The French Girl(10)

“Why not Dominic?” asks Gordon diffidently. “He’s a prime candidate, with his experience. And I hear he’s looking to move; he wants to head up a meaningful business area with the right support to really make a dent into private equity clients.”

“Do you have any plans to retire, Gordon?” I ask. “In the next, say, five years?” Paul’s eyes almost pop out. He makes urgent gestures.

“I’m not following you,” says Gordon, after a moment.

“Dominic Burns doesn’t want a job heading up a business area. He wants your job. Managing partner.”

“He doesn’t have that kind of experience,” Gordon objects.

“Not yet. But he’s aggressively ambitious, and after a couple of years at Haft & Weil, he’ll start to feel he deserves a shot. Which is fine if you’re looking for someone to hand the reins to. But if not, he’ll go looking for a firm where he can get the opportunity he really wants. You’ll have him in place for three years tops.” Paul is standing now in obvious agitation. His frantic hand-waving may be interpreted as ordering me to stop talking or to immediately slit my throat. I ignore him and continue: “When he jumps ship he’ll take all your lovely new clients with him, and probably a host of your up-and-coming juniors, too.” I give Paul a one-fingered gesture of my own, which isn’t open to any misinterpretation, then spin my chair to face away. I like Gordon. I don’t want to see him make the wrong hire. “And you’ll be back at square one.”

There’s silence down the phone line for a long moment, then Gordon says, “You sound like you know him well.”

“I do, actually. I worked under him for a while at Clifford Chance.”

“Interesting. Well, that’s certainly food for thought, Kate.”

I put down the phone and spin round to find Paul looming over my desk, almost incoherent with frustration. “What are you doing?” he groans, one hand clutching his head. “The first rule of service industries: give the client what they want. The man wants to hire Dominic Burns, so tell him you’ll get him Dominic Burns. It’s a no-brainer!”

“It’s the wrong hire,” I argue. “He needs to know that.”

“No! He doesn’t! He needs to hire him, and pay us a whacking great check!” I can’t deny a whacking great check would be helpful. Paul sees my weakness and presses on. “Kate, we need this, and you’ve just blown it. Why the hell would you torpedo it? If he’s got his mind set on someone, then we get them. It’s as simple as that.”

“He’ll respect us more for giving him honest, open feedback,” I fire back, stung by his “blown it” comment. Though of course he may be right. “We don’t need this so badly that I’m going to forget how to do a good job.”

“If we don’t get a big contract soon, you won’t be doing any job.” He lets out a long breath.

“We’re fine.” I spin the computer screen to show him what I’ve been looking at. He perches on the desk and leans in to run his eye down the figures. “See, the small stuff is going to tide us over. We’ve got time, and we’re obviously building a name or Haft & Weil wouldn’t even be talking to us.”

“The small stuff keeps the lights on and the printer running,” he says dismally. “It doesn’t, you know, pay us. Which I’ve got to say, I’m quite attached to, as a concept.” He runs a hand through his hair. I realize he looks tired. It doesn’t sit well on his fair skin. “I don’t think I’m going to land the Freshfields guy.”

“Ah.”

“Ah indeed.” He sighs and climbs off the edge of the desk, then turns back to me. “Haft & Weil are going to cancel the lunch, you know.”

“They won’t.” It’s only dogged bravura that forces me to disagree with him. Nobody calls for an in-depth strategy session if they intend to keep a lunch date the following day.

“You’ll see,” Paul says wearily.

That afternoon Gordon Farrow’s secretary calls me: not to cancel, but to postpone due to “Mr. Farrow’s travel commitments.” Paul wisely says nothing.



* * *



—

Monday evening finds me back at my flat unusually early for the appointment with Mr. Modan. Actually Monsieur Alain Modan, Investigateur, OPJ—whatever that stands for. Basically the French detective. He would have met me at my office if I’d preferred, but I’d rather Julie and Paul not know about this. Helping the police with their inquiries could end up sounding like a euphemism for something more sinister after a few Chinese whispers, and who wants to hire a legal recruiter that’s in trouble with the law?

“Thank you for seeing me,” he says as we settle into my living room.

“It wasn’t clear to me I had the option to refuse.” I smile to lessen the sting.

He is rummaging through his bag and looks up at my words, his long, intelligent face already pulled into a half-ironic smile. There are deep smile lines framing his mobile mouth, and a slim-fitting dark gray suit hangs on his too-lanky, too-thin frame; somehow the sum of the parts is an unexpectedly attractive man. I can’t possibly imagine a British detective in the same mold. “There is always the option, non?” he says, his accent unmistakable. “Though I would not think it the wisest choice.” The smile flashes again, then he returns to his bag. I watch as he finds his notepad and flicks through the pages.