Read Online Scot on the Rocks by Brenda Janowitz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brenda Janowitz
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Central Park, but New Yorkers are far too cool to act as if they care about such things. After all, someone might — gasp! — mistake you for a tourist.
For a mere eighteen dollars, you can have a martini so fancy, it even comes with a little orchid floating on top. Unless you order the apple martini. That one comes with an apple slice. Or a chocolate martini. That one comes with a Hershey’s Kiss on top. But you get what I mean.
Only open for two weeks, already, the place was generating a huge buzz over the waitresses walking around clad only in slips. I was unsure if the fuss was about the women being nearly nude, or if it was offensive merely because slip dresses are totally out of fashion.
“Beryl moved in already,” I told them once we had secured a prime table near the window, overlooking the Empire State.
“So what?” Vanessa said. “You were too good for that piece of trash anyway. Let him have someone on his own level.” She set her enormous black Louis Vuitton work bag on the extra chair at the table.
“I agree,” Jack said, setting his Redweld full of discovery requests down on the extra chair next to Vanessa’s bag and putting his navy sports jacket on the back of his own. “Good riddance to bad garbage.”
“Yeah,” Vanessa continued, “Beryl isn’t even a name!”
“I don’t really think that we should be making judgments based on the poor girl’s name, though,” Jack said.
“No matter what her name is,” Vanessa explained, “we automatically hate her. We love Brooke, we hate Beryl. That’s just the way it is.”
The waitress came to our table. Vanessa ordered an apple martini and I ordered a French martini. Truth be told, I didn’t very much care for the taste of it, but it came adorned with that little flower, which I loved. Jack opted for a beer. A very fancy and expensive beer, but a beer nonetheless. Jack always told us that guys who went to college in the Midwest order beer as a matter of course — as if it were some sort of religious thing or a condition of keeping your diploma from the University of Michigan in good standing. Jack offered up his credit card to begin a tab, which he also always assured us was another throwback to good old-fashioned Midwestern values. Even though he, himself, grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia.
“Why were you even calling him?” Jack asked. “Hasn’t he done enough damage already?”
“I thought I’d try to get him back so that we could go to Trip’s wedding together and I could keep my dignity ever-so-slightly intact and things could be perfect again.”
“But, Brooke, they weren’t perfect before,” Jack said. I turned to him to find him looking me dead in the eye. I had to turn away from his gaze.
“And, anyway,” Vanessa said, “what is he? Cattle? Get him? How very cavewoman of you, Brooke.” She adjusted her bateau-neck cashmere sweater as the waitress set our eighteen-dollar martinis down on the table.
“Get back
my man,
” I explained, pulling my hair out of its bun and pushing it behind my ears.
“How very country-western of you,” Jack said, taking a sip of his beer.
“Look, it’s not like there is some law saying that you have to go to your ex-boyfriend’s wedding or something,” Vanessa tried to reason. “In fact, there should be a law against it. Save yourself the pain. I won’t go, either, if you want. Do you really think that his ice-queen bride even wants you there?”
“Actually, I’ve heard that she’s really very nice,” I said, removing the flower from my drink and setting it on the napkin.
“Yes, if I was a stunning Academy Award-nominated actress with noble blood, I’m quite certain that I would be, what did you call her, nice, as well.” Way to help out my ego, there, Vanessa. “She does have a title, doesn’t she?”
“I forget,” I said, my eyes floating over to the view.
“She’s a countess,” Jack chimed in, sipping his beer. “Or an empress. Some ‘ess.’
For a mere eighteen dollars, you can have a martini so fancy, it even comes with a little orchid floating on top. Unless you order the apple martini. That one comes with an apple slice. Or a chocolate martini. That one comes with a Hershey’s Kiss on top. But you get what I mean.
Only open for two weeks, already, the place was generating a huge buzz over the waitresses walking around clad only in slips. I was unsure if the fuss was about the women being nearly nude, or if it was offensive merely because slip dresses are totally out of fashion.
“Beryl moved in already,” I told them once we had secured a prime table near the window, overlooking the Empire State.
“So what?” Vanessa said. “You were too good for that piece of trash anyway. Let him have someone on his own level.” She set her enormous black Louis Vuitton work bag on the extra chair at the table.
“I agree,” Jack said, setting his Redweld full of discovery requests down on the extra chair next to Vanessa’s bag and putting his navy sports jacket on the back of his own. “Good riddance to bad garbage.”
“Yeah,” Vanessa continued, “Beryl isn’t even a name!”
“I don’t really think that we should be making judgments based on the poor girl’s name, though,” Jack said.
“No matter what her name is,” Vanessa explained, “we automatically hate her. We love Brooke, we hate Beryl. That’s just the way it is.”
The waitress came to our table. Vanessa ordered an apple martini and I ordered a French martini. Truth be told, I didn’t very much care for the taste of it, but it came adorned with that little flower, which I loved. Jack opted for a beer. A very fancy and expensive beer, but a beer nonetheless. Jack always told us that guys who went to college in the Midwest order beer as a matter of course — as if it were some sort of religious thing or a condition of keeping your diploma from the University of Michigan in good standing. Jack offered up his credit card to begin a tab, which he also always assured us was another throwback to good old-fashioned Midwestern values. Even though he, himself, grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia.
“Why were you even calling him?” Jack asked. “Hasn’t he done enough damage already?”
“I thought I’d try to get him back so that we could go to Trip’s wedding together and I could keep my dignity ever-so-slightly intact and things could be perfect again.”
“But, Brooke, they weren’t perfect before,” Jack said. I turned to him to find him looking me dead in the eye. I had to turn away from his gaze.
“And, anyway,” Vanessa said, “what is he? Cattle? Get him? How very cavewoman of you, Brooke.” She adjusted her bateau-neck cashmere sweater as the waitress set our eighteen-dollar martinis down on the table.
“Get back
my man,
” I explained, pulling my hair out of its bun and pushing it behind my ears.
“How very country-western of you,” Jack said, taking a sip of his beer.
“Look, it’s not like there is some law saying that you have to go to your ex-boyfriend’s wedding or something,” Vanessa tried to reason. “In fact, there should be a law against it. Save yourself the pain. I won’t go, either, if you want. Do you really think that his ice-queen bride even wants you there?”
“Actually, I’ve heard that she’s really very nice,” I said, removing the flower from my drink and setting it on the napkin.
“Yes, if I was a stunning Academy Award-nominated actress with noble blood, I’m quite certain that I would be, what did you call her, nice, as well.” Way to help out my ego, there, Vanessa. “She does have a title, doesn’t she?”
“I forget,” I said, my eyes floating over to the view.
“She’s a countess,” Jack chimed in, sipping his beer. “Or an empress. Some ‘ess.’
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