The Real Liddy James (21 page)

“It's Rose on line one!” said Sydney, appearing in the doorway.

“No,” said Liddy, waving her finger. “I can't speak to her.”

“She says it's very important,” said Sydney.

“Tell her the camp has the permission slip.”

Turning back to Brent and Brianna, Liddy did not miss a beat.

“You will both work with me on one complex, long-term case, but your primary duties will be writing and research.”

But they were looking past her. Liddy followed their gazes to the doorway, where Sydney was hopping nervously from foot to foot.

Liddy lifted her finger for a second time, a sight calculated to strike terror in a junior associate, but Sydney just gesticulated toward the phone.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Liddy muttered.

She lifted the receiver and stabbed at the red flashing button.

“Yes, Rose?”
she hissed.

Rose knew she had a limited number of seconds to get the very important information across so she spoke too loudly and exaggerated the consonants in the sentence.

“They found marijuana edibles in Matty's pocket.”

“I'm sorry. What are you talking about?” said Liddy. “What are marijuana edibles?”

Brent and Briana eyeballed each other and sniggered. Liddy eyeballed them.

“They're sweets made of hash,” said Brent quickly.

“They can look like gummy bears,” said Brianna.

“That's right,” said Rose, who had overheard this. “Matty says he took them from Josh's rucksack, and he didn't know what they were, but the camp doesn't believe him. He shared them with two other kids, and they all got stoned out of their brains last night. They were running around screaming, then they threw
up everywhere, and . . . look . . . he's okay, but . . . he's got to leave.”

“He's got to leave?”

Liddy's mouth sagged open. She gripped the phone so hard her knuckles bleached pink and white.

“Yes,” said Rose. “They've kicked him out for taking drugs.”

Liddy snapped her jaws together and started to think. She looked at Brent and Brianna. “Please wait outside while I finish this call.”

She stood up, scurried over to the door, opened it, waved them out, closed it, and ran back to the phone.

“Rose, we have to get Matty home,” she said.

Rose lowered her voice, although the tense distress in it remained. “I know, but Peter's really angry. He says he won't go.”

“He has to. I am up to my eyeballs at this moment. Is he there?”

“He's upstairs. Liddy, don't talk to him.”

Liddy kicked off her shoes, exasperated. “What is the point of him getting angry with Matty?”

“He's not angry with Matty,” replied Rose slowly, and at that moment Liddy heard Peter's crashing entry into the room and his voice shouting,
“Is that her?”

Then he marched over and took the phone. “This is your fucking fault!”

“Calm down, Peter.”

“How could you employ a fucking pothead?”

His voice was cold and hate-filled, but Liddy countered, regardless.

“How was I to know? Josh had impeccable references.”

“My God, Matty could have choked on his own vomit. Or one of the other little fools could have. Why do you think he did this?”

“I don't know!”
shouted Liddy, her own fear and confusion now at the same level as his.

“Do you spend
any
time with him at all, Liddy? What the fuck have you been doing?”

Liddy's leg started juddering violently, her shoe tapping insistently on the floor.

“Oh, I don't know, Peter. Earning the money to pay the mortgage, the private school fees, the child support to you, the service charge on the apartment, the allowance to my parents, not to mention the nanny, the housekeeper, and the fucking dog walker.”

“I always said you could never look after a dog!”

“What has the dog got to do with this?
What do you expect me to do?
”

“Be Matty's mother!”

Liddy flinched and fell silent. In the background, Rose pleaded helplessly about the need for someone to go to Vermont.

There was a long pause. Peter calmed down. “It's your turn, Liddy. I took him there. Go and get him. We'll talk tonight.”

Outside the door, Sydney was ushering the company auditors into the conference room.

“I can't,” said Liddy quietly.

“Why?”

“I have to work!”
she screamed.

There was a thud, the line went dead, and she knew he had thrown the phone onto the floor.

She sat very still for a moment.

There was a tentative knock on the door.

