Love And Miss Communication Part 12

Chapter 11.

"'Commercially reasonable condition' and 'reasonable condition' do not mean the same thing. We've got to go with 'commercially reasonable' or I'm hanging up this phone right now."

The threat to hang up on the conference call came from Louis Madwell, senior partner and head of the white-collar crime division at Crohn and Hitchens, one of Baker Smith's rivals. Their office was located on Third Avenue in what was commonly known as the Lipstick Building due to its shape, but which Evie thought looked more phallic. Based on how Madwell was acting, her vision of his workplace was more fitting. He was a member of the Brighton board of trustees, and, as he told everyone at the start of the call, would be "running the show" for the school. His services were being offered to the school gratis, another fact he brought up at the outset when he urged everyone to be mindful of his time.

"'Reasonable' means 'reasonable,'" Joe Cayne, a member of the opposing counsel, whose name Evie immediately noted rhymed with cocaine, chimed in. "And that's all we're willing to agree to. Besides, you're not selling anything. This is a school. Why do you need to put in the word 'commercially'?"

Madwell snorted for the benefit of all fifteen people on the call. "At forty thousand dollars a pop, we d.a.m.n well are selling something. We're selling an education. Which is why when your client turns over the keys to their building so we can put in a G.o.dd.a.m.n award-winning computer lab, I want the contract to say it will be in 'commercially reasonable condition.' I don't want to come in and find holes in the walls and a rat infestation. You hear me?"

"With all due respect, Louis, my client was running a high-end art gallery in her s.p.a.ce. There are no rats in the building. And I can a.s.sure you there are no holes in the walls," Caine retorted.

"No holes in the walls? So how did she hang the d.a.m.n paintings?"

Good point, Madwell. It was time for Evie to interject.

"Gentlemen, we're getting off track here. Can I make a suggestion that I think might please everyone?"

Silence on the line.

"Why don't we change the clause to read that the building will be delivered in 'reasonably habitable' condition? That way we take out the word 'commercially,' which I think we can all agree is making the other side uncomfortable. And our side can feel good that the building will be deemed habitable for students, which I'm sure is what we're all concerned with. How does that sound?"

"I can live with that," Madwell said. "I have a three-billion-dollar lawsuit on my hands right now and I'm trying to keep a client from rotting in an upstate prison for the rest of his life. That's more important than this s.h.i.t. Joe, can you agree to what the girl said?"

Evie did not enjoy being called "the girl," but she'd heard female lawyers called worse before. There was whispering on the call, which she a.s.sumed was Cocaine conferring with his client.

"That's fine with us," he said. "I'll shoot your team over a new draft of the contract and let's try to get this sale wrapped up by the end of the week."

"Thanks everyone for a productive call," Evie said. "Have a good day and please call me if any further issues arise." She rested the phone in its cradle and took a deep breath. Her first a.s.signment as interim in-house counsel at Brighton was going fairly smoothly. She was an old pro at rehashing the meaning of everyday phrases. Similar minutiae in the M&A world might have included a week-long debate on what was better for her client: "Management will report promptly to the investors whenever a significant issue arises" or "Management will report to investors without delay whenever a significant issue arises." It all felt like a futile exercise in dictionary wars. If any problem arose, the matter would be settled out of court. n.o.body would consult the contract to pa.r.s.e the meaning of an adverb. This was Evie's first legal a.s.signment outside of a firm, but it wasn't proving to be that much different. Maybe some lawyers got a high from sparring on conference calls and throwing around words like "G.o.dd.a.m.n" for emphasis, but she wasn't one of them.

"Hey, I know you. Mrs. Loo's friend."

Evie looked up to find Jamie Matthews, the texter from Tracy's cla.s.s, hovering near her with his book bag slung over one shoulder and a tiny paper cup in his hand.

"If I'd known I'd have an office buddy today, I would have gotten two espressos." He plopped down in the abandoned cubicle next to hers and pulled out a pain au chocolat from a crinkled brown bag.

"Yes, hi, I'm Evie. Evie Rosen. I mean Miss Rosen," she stammered. What the h.e.l.l should she call herself? She wasn't a teacher. But some level of decorum felt necessary. "I'm filling in as in-house counsel for a while."

