“The defense will show that Mr. Tyler gave the promotion to Ms. Marks based strictly on merit, and we will offer irrefutable testimony to that effect.”
I see Beth’s lawyer shuffling through the thick stack of papers in front of him, preparing to call his first witness. Mr. Tyler looks nervously at me, knowing that he’s about to be sworn in. “We’re going to be fine,” I whisper to him, hoping that I sound more certain than I am.
Just then there’s a flurry in the back of the courtroom, and a woman enters, immediately recognizable despite the dark sunglasses, voluminous brown coat, and Grace Kelly head scarf hiding her long thick hair. Eschewing courtroom protocol, she strides forcefully down the aisle, directly toward the bench.
“Judge, I just have a few minutes and I need to talk to you,” says the mysterious interloper. A court officer steps forward to intercept her. He touches the Glock automatic in its holster but then, deciding she doesn’t look all that threatening, puts a firm hand on her arm to make sure she doesn’t get any closer to the judge.
“Who is this person?” asks Judge Warren, looking from Beth’s attorney to me.
“It’s Angelina Jolie,” whispers the stenographer, looking up from her transcription machine, mouth agape.
“I’m touching Angelina Jolie?” asks the court officer. He immediately lets go of her arm, figuring that in a mano a mano with the star who played superhero Lara Croft, he’s going to lose. Besides, he has more pressing issues. “Can I get your autograph for my son?”
“Officer!” calls out Judge Warren. “We need some order!”
Angelina walks over to the witness stand. “Could you just swear me in or something so I can testify?”
Beth’s attorney jumps up to object. “This is completely out of order. She’s not on my witness list. She can’t appear.”
“I have appeared,” says Angelina, whisking off her coat and handing it to the officer. She folds her sunglasses and tucks them into the V of her already low-cut sweater, which pulls the material down so much farther that the astonished officer drops the coat on the floor. They both bend down at the same moment to pick it up and knock heads on the way.
“Wow,” he says, rubbing his forehead as he stands up. “Now I can truthfully say I’ve banged Angelina Jolie.”
The star gives a deep, throaty laugh, and everyone else in the courtroom joins in—except Judge Warren, who takes the opportunity to bang her gavel. “Ma’am, may I ask you to please take a seat?”
“I would, thanks, but I can’t stay,” Angelina says graciously, as if she’s just been invited to tea. “Look, all I want to tell you is that this poor man, Charles Tyler, is innocent. You know me. I have a reputation for correcting injustices wherever I go. And that reputation is thanks to this wonderful woman right here, Melina Marks.”
“Your honor, if this is a new defense witness, she needs to be properly deposed,” says Beth’s lawyer, hopping to his feet again, red-faced and flustered. “This is completely inappropriate.”
“Yes, it is,” agrees Judge Warren. “Completely inappropriate. But kind of interesting. And I’ve just figured out who you are, Ms. Jolie. I loved Mr. & Mrs. Smith. Please go on.”
Angelina nods. “Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t know about this lawsuit earlier, but my cameraman, Kevin, just told me what was going on. So I did some investigating and I found out that he”—Angelina points to Alan Alladin, who is sitting in the audience—“is taking credit for everything that she”—now pointing to Melina—“did for me. Nobody else knows it, but Melina was the one responsible for changing my career.”
Angelina gives a dramatic pause while we take in her information. Then the star continues. “And he”—her long, slim finger is now indicating Charles Tyler—“did exactly what was right in rewarding Melina with a promotion, and shouldn’t be sued by her.” Angelina swivels around to aim at Beth.
“I had no idea,” says Beth.
“You were duped, too. We all were,” says Angelina.
“Hold on a second. I’m the head of this company, and I say none of this is true,” proclaims Alan Alladin, now standing tall—or as tall as a man about five foot five can stand—and waving his hand to reveal the AA monogram on his shirt cuff and his diamond AA cufflinks. This man has a serious identity issue.
