The First Year

by Genevieve Gannon

  He was a good lawyer but commercial work wasn’t his natural home.

  In the Office of Public Prosecutions, he had been peerless. Straight out of the gate he’d been organised, punctual and meticulous. All of the things anyone would want in a public servant, particularly when dealing with the chaos of the Magistrates’ Court. He’d processed filing hearings for lots of assaults and just as many petty drug matters. It wasn’t long before he was dealing with some heavy duty domestic violence, which progressed into sex assaults and rapes. Then came the murders, and worse, the child murders. Not a lot of them, but enough to keep him up at night, sweating into his pillow and swallowing Temazapam like they were M&Ms. This, he believed, is where he built up a psychosomatic tolerance for the drug that could only be overcome by crushing it up and hiding it in a drink.

  And so after five years of prosecuting the worst cases the city saw, he hung up his lanyard and started looking around for work in the private sector. It had taken him four months to find the job with HM&L. He’d held out for something that felt right, but now, perfecting his black tie, he wasn’t sure he’d made a good decision after all.

  *

  Saskia scooped up her skirt as she stepped off the escalator leading up to the casino ballroom, fearing the gown’s train would catch in the metal teeth. Andy whispered in her ear, ‘You look like a goddess, a very appropriately dressed goddess.’

  The Law Council members had gathered outside the ballroom doors to drink cocktails. They appeared to Saskia to be a single organism — a mass of bodies that thought as one. This two-hundred-headed beast had elaborate plumage and a black velvety pelt. As it moved, parts of it glimmered in the chandelier light. A purr of conversation rose from its belly.

  Orbiting the roped-off area were three photographers.

  ‘Hired by the Law Council bosses to document their philanthropy,’ Andy said. One snapped Andy and Saskia as they walked towards the fray, startling them with the flash.

  ‘Hang on, try again,’ Andy called to the photographer. ‘We weren’t ready.’

  He pulled Saskia to his side and straightened up. She pushed her shoulders back, and felt, as the cameraman photographed them, a pleasurable feeling spread through her. Andy looked handsome and formidable in his tux. She was proud of her husband, and looking at him now stoked the afterglow lingering in her chest following this evening’s passionate pact-fulfilment in the shower.

  She touched her ear cuff, self-consciously smoothed her dress and hoped nobody recognised it as last season’s evening wear they’d stuffed into an Armadale charity bin.

  ‘Let’s find our table,’ Andy said, leading her through the crowd to the ballroom entrance.

  A grey-haired man strode over and wedged his arm under Andy’s, barking, ‘Colbrook. I’m glad you’re here. There are a lot of people I want you to meet.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Harris,’ Andy said and Saskia was carried along for the ride.

  Mr Harris steered them towards a huddle of men. ‘Andy, this is Walter Burns and Samuel Wynn. Sam and I started out at Mallesons together. Dick Charlton, you’d know from your time in prosecutions.’ Andy shook a lot of hands. ‘Andy’s part of the firm’s new generation of leaders,’ Harris said.

  ‘This is my wife, Saskia,’ Andy said.

  One by one the men shook Saskia hand, then started grilling Andy on the blood-letting at HM&L. Who’d survived, who hadn’t, wasn’t it awful about Carmichael and Tsu and Chaugh?

  ‘I knew it was bad news when Sony went to Freshmans and Kleins.’

  ‘Cash and Carter took all their work in-house. That would have hurt you too.’

  ‘All part of the cut and thrust of business.’

  They each tucked a thumb under their waistbands and sniffed their glasses of wine, self-satisfied. Saskia smiled and fantasized about a post-apocalyptic world where these pompous arses would have no discernible survival skills. She pictured them scrounging on their hands and knees, and trying to barter for potatoes with a shred of the crest from their alma mater.

  ‘It worked out okay for you though.’ They slapped Andy’s back.

  The MC got to the stage and announced entrées were about to be served.