"Hi, Evie, I'm Jamie." Apparently he decided what she would be called. Whether he knew what an in-house counsel was didn't seem to matter. "We're going to be office mates. Hope you don't mind."

"Aren't you a student?" she asked, sitting up straighter, forming what Caroline's daughters called "happy back" from ballet cla.s.s.

"Yep. But I got into a little bit of trouble last year and I kind of made a deal with the headmaster that I would help out in the office during my free periods so that-"

"So that what?"

"So that my suspension wouldn't show up on my student record. I'm applying to college this year. I do filing, make copies, etcetera. Whatever anyone needs, which I guess now includes you." He gave her a devilish smile.

"I'm okay. I don't need any help."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'm here if you need me."

"Thanks." She turned around to face her computer, agitated by the invasion of her already cramped works.p.a.ce. Who was this kid anyway, with his espresso and French pastries? In high school, she ate Pop-Tarts. At least he was cute, in a boyish sort of way.

She turned her attention back to the contract revisions, but found herself thoroughly driven to distraction by Jamie's presence. His cell phone buzzed every ten seconds, whistling something high pitched and clawing each time a text arrived. She threw a disparaging look his way, but he took no notice. The words from the doc.u.ment on her desk lifted off the page, the phrases "fee simple," "eas.e.m.e.nt," and "right of first refusal" doing a legal circle dance. It was time for more caffeine. She rose to fill her mug from the communal pot with the plastic handle (how she missed Baker Smith's Nespresso machines on every floor) and noticed a striking young girl enter the office and head straight for Jamie's chair. He moved over to accommodate her tiny b.u.m, and the two of them sat nibbling on his pastry and giggling.

"Evie, this is Eleanor, my girlfriend," Jamie said when he caught Evie staring.

"Eleanor Klieger," she said with poise, adding her last name, as though it was supposed to mean something to Evie. Maybe it was. "It's nice to meet you." She had one of those enviable raspy voices. Like she was on day four of a cold and all that was left to show for it was a s.e.xy hoa.r.s.eness and a throaty laugh.

"It's nice to meet you too," Evie said, feeling suddenly ancient in front of these two.

While she doctored her coffee with milk and sugar, Evie watched Eleanor's lithe body movements as she tucked Jamie's long hair behind his ear and popped a piece of puffed pastry into his mouth. She admired Eleanor's ensemble-cropped jeans, a red-and-white-checked shirt and navy ballet flats with discreet double Cs on the side. The clothing hugged her body enough to show off her excellent figure but was loose enough to make it seem like she didn't want anyone to notice. Evie knew this sort of girl. She woke up with perfectly tousled hair, had an infectious laugh, and was a good student without being too intimidating. She was ditzy when it was cute to be ditzy; clever when it was cool to be clever.

"I have to get to study hall," Eleanor said, popping up from the chair and planting a kiss on Jamie's cheek. "Let's meet at the vending machines before practice, okay?" Of course Eleanor played a sport. Field hockey or lacrosse most likely.

"I'll see you there, babe."

Evie looked back at her contract. The words had quit their pesky dancing and she was able to concentrate. Jamie moved about the office doing random tasks, many of which involved him reaching into upper cabinets, taking his polo shirt northward to reveal a chiseled core. When he was done with his work, he tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Great to see you. I'll be back tomorrow."

Later that day, in the faculty bathroom, Evie ran into Tracy, who was struggling to snap an elastic belt she was wearing to support the weight of her tummy. Evie fastened it for her.

"One of your students works in the office right next to me. Jamie, I think," Evie said. "His desk is about a millimeter from mine. I've already met the girlfriend."

"Oh yeah. That's Jamie Matthews. I think his parents helped make that arrangement. He was apparently about to get tossed out of Brighton. Half the kids here worship him. I'm not quite sure why."

"He seems nice enough," Evie said.

"Not very good at English, though."

After a week of sartorial failures, the nadir of which was the pants-splitting episode, Evie decided it was time to invest in a wardrobe that was more suitable for Brighton. With the smug Jamie punching in for duty almost daily and Malibu Barbie Eleanor dropping in for visits, Evie felt compelled to take her look up a notch. She asked Stasia to accompany her on a shopping outing.

