And then the Praying Mantis came slinking over and stuck her creepy overlong Ingres-like hand at me and went, “So nice to meet you. You must be with Substantiated Oil, then,” and I went, “Um, no. TheNew York Journal. Mitchell—I mean, Mr. Hertzog—I mean, Mitchell—is helping us with a wrongful termination suit.”
Which of course caused the Praying Mantis to just look at me and go, “Breach of contract, you mean. There is no wrongful termination in the state of New York.” And then she looked at Mitchell from beneath her eyelashes—she must spend a fortune at Sephora because they were super long . . . her eyelashes, I mean—and then there was one of those embarrassing silences, during which I guessed that Mitch must have met Clarissa through work.
And then I put two and two together, and remembered that the name of Mitch’s firm was Hertzog Webber and Doyle, and that Clarissa had to be the Doyle. Ora Doyle, anyway. And then I thought how happy, you know, it would probably make everybody, if she and Mitchell got married, because then they could start a little lawyer empire, like France, or something, and then, I don’t know, the thought of it made me wish I hadn’t drunk so much champagne, because suddenly I got a very bad headache, which I guess Mitch must have noticed, since he went, “Are you all right, Kate?”
I said I was, because, you know, you have to lie about that kind of thing, and then, to deflect the attention off me, I asked him how his family liked Amy, although I almost called her the T.O.D.
“Uh, everyone seems to like her just fine,” Mitch said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Just peachy,” I said. I couldn’t believe those words came out of my mouth. But there they were, floating like a bubble over my head, like in a Peanuts cartoon. It was as though even Clarissa was stretching her Praying Mantis neck to look at them.
And of course that only made my headache about ten times worse, and the damn Brahms didn’t help much, either.
Then it was like a nuclear bomb went off inside my head, because who should I see standing not twenty feet away but Stuart Hertzog and the T.O.D.!!!!
I about swallowed my tongue. I mean, if the T.O.D. caught me fraternizing with Mitch, after expressly forbidding me from doing so, I would be demoted to the mailroom quicker than you could say Staff Assistance Program. . . .
I don’t think Mitchell saw them, but he saw my face, and all of a sudden, he went, “Kate, you look done for. Let me get your coat and a cab home. Clarissa can tell Dolly you decided to go on home without her.”
To which Clarissa replied, looking more like a Praying Mantis than ever, “Yes, of course I will.”
And even though I was all, “No, it’s all right,” he got my coat tag from me. I have to say, I didn’t exactly fight him on the whole getting-me-out-of-there, and-fast thing. We managed to slip right by the T.O.D. without her even noticing (she was busy picking at an hors d’oeuvre and I think mentally tabulating how long she’d have to work out on her treadmill before she’d burn off all the calories in it).
Anyway, next thing I know, Mitch and I were standing in the drizzle in front of the Met, and he was flagging down a cab for me.
“It must be the champagne,” I said lamely, because I didn’t want to admit that it was the sight of my boss that had caused me to go green around the gills. Because, you know, after all, my boss is his future sister-in-law, and even if he will eventually find out for himself how heinous she is, I can’t be the one to tell him. “Really, I’m not used to it. And Dolly and I went on a run around the reservoir today, and I’m not used to that, either, and . . . It must have been the champagne.”
And then Mitch said, “Really? I thought it was the crowd, myself. I can’t stand all the glad-handing.”
And then a cab pulled up, and Mitch opened the door for me and put me inside and told the driver where to go. Then he looked at me, and went, “See you on Monday, Kate.”
I had time to say only, “See you on Monday, and thanks—“ before he shut the door on me. And then the driver took me home.
And so now I’m lying here—Dolly and Skiboy aren’t back yet. Maybe they won’t come back tonight. Maybe they’ll go to his place. Though I can’t imagine Skiboy’s place is better than Dolly’s—and I’m wondering to myself . . .
Well, just how did Mitch Hertzog know Dolly’s exact address, anyway? Because he did. He gave it to the cab driver.
I wonder if HE ever wandered around this place in his tightie whities.
No. Surely not. He is definitely a boxers man.
To: Mitchell Hertzog <mitchell.hertzog@hwd.com>
Fr: Clarissa Doyle <clarissa.doyle@hwd.com>
Re: Your little waif
Well, haven’t you gone all Galahad. Your little Lady Elaine is adorable. But you ought to tell her it isn’t good form to leave the ball before midnight. She missed all the fireworks between you and Stuart. What WAS he so upset about?
I can’t say much for that creature he’s marrying. She looks like somebody shoved a Manolo Blahnik up her ass.
When you can drag yourself away from Cinderella, sweet prince, do you think you could give me a call about the Brinker-Hoffman case?
C
To: Mitchell Hertzog <mitchell.hertzog@hwd.com>
Fr: Haley and Brittany <WELUVBARNEY@trentcapital.com>
Re: You
Uncle Mitch! We had fun yesterday. You should come over more often. We really liked how red you made Uncle Stuart’s face, when he was yelling at you in the garage. Can you do that again, next time you come?
So Uncle Stuart is marrying that lady? Mom says she’s going to be our aunt Amy. She’s okay, except she wouldn’t try any peanut butter M&M chocolate chip fudge cookies. They were good—you ate five, remember? But she said she was on a special diet, and couldn’t eat something called carbs. We told her we didn’t put any carbs in our cookies, just M&Ms, but she said M&Ms were carbs.
Uncle Mitch, what’s carbs?
Well, that’s all. Thank you for the Barbie video, we put it on and turned it up REAL loud this morning, just like you said. You were right: Daddy does look funny when he runs downstairs screaming with his hair all standing up.
Love,
Haley and Brittany
(and Little John, too little to work the computer)
To: Mitchell Hertzog <mitchell.hertzog@hwd.com>
Fr: Stacy Trent <IH8BARNEY@freemail.com>
Re: You
Heard from Stuie this morning. He says he saw you at the museum last night with Clarissa Doyle. Tell me you two are not dating again. I thought you guys figured out you were completely incompatible way back in 9th grade, when she deflowered you behind the pool house.
Naughty.
Stace
Hi, you’ve reached Kate and Dale. We can’t come to the phone right now, but please leave a message at the tone, and we’ll get back to you.
(Tone)
Hi, Katie! It’s Mom again! You never returned my call. I just wanted to let you know, Charlie and I are in Sante Fe. Sante Fe, New Mexico. Oh, it’s just lovely here, you and Dale have to come visit us sometime. The air is so—
“H-hello?”
“Hello? Dale? Is that you? It’s Carol, Dale.”
“Oh. Mrs. Mackenzie. Hey. How’s it going.”
“Did I wake you, Dale? I’m so sorry. The time difference. Let’s see, it’s noon here, which means it must be . . . three in the afternoon there. Dale, what are you still doing in bed at three in the afternoon?”