“The head of the company, but not the brains,” says Angelina. “I’ve spoken to all my friends at the U.N. Everyone says they worked with Melina, not you. She was there talking and convincing and making everything happen for me. You tricked me, Alan. I hate people who pretend to be something they’re not.”
Pretending to be something you’re not is exactly what the whole acting profession is about, but I don’t point that out since Angelina is my new hero. I may even watch the DVD of Girl, Interrupted and try to figure out why she won the Oscar.
By now Beth’s lawyer is practically apoplectic, but there’s not much he can do. Angelina looks at her watch.
“I have to go, but I hope that settles everything,” says Angelina, taking her coat from the bailiff and finding an autographed picture to hand him.
“Are you absolutely sure that everything you’re saying is right?” Beth asks as Angelina walks past her.
“Absolutely,” she replies confidently.
“Well, then, it does settle it for me,” Beth announces before her lawyer can stop her. “If Angelina’s correct, I’d like to drop the case.”
Thoroughly satisfied with her morning’s performance, Angelina waves good-bye and strides to the exit. We look after her in silent astonishment, but then suddenly the courtroom erupts as Arthur congratulates me, Charles and Melina embrace, and Beth calls out, “I’m sorry.” But one person isn’t so thrilled with the outcome.
“You’re FIRED!” Alan Alladin screams furiously in the direction of Melina and Charles. “In fact, you’re both fired!”
Angelina pauses on her way out and flashes the same smile that must have won over Brad Pitt. “Oh, good!” she says. “That makes it easier. Because now I can leave the Alladin Agency and hire the both of you.”
Arthur calls me into his conference room later that afternoon for an impromptu celebration in my honor. A few of the partners and associates, and all of the paralegals, are gathered to toast me with apple cider. But I’ve been around long enough to know that they didn’t come for me, they’ve really come for the free cake. And what a cake it is—a colorful Elmo-shaped ice cream confection that says “Happy 3rd Birthday, Petey.”
“I never dreamed you’d win that case today,” says Arthur’s assistant apologetically. “So I didn’t order ahead of time. This is all Carvel had left.”
“Why didn’t poor Petey get his cake?” I ask her.
“He threw a tantrum and told his mother Elmo was passé. She had to spring for Shrek.”
I take off the three candles that nobody bothered to light. Oh, well. “Happy Birthday, Petey” isn’t such a bad message. The cake could have said “Bon Voyage,” since I came darn close to this being my farewell party.
Arthur gives me an awkward hug and makes a brief speech about how wonderful it is to work with me. Apparently all is forgiven.
“Why don’t you head home early tonight,” Arthur says five minutes later, as everyone leaves the room to get back to work, plates of cake in hand. Parties in our law firm are more concept than occasion.
“I don’t mind staying,” I say.
“Go. You did a good job. Sorry I’ve given you such a hard time,” Arthur says graciously.
I leave and catch the early train, but once I’m back in Chaddick, I don’t know what to do with myself. The house is silent and feels emptier than ever. I change out of my clothes and slouch around in sweat-pants, turning the TV on and off, then doing the same with the radio, the DVD player, my computer, and Adam’s old video game player. It was never clear to me why they called it an Xbox when only people with Y chromosomes use it.
Given my amazing morning, I should feel triumphant, but instead I’m dragging. I’ve
already spoken to Kevin today, but I call him again to marvel at what a miraculous feat he pulled off.
“You’re right, I did,” he says smugly. Then more modestly, he adds, “But you don’t have to thank me. That’s what friends are for, babe.”
“At least friends who know Angelina Jolie,” I laugh.
Of all the outcomes I considered when I first went down to see Kevin in Virgin Gorda, his helping me save my job and win a highprofile lawsuit weren’t on the list. But as I’ve discovered, life takes unexpected turns.
When we hang up, I feel even lonelier. It would be nice to have someone to celebrate with tonight. I wander into the kitchen, open one of the Dr Peppers that Bill left on New Year’s, and take a swig. Cheers.