She was still peeved that Stasia had never returned her call, especially knowing that Rick must have shared that her grandma was sick, but she let her curiosity about wanting to sniff out a baby b.u.mp override her grudge. They met at the J.Crew in the Time Warner Center, which was the closest thing Manhattan had to a mall. Evie loved walking into the front entrance of the shopping center because of the two giant nude Botero sculptures, known as Adam and Eve, who stood in permanent greeting. At twelve feet tall each, they made Evie feel delicate and childlike, and when she walked right up to them they reminded her that her issues were quite inconsequential in a city of eight million people with struggles of their own. Oddly enough, Evie found the feeling of not mattering all that much comforting.

Evie waited for Stasia at the base of these two sculptures, and when her friend showed up ten minutes late looking haggard and ill, Evie felt sorry for making her travel all the way from SoHo for a J.Crew run. But then again Stasia still hadn't officially announced the baby, so it wasn't really fair for her to expect special treatment. She didn't even giggle when Evie pretended to reach for Adam's ma.s.sive genitalia.

After an hour fussing in the cramped dressing room together, Evie was satisfied their mission had been a success. She found periwinkle and hunter green corduroys, two A-line skirts, an a.s.sortment of cashmere crewnecks, and a hot pink peacoat with chunky b.u.t.tons. Stasia provided decent commentary but seemed preoccupied the entire time. When she didn't even try anything on, Evie grew more convinced of a pregnancy.

"How's the new job going?" Stasia asked while Evie compiled all of her garments to take to the register.

"Proving to be surprisingly similar to my old one."

"Well, that's good, right?"

"I'm not sure. At least I know what I'm doing."

It was Evie's turn to pay and she approached a clerk with retro gla.s.ses and a shrunken flannel shirt. Evie deduced from the U SUCK sticker he had affixed to his cell phone that he was the sort p.r.o.ne to eye rolling.

"Thank you for shopping at J.Crew," he said lifelessly while removing the ant.i.theft sensors from Evie's new clothes. "If you provide your e-mail address, you can enter a contest for a thousand-dollar shopping spree."

Evie gave him a knowing smile. "And exactly how many spam e-mails will I have to endure to enter this supposed raffle?" she asked, putting air quotes around the word "raffle."

"Um, I'm not really sure," he responded with a careless shrug, his attention diverted to a ping from his phone.

"Oh, I'm sure J.Crew and whoever else they sell their mailing list to will be really considerate and only e-mail me when it's very important," Evie said sarcastically. As she spoke, Stasia gradually inched away from Evie.

"Well, guess what?" Evie went on. "I don't use e-mail. I don't even have a computer. Or a BlackBerry. Or an iPhone. Speaking of which, I don't think you're supposed to be using yours while ringing me up."

That got his attention.

"Listen," he said. "You can just opt out of the daily e-mails and still enter the raffle. Want to give me your e-mail address or not?"

"I wasn't lying. I really don't use e-mail." Despite the growing line behind her, Evie persisted. "People are so addicted to technology these days. It's really changing the way people relate to each other-and not for the better. How many times a day do you check your e-mail? Be honest. Thirty? Forty? And do you actually learn anything important from Twitter or Facebook? Think about how much time you waste with that nonsense. You get what I'm saying, right?"

"Hey, Pretentious," a voice boomed behind Evie. "Can you maybe finish up this little speech later?" A middle-aged woman carrying a pile of gray and brown slacks tapped her on the shoulder. "Some of us have lives to attend to."

"Sorry," Evie mumbled and sheepishly handed over her credit card. But she was still happy she spoke up, soccer mom with the stack of earth-tone pants be d.a.m.ned.

"Evie," Stasia said, pulling her by the elbow toward the exit. "I think you've got to tone it down. Like, now."

The next morning, Evie stood in her bra and underwear eyeing the spread of new clothes on her sofa, coffee mug in hand. Her stomach still looked pouchy, despite her subsistence on grapefruit since the shame of the pants-splitting. Facing the high school girls every day was rough. They were skeleton thin, despite scarfing down Dylan's candy by the bagful and drinking Red Bulls, their metabolisms still a decade away from decelerating to a grinding halt. Eleanor, the leader of the pack, had a particular lightness about her; she bubbled like a human soft drink and her peers couldn't seem to wait to drink her in.

