out about someone,” I say, thinking of a particular case I had when I was still practicing at Gilson, Hecht. In a routine discovery process, some e-mails sent by the CEO of a company were revealed that his shareholders probably didn’t know about and that his wife most definitely did not know about. Apparently, he’d purchased a mail order bride over the Internet and was keeping her and their two love children in a home in Minnesota. Even though this bit of information showcased his ability to multi-task, one of the most important qualities you’d look for in a CEO, he was still fired and served with divorce papers from wife number one the very next day. “You’d be surprised about how much you can learn about a person you really thought you knew.”
Column Five
You didn’t hear it from us…
OVERHEARD over a glass of wine at the reception following Monique deVouvray and Jean Luc Renault’s renewal of the vows ceremony: “Why is it that every time a couple renews their vows, the relationship crashes and burns six months later?”
Sour grapes? Or in vino veritas?
9
“And she says to me: ‘yes, that would be fine,’” I tell Jack as our taxicab lurches up Park Avenue. We’re fifteen minutes late already and I don’t want to keep my parents waiting at the florist. God forbid they give my mother a glass of champagne to celebrate. Then the next thing you know, she’ll be passed out in a patch of begonias and my father will have negotiated a real “steal” on the floral arrangements by using flowers that were previously used the weekend before at a funeral.
“Fine?” he asks, tilting his head down to look at me. I love it how, when we sit together in a taxicab, he always puts his arm around the back of the seat so that I can get close to him.
“Yes,” I explain. “I ask Elizabeth to be a bridesmaid and she says—and I quote—‘yes, that would be fine.’”
“I thought you said it was Patricia?” he says, turning to face me.
“Which one’s the oldest?” I ask. “It was the oldest.”
“Patricia, then Elizabeth, then Lisa,” he says, counting them off one by one on his fingers for me.
“Right,” I say, “then it was Patricia.”
“That is so like her,” he says, baby blues narrowing.
“Really?” I ask, excited to get some Solomon family gossip. Jack never speaks badly about any of his family members. Ever. Come to think of it, he never really talks about his family at all, so I was excited to get the inside scoop. As an only child, there’s really not much to talk about with each other (Dad: Did you hear that your mother is making meat loaf for dinner again? Again? Me: Why don’t you just ask her about it? She’s standing right there.) I mean, what’s the point of being part of a big family if you don’t get to gossip about each other?
“No,” he says, “not really. I just thought I was still doing that whole ‘you have to agree with me all the time thing.’”
“Yeah,” I say, giving him a peck on the lips. “That’s pretty much always in effect.”
“Maybe you called her the wrong name and that’s why she wasn’t that excited about it,” he says, looking down at me with a smile.
“Um, still in effect!” I say and Jack smiles even wider.
We sit in silence, looking out our respective windows, me leaning on Jack, as the cab drives through the Helmsley building over Grand Central Station and into midtown Manhattan. The florist is on 61st Street, between Park and Madison, so we’re almost there. But that’s not the reason why we stop talking. We stop talking because there’s nothing to actually talk about. We can’t talk about work—the Monique case is the biggest case that either of us is working on, and we can’t talk about the wedding. Jack knows I’m still ever-so-slightly on edge about the fact that my parents have been bullied into having a wedding at the Pierre when what they really wanted for me was a traditional Jewish ceremony at a conservative temple on the South Shore of Long Island.
Our taxi stops right in front of Maximo Floral Concepts and I hop out as Jack pays the fare. The entranceway to the floral shop is done up to the hilt, with massive vines of ivy intertwined with crimson-red roses completely covering the stone-wall entranceway. As you walk through the cherry-wood doors, the delicious aroma of lilacs and lavender hits you and you can’t help but stop and take a deep breath. The second we get inside, Jack squeezes my hand and leans over to give me a kiss.
“The newlyweds!” my mother cries out as we walk inside.
“We’re not newlyweds, we’re recently engaged, Mom,” I say as I look around for the bottle of champagne.
“Ah, the couple of the hour!” the florist says, walking over to us with two glasses of champagne.
So, he’s the culprit. I grab my celebratory glass of champagne and shoot my mother a stern look. She walks to the other side of my father with her glass, well out of my reach.
“I am Maximo,” the florist says in grand style, throwing his arms out wide as if he were a magician, with an accent that is definitely either Spanish or Italian. He bows slightly before extending his hand for us to shake. He shakes Jack’s hand first and then takes mine
delicately and gives it a little peck as only a Spaniard would. Or an Italian.
“Oh, Maximo,” my mother titters. I give Maximo a tightlipped smile and then shoot another glare in my mother’s direction. I’m not sure why she’s flirting with him since it’s well known that Maximo owns this shop with his life partner, Federico.
“So, I was thinking white roses,” my mother says, taking my hand and leading me through the showroom. “Maximo has a gorgeous display back here that’s even in our price range!” She throws her head back and says the “price range” part loudly for Maximo to hear. He politely laughs at her lame joke.
“My guy on the island can do it for cheaper,” my father says, leaning against a very expensive-looking trellis.
“We can’t have Long Island flowers for a New York City hotel wedding,” my mother says, dropping my arm from hers and walking over to my father. Since deciding to have the wedding at the Pierre, she has very much embraced the idea of a New York City hotel wedding. I’m just happy that she has something to brag about to her mah-jongg game now that Monique’s not designing my dress anymore.
“What?” my father asks, “now you hate Long Island, too?”
“No one hates Long Island,” I say with a smile as I walk over to Jack and pull his arm close to me.
“Oh,” my father says, “then it’s just the Long Island temples that everyone hates.”
“No one hates anything, Mr. Miller,” Jack says, breaking from my grip and walking over to my father. “It’s just that, well, it’s silly. You see, my parents always dreamed that I’d be getting married at the Pierre. When they got married, they had just graduated from college and they didn’t have a dime. Their parents could barely afford to throw them a proper wedding and they weren’t even allowed to invite all of their friends. Now that they’ve worked so hard to achieve so much, they just want me to have the wedding that they never had. I hope you can understand.”
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