he was—in a preppy, magazine-ad sort of way. She wondered what his relationship was like with his girlfriend. She was sure that Connecticut-born, horse-loving Susan Moreland had never infuriated him by letting another woman finger her.
“Yes, unfortunately. I could use the morning to go through paperwork, but that is not going to happen. Everything under control here?” he said.
“Yes, fine,” she said brightly, surprised to find her mood had surged at the sight of him. “I’m going through the Marchand depositions.”
“Great. I have Fiona going through some of those, too. I need that by the end of the day tomorrow. “
“No problem,” she said. “Good luck with Klein.”
“Thanks. And thanks for all your help on that one. You never know with Judge Hager, but I think we’re going to get good results.” He glanced over her shoulder to something behind her. “You’re a ballet dancer?” he said.
“What?” she said, turning around to see what he was looking at. She spotted her BAE bag on top of a filing cabinet. “Oh. No, I’m not a ballet dancer. I just do it for exercise. I hate the gym.”
“That’s so great!” he said, with a boyish enthusiasm she had never seen him exhibit. “Cynthia Hobbs is on the board of the New York City Ballet, you know.”
Cynthia Hobbs was one of the plaintiffs in one of Gavin’s most successful recent litigations. Thanks to his strategy in the courtroom, she had been awarded millions in alimony.
“No, I didn’t know that.” It was strange to talk to Gavin about personal stuff—if ballet could be considered personal. Which it was, compared to their usual discussions that were all work, work, work.
Mallory was aware of her desire to prolong the conversation, but she didn’t want to hold him up by forcing him to make polite conversation with her.
“Great. Well, see you later,” she said. Was it her imagination, or did he linger in her doorway an extra beat?
She turned back to the depositions on her desk. She wished she hadn’t told Julie and Allison about her plans with Violet and Alec, because they’d each called twice to find out how it went, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell them. It was much easier to be the good friend who confided everything when it was the boyfriend who was screwing up, not herself. She couldn’t imagine what Allison and Julie would say if she told them about last night. Actually, she could; they would tell her that she finally had Alec behaving somewhat decently, and she had gone ahead and behaved more irresponsibly than he ever had. And they would be right. They would tell her she deserved for him to want some time apart.
With a sigh, Mallory picked up the file marked Klein v. Klein. Gavin was going to trial for one of his clients, Marcy Gold Klein. The Kleins’ case was a perfect example of money not buying happiness; Marcy was a successful producer of fashion shows and her soon-to-be ex-husband was a major Wall Street rainmaker. They had the town house, the Hamptons house, the parties with Rachel Zoe on the West Coast and Donald Trump on the East. And they had beautiful twin girls. Yet theirs was one of the nastiest divorces Mallory had seen or read about in her seven months at the firm. And that was saying a lot; it amazed her that people who at one time had pledged their lives to loving each other and making each other happy could go to such lengths to destroy each other sometimes as little as a few years later. When she expressed her reaction to Gavin, he said that he had ceased to be surprised or particularly affected by anything, but conceded that the burnout rate for matrimonial attorneys was especially high.
“Does this ever affect the way you think about the future with Susan?” she asked one day across the conference room table. She had no idea what gave her the idea that it was okay to ask such a personal, audacious question, except that she truly was just wondering. Susan Moreland was a pretty blonde, a
“Yes, unfortunately. I could use the morning to go through paperwork, but that is not going to happen. Everything under control here?” he said.
“Yes, fine,” she said brightly, surprised to find her mood had surged at the sight of him. “I’m going through the Marchand depositions.”
“Great. I have Fiona going through some of those, too. I need that by the end of the day tomorrow. “
“No problem,” she said. “Good luck with Klein.”
“Thanks. And thanks for all your help on that one. You never know with Judge Hager, but I think we’re going to get good results.” He glanced over her shoulder to something behind her. “You’re a ballet dancer?” he said.
“What?” she said, turning around to see what he was looking at. She spotted her BAE bag on top of a filing cabinet. “Oh. No, I’m not a ballet dancer. I just do it for exercise. I hate the gym.”
“That’s so great!” he said, with a boyish enthusiasm she had never seen him exhibit. “Cynthia Hobbs is on the board of the New York City Ballet, you know.”
Cynthia Hobbs was one of the plaintiffs in one of Gavin’s most successful recent litigations. Thanks to his strategy in the courtroom, she had been awarded millions in alimony.
“No, I didn’t know that.” It was strange to talk to Gavin about personal stuff—if ballet could be considered personal. Which it was, compared to their usual discussions that were all work, work, work.
Mallory was aware of her desire to prolong the conversation, but she didn’t want to hold him up by forcing him to make polite conversation with her.
“Great. Well, see you later,” she said. Was it her imagination, or did he linger in her doorway an extra beat?
She turned back to the depositions on her desk. She wished she hadn’t told Julie and Allison about her plans with Violet and Alec, because they’d each called twice to find out how it went, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell them. It was much easier to be the good friend who confided everything when it was the boyfriend who was screwing up, not herself. She couldn’t imagine what Allison and Julie would say if she told them about last night. Actually, she could; they would tell her that she finally had Alec behaving somewhat decently, and she had gone ahead and behaved more irresponsibly than he ever had. And they would be right. They would tell her she deserved for him to want some time apart.
With a sigh, Mallory picked up the file marked Klein v. Klein. Gavin was going to trial for one of his clients, Marcy Gold Klein. The Kleins’ case was a perfect example of money not buying happiness; Marcy was a successful producer of fashion shows and her soon-to-be ex-husband was a major Wall Street rainmaker. They had the town house, the Hamptons house, the parties with Rachel Zoe on the West Coast and Donald Trump on the East. And they had beautiful twin girls. Yet theirs was one of the nastiest divorces Mallory had seen or read about in her seven months at the firm. And that was saying a lot; it amazed her that people who at one time had pledged their lives to loving each other and making each other happy could go to such lengths to destroy each other sometimes as little as a few years later. When she expressed her reaction to Gavin, he said that he had ceased to be surprised or particularly affected by anything, but conceded that the burnout rate for matrimonial attorneys was especially high.
“Does this ever affect the way you think about the future with Susan?” she asked one day across the conference room table. She had no idea what gave her the idea that it was okay to ask such a personal, audacious question, except that she truly was just wondering. Susan Moreland was a pretty blonde, a
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