Watching her glide like a ballerina into the office resurrected Evie's feelings of insecurity from her days at Pikesville High. Eleanor, who even managed to pull off her granny name with aplomb, was the Upper East Side version of Cameron Canon, the most desirable girl at Evie's high school. Once when Cameron wore a white jeans skirt to school in the dead of winter, half the girls showed up wearing the same outfit the very next day. Only the day Cameron wore it, a light snow was falling and she looked like a fairy princess who commanded the weather G.o.ds to produce snowflakes to complement her outfit. When the rest of the girls mimicked her the following day, a heavy rain turned the day-old powder to slush and mucked up everyone's outfits, including Evie's.

To say Cameron was Evie's rival would be to elevate Evie's social status to beyond what it was. Evie's compet.i.tiveness with Cameron was strictly internal. They were actually pretty friendly, though Evie never felt like she knew her all that well. They were in the same group, the "cool" crowd, though Evie felt at most times that she was hanging on to this group with a far more tenuous grip than its other members. She was more concerned with her grades than the rest of them. In retrospect, she couldn't pinpoint why she was so hung up on making the honor roll instead of having fun. But there was a certain security she found in her books that she could never find at a party. Study hard-get a good grade. It was a predictable path for the most part. Be nice to everyone-well, there was no guarantee that would lead to being popular.

Who would have thought Cameron would be back to haunt Evie on a daily basis in the guise of the gorgeous Eleanor? And Evie was back to her old habits, this time copying Eleanor's style while dressing for work. Mixing some of her old standbys with her new J.Crew garb, Evie chose a checked shirt similar to the one Eleanor wore the first day they met and paired it with narrow-cut beige trousers. She didn't own the Chanel flats, but there were a pair of black knockoffs in her closet that got her 90 percent of the way there. Instead of skipping makeup altogether, she worked carefully on her eyes, shadowing them with a light taupe color and finishing her face with a dusting of bronzer on her cheeks and a light gloss on her lips. Finally she wound a round brush through her hair, running a hair dryer over her locks to smooth and contour the layers. When she was done, Evie noted with pleasure that she didn't look all that different from the senior girls. Sure there were more laugh lines around her lips, but who could complain about imperfections caused by smiling too much? She topped off her ensemble with a swingy fall cape, which put a bit of a superhero spring into her step.

With perfect punctuality, she sauntered into the office with ratcheted-up confidence, but no one was there to appreciate her makeover other than the school accountant, a portly gentleman in a bolo tie who had done nothing so far to disprove her suspicion that he was a mute. Jamie filed in midmorning during a study period, and she embarra.s.singly took pleasure in his visible approval of her appearance. She took up his offer to help, putting him to work creating binders with the latest version of the sale contract for the members of Brighton's board to review.

"I've been waiting for you to trust me enough to help you," he teased.

To avoid having to use the Internet, she had her counterpart at the seller's law firm e-mail the contract to Jamie's personal account, , which she explained away with some absurd story about her e-mail account being hacked. It was improper for a student to see the details of the school's multimillion-dollar purchase, but Evie knew from sharing an office with Jamie that there was basically zero danger of him reading any of the sensitive material. They sat side by side, a mismatched pair of a.s.sembly-line workers, Jamie handing her each collated copy of the contract for her to insert into three-ring binders. How far she had fallen from the days of merging S&P 500 companies.

"That's my mom," Jamie said, pointing to a page in one of the contract's appendices.

"Excuse me?" Evie said, not sure she had heard him correctly.

"In the list of trustees. My mom is a board member." He ran his finger over a hyphenated last name-a double-barreled, Jack would say.

"Your mother is Julianne Holmes-Matthews? The Julianne Holmes-Matthews?" Julianne, and her firm Holmes (how lucky was that last name for an interior designer), was the darling of Architectural Digest, her projects featured every month without fail. A chteau in Paris, a dacha outside Moscow, a penthouse in Tokyo-her clients flew her around the world to design their residences. Her style was renowned-described usually as modern but with old Parisian flair. She'd juxtapose steel doors and apothecary tables, white Tha.s.sos countertops and vintage bar carts. It was perfection. She, the Anna Wintour of home decor, was perfection. Her offspring? Evie studied her juvenile coworker once again. Perhaps a bit less so.