“Come in,” she said.

She looked up to see Sydney standing in the doorway.

“Are you okay?” said Sydney.

“I'm fine,” said Liddy, and she put on her fake smile.

Sydney closed the door.

Liddy started laughing because she didn't know what else to do.

And because Sydney and the summer interns, listening outside, were young and had no understanding of what heartbreak looked like, they believed Liddy really was laughing and did not understand that Liddy's fall was coming. And because Liddy was Liddy, her fall did not come in an ordinary way.

At two p.m., after successfully walking into the TV studio in her heels to the theme music from
Jaws
(the researcher had told her they were “having some fun” with her reputation), Liddy successfully navigated the discussion on some recent “Celeb Splitz!,” during which she commented on such, striking an appropriate balance between perky and serious and eliciting an appropriate balance of laughter and nodding from the already excited audience. (Before Liddy's appearance they had watched a major film star learn how to stack a dishwasher, an item Liddy found very interesting because she was a Virgo.) But then, as Liddy recited two perfectly judged lines on what New York State
law might mean for the children of such celeb splits, she noticed in her anterior vision that Mary Jane, the younger of the two enthusiastic presenters and the one farthest away from her on the sofa, was listening earnestly to her earpiece and glancing at the typewritten notes on the coffee table.

“Let's talk about you for a moment, Liddy,” she said, leaning forward with her orthodontically perfected smile. “You've said many times that you don't believe in divorce, particularly when there are children involved, but sadly your own marriage ended. How did your experience shape your view?”

Liddy blinked a couple of times before ignoring the question and concentrating on her well-rehearsed answer.

“Well, Mary Jane, when settlement negotiations become unstable, there's a tendency for children to be used as bargaining chips by one or both parties.”

(She thought of Peter, tired and sad and gray-faced, sitting alone on the train to Vermont.)

“So my new book, which will be available later this year, is about how parents should work together for the practical and emotional welfare of their children during a separation.”

(She thought of Matty, his jaw set bravely but terrified inside, sitting alone in some log cabin.)

“Right. But specifically, how has your elder son coped with your divorce from his father?” asked the younger presenter, returning, insistent, to her theme.

“My sons are
fine
!”

(She thought of Cal, a mournful expression on his face, sitting
alone in the corner of his classroom earlier today because, after a blowout crisis in the hair salon, she had been twenty minutes late to sit cross-legged in a circle with him as Steph Andrews banged a small drum.)

Tears spouted in Liddy's eyes. She wiped them away with a flick of her forefinger, but she felt suddenly dizzy, disoriented, and desperate to be alone. Her right leg was now tap-tapping so quickly that even the most severe smoothing of her skirt could not hide it. “I mean, there are always bumps in the road with teenagers, right?” she said.

“Tell me about it!” said Jolene, conspiratorially patting Liddy on the arm. “The day my youngest turned thirteen he started walking around looking like a Marilyn Manson tribute band! I love your message, Liddy. Keep calm and put the kids first.”

And she whooped and waved her hands in the air, causing the studio audience to whoop and wave too. Liddy stuffed her right hand into her jacket pocket, formed a fist, and pressed hard into her thigh until it hurt. She picked up a glass of water from the low table in front of her. She took a sip.

“Yes, I hope my book puts me out of business,” she said, praying that Curtis wasn't watching, but relieved to have gotten through the intrusive personal questions. “Honestly, I'd say to any couple contemplating separation, sit down and read it together, see if you can stay amicable and agree on what's fair, and I mean what's truly fair, not what you think you
deserve
, then download the relevant forms and fill them in. It'll cost you forty-nine dollars.”

There was another enthusiastic round of applause. Liddy plastered on her smile, gave a halfhearted whoop, and nodded with a self-deprecating expression into the camera. She glanced over at the clock on the wall. Two minutes until the segment ended. She resolved never to do this sort of thing again.
Ever.
Meanwhile, Mary Jane was not to be dissuaded. “So, Liddy, you think the adversarial court system is not in the best interests of hurt and confused couples?”

