“He’s going to walk in any second. Try to act normal,” I said, “and anyway, I’m paying, so what do you care?”
“You wouldn’t let me order an appetizer,” she said, as I tried to remember how that expression about a gift horse went.
“That’s forty-three-dollar salmon you’re eating,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “Try it, it’s divine.”
“Divine?” I said as she stuck a forkful into my mouth. “Who says
I took a moment to savor Vanessa’s dish. The mustard crust gave just the perfect amount of spicy kick to the fish, which remained moist, even though it was cooked through completely.
It was divine. As was my braised beef, which I ate carefully, so as not to get any in my teeth. Vanessa was devouring her salmon, barely even bothering to look up at me as we spoke.
“What?” she said, as I gave her a not-so-subtle look. “I’m training for the marathon. I need my protein.”
“The marathon’s in November,” I said.
“So?”
“It’s April.”
I was straining my neck to get a glimpse of everyone who walked in. I had flirted shamelessly with the maître d’ to get a table angled just so, all the better with which to get a great view of the doorway. I’d then appealed to the girliness of our hostess to try to get her to tell me when Douglas’s party walked in, goading her with details of his gorgeousness and how we were about to get back together and dramatically reconcile that very day.
I took another ladylike bite of my beef just as two fake blondes walked in. They were total throwbacks to the 1980s — big hair, long red acrylic nails and both simultaneously chewing and cracking their gum. They looked as if they could be extras in a Whitesnake video. I could hear their nasal voices from where I sat.
They were both wearing jeans, which was totally inappropriate for the Grill Room, where everyone else was in a suit. Granted, they were wearing $250 True Religion jeans, but it was still inappropriate. The older of the two, who wore her bangs low around the sides of her eyes so as to cover her crow’s-feet, was wearing the pair with the rhinestones all over the backside, while the younger of the two, who wore an excessive amount of makeup that created a dark tan line around her ghastly white jawline, was wearing the pair that were ripped to shreds. I’d tried them on at Saks (for Saturday nights out at clubs, not to wear to the Four Seasons) and couldn’t get my legs inside because my feet keep coming out of the ripped knee holes. I took that as a sign that I should not be wearing such jeans.
The hostess rushed over to our table to announce that the MacGregor party had arrived.
Of course they had. That was Beryl and her mother. As upset as I was that I wouldn’t be seeing Douglas, all I could think was:
“While I respect your lifestyle choice,” the hostess said to me in a whisper, “I don’t think that they’re Scottish.”
“That’s not him,” I said, crouching down into my seat. Vanessa continued making love to her salmon, completely oblivious to the carnage that was about to unfold before her.
I crouched farther down in my seat as the maître d’ walked by with Beryl and her mother.
“We have to get the check,” I whispered to Vanessa as I tried to subtly cover my face with my napkin.
“Why?” Vanessa said, still looking at her salmon.
“Beryl and her mother just walked in,” I said, leaning into her. “They took Douglas’s reservation. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“I’m not done with my salmon yet,” Vanessa said, looking up at me for the first time since her food had arrived. “And, anyway, how would she know what you even look like?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, “perhaps it’s because she threw out the picture of me and Douglas that was on his windowsill a week ago?” I vowed right then and there that if Vanessa dared to say, “Well, maybe she didn’t look at it,” I would spit right onto her beloved salmon.
“We’ll get the check.” Vanessa looked around for our waiter and made the international symbol for “get me my check, stat” to any waitstaff that walked by. Within minutes, our check had arrived, I’d paid it and we were ready to go.
Keeping my head down as I quietly got up from my seat, our waiter swept in and gave us pretty little boxes that contained the desserts we’d forgotten that we’d ordered. I whispered thanks to our waiter and in one fell swoop, grabbed my bag, my dessert and my jacket and swung my body around toward the door. I planned to skulk out quietly and completely undetected, head down even as I walked so that if anyone did happen to look my way, I couldn’t be seen. What I didn’t anticipate was that another waiter would be walking right behind me at that exact moment in time with a tray filled with dirty dishes.
Crash! Leftover salmon, chicken and beef were strewn across the floor. Their sauces had splashed all over the place and had even gotten the pant leg of the man sitting at the table next to ours.
“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry,” I whispered, crouching down to help the waiter with his dishes. I was partially down on the ground in an effort to help, but I must admit that a teensy-tiny bit of me wanted to get down on the floor so that when the crowd of people eating in the Grill Room (read: Beryl and her mother) turned around to see who had caused all the ruckus, I would be out of sight.
“We’re so sorry!” Vanessa said as five busboys rushed to the scene of the crime.
“Please, miss, let me help you,” one of them said to me as he helped me to my feet. I couldn’t figure out a classy way to say, “No, really, I’ll just crawl out of the restaurant on my hands and knees,” so I let him help me up.
Vanessa grabbed me by the arm and led me out. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Beryl talking to her mother and pointing at me.
“So, how did the stalking go?” Jack asked me as he stood in my doorway after Vanessa and I got back to the office from lunch.
“Stalking?” I said. “Whatever do you mean?”
“The Four Seasons, Brooke?” Jack said. “You normally would only go to the Four Seasons when the summer associates are here and the firm is paying.” True.
“Not very well,” I said, “but I brought you my dessert.” I handed him the fancy box filled with carrot cake, his favorite.
“Thanks,” he said, sitting down in my visitor’s chair. I opened my desk drawer and took out a plastic fork for him. “Now, that’s what I call service. So, what are you working on?”
“Nothing,” I said, turning my computer screen, as quickly as a thief who was about to be caught, “absolutely nothing.”
“How are those discovery requests going?” he asked in between forkfuls.
“Well,” I said, “I haven’t exactly gotten to them yet. But I did find tons of awesome information about Scotland.”
“Scotland?” he asked as I reached for the Redweld folder where I’d put all my work.
“Research, silly,” I said, “for the wedding.”
“What about research, silly,” Jack said, “for our case?”
“Did you know that Scotland is composed of over 790 islands?”
“No,” Jack said, “I did not know that.”
“Well, it is,” I said. “I put some of the info I found on index cards for you. They’re color coded based on category — history, arts and culture, food and drink, places of interest and geography.”
“Thanks,” Jack said, leafing through the cards, “but maybe we should do the discovery requests before we research Scotland.”
“And here’s an outline of some info you’ll need to know,” I said, handing him a fifteen-page outline on all things Scotland, with the little Post-it flags I used to use on my casebooks in law school placed strategically on each section in the same palette as the index cards.
“I can’t believe how much time you’ve wasted on this,” he said, grabbing the outline and putting it in his lap, but not flipping through it.
