“Noah wants to see you in his office,” my assistant announces, and my hands freeze on my keyboard. I can’t type another word of the memo I’m working on because I know what’s about to happen. Usually when Noah wants to see you, he just picks up his phone and calls you directly. When Noah calls your assistant to summon you, you can rest assured that you are in pretty big trouble.
“So,” my assistant says as I sail by her, “what can you tell me about that wedding videographer of yours?”
“Nothing,” I say, furrowing my brow to show my disapproval of the mere mention of him. “You should probably stay away from him.”
“Is he single?” she asks, twirling a stray curl around her index finger.
I consider telling her the truth—that I really have no idea whether or not Jay is single. But then I realize that I’ve just told a twenty-two year old girl to “stay away” from a guy she’s got her eye on, and in doing so, I’ve just about ensured that she’ll go after him. Full guns blazing. So, in an effort to protect my assistant’s life, I tell her that Jay’s married. I just hope, for her own personal safety, that she doesn’t have the same view on married men as Miranda Foxley.
As I rush down the hall to Noah’s office, I take a quick stop into the ladies room to make sure I’m presentable. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, straightening my skirt and smoothing back my hair, I can’t help but remember how nervous I was during my first week at SGR. I was acutely aware of the fact that I’d never worked anywhere but Gilson Hecht before, so starting work at SGR was a whole new world for me. I was used to Gilson Hecht’s mammoth offices—encompassing 17 floors of their building at 425 Park Avenue—and was getting adjusted to life at a firm that only had one floor of offices. I was just beginning to find my way around, figuring out where the mail room was, the file room, and, of course, the bathrooms. Which wasn’t as easy as you may think when you’re used to an office with the same exact floor plan on all 17 floors.
I remember the day, even, that it happened—it was a Thursday. On my way to the ladies room, I bumped into Manny, the head of the file room. As he saw me walking towards the bathroom, he called out “Wrong one!” I had no idea what he was talking about—maybe this was some cool new street slang that I hadn’t heard of? So, I did what any tragically un-hip person would do—I called back “Wrong one!” and smiled. I may have even given him the “thumbs up,” too, I can’t really recall. I slipped into the ladies room and checked myself out in the mirror, proud that I was beginning to fit in at my new office. I smiled at my reflection and then retreated to use the bathroom. Only, when I turned around, I saw a row of urinals. Funny, I thought, the ladies room doesn’t have urinals? And then it hit me—Wrong one. As in, wrong bathroom. Not the ladies room. I rushed out, only to find Manny waiting outside for me. We laughed hysterically and it became our inside joke. Any time I’d get nervous like I was that first week at SGR, Manny and I would call out to each other: Wrong one!
As I give my front teeth one final check for lipstick and smooth down the front of my skirt, I silently tell myself ‘wrong one.’ Without Manny there to laugh with me, though, it doesn’t have the desired effect.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask Noah, standing in his doorway. By not walking in and not committing myself fully to the idea of walking into his office, I’m secretly hoping that this will all be a misunderstanding, that he doesn’t really want to see me, but I know that that’s not the case. I know what this is about.
“Have a seat,” Noah says, and I walk into his office and sit down on one of his visitors chairs. “I noticed you’ve got a personal day for next Wednesday.”
“Yes,” I say, “I have some things that I need to tend to, so I figured I’d just take the day.”
“Take Tuesday then,” Noah says, staring me down.
“I can’t,” I say, looking out his window. “I need to take Wednesday.”
“Thursday?”
“Noah, I can’t—”
“Brooke,” Noah says.
“I’ve made up my mind,” I tell Noah. “I’m not going to the Federal Bar Council luncheon.”
“You have to go,” he tells me. “The firm bought a table. Everyone’s going.”
Noah’s office is one of the corner offices—all three of the named partners have them— and its enormous windows overlook Third Avenue. I glance down at the nameplate that sits at the end of his desk which announces his full name in bold letters set in gold: NOAH FISHER GOLDBERG, and then look back up at him.
“I can’t go to this luncheon,” I say, “they’re honoring Jack’s father. I just can’t do it.”
“Brooke,” Noah begins to answer.
“You can’t honestly expect me to go,” I say, interrupting his train of thought. “After all that’s happened.”
“There are going to be over 1,000 lawyers there, and anyone who is anyone in the New York legal community will be there. Of course I expect you to go.”
“Noah—” I begin to say, but this time, he’s the one who cuts me off.
“You won’t even see Jack there.”
“He’s giving the keynote address,” I say, pointing to the invitation that’s tacked onto Noah’s bulletin board for effect. It’s a gorgeous invitation—ivory with brown lettering on heavy cardstock:
Please join us
as the Federal Bar Council
honors one of its most esteemed members,
the Honorable Edward Solomon,
Circuit Court Judge for the
United States Court of Appeals for The Third Circuit
Keynote address to be presented by Jack Solomon, Esq.
12 noon
The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel
“Can you just trust me on this one?” Noah asks. “You didn’t think that you could take the lead on the Monique case, but I pushed you and you did, and now look at how well that’s going. You’re doing a great job and Monique absolutely loves you. You’ve earned this firm a client for life.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” I say. “I’m finally choosing life over work and I’m not going to go to this thing simply to please you. I’m sorry, but I’m done. You can fire me if you want, but I need to do what’s right for me right now.”
“Life over work? I didn’t think that was a choice I ever forced you to make.”
“I worked around the clock on the Monique litigation and it ruined my relationship. I’m not sacrificing my life for this firm any more. It’s time for me to have a life.”
“But that’s what I’m trying to say to you, Brooke,” he says, getting up from his chair and coming around his desk to sit on one of the visitor chairs beside me. When I was at Gilson Hecht, any time a partner came out from around his desk to sit next to me on a visitor’s chair, I always got an immediate sense of panic. My ‘fight or flight’ instinct would kick in and I’d find myself perched on the edge of my seat, ready to make a quick getaway at a moment’s notice.
But sitting next to Noah is different. As I look into his enormous brown puppy dog eyes, I can see that he really does care for me. He is giving me honest to goodness advice, as if I were his little sister. We’re talking friend to friend, not partner to associate.
“Listen to me, Brooke. Go to this luncheon. If you miss it, you’ll never get back together with Jack, and the fact is that you guys belong together.”
“No,” I say, looking down at my hands, “that’s just it. We don’t belong together. Not by a long shot.”
“Yes,” he says, “you do. And everyone around you can see it. Half of the reason I hired you was because Dani Lewis over at Gilson Hecht told me about the two of you at dinner one night. She said that you guys were in love and that based on firm policy, one of you had to leave Gilson Hecht. I actually wanted Jack to come, but Dani Lewis wouldn’t even hear of me recruiting him, and since we’re old friends from law school, I didn’t even try. So we interviewed you and Rosalyn fell in love with you the minute you walked through the door. It was just a bonus that you happened to be a great lawyer, too.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I say.
“You should be with Jack,” he says, “everyone knows it. I just don’t know why you don’t.”