by Kelly Myers
The assistant at last said he would see what he could do.
“Good,” I said.
I hung up and turned back to my desk.
I flopped down in my leather chair and resisted the urge to pour myself a dram of whiskey from the corner bar.
I hadn’t gotten to where I was by imbibing during working hours. That whiskey was for my male clients only. They were usually old-school men with bowties and wandering eyes who wanted to protect their considerable wealth.
For my female clients, I had my secretary whip up Cosmopolitans.
When all was said and done, I preferred the female clients. I hated to stereotype, but most of the time, the wives had committed less sins against the old institution of marriage. Or at least, women hid their sins better.
Plus, I couldn’t deny that I, on occasion, had some fun with the odd female client. Always once she had officially become an ex-wife, and I was no longer on her payroll. I had some standards, after all.
I didn’t restrict my nighttime activities to clients of course. Over the years, I had built up enough of a reputation that I could have my pick of women. Most of them understood to get out of my apartment quickly the next morning and to not text me too often afterward.
I glanced at my watch. It was almost the end of the workday, which meant I could clock out now and try to meet someone at a wine bar. I had been feeling restless and a healthy romp might help.
What was the art gallery owner’s name from two weeks ago? Francesca?
Then again, Francesca had been great, but a little repetitive.
Everything had started feeling redundant of late.
It wasn’t a noticeable problem, but rather a small twinge of annoyance in the background of my daily habits. A little question tickling the back of my mind: This again? Isn’t this getting a little old?
Maybe I’m getting old.
No, men like me didn’t get old. Men like me aged gracefully. We stayed lean and healthy through rounds of tennis at our clubs and restful vacations on private yachts. We kept our teeth sharp by chewing up opponents in the courtroom and earning bigger and bigger paychecks. We stayed young at heart by acting young and pursuing pleasure in all things.
There may have been bits of gray in my hair, and I might have been approaching my forty-second birthday, but I knew I had never been better.
I surged out of my chair and loosened my tie as I returned to the window.
I had one of the best views of the city. My office building was just above the park, and my office faced south. I could see the sprawling behemoth of Manhattan, crawling with people trying to make it.
Well, I had made it. I had got into Yale from a town just East of Nowhere, Idaho, with nothing but my brains and a scholarship. Four years in New Haven had taught me one thing: I wanted to be at the top, and I was going to do anything to get there. I didn’t care who I had to step on or what I had to beg, borrow or steal, I was going to live the life I wanted. I wasn’t going to go backward, there was no way.
I worked two jobs through law school and managed to graduate top of my class. All that discipline paid off when I was offered a job at the top family law firm in the country. I had been one of the youngest in the history of the firm to make associate.
Everything I had dreamed of as a lower middle-class kid in Idaho had come true. Everything my rich classmates at Yale had that I didn’t, I now owned. The country home, the ski trips, the Rolex watches. All of it.
So how could I be bored?
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my bespoke suit. I wasn’t even going to think the dreaded term “mid-life crisis”.
This was just a patch of ennui. It would fade the next time I bedded a beautiful woman. Or the next time I took a vacation. Maybe I would travel to the wilds of Alaska next. Or I could go back to Chile. I hadn’t been to Australia in years.
I was pulled from my thoughts by the gentle knock of my secretary.
Deborah Watson was the most competent employee I had. She never missed deadlines, she rarely took a day off, and she was ruthless when it came to tracking down the more evasive of my clients.
“Just got a call from Spencer Ryan,” Deborah said.
My ears pricked up at the name.
“The movie star?” I asked. “The one married to the pop star?”
“Kate Burns, yeah,” Deborah said. “It’s a big one.”
“The divorce is for sure?” I asked.
“Hasn’t hit the news yet, but according to his assistant they’re planning to release a statement any day now,” Deborah said.
I let out a low whistle. Most of my clients were wealthy but not famous. Every now and then, I got a starlet from Hollywood. They were always messy cases, and one party had usually signed a prenup which made things much more complicated, but I had to admit I enjoyed them. Or rather, I enjoyed revealing the toxic personalities that lay behind the closed doors of fame.
“He’ll be calling around all the top attorneys,” Deborah said. “But we’re probably a frontrunner.”
I felt myself falling out of my ennui and into my attorney mode. I could practically hear my teeth sharpening, and I could almost smell the blood.
I had not pursued law just for the money. I really did love my job. I enjoyed everything from reading long briefs until I was armed with more knowledge as ammunition than anyone could think possible. I enjoyed decimating whatever poor attorney I faced off against. And, as sick as it was, I enjoyed tearing apart the facade of marriage.
People weren’t meant to make eternal vows. Humans weren’t good enough to be loyal and faithful in all things to one person for a lifetime. Just because I was good at revealing this truth didn’t mean I was a bad person.
“What do you think?” I asked Deborah. “Should we take Spencer or try and pursue Kate?”
The minute I met with Spencer Ryan, even if he didn’t hire me as his attorney, I would put myself out of the running to represent Kate. If I met with her husband, she couldn’t hire me.
I didn’t like to be forced to pick a side. I liked to choose my own side. I prided myself on representing the client who had the ever-so-slightly superior moral ground.
It didn’t matter in the end. Whatever side I was on always won. (They say no one wins in divorce, but I can assure you, that is untrue.)
“Well, personally, I’m a Kate Burns fan,” Deborah said. “Loved her last album, and I’ve no doubt she’ll be dropping some amazing revenge break-up tracks after this.”
I smiled. I did love a good comeback narrative.
“What about Spencer Ryan?” I asked. “He almost won an Oscar last year.”
Deborah shrugged.
“I say he’s a bit washed up,” she said. “Plus he was on location for a shoot for eight months of last year, and I’m pretty sure Kate had the kid on tour with her during that time. So there’s no way he was acting as a primary caretaker.” Deborah shrugged and adjusted her spectacles. “I follow Kate’s Instagram,” she admitted.
I nodded and sat back down at my desk.
“That settles it,” I said. “Keep Spencer on the line for a potential meeting, but reach out to Kate’s people.”
“Great,” Deborah said.
She turned and tossed me a saucy grin at the door.
“I wonder if she’ll sign a poster for me,” Deborah said.
Then she ducked out of the room.
I smiled, only because I knew Deborah would never be so crass as to ask a famous client for a signature. She was the very model of professionalism.
I glanced over my computer and emails before grabbing my briefcase.
A new Hollywood client might keep things interesting for a while, but I doubted it would fully banish my sense of boredom.
I knew the answer. My whole life I had needed something to pursue. That was what made me happy, the relentless chase of something just beyond my reach.
I had captured most of the things I was chasing.
Now I just needed to find some
thing new to pursue.
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