Liddy looked at her.
Duh!
she thought.

“In most circumstances, yes, I believe court should be the last resort,” she said, firmly, but not firmly enough. Jolene sensed the opportunity for a profile-increasing move-to-prime-time storm in the Twitter-sphere. “But the multimillion-dollar divorce industry is how celebrity attorneys, like you, make your fortunes. Are you saying you make things worse, not better?”

Liddy glanced over at the clock again. Sixty seconds to go.
Okay, Liddy, keep it together
, she thought.

“In the end, clients decide how . . . aggressively . . . a case will be fought. I don't take a moral position, I take an instruction.” Liddy forgot to do her media-friendly grin. “But in dangerous waters my reflex action is always to attack.”

Like now
, she thought, squeezing her fist even harder.

Jolene shook her head in awe. “
Wow!
You really are a shark!”

The studio audience burst out laughing, and Liddy should have laughed too, and countered with a soothing sentence or two about the importance of counseling and collaborative law. But the sudden rush of adrenaline into her bloodstream was so
intense, she could almost visualize it pulsing through her veins. It was fight, flight, or freeze time, and as her official script suddenly vanished, she froze. Words stopped in her throat and began to choke her until she saw bright white starlike specks in the air.

“You know what?” she gasped.
“I am not my fucking job!”

She was overwhelmed by a paralyzing feeling of despair, and without missing a beat, she turned and looked into the audience to see the rows of people no longer laughing but staring at her, some shifting in their seats, some whispering to one another, all concerned. Quivering, she whispered to herself,
“It's all bullshit. I'm bullshit. I can't do this anymore,”
but when she heard this reverberating through her mic live to the studio, she recoiled from the anguish in her voice and leapt to her feet, trying to pull the mic off her shirt, and when she couldn't, shouting,
“Get it off me!”
to the considerable discomfort of the two presenters, whose enthusiasm was instantaneously replaced by abject terror. The producer immediately went to a commercial break, during which the clip was uploaded to YouTube.

The video promptly went viral under the heading “Top Lawyer Goes Nuts on Television” and was of particular interest to all those who had been on the receiving end of Liddy's bite. They gleefully sent it to everyone in their address books, apart from Gloria Jane Thompson, who found she felt sorry for Liddy, although she could not resist sending it to Sebastian Stackallan. Who, as he watched, saw the real Liddy James, and noticed, at the last second, that the handkerchief she pulled out of her pocket to dry her tears was his.

TO: Liddy James, [email protected]
FROM: Sebastian Stackallan, [email protected]
DATE: June 30

RE: HOUSE IN IRELAND

Dear Liddy, have been thinking of how to write this for about twenty minutes, but am too busy to waste more time so will be straightforward. I am currently in my apartment, or rather my soon-to-be-ex-wife's apartment, packing up my stuff, and reading the charming notes she has left in my sock drawer (my particular favorite is that I only married her so people wouldn't think I was a homosexual). The point is that I am about to head to a remote island in Alaska for a few weeks, to fish and hike and lick my wounds, and my house in Ireland will be vacant for the summer months. Having just seen your funny turn on the telly, I think you need a break. Rest assured I don't want anything from you and, anyway, I have already saved your life so there is nothing more you can owe me. It is a beautiful place on Lough Dan in Wicklow, nothing fancy, but right on the shore between the lake and the mountain. It might just be the thing to help you get a grip.

PS Bring the kids.

PPS My mother is currently touring South America with her latest beau so you need not expect an encounter. (Just make sure you do not disturb the sacred grove behind the woodshed!)

PPPS You will no doubt bump into my sister Storm at some point. She's staying at the main house while Roberta's away. Ignore everything she says about me and do not let her drive you anywhere. Ever.

TO: Sebastian Stackallan, [email protected]
FROM: Liddy James, [email protected]
DATE: June 30