  Saskia was dismayed to discover the grey-haired lawyers all seemed to be seated at the same table as she and Andy, and the conversation about who took their legal business where followed them to their seats. As The Lawyer Show played out before them, Andy subtly rolled his eyes at Saskia and let his fingers come to rest on her knee.

  The first course was a tiny pink thing surrounded by quirts of green foam. Saskia couldn’t figure out the trick to stopping the foam from slipping through her fork tines. While they were eating, a man who looked like a walrus began a speech about lawmakers needing to keep pace with technological advancement. Saskia reached for her wine.

  Her eyes wandered around the room, moving from face to face, then out the balcony doors where a scattered few were furtively smoking among the potted palms. Officially, she hadn’t smoked since August. On her hen’s night she’d snuck two, figuring it was her last night of freedom and that she was doubly entitled because Randa refused to book a stripper. She spotted a familiar face. His jacket was jaunty — grey trimmed with maroon — and his black dress pants had an imperfectly ironed crease. It was Matthew Nash.

  ‘I’m just going to step outside,’ she said to Andy, who was deep in conversation.

  ‘Matthew.’ Saskia waved at her brother’s old bandmate. Nash’s beard had been banished and his wild hair was clipped and slicked back. The chipped, black nail polish he always wore was gone. He looked shiny and sanitised.

  ‘Saskia, how are you?’ He embraced her warmly and kissed her cheek. ‘It’s Matthew now, is it? What happened to Nash?’

  ‘Aiden told me you’re going by Matthew now. Do you have another one of those?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He lit her a cigarette. She took a drag and released a jet of smoke out over the heads of the people on the balcony. She sat on the edge of a concrete planter and turned her face up to Nash.

  ‘Matthew Nash was the record company’s idea,’ he told her. ‘They said Matt was unsophisticated. Felt it limited my reach, and that just ‘Nash’ was too country. What are you doing out here, shouldn’t you be hobnobbing?’

  ‘I’m taking an intermission from the law talk. I’ve had enough of those nobs and their hobs. I heard you’re performing later?’

  ‘Yeah. Most of what I do is corporate gigs now.’ His voice was tinged with bitterness. ‘How’s Aiden? How’s the band?’

  ‘They’re doing well.’ Saskia smiled. ‘They’re working on a new album.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh-huh, I heard one of the songs the other day. It’s folksier than their earlier stuff — your earlier stuff. It’s very good.’

  ‘I bet it is. Aiden’s been improving as a songwriter. I miss that band.’

  Saskia smiled dimly and nudged him with her elbow. ‘Come on, Nash, you’ve got it made. You’ve got a single, a music contract, well-paid gigs. The guys would kill to have what you have.’

  ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I’m just background noise for suits.’ He gestured at the crowd inside. ‘I get no input into what I sing. I’m like their trained pet. They even tell me how to dress.’ He pulled at the cuff of his jacket sleeve, which Saskia now noticed was slightly too short.

  ‘Didn’t I see you on television on the red carpet at the ARIAs?’

  ‘In a rented suit with no one to talk to. Real musos think we reality “stars” are scum.’

  ‘I heard your single did really well.’

  Matthew exhaled a puff of smoke as he scoffed. ‘“Tears of an Angel”? What the fuck is that?’ He looked at his cigarette ruefully, as if it was the song he so hated. ‘An angel is an incorporeal religious myth and I sang a song about its bodily fluid.’ He waved his hand through the smoke, dispersing it. ‘May as well have been snot of a unicorn.’

  *

  An
dy found Hugh at the silent auction, looking lustily at a photo of a Formula One driver and the Ferrari the winning bidder would race him in.

  ‘Tempted?’ he asked.

  ‘Desperately. But Tilly would kill me.’

  ‘Go on.’ Andy grabbed the pen. ‘It’s for charity.’

  He was interrupted as he began to write Hugh’s bid.

  ‘Spending your raises?’ Krystyn White had materialised behind them.

  ‘Hello, Kiki.’ Hugh turned and flashed her a gameshow-host smile. ‘Bidding on anything tonight?’

