“This newfound stalking obsession of yours is going to get very costly,” Vanessa said, putting a piece of grilled salmon in her mouth.
Vanessa and I were in the Grill Room at the Four Seasons, the fabulously fancy midtown institution where I knew Douglas took a lot of business contacts for lunch. I had called the restaurant earlier that morning, under the guise of being Douglas’s secretary, to “confirm” his reservation, and then took the liberty of making a reservation for Vanessa and myself for thirty minutes before his reservation so that I could pretend that we just so happened to be there and bump into him. A dramatic reconciliation would then surely ensue.
“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 divine?”
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 to not 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 maitre ‘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 lady-like bite of my beef just as two fake blondes walked in. They were total throwbacks to the 80s—big hair, long red acrylic nails and both simultaneously chewing and cracking their gum. They looked like 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 two hundred and fifty dollar 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 crows 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 which 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: He never sent my mother and me to the Four Seasons!
“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 further 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 subtlely 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 wait staff 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 towards 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 from 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, 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 color palate 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.
“It’s not a waste of time,” I said. And I didn’t think that it was. I was quite certain that in my quest to get back Douglas, random facts about his homeland would be helpful. I bet that Beryl didn’t know the first thing about Scotland. “And anyway, this information will make you a more informed New Yorker.”
“I’m informed enough,” he said, putting his fork down to leaf through the pages upon pages of research. “I’d like to be a New Yorker with all of his discovery requests drafted.”
“Did you know that April 6 is National Tartan Day?” I asked, as Jack turned to the section of the outline dedicated to “history”.
“No,” he said, “I did not. Do you think that someone’s going to quiz me on that at the wedding next week?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “The Scottish Declaration of Independence was signed that day. The Declaration of Arbroath. Remember that.”
“No one’s going to ask stuff like that. They’ll ask me about where I’m from and things like that,” he said, grabbing the map I’d printed out from www.visitscotland.com that I’d clipped to the front of the outline. “What city should I pick?”
“Douglas is from Perth,” I said, “So, let’s stick with that. The less lies, the better.”
“Perth?” he asked. “Isn’t there a Perth in Australia? Hey, it’s located right near Dundee! Check that out!”
“Keep your eye on the ball, Jackie,” I said. “We’re only trying to master one country here.”
“G’day mate!” he said, smiling like a little boy who had just told a little girl that her epidermis was showing.
“Don’t say that at the wedding.”
“What is this about the St. Andrews Society?” he asked, his finger on the “arts and culture” tab.
“Oh!” I said, excited that Jack had found the piece de resistance. “It’s a Scottish society, right here in New York!”
“I’m not joining a Scottish society,” Jack said. “First of all, I’m not Scottish. I’m Jewish.”
“Scots can be Jews. Anyway, you’re not going to join, Jackie,” I said with a laugh. “We’re going to their Cocktail Reception. Every year they have a reception just before the parade for Tartan Day.”
“What?” Jack said, “are you actually serious?” I could have sworn I saw him looking around my office for a hidden camera.
“Well, I really wanted to go to the Kirkin O’Tartan Ball, but there’s no time. The St. Andrew’s thing is tonight!”
“We have to work late tonight,” Jack said.
“We’ll stop by this thing, we’ll meet a few people. You can totally learn about Scotland and brush up on your Scottish accent. Think of all the Scottish people who will be there!”
“You can tell me about it,” Jack said. “I’m going to be drafting those discovery requests you neglected all week.”
Oh please. Was he trying to give me guilt? Was that his plan to get out of this? Rookie mistake.
A few hours later, Jack and I, against Jack’s better judgment, were walking into the St. Andrews Society Cocktail Reception. Or, crashing, I should say, but no one seemed to mind. Vanessa was running late because she went home first to change. Even though I’d run to the cheap hair place around the corner from the firm to have my hair blown out straight on the off chance we’d run into Douglas, I was still back at the firm in time to walk over to the St. Andrews Society with Jack.
The Society was housed in an old pre-war building with original marble and various Scottish artifacts encased in impressive looking glass armoires everywhere you looked. The ceilings seemed to be three stories high, and various flags and tartans hung from sconces all along the walls. Douglas had never taken me to Scotland, but I presumed that the whole place was very Scottish.
“Gaelic name for Scotland?” I asked Jack as we grabbed two glasses of wine from a passing waiter.
“Where is the stone of destiny?” I asked.
“Edinburgh Castle,” he said. “What time did Vanessa say she’d be here?”
“Are you not enjoying my company?” I asked.
“No, I love being quizzed when I’m out at night,” he said. “Did you bring the index cards, too?”
I knew he was making fun of me, so I said ‘no’ even though I had stuffed them into my pocketbook before we left the firm.
“What Scottish sport is similar to the sport we know here in the States as hockey?” I asked.
“In the States?” Jack said.
“I’m very international,” I said. “Do you know the answer?”
“Shinty,” Jack said. “Here comes Vanessa.”
