remember Pauline from the club. However, she mentioned
their mutual membership at Wee Burn within the first three sentences of their meeting.
She threw out names of friends of his—Whitney Gifford, Johnson McKelvey—and then she
expressed her condolences for his wife (“such a warm, lovely woman”) and hence established
a personal connection and common ground.
She started bringing things to their meetings. First it was a hot latte, then a tin
of homemade blueberry muffins, then a bottle of green chile sauce from a trip she’d
taken to Santa Fe. She touched him during these meetings—she squeezed his arm or patted
him on the shoulder. He could smell her perfume, he admired her legs in heels or her
breasts in a sweater. She said things like “I really wanted to go to the movies this
weekend, but I didn’t want to go alone.”
And Doug thought,
Yeah, me too.
Then he cleared his throat and discussed ways to negotiate with Arthur Tonelli.
On the day that Pauline’s divorce was final, Doug did what he had never agreed to
do with any client before: he went out for drinks. He had planned to say no, just
as he always said no, but something about the circumstances swayed him. It was a Friday
in June, the air was sweet with the promise of summer; the victory in the courtroom
had been a good one. Arthur’s attorney, Richard Ruby, was one of Doug’s most worthy
adversaries, and Doug, for the first time in his career, had beaten Richard Ruby on
nearly every point. Pauline had gotten what she wanted; she had divorced well.
She said, “Shall we celebrate?”
And for the first time in nearly two years, Doug thought another person’s company
might be nice.
“Sure,” he said.
She suggested the Monkey Bar, which was the kind of spot that Doug’s partners always
went to but Doug had never set foot in. He was charmed by Pauline’s confidence. She
knew the maître d’, Thebaud, by name, and he whisked them through the after-work drinks
crowd to a small round table for two, which was partially concealed by a curved banquette
wall. Pauline ordered a bottle of champagne and a plate of gougères. The waiter poured
their champagne, and Doug and Pauline toasted their mutual success.
Pauline smiled. Her face was glowing. Doug knew her to be fifty-four, but at that
moment, she looked like a girl. She said, “I’m so glad that’s over. I can finally
relax.”
Doug let his own deep breath go; he was still experiencing the winded euphoria particular
to conquering his opponent. It was not unlike a good game of squash. Doug thrived
on the competition. He wanted to win. His job was to liberate people from thestranglehold of an unsatisfactory union. Many times when a divorce was declared final,
his client would spontaneously burst into tears. Some clients saw their divorces as
an ending, not a beginning; they saw their divorces as a failure, not a solution.
It wasn’t Doug’s job to put a value judgment on what was happening, only to legally
facilitate it. But he had to admit that he felt much better about his profession when
he was faced with a client as buoyant as Pauline.
Drinks at the Monkey Bar had been a success. Doug had headed home on the train feeling
nourished by actual human interaction. He had not fallen in love with Pauline, but
he had appreciated the hour drinking champagne and eating golden, cheesy gougères,
admiring the wall murals by Ed Sorel, regarding the well-heeled crowd, and enjoying
the presence of a convivial, attractive woman. He realized, as he and Pauline parted
ways outside the restaurant on Fifty-fourth Street, that he would miss her.
And then the universe had worked its magic. A few weeks later, on the Fourth of July,
Doug had played golf at Wee Burn, and then he’d stayed to swim some laps at the pool,
where he met up with the Drakes, who invited him to join them on the patio for dinner.
Doug had nearly declined—he no
their mutual membership at Wee Burn within the first three sentences of their meeting.
She threw out names of friends of his—Whitney Gifford, Johnson McKelvey—and then she
expressed her condolences for his wife (“such a warm, lovely woman”) and hence established
a personal connection and common ground.
She started bringing things to their meetings. First it was a hot latte, then a tin
of homemade blueberry muffins, then a bottle of green chile sauce from a trip she’d
taken to Santa Fe. She touched him during these meetings—she squeezed his arm or patted
him on the shoulder. He could smell her perfume, he admired her legs in heels or her
breasts in a sweater. She said things like “I really wanted to go to the movies this
weekend, but I didn’t want to go alone.”
And Doug thought,
Yeah, me too.
Then he cleared his throat and discussed ways to negotiate with Arthur Tonelli.
On the day that Pauline’s divorce was final, Doug did what he had never agreed to
do with any client before: he went out for drinks. He had planned to say no, just
as he always said no, but something about the circumstances swayed him. It was a Friday
in June, the air was sweet with the promise of summer; the victory in the courtroom
had been a good one. Arthur’s attorney, Richard Ruby, was one of Doug’s most worthy
adversaries, and Doug, for the first time in his career, had beaten Richard Ruby on
nearly every point. Pauline had gotten what she wanted; she had divorced well.
She said, “Shall we celebrate?”
And for the first time in nearly two years, Doug thought another person’s company
might be nice.
“Sure,” he said.
She suggested the Monkey Bar, which was the kind of spot that Doug’s partners always
went to but Doug had never set foot in. He was charmed by Pauline’s confidence. She
knew the maître d’, Thebaud, by name, and he whisked them through the after-work drinks
crowd to a small round table for two, which was partially concealed by a curved banquette
wall. Pauline ordered a bottle of champagne and a plate of gougères. The waiter poured
their champagne, and Doug and Pauline toasted their mutual success.
Pauline smiled. Her face was glowing. Doug knew her to be fifty-four, but at that
moment, she looked like a girl. She said, “I’m so glad that’s over. I can finally
relax.”
Doug let his own deep breath go; he was still experiencing the winded euphoria particular
to conquering his opponent. It was not unlike a good game of squash. Doug thrived
on the competition. He wanted to win. His job was to liberate people from thestranglehold of an unsatisfactory union. Many times when a divorce was declared final,
his client would spontaneously burst into tears. Some clients saw their divorces as
an ending, not a beginning; they saw their divorces as a failure, not a solution.
It wasn’t Doug’s job to put a value judgment on what was happening, only to legally
facilitate it. But he had to admit that he felt much better about his profession when
he was faced with a client as buoyant as Pauline.
Drinks at the Monkey Bar had been a success. Doug had headed home on the train feeling
nourished by actual human interaction. He had not fallen in love with Pauline, but
he had appreciated the hour drinking champagne and eating golden, cheesy gougères,
admiring the wall murals by Ed Sorel, regarding the well-heeled crowd, and enjoying
the presence of a convivial, attractive woman. He realized, as he and Pauline parted
ways outside the restaurant on Fifty-fourth Street, that he would miss her.
And then the universe had worked its magic. A few weeks later, on the Fourth of July,
Doug had played golf at Wee Burn, and then he’d stayed to swim some laps at the pool,
where he met up with the Drakes, who invited him to join them on the patio for dinner.
Doug had nearly declined—he no
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