top. Unless you order the apple martini. That one comes with an apple slice. Or a chocolate martini. That one comes with a Hershey’s Kiss on top. But you get what I mean.
Only open for two weeks, already, the place was generating a huge buzz over the waitresses walking around clad only in slips. I was unsure if the fuss was about the women being nearly nude, or if it was offensive merely because slip dresses are totally out of fashion.
“Beryl moved in already,” I told them once we had secured a prime table near the window, overlooking the Empire State.
“So what?” Vanessa said. “You were too good for that piece of trash anyway. Let him have someone on his own level.” She set her enormous black Louis Vuitton work bag on the extra chair at the table.
“I agree,” Jack said, setting his Redweld full of discovery requests down on the extra chair next to Vanessa’s bag and putting his navy sports jacket on the back of his own. “Good riddance to bad garbage.”
“Yeah,” Vanessa continued, “Beryl isn’t even a name!”
“I don’t really think that we should be making judgments based on the poor girl’s name, though,” Jack said.
“No matter what her name is,” Vanessa explained, “we automatically hate her. We love Brooke, we hate Beryl. That’s just the way it is.”
The waitress came to our table. Vanessa ordered an apple martini and I ordered a French martini. Truth be told, I didn’t very much care for the taste of it, but it came adorned with that little flower, which I loved. Jack opted for a beer. A very fancy and expensive beer, but a beer nonetheless. Jack always told us that guys who went to college in the Midwest order beer as a matter of course — as if it were some sort of religious thing or a condition of keeping your diploma from the University of Michigan in good standing. Jack offered up his credit card to begin a tab, which he also always assured us was another throwback to good old-fashioned Midwestern values. Even though he, himself, grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia.
“Why were you even calling him?” Jack asked. “Hasn’t he done enough damage already?”
“I thought I’d try to get him back so that we could go to Trip’s wedding together and I could keep my dignity ever-so-slightly intact and things could be perfect again.”
“But, Brooke, they weren’t perfect before,” Jack said. I turned to him to find him looking me dead in the eye. I had to turn away from his gaze.
“And, anyway,” Vanessa said, “what is he? Cattle? Get him? How very cavewoman of you, Brooke.” She adjusted her bateau-neck cashmere sweater as the waitress set our eighteen-dollar martinis down on the table.
“Get back
“How very country-western of you,” Jack said, taking a sip of his beer.
“Look, it’s not like there is some law saying that you have to go to your ex-boyfriend’s wedding or something,” Vanessa tried to reason. “In fact, there should be a law against it. Save yourself the pain. I won’t go, either, if you want. Do you really think that his ice-queen bride even wants you there?”
“Actually, I’ve heard that she’s really very nice,” I said, removing the flower from my drink and setting it on the napkin.
“Yes, if I was a stunning Academy Award-nominated actress with noble blood, I’m quite certain that I would be, what did you call her, nice, as well.” Way to help out my ego, there, Vanessa. “She does have a title, doesn’t she?”
“I forget,” I said, my eyes floating over to the view.
“She’s a countess,” Jack chimed in, sipping his beer. “Or an empress. Some ‘ess.’ I’m not sure exactly what.”
“Not helping,” I said under my breath. I fingered the cocktail napkin that was under my drink.
“I saw this whole special on her on
“Still not helping,” I said a little louder. I ripped my cocktail napkin in two pieces. And then in four.
“Oh, my God, I totally saw that, too!” Vanessa exclaimed.
“Yeah, she’s part of the royal family of some obscure Asian country,” Jack continued. Jiaolong, to be exact. A tiny island-nation nestled between China and Taiwan, population just under fifty thousand; native language: Mandarin Chinese; main export: fish. Not like I Googled her or her country or anything. Who doesn’t know Jiaolong?
“Can we get back to me, please!” I said, my napkin now in eight pieces. “What am I going to do about this wedding? I RSVP’d yes and it’s in two weekends. It is, like, totally rude to cancel now. They probably already have their count in.” I took a big swig of my martini for effect.
“Well,” Vanessa said, sipping hers, “it’s not like Trip isn’t rich enough to pay for one extra person who doesn’t come.”
I guess she was right. I could just go to the wedding by myself. I mean, who needs to have a man on your arm when you are a woman of the new millennium? In many ways, having the right pair of shoes is much more important for an ex-boyfriend’s wedding than having a man on your arm. I mean, can having a man on your arm make your feet look so cute you could die? I don’t think so. Can having a man on your arm make you look three and a half inches taller, thus making you look like a svelte five-foot-eight supermodel as opposed to the five - foot - four - and - a - half little shrimp you truly are? No. Can having a man on your arm make your butt and thighs look ten pounds thinner? I think not! So, I ask you: Who needs to have a man on her arm?
Okay, I didn’t even convince myself on that one.
“Two,” I pointed out, placing the sixteen pieces of my cocktail napkin back on the table. A slip-dress-clad waitress skimmed by our table, knocking my napkin bits to the floor like pieces of confetti. I grabbed for them, but they slipped through my fingers.
“Two extra people,” Vanessa continued, without missing a beat. “He’s only, like, one of the biggest agents in Hollywood.”
“Exactly,” Jack agreed, “and it’s not like his fiancée Ava, the empress or countess or whatever she is, is hurting for cash.”
“Still not helping!” I said, lifting Jack’s beer to make a play for his cocktail napkin. “I get it. My ex is fabulously successful and wealthy and is marrying a woman who is fabulously successful and wealthy.”
“And hot,” Jack said. Hot? I suppose she was okay-looking if you consider that whole petite - dancer’s - body - with - flawless - alabaster - skin - long - flowing - black - hair - and - face - of - an - angel thing attractive.
“And has a title,” Vanessa said.
“Not! Helping!”
“And here you are with no boyfriend, no ring, and no Oscar nomination,” Vanessa said, patting my head as if I were a child who had just lost her school’s spelling bee.
“That pretty much sums it up,” I agreed. “Can we get some more cocktail napkins here?” I asked the scantily clad waitress who was now delivering round two.
“Come on!” Jack said. “You are a brilliant attorney at one of the largest and most prestigious firms in New York City. You have a wonderful family, and, if I do say so myself, wonderful friends. In your spare time you volunteer at a nursing home.
Jack was right. I was a big-time lawyer at a big-time law firm. I had a wonderful family and friends. And I volunteered at a nursing home, to boot! Sometimes I forgot how wonderful I truly was. Although, I hadn’t really had time to volunteer much, what with my caseload and all. And that sort of thing isn’t billable. But I really think that it’s the thought that counts with those things.
“Wait!” Vanessa cried, putting both hands on the table as if she was about to yell out
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Hi, Trip, I can’t make it to your wedding because I have to play Yahtzee with the elderly.”
Vanessa removed her hands from the table and admired the view.
“Just don’t go,” she said, head still turned out to the Empire State.
