The French Girl(43)

I’m back in my office after the appointment with my lawyer, and despite my hangover, despite Severine, despite the—what? drama, row, contretemps?—with Tom, I’m getting rather a lot done. The trick is bloody single-mindedness, a strong personal trait of mine. Do not pick up the phone and call Lara; do not pay attention to the slim, secretive-eyed dead girl who perches casually on the edge of my desk, swinging one walnut brown ankle; do not descend into introspection and speculation; do not pass go, do not collect ￡200.

Gordon calls early afternoon. We now have a weekly catch-up call in the diary for each Friday afternoon, though I’ve been forewarned he will frequently have to reschedule, or skip it altogether: Mr. Farrow is a busy man. I presume he’s calling to reschedule, but instead he says, in his mild manner, “Why don’t you drop by the office instead of having a call today?”

“Sure, let me just check my schedule.” I have a couple of calls in my diary before then, but I should still be able to get across town in time. “That’s fine, I can come over. Everything okay?”

“Fine, fine. Just thought it’s been a while since we had a face-to-face catch-up. I’m a little quieter today, so it seemed best to take advantage.”

“No problem. See you at 3:30.” I hang up, thinking that I should take Paul with me, to broaden the relationship and so forth, but I know I won’t. Gordon enjoys meeting me (and vice versa); he will find Paul too slick, too accommodating.

I wonder if I will be bringing Severine with me.



* * *



—

Either Severine finds business meetings uninteresting, or I am sufficiently focused to keep her at bay, but whatever the reason, I’m flying solo when I meet with Gordon. We run through an update on the candidates he has seen: what he thinks of them, what they think of the opportunity, what other firms appear to be thinking of them . . . Recruitment at this level—partner, soon to be partner, which is what we’re concentrating on first—is a strategic game. The next step is the associates, but a good number will simply follow the partners they’ve worked with most closely.

“If we get those two, it will be quite a coup,” says Gordon thoughtfully, tapping the sheet of names that lies on the table in front of us, flanked by our empty coffee cups. We’re in one of the meeting rooms on the top floor of the Haft & Weil building, with a glorious view over the city. I can see the gleaming curve of St. Paul’s dome, with glimpses of the flashing silver ribbon that is the Thames popping up unexpectedly between buildings. From this height, London has a stately gravitas in its lofty architecture, standing indomitable and proud in the sunshine. It would be easy to forget the hustle and grime one encounters close-up.

“We’ll get them,” I say confidently, wrenching my gaze back to the paper.

“Well, I suppose the size of the guarantee we’re offering is hard to ignore.”

I shake my head. “It’s not about the guarantee.” Gordon glances at me, a question in his eyes. “That’s necessary, obviously, but what I mean is, it’s not about the money for those two. It’s about what the money means. They feel undervalued, underappreciated where they are, and they hate the lack of collegiality. The guarantee just proves to them that you value them. If you manage them properly once you get them across, make them feel safe but also give them opportunities to feel like they’re making a difference, then I think they’ll do very well for you.”

Gordon’s sharp eyes are assessing me. “You have strong views on management styles, I take it.”

I shrug. “In my job, you need to have an instinct for who would fit where. No point putting a diffident technical specialist into an aggressive American setup, for example.”

“You need to be a good judge of people.” He’s toying with his empty coffee cup, as if turning something over in his mind.

“I like to think I am. In a professional context.” My mind skitters to that week in France, to Seb, to Tom, to Lara, Theo, Caro, Severine, and the spider’s web that entangles and binds us all. With everything I know now, I can only think that my judgment was disastrously clouded back then. Possibly—probably, even?—it still is. “In a professional context,” I repeat. He’s still turning the coffee cup this way and that. “Why, is there something troubling you?”

He glances up, surprised. “No, I . . . No. Well.” He looks away again, as if reluctant to look at me, to acknowledge we’re having this conversation. “Caro is on the slate this year.”

The slate: the list of prospective candidates for partnership. It’s pretty much an up-or-out culture: those who don’t make the cut are expected to leave the firm. I do a rapid calculation of how long Caro has been a qualified lawyer, and the timing is about right; I’d expect her to be on the slate around now. “And how does it look?” I ask, although I know the answer, or we wouldn’t be talking about it.

He puffs out a breath. “Between you and me . . . dicey. Speaking plainly, it’s good that she’s female; we need more women in corporate. Not that we’re supposed to kowtow to the statistics, but . . .” He grimaces, and I nod. We both know the score on gender balance in the workplace. “And anyway, she’s very good, and a tough negotiator, no question about it, and the clients that love her really love her, but there’s a perception that she’s . . . well . . .” He’s searching for a way to say it that doesn’t make him feel disloyal. “I suppose . . . not a team player.” He looks at me directly. “If you were placing Caro, where would you put her?”