Marci sighs as she sits down, gingerly holding her uptight self upright. She’s disturbingly put-together, but then again, around Trish’s people, Jessica’s not unfamiliar with the phenomenon of silver-screen-worthy blondes.
“Bad news,” Trish realizes, starting the conversation on which neither Marci nor Jess is particularly keen.
“My firm doesn’t want to represent you, Trish. And we still use that whole ‘democracy’ thing, so my wanting to has next to nothing to do with the ultimate decision.”
“So that’s it?” Jessica groans. “Momster’s minions are still anywhere she wants them; we can’t just-”
“I said that Landman and Zack doesn’t want to represent her, Jones, not that no one would.”
She takes her phone out, and sends Trish a contact. Jessica catches a glimpse of, unsurprisingly, another pretty blonde woman.
“The woman whose number I just sent you is named Karen Page. She’s a secretary at another firm, one in Hell’s Kitchen. They’re even better than we are, full of conscience and heroism and everything. Oh, and one of them is blind. Try not to mention it, but he’ll joke about it anyway and expect you to laugh.”
“Is he actually funny, though?” Jessica asks, and thank fuck, their next drinks arrive a moment later; Marci orders a margarita, and Jessica spots Trish sending her the usual “play nice, Jess” maternal glare.
Jess shrugs, and downs half of her night’s third whiskey. Marci looks impressed, and maybe aroused, and Trish just chuckles and calls the Karen chick.