her, although we didn’t socialize. The eighty-ninth was self-contained with gourmet coffee and exclusive catering in its posh break room. There wasn’t much of a reason for the eighty-niners to venture downstairs.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Arquette.” Marcy looked sleek and professional in a forest-green Chivalist dress. Chivalist was one of LeFroy’s most exclusive brands.
I guessed her short black jacket was the product of a LeFroy company too. And her belt bore LeFroy’s discreet silver Zimma label. It seemed likely that her sapphire earrings, bracelet, and necklace set had a similar pedigree.
I thought it was a smart move for the firm to buy her the outfit. I assumed Marcy didn’t buy it herself—unless executive receptionists made a whole lot more money than second-year associates. I wasn’t complaining about my salary. Laatz Wallingsford was very competitive compared to other firms. But I sure wasn’t in the market for designer clothes and jewelry—at least not yet. I hoped to be someday, if my career went really well.
I loved the law. I also had a healthy appreciation for the cost of living in the city. I’d spent my early years in Brooklyn, but I loved Manhattan, and Midtown was where I wanted to put down roots.
“This way,” Marcy said and gestured across the expansive foyer.
I fell into step beside her as she glided on a pair of Zimma pumps with heels a good inch higher than mine. I hoped she didn’t have to spend too much time standing today. After a couple of hours, those things had to hurt.
I heard several voices come through a set of open double doors.
“Has Ms. LeFroy already arrived?” I hadn’t wanted to be early, but I sure didn’t want to be late either. A quick glance at my watch told me it was about ninety seconds to two o’clock. That was as perfectly on time as I could be.
“You’re the last to arrive,” Marcy said.
I was disappointed that my timing wasn’t as perfect as I’d planned. I prized punctuality, and I knew others did too. I shook off the feeling that I was already one step behind.
I tilted my chin and drew back my shoulders, knowing the next best thing was to project confidence.
Harold Laatz, Roland Wallingsford, Annalisa LeFroy, and third-year associate Thad Nelson were standing in a cluster talking among themselves. At least ten other people were sitting silently in chairs around the perimeter of the room. I recognized Mr. Laatz and Mr. Wallingsford’s assistants sitting side by side. The others I guessed might be with Annalisa.
The group was bigger than I’d expected, and I hoped I had enough handouts. I’d have to make sure I projected my voice.
I didn’t know where they expected me to stand or sit, so I hovered near the door for a moment.
“. . . and then Bangle became so upset by the noise from the jackhammer,” Annalisa was saying to the little group. “And the traffic was absolutely horrible. Did you know you don’t have a helipad on top of your building?”
Mr. Laatz spoke up. “I’m afraid city regulations don’t allow for—”
“Shh.” Annalisa shushing Mr. Laatz was almost comical. But her attention was on a stylized black-and-gold bag in her hand.
The bag jiggled.
The movement startled me. Then I saw it was a pet carrier—a deep purple, richly gold-embossed pet carrier.
It had to be her little Pomsky dog, Bangle.
Bangle was almost as internet famous as Annalisa herself—which spoke to the frivolity of her social media followers. Black with dark eyes and gray markings on his face, people cooed and fussed about the cute and precious little Bangle. Someone even wrote a comedy blog in his name—a Bangle-eye-view of social events, like the Met Gala, the Paradise Club, or the Snowflake Ball.
Ridiculous.
Mr. Wallingsford reached for the case. “May I help you with—”
Bangle gave a sharp bark.
Mr. Wallingsford snapped his hand back, and my stomach jumped.
Dogs made me nervous. They always had. At least they had since I’d been bitten at six years old.
It was Ollie, my neighbor Mrs. Putt’s purebred Maltese, the prettiest most harmless-looking little fluff ball you’d ever seen. My mom was allergic to everything, so we couldn’t have animals while I was growing up. I decided to befriend Ollie, hoping Mrs. Putt would let me take him to school for pet day.
Instead of becoming my friend, Ollie had chased me across his little yard and got a good bite on the inside of my calf before I could scramble back over the fence. I have a wicked scar to this day.
Bangle