“I hear you haven’t seen Eleanor recently …” She lets the sentence hang, waiting for an explanation as she pours scotch into a heavy crystal tumbler for me.
“Not lately.” Eleanor is a woman I’ve been seeing for a year or so. Since not long before my father died. If I had to find a word to describe my feelings about our relationship, it would probably be indifferent. But she and Mum are close, so the less I say the better. I’m getting a great deal of pressure to make it official. Pressure I’m resisting.
“She’ll find someone else if you’re not careful.” I know that’s supposed to be a threat, but it doesn’t have the effect Mary is hoping for.
“Eleanor is a very suitable partner for you. Not to mention her father will do wonderful things for your career. Don’t procrastinate too long.” Ugh. The eyebrow again. Twice in two minutes. Not a good sign.
“None of your business, Mum.” Even I can hear the edge in my voice, but Mum ignores it and continues her campaign. I take a large gulp of the scotch, hoping it will dull the irritation I’m feeling.
“You’re thirty-three, Nicholas. You need to start making your move into politics. Which means you need to show you’re stable and settled. Being a senior partner on the basis your father died won’t give you the credibility you need. Richard has already said he’ll make sure you get preselection in a safe seat.”
“Well, thank you so much for the vote of confidence. Supportive as ever.” She’s right, of course, about both politics and Eleanor being a ‘suitable’ partner. If that is, indeed, what I want.
My father had a plan, hatched over many bottles of expensive scotch with Harry. I would eventually go into politics. Will would take over at the firm as senior partner. And thus, they would take over the world. Or at least our little corner of it.
As Dad lay dying on the office floor, his last words were a demand I follow through on their plan. And of course, I agreed. What else could I do?
But lately, I’ve begun to have doubts. This was Dad’s plan, not mine. And he’s no longer here to see it through. This leaves me in the unfamiliar position of being a little adrift, a situation Eleanor would not appreciate, since it’s her father who’s been lined up to shoehorn me into a seat in parliament. It’s very clear Eleanor wants to be a politician’s wife.
“Don’t say you weren’t warned,” Mum cautions as I help myself to a second glass of scotch. Then, being the master strategist she is, she drops it.
“What the fuck?” I bellow as I open my office door late the next afternoon after a frustrating morning in mediation.
“Oh, Nick. You’re back. Sorry. I was hoping she’d be finished before …” Mandy trails off lamely as she looks past me.
Standing on my father’s desk—my father’s antique, leather-topped desk—is the irritating piece of work herself. Lulu MacLeod. I’m speechless. A rare occurrence for a lawyer and almost unheard of for me. At work, at least.
“Oh, good afternoon, Nicholas. I’m sorry, I’ll be out of your way in a twinkling.” The tape measure she is wielding whizzes into its casing with a snap, and she kneels—kneels—on my desk to scribble on a bright blue pad sitting on top of a pile of my case files. Twinkling?
She’s barefoot. So I suppose is should be grateful for small mercies. Her toes are painted fire-engine red, matching the fluffy top she’s wearing with a pair of faded jeans. Standing again, she stretches, and Mandy and I are treated to a display of toned and creamy midriff.
The snort I hear from behind me is quickly but poorly disguised as a cough.
I finally find my voice. “I believe I made itexcruciatinglyclear this office was not to be touched in these shenanigans?” I give Mandy a look known to fell Supreme Court judges, but which seems to have no effect on her. She’s small but fearless. I can feel my eyebrow disappearing into my hairline. “Mandy, under no circumstances is this woman to be allowed into my office. Whether I am here or not.” Turning again to the lunatic on my desk, I point to the door behind me. “You … OUT. Now.”
“I’m almost done. And then you won’t have to see me ever again. I just needed to get the measurements for these bookcases.” Lulu jots something else on her pad and stretches again to measure the ancient bookcase behind my desk. This time we’re treated to the sight of a belly ring glittering on her smooth flesh. My mouth starts to water, and there’s a clenching low in my belly.
I turn again to Mandy, who is studying her shoes, her ruthlessly cut, dark bob hiding the smirk she’s valiantly trying to suppress. “Give us a moment, please.”
With a nervous nod and a quick look of sympathy at The Interloper, she heads off to her desk as I nudge the door closed with my toe. Turning back to the office, I see The Interloper is now sitting on the desk, casual and relaxed, legs swinging, hands planted beside her knees.
“Ms MacLeod,” I begin, trying hard to use what my mother would call my indoor voice. “You may be under the impression you have carte blanche to wander anywhere you wish in these offices. Let me correct you. This particular office is now, always and forever, off limits. There is to be no redecorating orreimaginingin this office.”
“Hmm. Yes, I canimaginethere is precious littleimaginingever done inthisoffice.” She beams, eyes bright with amusement. “Be that as it may, I have been asked to do a job. And I intend to do it. Including replacing the earlyRumpole of the Baileyvibe you’ve got going on here.”
She holds up a hand to stop my interruption as I start to speak. “Yes, I know the desk and bookcases are off limits. But there is still a lot we can do. I’ve got everything I need now. Have a lovely afternoon.” And with that, she jumps from the desk, picks up her pad and tape measure and is out the door of my office before I can even formulate a response.
I’m still frozen in place, hands on hips, when she scampers—there’s no other word for it—back in. “Oops. Forgot my shoes.” She picks up the ludicrous wooden clogs she left behind and is gone again, leaving nothing behind but smouldering irritation and her wildflower scent, reminding me again of my grandmother’s garden in spring. The smell of innocence.
“She’s quite mad,” I grumble to Will that evening as we wait for the lift to take us to the basement carpark.
“Mad? She’s a delight. She even had old Edith eating out of her palm this morning.” Will sighs, referring to the oldest employee we have. She should have retired ten years ago. Or twenty. But nobody is foolhardy enough to suggest it. Not even me. So, she stays. Ruling the library with an iron fist.
“She was standing on my father’s desk this afternoon.”
“Ouch. Did she damage it?”
“No, she took her shoes off. But I work at that desk. Her bare feet were all over it,” I spit. “She wears a belly ring. And a toe ring,” I add, as though it were relevant to anything.
