The French Girl(55)
“You do that.” Her voice has hardened; there’s a warning note in it: I haven’t fooled her at all. “I can’t help you if I don’t have all the facts. I don’t want you bringing up things at the eleventh hour when you’re already under arrest.”
I’m temporarily unable to breathe. “Arrest,” I croak when I finally find my voice. “Is that likely?”
“Well, not off the current known facts, but as we’ve already discussed, Modan must have something more up his sleeve. He isn’t here for nothing.”
“Right.” I rub my forehead. “Right.”
“I think we should meet again and go over everything once more.” Her voice has softened a little. “My assistant will call you to set something up. In the meantime, promise me you’ll rack your brains about that evening.”
“I will. I promise.” One would think I would have dwelled on little else since yesterday, but last night Lara’s emotional state had required a certain amount of dedicated focus. And if I’m honest, I’ve always shied away from memories of that week. But now . . . now the stakes are growing day by day, it seems. I should approach this as I would a problem with my company, I think; I should set aside time to apply dedicated thought. I look at my online calendar for today and decisively block out 5 P.M. to 6 P.M. I can’t think of what to put in the subject box, so I mark it private so that Julie can’t see the content and leave the subject blank, which in retrospect strikes me as highly ironic—marking an appointment private to hide the fact it says nothing at all. Then I wonder who else is speaking to their lawyer and setting aside thinking time, and it doesn’t seem at all funny anymore.
* * *
—
By happy coincidence, Gordon is hurrying through the Haft & Weil lobby just as I swing in through the revolving doors, a small frown and his short, quick steps betraying the time pressure he’s under. Nevertheless, he stops when he sees me, and the frown clears. “Kate,” he says, shaking my hand. “I’ve been meaning to call you.” He takes my arm and draws me aside, out of the way of the revolving door traffic. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get the opportunity to explain to you in person the change of spearhead at our end. That was . . .” He pauses, and for a moment I see the legendary Farrow steel in his eyes. “Well, that was badly done.” I’m absurdly pleased that he’s annoyed with Caro—for once not because it’s Caro, but because he understands the lack of respect implied by that episode. He lowers his voice and continues. “The idea of putting her in charge actually came from your suggestion of finding her some management initiatives to get involved with, so thank you for that. Though I have to say I’m going to miss our little meetings.” He smiles a little ruefully.
“Me too,” I say honestly. “It’s been a real pleasure.” His eyes crinkle at the edges, then he glances at his watch. “But you’re on your way to something.” I am anxious not to impose. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“I’m sorry, I do hate to say hi and bye . . . Actually, what are you doing for lunch today?”
“Caro invited me to have a bite with her after our meeting.”
He brightens. “Excellent, I’ll gate-crash.” I laugh. “And if she cancels lunch on you—which is rather likely; she’s under the cosh on something big right now, and I can’t imagine she’s getting much sleep, let alone time to eat properly—then you won’t be left in the lurch. Perfect,” he says, with a satisfied air. “See you then.” He turns away, tossing a smile over his shoulder, and I think that I can’t see a single atom of him that resembles Caro.
And neither can I see an ounce of Gordon in Caro when she joins me in the meeting room—basement this time, no spectacular view; in fact no view at all—after a wait that’s only been long enough for me to pour a cup of coffee from the attendant silver flask. She does indeed look tired, even more so than at last night’s meeting: the shadows under her eyes have deepened, and she’s even paler, though that might actually be the effect of the rather stark, though very sharp, black trouser suit she’s wearing. We greet each other with air kisses and then I say, “I saw your dad in the lobby. He’s planning to gate-crash our lunch.”
She shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “Shameless man. Though since I’m waiting on a call from New York, which will of course come just as we’re sitting down to eat, I might be best leaving the two of you to it.” She pulls out a seat, snags a biscuit and takes a bite of it in what seems like one continuous movement. Caro is running purely on adrenaline, I realize.
“He did say you’re rather snowed under at the moment.”
She nods vehemently as she finishes her mouthful. “A rather full-on hostile bid. I haven’t been home to my flat since I saw you yesterday.” She raises her eyebrows ruefully. “You remember how it is during the crazy times. If you get home at all, it’s never before midnight, and on the odd occasion that you do, there’s a stack of laundry to get through and bills to pay and you have no inclination to do either.”
It’s an odd sensation to be feeling sorry for Caro. I don’t enjoy it. But I do remember exactly what she describes. Before I left the practice of law, I did everything that is expected of a lowly associate, and what is expected is to give your all—all your time, all your energy, all your social life; all is consumed by the beast that is the modern top-tier corporate law firm. I remember the late nights in a deserted office, when even the air con had stopped working and the air grew still and heavy and hot. I remember strip lighting and the faint glow from the few computer screens still on, and eyes so tired and scratchy that I could barely read my monitor. The adrenaline rushes occurred in the day, fueled by the enthusiasm of the other team members, but the real hard graft usually happened at night, alone or perhaps with one colleague, with no more camaraderie on tap to spur you on. Mostly I remember the sense of disjointment, of being outside of everything—outside of the firm, where I could never quite belong; outside of my circle of friends whose social life didn’t halt but went on happily without me; outside of my very own life. I left the practice of law for reasons that had nothing to do with the working hours, and in starting up Channing Associates I’ve been no stranger to long days that bleed into nights, and weeks that spread a stain into weekends, but I wonder how I would cope with 110-hour weeks now.