EMILY AND BART
THE YEAR BEFORE, Dale, Hardy had held its Christmas party at New York’s chic restaurant Eleven Madison Park. The law firm booked the entire restaurant. They had two martini bars, poured twelve cases of Opus One, and served nigiri sushi, organic beef carpaccio, and blini with caviar.
The party cost $400,000.
This year, money was tighter. So less luxury was the solution. No restaurant. The Christmas party would be held at the Dale, Hardy offices. They would still have two martini bars, pour twelve cases of Opus One, and serve nigiri sushi, organic beef carpaccio, and blini with caviar.
It would cost a mere $250,000.
“I like having it here at the factory better,” said Jason McIntyre, an up-and-coming young attorney who had graduated from Columbia Law with Emily. “More money for bonuses. Nobody believes in Christmas anyway.”
“I think it’s more festive when you go out someplace,” said Emily. “And actually I believe in Christmas.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do, Em,” said Jason. “But as long as you’re at the office, you can sneak away and get some work done.”
Emily knew that her distaste for Jason’s usual cynicism showed on her face. She excused herself and got a white wine spritzer, which she probably wouldn’t drink. What a scene. What a hackneyed stupid scene. Emily felt like she had walked into the wrong movie.
Jeanne Gallery, a promising Stanford Law graduate and junior associate, was exchanging lingering kisses with Ben Abbots, a promising Yale Law graduate who had just married his girlfriend over Thanksgiving weekend. That completely turned Emily’s stomach.
The handsome, and married, head of wills and estates, Danny Josephson, had his hand planted firmly on the backside of the handsome, also married Spanish-document translator, Raymond Ramirez.
Old Man Hardy sat on a large mahogany chair, actually a throne, beneath his own portrait, as a multitude of office toadies flocked around him as if he were an aging rock star. Keith Richards looked better than Hardy these days, and the Rolling Stones guitarist was actually older by two years.
“Have yourselves a merry little Christmas,” Emily muttered as she moved on.
Then she heard the familiar baritone of her boss, Cliff Church. “Pretty motley crew, huh, Em?”
“Christmas Manhattan style. Kind of brings out the small-town girl in me,” Emily said. Her voice was barely audible over the blaring gangsta rap, urban music that failed totally at transforming this into a cool party.
“Come on over to my office,” Cliff said. “I’ve got something that’ll brighten your holidays. I promise.”
Only one word came to Emily’s mind: “Partner.” Maybe this wasn’t such a lousy Christmas party after all.