  She narrowed her eyes at Hugh.

  ‘You look very nice tonight, Krystyn,’ Andy added hastily.

  ‘I’m on a rather tight budget these days,’ she said, her tone cool. ‘I’m sure you heard in the locker rooms that they put me on a wage freeze. Right after I bought my house, too.’

  Andy fixed his face into an expression he hoped conveyed sympathy and solidarity. The first time he’d seen Krystyn in the office after their break-up he’d smiled and she’d practically shot laser beams out of her eyes. In time, she forgave him. By March they were civil and in July, friendly. Then Andy had gotten engaged.

  The night she heard the news, Krystyn threw a pewter sticky-tape dispenser through the glass wall of one of the conference rooms, then paid a work experience kid five-hundred dollars to pretend it was him. When it came time for the redundancy meetings, Franklin Harris had made it known there were rumours that she was the one who shattered the wall. Krystyn said nothing, but under her tailored suit jacket her heart was thumping. This was just the kind of emotional behaviour a woman should avoid in a law firm like HM&L that runs on testosterone. Then Mr Harris had told her that her role had changed. They were keeping her on, but they were afraid her salary would be frozen. With the spectre of the shattered glass hovering in the air over their heads, she felt she had no room to negotiate. At seven that night, after all the partners had left for the evening, she again unleashed her frustration, hurling a similar sticky tape dispenser into another piece of glass. Only this one was the mirror in the women’s bathroom, where nobody with any power could see it.

  ‘Well, I’m glad to see you survived the bloodletting, Kiki,’ Hugh said, gratingly chirpy.

  ‘I’ve practically been demoted,’ she said tartly.

  ‘Cheer up, Kiki.’ Hugh handed her a glass of champagne. ‘Lots of jobless sods would kill to be on a wage freeze right now.’

  ‘Easy for you to say. I heard both of you have been promoted.’

  Andy and Hugh looked sideways at each other.

  ‘That’s right.’ Andy coughed. ‘They made as both associate directors.’

  ‘Look, this wage freeze is only temporary, Kiki,’ Hugh said diplomatically.

  ‘You’re an excellent litigator,’ said Andy.

  ‘I know I’m an excellent litigator. That’s why I’m so angry about it,’ she said, spinning on her heel and stalking away.

  *

  Saskia lingered on the balcony alone even though her arms were prickled with goosebumps. Nash was about to go on stage and Andy was talking to Krystyn. She lit another cigarette from the pack Nash had left in her safekeeping.

  She watched her husband and Krystyn. She had doe eyes framed with false lashes and generous, tumbling hair. Her figure was voluptuous and soft, like a beautiful plush toy. She styled herself after the hyper-feminine silhouette popular in the 1950s: nipped waists and accentuated, almost pointed, busts; lots of dusky pinks and sultry reds and an abundance and bows and heart-motifs. Andy explained it this way — ‘She’s an alpha female. She’s very feminine and she doesn’t do anything by halves. Alpha lashes. Alpha lipstick. Alpha nails.’

  Saskia imagined those long, lacquered talons digging into the flesh of her husband’s back and it gave her a flush of terror. Her own nails were ragged and brittle and often black to the quick. She wasn’t jealous of Krystyn, or threatened by her. But tonight she couldn’t muster the sort of energy required for chit-chat with her husband’s spurned ex who was still a co-worker.

  Andy and Krystyn had been together eighteen months when he’d given her the sapphire earrings on the Mariano’s yacht the previous Christmas. Expecting a ring, Krystyn had been crushed, and demanded to know if he ever planned to marry her. Andy made the mistake of saying she was overreacting. She delivered an ultimatum and when Andy said marriage wasn’t on his mind she had left.

  When he’d gotten engaged she was very hurt.

  Saskia decided to remain on the balcony and continue her post-nuclear war fantasy of all the lawyers begging her to forge them silver arrowheads so they could hunt possums. Andy stepped through the French doors, lilting from all the brandy he’d had to drink.

