“I know it’s a blow, Honey, but this is just a hiccup for us. Before long, we’ll be able to do all those things once again.”
“Before how long?” I ask.
He blinks and works his jaw. “Three months, tops.”
“Three months!” I repeat in shock.
“Well, we want it to last well into the second quarter.”
I suppose I should be glad he’s thinking of this ruse in purely fiscal terms. It at least shows he doesn’t think of Muffy in that way.
Yet.
I take another long sip of champagne.
“You’ll see, by this summer, we’ll be back together. I’ll take you to Saint-Tropez. There’s a nude beach there where we can both lie in the sun and drink champagne all day.”
A laugh escapes my mouth despite my disappointment.
Who knows? Maybe that will be when he finally pops the question. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say.
So why does my heart feel like it’s already been dragged through the mud?
I hate this. I know that the ultra-rich operate differently from what I’m used to, but this is a bit much. Going from on the brink of a proposal to being dismissed for the sake of share price?
I have a bit more self-worth than that, thank you very much.
I stand and reach out to take my glass. I finish the rest of my champagne in one fell swoop and set it down on the table, hard enough to elicit a small clang.
Francis noticeably flinches at the sound.
“If you want a break, then we’re on a break,” I say in a perfectly amicable tone. “But I won’t stand by as your plaything in private while you have your public dalliance with this Muffy, fake or not. I consider myself a tolerant person, Francis, but even I have my limits. If someone is with me, I expect them to be with me entirely, that means publicly as well as privately. So until you’re ready to accept me full-time…au re·voir, mon cher.”
Chapter Four Giuseppe
I really should be working.
Instead, I’ve been pointlessly wandering down memory lane, or rather Emily Becksworth Avenue.
In the four years we’ve been apart, she’s become nothing more than a faded memory. Emily ended up in Washington D.C., which was always her second choice of locations after New York City.
I don’t do Facebook or Instagram or any of that social media nonsense, so I was limited as to what I could gather from her work information.
We haven’t been in touch since we broke up, so it’s no wonder she didn’t call or email to tell me the news herself.
In fact, she probably thinks I’ve already moved on with someone else.
I once again click on the picture of her, which her former employer has yet to remove.
She looks good. If anything, she looks even better than she did in law school.
Just as I did during that first year here at ABC, I wonder if perhaps we could have made it work. Washington D.C. isn’t that far. She would have one day made her way back to New York.
Apparently.
My phone rings, forcing me back into the moment. I see that it’s Doug Hancock, and immediately pick up.
“Jesse, you aren’t working on anything urgent are you?” he asks before I can even say hello.
That depends on how you define urgent. In law, it feels like everything needs to have been done yesterday.
But when one of the senior partners asks, you have all the time in the world.
At least it will take my mind off this news about Emily joining the firm.
“No, not really, Doug.”
“You worked with Blackstone Media on something last year didn’t you?”
“The contract case? Yes, I was the lead—”
“Contract? I thought it was a censorship thing.”
“Well the case specifically dealt with a contract clause related to censorship.“
“Perfect. Can you come to my office? We’ve got something in the works and I want you on it.”
“I’ll be right up.”
I pump my fist as soon as I hang up.
Contract cases have inadvertently become my specialty. I’m an expert at sifting through the minutiae and word vomit of particularly dense agreements to find the needle in a haystack that anyone else might have overlooked. It’s tedious and boring, and most associates balk at such duties, but I love it.
I grab a pen and legal pad, which I prefer to the laptop the firm provides, and head up one floor to Doug’s office. He has a corner, with a view of both the East River on one side and Governors Island to the south.
Doug silently waves me in without greeting, and I take a seat in the chair across from him. His attention is focused on the phone on his desk, which is on speaker mode. I’ve noticed it’s his favorite way of communicating.
“Congressman Bowen? I have one of our best associates here with me. He’s worked on a similar case before—Jesse.”
Last name conveniently left off. I attribute it to the fact that Doug has a tendency to mangle “Castiglione” when he tries to pronounce it.
“Congressman Bowen,” I announce, quickly trying to place the name. I know he’s a federal congressman, elected by some district in upstate New York.
“I want you to eviscerate these bastards!” the congressman says without preamble.
I raise a questioning eyebrow at Doug.
He waves a dismissive hand as though he’ll explain later. He allows the man to rant long enough for me to get a clearer picture of both what this case is about and the man himself.
Congressman Samuel Bowen, well known in the family values circuit for his holier-than-thou Protestantism and his opposition to anything not resembling the traditional nuclear family. Which has obviously made him easy fodder for satirists.
The specific target of his angst is Ideal Gentlemen magazine which recently did an entire spread on Congressman “Blowin’.” It was a series of cartoons with a caricature of Bowen, blowing a dog whistle in the shape of a penis as he angrily glared at cartoon dogs with very human-like
