Brenda Janowitz: Jack With a Twist

Monique and I walk back into the Waldorf with our heads bowed slightly and make a beeline to the bar just off the side of the grand entranceway of the Waldorf-Astoria.

“The divorce rumors,” I say, as I walk into the bar with Monique. We take the table in the corner, and I seat Monique facing the wall so that she’s not easily visible to any reporters who might come in. “I was going to call you later to let you know that we are on top of it, and we are going to take care of it.”

“Oh,” she says, shrugging, and motioning for a waiter to come and take our order. “I saw that in today’s Post. Would you like a drink?”

“But the story,” I say. “How can you be so calm at a time like this?”

“I’m just so relieved that the dissolution of partnership didn’t become public,” she says, as she orders champagne for the two of us. I consider interrupting her and ordering something other than champagne, but then reconsider. Somehow it seems only natural to be drinking champagne if you’re at the bar at the Waldorf-Astoria hotel in the middle of the day. “Brooke, if word had gotten out about the dissolution of partnership, that could adversely affect the company’s stock. And the stock of our shareholders.”

“The dissolution of partnership? I thought you’d be more concerned about your impending divorce going public.”

“Divorce?” Monique says to me, taking off her sunglasses, “How silly. Jean Luc and I are not getting divorced, so there’s no gossip to get.”

“I saw you at Robin Kaplan’s office,” I say, my voice almost a whisper. “A divorce attorney’s office.” For a moment, I begin to panic as I think that maybe she was only there because she was designing a wedding dress for Robin, but then I look at her whole Brigitte Bardot get-up that she was sporting that day and again today and think that there’s no way I could be misinterpreting what is going on.

“Oh, Brooke. That was just an impulsive French woman trying to spread her wings and see how she felt,” Monique says, laughing for full effect. “I wasn’t ever really going to divorce Jean Luc. I love him, I want to be married to him, that’s the reason I want to dissolve our business partnership.”

“Then what about the Lowell? Wasn’t he really staying there?”

“Ah, yes,” she says, looking down. “He was. But now he’s back at home, where he belongs. And I’m meeting him here today for a little romantic rendezvous.”

“I don’t understand,” I say as the waitress comes back with our glasses of champagne.

“After all these years, the one thing that I’ve learned about marriage is that you must keep your work life and your personal life separate. Combining the two can be a lethal combination. Especially in the case of Jean Luc and me. But we still love each other. Nothing ever changed that. And sometimes a couple needs time apart from each other. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Then why is he fighting us to the death?” I ask, shaking my head side to side involuntarily.

“Men and their egos,” she says, laughing, taking a sip of her champagne. “You know that, don’t you? If you don’t, you should probably figure it out before you get married.”

“Well, that’s not going to be a problem,” I say, looking down into my champagne, “Since I’m not getting married now.”

“But why?” she asks, look of shock registering on her face.

Without even thinking, I begin to cry and recount the whole messy story to Monique. Any time I try to stop crying, in an effort to start acting professional, the tears flow ever harder. Monique doesn’t seem to notice that she’s my client, not my therapist, as she listens with rapt attention, pausing for only a moment when she fishes out an embroidered antique handkerchief and passes it to me, putting her hand on my shoulder as she does so.

I’ve never cried in front of a client before and I pray to God that Noah doesn’t find out about my waterworks being on display here today. Which could be tricky, being that he’s in a ballroom just down the hall from us.

“I’m so embarrassed,” I say, dabbing the corners of my eyes with Monique’s hankie. “Please forgive me.”

Monique stands up, motions for me to do the same, and then wraps her arms around me.

“It will be okay, my dear,” she says, “it will be okay.”

I regain my composure in time to thank her and hand her back her hanky. It’s crisp linen edges are soaked through and through and it practically sticks to my hand. “On second thought, why don’t I get this dry cleaned before returning it to you?”

“It is okay,” she says, with a kind smile, “don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you,” I say, as we sit back down at our table.

“It took me a long time, too,” she says, “so don’t be sorry, don’t be embarrassed. It is okay.”

“Took you a long time for what?” I ask, sniffling slightly, but my tears beginning to subside.

“To figure things out,” she says, taking a slow sip of her champagne.

“To figure what out?” I ask, taking a gulp of mine.

“What’s important and what’s not.”

“With all due respect, Monique,” I say, “I think I know what’s important. That’s exactly what I’ve been saying—Jack isn’t the man I thought he was, and I’m just cutting our losses now before anyone gets even more hurt.”

“But, Brooke,” she says, taking my hand from across the table, “that is what I mean. You are talking about this as if it is a business transaction. As if you thought you did your due diligence on a company you wanted to buy, and now that there are some things with the company that you don’t like, so you want to cancel the deal.”

“Not things I didn’t like,” I correct. “Things I didn’t even know.”

“That would be a solid argument if we were talking business,” Monique says, “but we’re not talking about business. We’re talking about love.”

Without even asking, Monique hands me another antique handkerchief about thirty seconds before I’m about to need one again.

I walk out of the bar with Monique and back into the hotel lobby to see her off to her romantic rendezvous with her husband. She hugs me goodbye and I give her a big hug back. In the distance, I can hear the tell-tale click of a paparazzo close by, ruining our moment. I hope that Monique doesn’t hear it too, and can just go off and have the fabulous reconciliation with her husband that she deserves.

“Do you hear what I hear?” Monique asks me, furrowing her brow. Vanessa and I had wondered, back when we first met Monique, whether or not she’d had Botox injected, but now, with her brow wrinkled like a question mark, I’m sure that she has not.

“Hear what?” I ask, thinking that if we can just ignore them, maybe they’ll go away. Okay, well, the paparazzi probably won’t go away, but maybe she can just ignore them and go about her afternoon.

“Watch this,” Monique says, a determined look on her face.

And with that, Monique marches right over to the enormous white column that the photographer is hiding behind, and pulls him out into the open by his ear, like a schoolmarm disciplining a misbehaving pupil. My mouth drops to the floor as I see that the lone photog is none other than my wedding videographer, Jay Conte. Well, former wedding videographer, but you know what I mean.

“What on earth are you doing here?” I demand, rushing over to them.

“My job,” he says. “Just like I’ve been trying to tell your client here. I’m just doing my job.”

“Is your job ruining people’s lives?” I say. “Please, Jay, just go.”

“Brooke,” Monique asks, “you actually know this man?”