1
Gusting wind pushes me through the revolving glass door into one of London’s glossiest high-rise buildings and the home of Saunders, Taylor and Chamberlain LLP, my firm. Running a hand through my now-tatted, long, brown hair, I ride the lift to the tenth floor. Removing my black mac somewhat awkwardly whilst holding my laptop case and handbag, I step out onto the grey carpet of the glass and chrome lined corridor.
‘Good morning, Scarlett.’ I smile back at my new secretary as she flashes blinding white teeth and adjusts the tortoiseshell glasses on the end of her nose.
‘Good morning, Margaret. It’s horrid out there.’
‘Would you like coffee?’ she asks as I make my way along the corridor to my office.
‘Please. You’d better get one for Jack too. We have a nine-thirty in his office.’
‘I’ll bring them through.’
I hang up my coat, dump my bags on my desk and set my laptop in its dock, lighting up my computer screen. ‘Oh, and Margaret,’ I call, popping my head around the office door, ‘thank you.’
I perch myself in my desk chair and wait for Outlook to load, casting my eyes around what’s my humble abode for seventy hours a week, give or take. It’s a small office but more than big enough for one. Most lawyers below partner level have to share but my previous roomie fell pregnant and decided to leave the unsociable hours behind her. So now I have my own space, with a modest, L-shape, wooden desk, walls lined with law texts and legislation, and a small coffee table where Cynthia’s desk used to be.
My inbox loads ninety-seven emails from Sunday alone. How dare I go a day without checking in? I work through the backlog, shuffling the emails into various sub-inboxes and flagging them in order of priority. I have just enough time to read one or two urgent messages before my meeting with Jack. In anticipation of him being more grouchy than usual, I’ve worn my most professional trouser suit to work today. Jack is the kind of man a young woman can handle better in trousers. He’s been on holiday for a fortnight and if the rumours are to be believed, his current wife has found out about his latest affair.
‘Boys and their toys, lawyers and their secretaries,’ I humour myself.
Here’s the thing: being a lawyer in London isn’t like being a lawyer in the United States, or at least the perception of lawyers perpetuated by shows like Suits and L.A. Law. In England, you study for four years and you train on the job for two, so there’s less study time than in the US. Maybe that’s why we aren’t able to turn our hand to criminal law one minute and float a company on the Dow Jones the next. We specialise in one area and I chose to specialise in corporate mergers and acquisitions: M and A. Basically, my clients buy and sell companies and occasionally float them on stock exchange. Another difference is that we’re paid a lot less than Manhattan’s hotshot attorneys: enough to mingle with the middle classes, sure, but our pay per hour doesn’t dazzle in the same way. What’s not fiction is that we have to be turned out well: not quite so glamorous as on American television but dressed and blow-dried in a way that lets the client know he’s paying over the odds for a package. Not only is he buying in to someone educated but also someone slick who knows how to get the job done – or at least looks like they do. Nevertheless, the sad truth is, the men I work with don’t look like Harvey Specter or behave as gentlemanly as Mr Darcy in Bridget Jones. They look and act like Jack.
‘Scarlett!’ he yells from his adjacent office.
I jump, crashing my knee off the underside of my desk. Cantankerous arse! It is only nine twenty-nine! Picking up my laptop, I walk with purpose to his office. He joined the firm just over a year ago and took me under his discourteous wing immediately. At that stage, I was just under two years qualified. I’d have tried to move on from his hold by now but he put me forward early for a promotion to Senior Associate so, despite too often working through gritted teeth, I endure him.
‘Good holiday, Jack?’ I ask nonchalantly and instantly cringe.
He glares at me from the leather chair behind his desk.
Do I attempt to rectify the situation? I choose to sit.
‘Where are we with the Portman deal?’ he snaps, almost spitting through his whisky-and-nicotine-stained moustache.
‘We pulled an all-nighter on Friday. I got both companies in the office. It got a little tense but we battled out the final points and signed in the early hours. I’ll set to work on the condition precedents today. The money should transfer today too.’
‘How much did they take in the end?’ he asks, doing his best to hide the fact he’s actually impressed with my work. Jack has been working on this deal almost since the day he arrived at the firm and each time he’s tried to close it, the proverbial shit has hit the fan.
‘Two hundred and sixty million on completion and with the earn out, it could rise to around three hundred.’
‘Hmm.’ He leans back in his chair, his belly pulling his shirt so tight that I can see flesh and grey stomach hairs escaping through one of the gaps.
‘Project Amber?’ he asks.
‘We’ve completed our first round of due diligence and I intend to email our queries to the other side today.’
‘You haven’t done that yet?’ Jack snaps.
No, Jack, I’ve been too busy picking up your emails and dealing with all the other shit you left me to manage.
‘I’ll get to it first thing,’ I say meekly.
We go through each deal, eleven in total, in much the same stagnated manner. I’m grateful for the momentary distraction when Margaret delivers two coffees, a fleeting breather from what’s otherwise an intense grilling.
‘That’s all,’ Jack eventually says.
I practically run to his office door.
