Jenny trudged back to her office by default—she wasn’t sure where else to go, so she sought the familiar sounds and smells of the cube where she spent most of her time. Her window was fogged up again; just a few dotted streetlights from below were forcing their way through the glass. She’d spend yet another long night there, in its stale comforts. Could it really have only been the day before that she had won the motion in court? It seemed like years ago. She felt like she was years tired, for sure.
Her email inbox showed 130 unread messages. She started clicking through them. Each one was just another line in the parade of boredom and pointlessness. Chatter back-and-forth about admissible evidence. “In search of” emails from other lawyers for contacts at the U.S. Attorney’s office, divorce lawyers, complaint samples. Endless subpoena requests and corrections. Jenny could feel her head starting to spin, the pressure of her job squeezing her temples. Then, around unread message number 117, one from Lydia. You okay? Saw Blake’s getting sued.
Jenny opened up the email. Lydia had included a link to the public complaint. She was pulled in immediately, reading the lines. This Ned character was suing her for damages, for her earnings. He claimed to have drawings he did of the rooms, years before Blake had made them real. Jenny saw holes in his arguments already, ways to combat it. A few drawings did not mean that he had come up with the idea. And were the drawings really his? How would the documents be verified? She found herself coming to Blake’s rescue already. She took a notepad down from the shelf, started scrawling questions and counterpoints.
“Jenny?” Lydia, standing in her doorway.
Jenny looked down at her pad, wild with markings, and then up at Lydia, head tilted and eyes wide with concern. Jenny raised her hand toward her head, feeling like she had food on her face and didn’t know it. Well, actually there was something like that. Her knit wool hat was still there. She had lost all her bearings. How embarrassing. She had been cast aside, and here she was taking notes on the case. She covered over the paper with her forearm as Lydia approached and leaned on her desk, peering down at Jenny over her glasses.
“You look like hell. Are you okay?”
“Fine. Blake’s getting sued.”
“I saw that. You want to tell me what happened?”
“Nothing.”
“What I saw down there in the lobby wasn’t nothing. There is a force field around the two of you. It’s powerful. Like I’ve never seen you before.”
Jenny looked down. She knew Lydia was right. Not that it mattered.
“Start from the beginning, Jen. She shows up here with art for you. Her art! As a gift! Then you go to the gallery. You’re watching her tape Darren Rosenfeld’s show. And then what?”
“Darren asked Blake why there is this person—Ned, the plaintiff—why he claims he thought of the idea first. Blake got upset and cold. She shut down, told me to leave.”
Well, that wasn’t exactly it, but it might as well have been. Jenny swallowed, to keep herself from crying. When had she become a crier? When had she become the kind of person who forgot to take off her own hat?
“You looked at the complaint?”
Jenny nodded. “Thanks for sending it.”
“Well, I looked into it—”
“You what?”
“I looked into it. It’s pretty much in my wheelhouse, intellectual property, you know. There’s incendiary language in the complaint, and he’s playing the press, but there’s a lot of weakness his allegations. I think we could win a motion to dismiss. The standard for that is extraordinarily high, but he doesn’t even fully allege—”
“Stop,” Jenny said. “She doesn’t want my help.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. She told me to leave. She didn’t even have my number. I had to give it to her on my business card like an idiot.”
Lydia sighed, seeming to debate what tack to take. “Cut the crap,” she finally said. “You’ve been mooning over her for days. She needs your help now, but it’s like you’re shutting yourself off. I don’t get it. If you don’t want to call her, I will.”
Lydia reached for Jenny’s cell phone. Jenny wasn’t sure she’d really make the call, but she snatched it away and made a big show of tucking it into the inside zipper of her briefcase. Lydia held up her hands in defeat.
“We kissed,” Jenny said a moment later, looking down at her desk so she didn’t have to register the cascade of expressions she imagined would cross Lydia’s face.
“Oh, Jenny,” Lydia said, but she was interrupted by the viscous sound of Michael clearing his throat from the doorway.
Lydia jumped and stood up straight, smoothing her blouse and skirt. She clamped her lips together and looked at Jenny, waiting for her to say something, but Jenny stayed silent.
“Jenny, can I have a minute of your time?” Michael said. The way he said the words—a little more high-pitched than normal and uncharacteristically warm—made Jenny’s spine go cold. It smacked of self-satisfied pity. She could smell it. Her victory the day before notwithstanding, she’d been out of reach, ignoring his emails, like she had all the others. Was she about to be fired? Lydia scampered out, but not before giving Jenny a sympathetic scowl. She closed Jenny’s office door behind her, apparently thinking better of making dirty hand gestures over his head the way she normally did.
Michael sat in the guest chair and scooted toward Jenny’s desk. His knees hit the side. No feet up today. Jenny felt numb. This day really couldn’t get worse. And it was essentially the same day as yesterday, because she hadn’t slept.
“So,” he said. “We should discuss something.”
“Just do it,” Jenny said, her newly discovered brashness jumping out.
Michael lifted his chin a bit, regarding her. “Do what?” he said slowly.
“Fire me.”
“You think I’m here to fire you?” Jenny didn’t respond. Michael continued, looking at the wall to his right, covered in Jenny’s diplomas, rather than at her face. “Why would I do that?”
Jenny stifled the automatic “I’m sorry” that threatened to bubble out of her mouth. Instead, she just nodded, looking at him, trying not to look scared.
“You won yesterday. You did well. I called the client. I told him about your performance. He was pleased. Where were you, by the way?”
The memory of Blake’s hands and hot lips came rushing back to her. Her cheeks turned red, her limbs went on fire, just thinking of it. The kisses. The kisses in that light. If Michael noticed, he didn’t say anything. She couldn’t speak.
“Whatever differences we’ve had, the client is very satisfied with our work. Your work.”
“I’m glad,” Jenny managed to squeak out. Was he really praising her? “Thank you” hadn’t been said yet, but it was nearly there, bobbing on the surface.
“Again, I did not appreciate the tone during the initial meeting or the way the whole thing unfolded.”
“I understand. And I appreciate the opportunity to present the argument.”
Michael looked at her. His chapped lips smacked together for a moment. “You’re different lately,” he said.
Jenny felt ready to lunge at him. How dare he. “What do you mean—” she started to spit, but he waved his hand to cut her off.
“Different. You are speaking up.” He said it neutrally. He was neither condemning her nor praising her. He took a deep breath, and his eyes softened a bit. With a grunt, he said, “I understand that you may have been giving me the message about Van Croughton for many weeks now, but that I was unprepared to hear it.”
Jenny kept her mouth shut, but she had to work to keep her jaw from dropping to the floor. This was the closest Michael had ever come—would ever come probably—to a mea culpa. And it was coming today, of all days. This interminable mess. She didn’t smile, but she looked at him less sternly as he stood.
“Thanks,” she finally whispered to his back as he walked out of her office. He didn’t indicate if he heard.