"Yeah. She's a decorator," Jamie said, without the necessary alacrity. "She just did Bono's place."

Holy c.r.a.p.

"Actually, she's coming in to school. She's supposed to see the new building and, I don't know, give her opinion or something."

Julianne Holmes-Matthews was coming to Brighton. She had to meet her.

"When is that?" Evie asked casually, but not really casually at all. "I like her work," she added a bit more coolly.

"Not sure. She's in Beirut now but I'll text her and find out. Do you want to meet her or something?"

"Sure, yeah. Whatever."

"Okay, I'll hook it up."

"Thanks," Evie said. "There are some provisions in the contract pertaining to the build-out that I'd love to go over with her."

That was completely false. But Jamie, as in most matters, was none the wiser.

It was the end of the workweek at last, and Evie had plans to visit Bette again after school. She was bringing along a few accessories to embellish her grandmother's dreary surroundings. There was a good chance that her mom would be visiting too, since on Fridays her theater troupe always "rested their voices," and she and Evie would finish off their conversation from the coffee shop. Bette's illness was forcing the Rosen family into closer contact than usual. And there was just something about cancer and hospital settings that made everyone feel ent.i.tled to catharsis at will, especially Bette. Her grandma had gone from tapping to pounding her sapphire engagement stone, and was p.r.o.ne to dropping matrimonial references apropos of nothing. It was easier to be at work making binders with Jamie, whose stock had basically quadrupled since she'd discovered his esteemed lineage.

Eleanor appeared at lunchtime, undeniably pretty in her lacrosse uniform (knew it!), and motioned him outside with a furious wave of her hand. Evie watched their quarrel unfold just outside the office door. Eleanor's arms were folded across her chest and her head solemnly down. Jamie was thrashing about clumsily, trying to put his face in Eleanor's line of view, difficult considering she was a foot shorter. When he rested his hand on Eleanor's shoulder, Evie noticed it droop a bit, subtly resisting his touch. Even with their shiny hair and clear skin, Eleanor and Jamie still couldn't escape dating's h.e.l.lish grasp. They looked like characters on one of those high school soaps Evie guiltily watched. Only this time she was catching the live show.

Eleanor unexpectedly reached into her book bag, if an oversize Louis Vuitton tote could ever be called such a thing. She whipped out her iPhone, thrusting it into Jamie's face. She was so pet.i.te, she had to stand on tiptoes to reach him. When Jamie looked at the screen, his face changed abruptly. His eyes closed for longer than a normal blink. He exhaled deeply and reached to take the phone from Eleanor's grasp, but she pulled it back forcefully. Evie gasped at Eleanor's unexpected strength and the bickering lovebirds turned to face her.

Eleanor gave Evie a pained look and scurried away. Evie was left alone in Jamie's gaze. She felt exposed as he walked slowly toward her.

"She's ridiculous. Let's just get back to work." He hunched over his desk, and she noticed that his hair was thicker than that of any guy she'd been on a date with in the last five years.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Too long of a story, and it would all sound very immature to you," Jamie said. "But thanks."

"Well, I'm here if you change your mind."

"It's all right. I'm gonna get something to eat actually," he said. "Mind if we finish on Monday?"

"No, go ahead."

Famished herself, she headed to a wicker bench she'd discovered in front of a sundries shop around the corner from Brighton. Sometimes Tracy joined her for lunch, her cervix fortunately holding strong enough to allow her to continue working, but today she had an English department meeting.

As Evie nibbled on her homemade PB&J sandwich (pear, brie, and jambon-a Jack special) and a bag of grapes, she thought about Jamie and Eleanor. Maybe their fighting was juvenile, but some of the arguments she and Jack had would also have sounded childish to an observer. They used to bicker about him flirting with the waitresses in the restaurant, which he copped to but said he was doing it for "morale." They tussled about him canceling multiple plans to visit Evie's family, which he defended by saying he had calls with distributors or needed to review payroll. Evie would always back down-Jack had a way of making her complaints seem petty, even when at the outset of the argument she was sure she was right. She had bullied men twice her age at board meetings, outmaneuvering investment bankers and corporate t.i.tans with quick-thinking and silver-tongued arguments, but Jack made her feel as much like a child as her third-grader's paper lunch bag.

"Evie?"