Jack With a Twist

page of the Post. I hate the picture that they’ve got printed. Is there any chance that they’ve used a different picture of us for the online version of the paper? Maybe I should e-mail them a copy of one of our engagement pictures to use online. In the print edition, they’ve got a shot of the two of us leaving the federal courthouse on the day of our initial court conference. For a second, I wish that I had worn a sexy Nanette Lepore suit just like Miranda had that day, with a camisole that was too low-cut for a court appearance, instead of the conservative dark suit and turtleneck that I actually chose. Then I begin to wish that I even owned a sexy Nanette Lepore suit with matching camisole.

Note to self: must pick up sexier suits next time I’m at Saks if I’m going to make a habit out of being photographed while leaving court.

Jack and I aren’t the main headline of the paper today, but we’re the big inset on the lower right-hand corner of the front page. Either way, you can’t miss us. The teaser tells me to flip to page nine, so I do. The same headline leads the full page article:

Move Over Hepburn and Tracy: It’s a Real Live Battle of the Sexes!

By Shawn Morgan (AP Press)

Forget the movies: it’s a real life case of Adam’s Rib in the Southern District of New York as Manhattan lawyers Brooke Miller and Jack Solomon, who are engaged to be married next spring, showed up in federal court yesterday to fight on opposite sides of a tightly sealed federal litigation. Why are the papers so tightly sealed? What’s at stake? And more importantly, who will win—the women or the men?—when this litigation finally becomes public and the trial date is set?

I allow myself to exhale as I realize that the court records were sealed before the press could get wind of the fact that the case is about Monique and Jean Luc dissolving their business partnership. I glance down at the photo that accompanies the story: Jack and I kissing in front of the federal courthouse, standing smack dab in the middle of Foley Square without any regard whatsoever to the people walking by. My ego loves it, but the rest of me can’t help but wonder: how on earth is this news?

I’m momentarily distracted by the photo credit—Jay Conte, aka our wedding videographer—as my BlackBerry begins to vibrate. I pick it up and see an e-mail from Judge Martin’s courtroom deputy.

From: “Judge Martin’s Chambers 2”<[email protected]>

To: “Brooke Miller” <[email protected]>; “Jack Solomon” <[email protected]>

Cc: “Judge Martin” <[email protected]>, “Judge Martin’s Chambers 1”

<[email protected]>; “Miranda Foxley” <[email protected]>

Subject: Today’s NYPost

Counselors:

In light of the media frenzy you were trying to avoid in your matter appearing before Judge Martin, when reporters came to the courthouse to try to find out the identity of the parties litigating in our sealed litigation, we thought it prudent to pretend to “leak” information about the case so that they would stop digging for information. As such, we had Judge Martin’s assistant “accidentally” tell the press that the reason this case was sealed was because the lead lawyers on either side were actually an engaged couple.

If you look at today’s New York Post, you will see that this story has appeared on page nine.

Best,

Brandon William

Courtroom Deputy to Judge Martin

*****CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE*****

The information contained in this e-mail message is the property of the United States Federal Government. If you are not the intended recipient, we would request you delete this communication without reading it or any attachment, not forward or otherwise distribute it, and kindly advise the Southern District of New York by return e-mail to [email protected]. Thank you in advance.

Jack’s BlackBerry begins to buzz next, so I read him the e-mail.

“See,” he says, returning to the kitchen counter with our coffees. “All’s well that ends well. And our case is still firmly under lock and key.”

“But, what if they keep digging for dirt?” I ask.

“Don’t worry,” Jack says, taking a sip of coffee. “It will be some other story tomorrow. I’m sure some reality show reject will be involved in some scandal and we’ll be yesterday’s news. Maybe even before today’s over.”

I can’t help but smile. I can never stay mad at Jack for too long.

“Well, for today, I hate the way I look in this photo,” I say to Jack as I sip my coffee. “So conservative and stodgy.”

“Conservative and stodgy?” Jack says, “Nah, you look just like Jackie O in the White House.”

My fiancé is well trained to know that anytime I’m feeling insecure, a reference to a fabulous celebrity is just what I need to get my confidence back. And, for me, it’s got to be a classic, old-time star—no Julia Roberts or Reese Witherspoon comparisons for me. He has his pick of the sixties icons: Jackie O (too conservative), Audrey Hepburn (too plain) or Marilyn Monroe (too fat). Even a fleeting Lauren Bacall comment (too sharp) is enough to turn my day back around.

Is it any wonder that we end up back in bed?

18

“Nothing?” I say to Vanessa as soon as we’re alone in the bathroom at Mega, a monstrosity of a restaurant in midtown. “You’ve got nothing?”

“Not a thing,” Vanessa says as she applies lipgloss while looking in the mirror. “Mainly, he just assigns her work and then they go work in their respective offices.”

Even though Jack spent the last two weeks making up the Pierre debacle to me (“What do you not understand about agreeing with everything I say in front of your parents?” [rest of scene deleted, as unsuitable for children under the age of seventeen]), I still have Vanessa, my darling matron/maid of honor checking up on him. I even made Vanessa take Miranda out for frozen yogurt in an effort to keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. All Vanessa really learned from that scouting expedition was that Miranda prefers chocolate to vanilla, but even that seemingly innocuous information could turn out to be very valuable some day.

Oh, please. As if you wouldn’t defend your man, too.

“How can that be? She’s the man stealer extraordinaire! No late-night rendezvousing in the tenth-floor library?” I ask, looking at Vanessa out of the corner of my eye.

“Wait, did you ever have a late-night rendezvous with Jack in the tenth-floor library?”

“No!” I say, laughing.

“You did, too!” Vanessa says, “I can tell!” She begins laughing while simultaneously staring me down.

“Let’s just say, don’t go near the treatises on real property law,” I say, eyebrow raised for effect, “if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Vanessa says, putting her lipgloss back into her gold Chanel clutch. “And, ew.”

“Don’t hate,” I say, touching up my own pout in the mirror. “Appreciate.”

“You’re not allowed to use that expression if you’re over the age of twenty-two,” Vanessa says.

“Don’t try to change the subject,” I say, turning to face Vanessa, “you’re supposed to be getting me dirt on Jack and Miranda. Now, spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill, Brooke,” Vanessa says. I pause for a second, waiting for the inevitable yet.

“So, you mean to tell me that you’ve got nothing,” I say, smoothing out my skirt and adjusting the sling-back