I thoughtfully turn the bottle around and around in my hands. What would it be like to have Bill in the house again? I’m not sure I can imagine it. All the joyful memories of years past are confused in my head with the stunts he’s been pulling lately. Bill used to be the first one I’d want to tell when something good or bad happened because I always knew he’d be on my side. But then he had something else on the side—Ashlee. And I wonder whether she was the first, or could possibly be the last.
My gut tells me that Bill’s wanting to come back was just a passing fancy on his part. He and Ashlee broke up, so as Bellini warned, he thought about slipping back into his comfort zone of familiar chain saw, familiar garage, familiar backyard, and familiar wife. What was it she said about my being like an old shoe?
Still, old shoe or not, I could do with some familiarity now, too. I quickly dial Bill’s cell phone before I can think about it too much. When he answers, I tell him about my big win today, and sure enough, he guffaws and gives a big cheer of approval.
“Wish I could have been there to see that,” he says.
“It was pretty neat,” I admit. Then I pause for a moment. “If you’re not doing anything tomorrow, I’m going shopping for Emily’s birthday gifts. Want to come?”
“Sure,” he says. “Why not? I’m not very good at picking presents on my own.”
By the next morning, I’m annoyed at myself for making the plan. What was I thinking? I keep busy with errands—dry cleaners, CVS, and the fruit store. Then I stop at the fancy French bakery in town. As I drive down to the South Street Seaport to see Bill, I munch on a chocolate cupcake for courage. I used to complain about the raisins strewn across the backseat of the car when the kids were little. Now that they’re gone, how can I explain all the crumbs?
“You have frosting on your lip,” Bill says when I meet him outside the Abercrombie & Fitch store. He wipes it off and kisses me on the cheek, eyeing the bakery bag I’m carrying. “Is that for me?”
“As a matter of fact, it is,” I say, handing him the jumbo black-and-white cookie I’d bought, knowing it’s his favorite. After I stood in line for ten minutes at Le Pain au Francais (or as we call it, the French Pain), I was embarrassed to buy one lonely cupcake. But now I’m even more embarrassed to be bringing something for Bill.
“This means a lot to me, Hallie,” Bill says looking at the cookie as if it’s the Nobel Peace Prize.
“Don’t read too much into some flour and sugar,” I say.
“I won’t. But it’s good.” He takes a bite of the topping. “And having you here is the real icing on the cake.”
I smile despite myself. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be charming.”
“It comes naturally.”
We push into the store and are immediately greeted by a blast of loud music and a male model wearing low-slung jeans and a big grin. His bare chest is bronzed and buff and his perfect pecs glisten.
“Welcome to Abercrombie!” he says. “What can I show you?”
“A shirt,” I say, half-joking. I look around and there are stacks of them everywhere, but apparently none were good enough for this guy. How smart is it for a retailer selling tops to send the message that you’re sexier without one?
Bill and I head onto the crowded main floor and immediately raise the average customer age by about ten years. Or maybe twenty. Throngs of teenagers storm past us, searching for the perfect pair of jeans with an intensity they should be saving for applying to college. But the qualifying exam here is much harder.
“What’s the difference between stonewashed, whiskered, and antique finish?” Bill asks, looking at the tags.
“The bigger question is where you want the rips,” I say, pointing to a display. “A hole at the knee? A rip at the thigh? Or some shredding at the butt?”
“All of the above,” he says. “Nothing’s too good for Emily. In fact, let’s forget the jeans and just buy the holes.”
“Genius. It worked for Dunkin’ Donuts,” I tell him.
Bill laughs. “Too complicated to buy Emily jeans, right?”
“Right,” I say. “How about a sweater? That’s safe.”
“What?” he asks, trying to hear me over the music, which seems to have gotten louder now that 50 Cent is playing.
“A sweater,” I say, practically screaming as I compete with the beat of the heavy bass. It occurs to me that neither Abercrombie nor Fitch really wants me shopping in their store. If they did, they’d be piping in Carly Simon, about thirty decibels lower.
