She and Naomi were standing face-to-face, and together they were blocking the elevator entrance, but it seemed rude to push past them.
The socialite-slash-trophy-wife heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Hello, Naomi.”
“Well, hello, Annabel. You’re looking coiffed. Here to see Glenn?” Naomi’s voice dripped acid.
It wasn’t just an image, then. This woman was, in fact, a trophy wife. Glenn Gallagher’s trophy wife, to be exact. What could she possibly be thinking, marrying a weasel like him? But the outfit answered that question nicely-the jewelry alone likely added up to more than the annual income of your average top-tax-bracket American household.
Annabel sighed again and indicated a garment bag she had slung over one arm. The bag bore a Brioni logo, as if it needed a label to join the rest of her ensemble. “I’m bringing him his tux. We’re going to a benefit tonight, and he won’t have time to stop home to change.”
“He’s in a fine humor.”
“Oh?”
“I have that effect on him. And I managed to separate him from some of his money. He never likes that much. Can I give you some advice, Annabel?”
“Do I have a choice?” she answered impatiently. She moved to step past Naomi, but Naomi moved with her. The elevator doors gave a whining beep in protest at standing open for so long.
“If you didn’t already sign everything away in a prenup, which he probably made sure you did, get things squared away now. Especially if you’re planning on having any little Annabels or Glenn juniors. Find a good lawyer and have him draw up some watertight contracts. Otherwise all you’ll see once he’s onto Number Three is half of whatever he made while you were married, and my guess is that he’ll hide a lot of that away.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I can take care of myself. Are you done now?” asked Annabel, trying again to step past Naomi. “These people are waiting for the elevator.” She motioned toward our little group, which had been bearing witness to the entire scene with varying degrees of awkwardness. I thought I caught a flash of recognition in her eyes as her glance swept over us.
“Yes, I must get back to my office. Some of us work, you know. Besides, I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything important. I know how busy you must be with all of that shopping and decorating to do. Goodbye, Annabel.”
“Goodbye, Naomi,” Annabel said, mimicking Naomi’s tone. This time Naomi let her pass and stepped into the elevator, followed by Jake, Mark, and me. A small smile played over her lips as the doors slid shut.
We were all silent as the elevator descended. Personally, I was in awe. Naomi seemed to be completely comfortable saying whatever she wanted to whomever she wanted. And while Miss Manners most assuredly would not have approved, I couldn’t help but be impressed.
The doors parted when we reached the ground floor, and Naomi strode off.
“Wow,” I said.
“Good show,” agreed Jake.
“You missed the first act.” I filled them in on Naomi’s showdown with Gallagher as we made our way to a nearby Burger Heaven. I’d chosen our destination; I was very much in need of protein, preferably accompanied by large quantities of French fries.
“It sounds like Wife Number One isn’t exactly president of the Glenn Gallagher fan club,” said Jake when we had settled in a booth and placed our order.
“I don’t think that’s a very happening club,” I said.
Mark laughed, his first laugh in the three days we’d spent almost entirely in each other’s company. I turned to him, glad to see some sign of personality. It would be nice if the guy loosened up-thus far, he’d been like a Stepford associate: focused, uncomplaining, and completely humorless.
“So, Mark, where are you from?” I asked.
“Me?” He took a sip of his soda. “New Jersey.”
“Southern New Jersey or northern New Jersey?” asked Jake. I wondered how this could possibly matter. New Jersey was New Jersey as far as I was concerned.
“Southern.”
“Then you’re an Eagles fan, right?” said Jake.
My heart sank. I really hated sports talk, and it didn’t help that I had no idea what sport the Eagles played.
“Yeah.”
“Man, did you see their game against the Cowboys? During the playoffs?”
“Uh, no. I missed it.”
“It was awesome.” Jake started talking about the game, and I was able to ascertain that the sport in question was football. It was amazing how someone who was usually so engaging in conversation could embrace such a boring topic.
“What about the Eagles-Steelers game? Did you see that one?” Jake asked.
Mark looked relieved to be able to answer in the affirmative. “That was a great game.”
They started talking about that game, and I tuned out. I couldn’t possibly be expected to concentrate on a subject this dull when I was hungry. I perked back up when our food arrived, and I was pleased to find that the football discussion had run its course. They were now talking about work. This was only a marginally better topic, but it still trumped sports.
“You’ve been with the firm since January, right?” Jake was asking. “How do you like it?”
Mark picked up his burger. “I expected that the hours would be pretty brutal, and they have been, especially with this new deal. But I wanted to work on a buyout.”
“Even with the Idi Amin of Winslow, Brown?” I asked.
Mark hesitated. “This is probably embarrassing to admit, but I was deciding between offers at a few different firms. When I heard that Gallagher had left Ryan Brothers to join Winslow, Brown-well, that made up my mind for me. In fact, I asked to be assigned to his next deal. I’d heard that working with him was sort of painful, but I thought it would be a good learning experience. He’s kind of a legend in certain circles.”
Circles of hell, I thought. Imagine wanting to work with Gallagher. In fact, following Gallagher to the firm? That was dedication. Or masochism.
“Then it’s a dream come true?” asked Jake. He must have been thinking along the same lines as me; there was a teasing edge to his tone. But Mark looked uncomfortable, so I changed the subject.
“I have a question, Jake. Since you’ve worked with the guy before.”
Jake turned his attention away from Mark. “Shoot.”
“What’s with Gallagher and the pencil thing?”
“What pencil thing?”
“Don’t even try to pretend that you haven’t noticed the pencil thing. When he sharpens an already sharp pencil and sucks on it? He must have done it six or seven times when we were in his office this morning.”
He grinned. “Oh, that pencil thing.”
“Yes, that pencil thing. He must go through a dozen pencils a day. And the sucking-it’s disgusting. I don’t even want to know what Freud would make of it.”
“All that lead can’t be good for him,” volunteered Mark.
“Maybe he’ll die of lead poisoning,” I said, not bothering to disguise the hopeful note in my voice.
“I think they make them out of graphite now,” Jake said. “It’s funny, though. Do you watch Forensic City?”
“I love that show,” I said.
“You do? Me, too,” Jake said.
“I have the entire season’s episodes on my TiVo, just waiting for the time to watch them all,” I told him.
“Well, I don’t think I’ll ruin anything by telling you they had an episode a few weeks ago in which a guy who likes to chew on toothpicks dies from chewing on a poisoned toothpick.”
“Interesting,” I said thoughtfully. “Maybe we could slip some poison into one of Gallagher’s pencils?”