The Love Wars (26 page)

Caleb says something and puts a hand on her arm. She nods, he looks around wildly and I can imagine, even without being able to read their lips, the transcript corresponding to their gestures:

C
ALEB
: What an outrageous custody story! I am shocked and horrified!

C
LAIRE
: I know. It’s proof that bad things
do
happen to even good people like me. And this mess
is
about me. It affects me more than anyone! All I can do is try to live my life. Donning six-inch heels and rubbing elbows with the downtown billionaires? This party is
just
what I needed.

C
ALEB
: You are so brave. You know, one of my buddies is a divorce lawyer at a big and fancy firm. She finds me very persuasive and is here tonight—want me to try and get you some top-notch advice for free?

C
LAIRE
: Hmmm. I have access to gobs and gobs of money, but I do so love free things….

I flee, bolting down the nearest hallway, and slipping in the first door I see, to a room called the Sierra Nevada Conference Room. It’s catering central: several trays of food, stacks of napkins and crates of glasses line the room. There are a few waiters preparing, but they ignore me. I sit down at the conference room table and look at the big round wall clock. The party ends at eight o’clock, which is an hour from now. To avoid Claire, I can sit here as long as it takes.

Worst case, Caleb told Claire my name. But it’s not like he could have told her anything really incriminating. I don’t think Caleb and I have even talked about the Walker case. Come to think of it, I don’t think Caleb and I ever talked about my job at all. I try to remember the last time he and I had a substantive conversation, but, well, we haven’t really. Ever. That’s not what we do. I pick a piece of sushi off the tray in front of me. And another. By the third piece, I have self-soothed—there are worse fates than waiting out a party in the Sierra Nevadas.

The door opens. Eric, the waiter from earlier, walks in and, seeing me, backs against the wall.

“Miss.” His voice is a little shaky. “I understand that you’re a guest tonight and think you can do whatever you want, but you’re really not supposed to be in here looking for me.”

“I’m not, Eric. I promise. I just needed a little break from out there.”

He nods, unconvinced, which isn’t surprising. Most people have the stamina to handle a two-hour cocktail party.

“Please,” I say, “I’ll just sit here quietly. I won’t bother you.”

I can see him softening, but when he ventures closer, putting down his empty tray and reaching for the one in front of me, he spots the six gaping holes left over from my sampling. It’s too much for him.

“I can’t believe this. You couldn’t just wait outside like everyone else?” He stares at the floor and then, after a courage-gathering
breath, raises his voice. “Aaron,” he says, “this lady, she’s a guest, and she’s in here eating my reserve sushi.”

One of the other waiters stops stacking dirty glasses and appraises me, stroking his goatee. “I assume you told her she’s not supposed to be in here?”

“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.

____

T
he 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 really 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.

____

R
achel 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.