Vanessa walked in, making an entrance as she did. Jack and I had, in the short time we were at the reception, realized that there were no actual Scotsmen at the St. Andrew’s Society, rather, it was a society comprised entirely of Scottish Americans. So much for our evening of research. Vanessa was clearly as unaware of this fact as Jack and I were: heads turned as Vanessa walked in wearing an immense Vivienne Westwood skirt—layers upon layers of bright red tartan with strands of gold—with black platform Jimmy Choos that had a long satin ribbon tied around her ankles.
“I’ll have a water of life,” Vanessa said to a passing waiter. Then, to us she whispered with a smile, “That’s what the Scots call whiskey.”
“Are you trying to pass yourself off as Scottish or something?” I asked.
“I’m just trying to embrace the culture, Brooke!” she said. “Are you getting good research on your accent, Jackie?”
“Everyone here’s American,” he said.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Vanessa said.
“Look, guys,” I said, “let’s just have a drink, have a quick bite to eat, and then we can go home.”
“So, Douglas isn’t here?” Vanessa said.
“Try to look Scottish American,” I said, ignoring her and taking a spin towards the buffet.
“Hi, I’m Duncan,” a man said to me on line at the buffet as I tried to remember from my outline what haggis was made from.
“Brooke,” I said and smiled. He smiled back, followed by an uncomfortable silence. We both reached for plates. I never did well with the whole uncomfortable silence thing. I’m not the type of girl who can just let the silence lie and be quiet. It always seemed to make me talk more, whether or not I actually had anything to say. “You know, Aberdeen is where Paris ought to be,” I said, quoting Robert Louis Stevenson. He nodded without smiling and then muttered something about having to tend to his girlfriend.
“Do you want me to throw pearls like that into conversation at Trip’s wedding?” Jack asked me over my shoulder.
“Robert Louis Stevenson said that,” I said.
“Ah,” he said.
“He wrote Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” I said, defending myself with Stevenson’s literary pedigree.
“And Treasure Island,” Jack replied, “I know. I read your outline while you were getting your hair done. I also know that the thistle is the symbol of all things Scottish. Actually a weed, the thistle is both a legend and a symbol—”
“Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone,” Vanessa said, coming from the opposite end of the buffet, “and Alexander Fleming invented penicillin. Both Scottish born.”
“What?” I said.
“Oh,” she replied. “I thought we were just quoting random bits of information from your outline.” I sighed as we took our plates of food and found a little place to stand around and eat.
I hate when people at parties stay clustered together with only the people they came to the party with, but, really, what are you supposed to do when you don’t know anyone but your two friends? Vanessa, Jack, and I wound up standing in a corner, balancing our plates filled with various Scottish delicacies (and also some cocktail franks) and glasses of wine in the other hand.
“We have to make it more natural at the wedding,” I instructed Jack and Vanessa.
“Spouting out random bits of information on Scotland is never going to sound natural,” Vanessa said.
“Yeah,” Jack said, “Let’s only use the information defensively. Only if someone asks.”
“Agreed,” I said, leaning back towards the wall.
All of the sudden, the lights went out. It wasn’t entirely dark, since the room was filled with candles all over, but the crowd began to murmur.
“What was that?” Jack said, looking around.
“I have no idea,” I said, “Maybe it’s some sort of Scottish tradition! And you two thought we wouldn’t learn anything here. I guess it’s some thing where halfway through the party, they turn out the lights. I wonder what happens when the lights go out?”
I was thrilled. Even though the place was crawling with Scottish Americans and not actual, real live Scots, we would still get some quality research done. See, this was exactly the sort of thing we would need to know for the wedding that you can’t learn from internet research alone!
“Um, Brooke,” Vanessa said. “What’s that behind your elbow?” I looked and lo and behold, what was behind my elbow was a light switch.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, “I just turned off the lights!”
“Turn them back on,” Jack said through clenched teeth.
“I can’t!” I said. “I’m too embarrassed!” The murmur of the crowd began to get louder. Everyone seemed totally disoriented, and I saw some of the party planners scurrying about, trying to fix the lighting situation.
“Just do it,” Vanessa said, “standing here in the dark is worse. Eventually, someone’s going figure out where the light switch is.”
As swiftly as I’d accidentally turned them off, I lifted my elbow, quickly hit the light switch and the lights came back on. Only, the light switch must have been a dimmer switch, because it got very, very bright. Uncomfortably bright.
“Turn them down,” Jack said, teeth still slightly clenched. The murmur of the crowd got louder, still. Everyone continued to look around and just generally act confused.
“I can’t,” I said. “Then everyone will know it was me!”
“I think they know already,” Vanessa said and she was right. The entire crowd began staring at me, waiting for me to re-arrange the lights.
“Sorry!” I said, as I turned around and re-adjusted the dimmer.
“So much for learning about Scotland,” Vanessa said, looking for a place to put down her plate and glass.
“Yes,” I said, “Our work here is done.” I then made a hasty exit towards the door, without making eye contact with any of the other party guests, with Jack and Vanessa following closely in my wake.