But since we’ve come all the way down here, I grab a hot-pink argyle sweater and a corduroy blazer, both of which Bill immediately approves. Of course, I could get him to approve anything right now. For anybody over twenty-five, shopping at this store is practically torture. Now that the government has closed down Guantánamo, Homeland Security might want to conduct their interrogations at Abercrombie. After an hour facing a wall of cargo pants available in seven different shades of khaki, any terrorist would break down and confess.
After we’ve paid, Bill picks up a navy blue T-shirt with a moose insignia—the last remnants of the days when Abercrombie was a hunting store. Not that I think an alligator is more elegant, but why do teens suddenly want to run around with antlers on their chests? Give me the Ralph Lauren polo player any day.
“Do you really want that shirt?” I ask Bill.
“I really do,” he says, going back to the register.
But when we get to the front of the store, he hands the package to the bare-chested male model.
“It’s January. Put something on. You could catch a cold,” Bill tells him.
The model looks stunned and I burst out laughing. Bill takes my hand and pulls me out of the store.
“A cold’s the least of what he could catch,” I say.
Since Abercrombie was my idea, Bill gets the next choice. He walks by J. Crew, Guess, and Coach and leads me over the cobblestone street toward Brookstone, the fancy gadget store selling everything from rotating shower heads to radar detectors. Bill is in male shopping heaven, immediately captivated by four different versions of a digital travel clock.
“Look at this one. You can get the time in seven zones, the local humidity, and the barometric pressure.”
I pick up the square black object with its blinking electronic dial. “Ah, yes, the perfect choice for a young woman,” I tell him.
He puts it back down. “That’s a no, huh?”
“Huh,” I confirm.
“So I don’t always know what women want,” Bill says with a shrug. “What man does?”
I sit down on one of the black leather chairs on the selling floor and glance at the price tag: four thousand bucks. For that much money, this chair better sing and dance. I play around with some buttons on the side, and suddenly the chair is murmuring sweet nothings and gently caressing my hips.
“What a woman wants is a man as good as this chair,” I tell Bill as I lean my head back into the headrest with its hidden speakers and feel the lumbar support getting toasty warm, its vibrations soothingly massaging my back.
“Is that what your boyfriend does?” Bill asks.
“What? I don’t have a boyfriend. Where’d you hear that?”
“I ran into your friend Steff’s h
usband in the city. Richard and Steff aren’t talking but at least they’re gossiping. He told me that you told Steff about some young stud you’ve been shacking up with.”
“I didn’t say anything like that,” I protest, impressed at how my one little mention snowballed. If I let the rumor mill keep grinding, maybe by tomorrow everyone will know that I’m marrying Jake Gyllenhaal, if only they could pronounce his name.
“So what’s the real story?” asks Bill.
I squirm in the chair. A little hard to have a serious conversation with your ex-husband about your ex-boyfriend when you’re nestled into a chair that’s fighting for your attention.
“I visited an old boyfriend and then he visited me, but now we’re just friends.”
“You slept with him?” asks Bill, sounding a little like Steff.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m trying to figure out if this makes us even.”
Annoyed, I turn the massage dial to “high” and the chair gets as agitated as I am. It’s worth every penny to find an inanimate object that can express your innermost feelings.
“We’re not even,” I say. “You’re the one who walked out, ran off with some girl, behaved like a jerk.”
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” Bill says cavalierly.
“That’s the only way to look at it. We’ll never be even.”
Bill gets up and wanders over to the “Auto Care” section. I watch him from across the store, not sure what I’m feeling. If I could give second chances to all my former boyfriends, doesn’t my almost-former husband deserve one, too?
“Come here,” he calls to me, motioning me to join him. “I don’t think you should be driving around alone without a Talking Tire Gauge. I’ll buy it for you.”
I look at the tool. A typically sweet Bill present—and only fifteen bucks. High-end for him.
“It displays and speaks the tire pressure up to 150 pounds per square inch,” he says. “Underinflation is a tire’s number-one enemy.”
The Men I Didn't Marry Page 25