  ‘There you are. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Just a little tired.’ She smiled. ‘I had a long day.’ The ball had sapped her energy. And it wasn’t just this ball, but the prospect of all the future law balls she knew were to come.

  ‘You’re bored, aren’t you? I think I’ve sufficiently demonstrated my presence. Let’s go.’ Andy draped his jacket over Saskia’s shoulders. They were about to make their escape when a woman in a batwing dress with marabou feather trim spotted them from across the room and waved. ‘Yoo-hoo!’

  Andy grinned and held up his hand in a greeting.

  ‘That’s Magistrate Leckner,’ he whispered. ‘President of the Magistrates’ Court. Do you mind if we say hello?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Saskia said, trying to remember where she’d seen this woman before. The slope of her jaw and her eyes were familiar.

  ‘She’s a great sport. Sometimes those of us at the bar table wonder if she wished she’d followed the same route as her sister,’ Andy told Saskia as the woman approached.

  Saskia realised Magistrate Leckner was the older sister of Lenore Leckner, a television presenter who’d risen to prominence after decades of building a reputation as a zany comedian.

  ‘Andrew, Andrew,’ the magistrate cried merrily. ‘We miss you.’ Her cheeks were red.

  ‘Magistrate Leckner, may I present my wife, Saskia.’

  ‘Hello, my dear.’ She shook Saskia’s hand. ‘Andy, your wife is a great beauty. I assume that if she’s married to you she has the brains to match. Are you a lawyer, my dear?’

  ‘No,’ said Saskia. ‘I trained as a barista, not a barrister.’

  The older woman hooted with laughter. ‘Finally, some new blood. I want to talk to you.’ She drew Saskia away. ‘I’m stealing her Andrew,’ she shouted over her shoulder.

  Andy spied Krystyn and decided to seize the chance to smooth over the damage Hugh had inflicted.

  ‘Krystyn,’ he sang out, heading in her direction. A waiter sailed passed carrying a tray of champagne glasses. Andy took two and held out one as a peace offering.

  ‘I suppose you’ve realised that as the associate director of Intellectual Property you’re going to have to call on me for advice,’ she said, taking the glass. But her voice held no malice. She sounded weary.

  ‘I’m looking forward to us working together again.’ Andy touched the lip of his flute to hers.

  Krystyn drank, her expression sceptical.

  When it came to patent, trademark and copyright law, Krystyn White was unbeatable. There was a time when Andy had been a little afraid of her. When he joined HM&L as a junior lawyer she had already established herself as a formidable associate. He reflected on the fact that cocky young men she’d kindly and patiently mentored were now steaming ahead of her in their careers.

  ‘Come on, Krystyn, it won’t be that bad.’

  ‘Andy, what do you think I am, some high school girl who’s going to refuse to do my job just because you’re an arse?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  He’d had too much to drink, and his mind was fumbling with words. He knew he should say something about how much he respected her. Now would be a good starting point for an apology to clean the slate.

  ‘Look, I know me marrying Sask
ia would have been a shock.’

  Krystyn’s eyes widened and her cheeks flushed red.

  ‘It was fast,’ Andy said quickly. ‘I know it was fast. If you’d done the same I would have been shattered.’

  Her body tensed. ‘This has nothing to do with that,’ she hissed.

  ‘I know!’ He realised his error. ‘I just wanted to say, I never meant for you to get hurt—’

  ‘You chose to bring this up here? After almost a year, this is where you decide you’re ready to talk about it?’ She was visibly shaking now.

  ‘No, no, I didn’t think you wanted to talk about it. But you seem unhappy, so I thought—’

  ‘My frustration at the sexism — the rampant, relentless sexism — at this law firm has nothing to do with your marriage.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I’m an idiot, I just wanted us to start fresh.’

  ‘Because you need me onside?’

  ‘Yes. No! That’s not why. I just wanted to make sure we’re okay.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’re as bad as Hugh Delahunty sometimes Andy. I think you’d better go and rescue your wife.’ She pointed to Magistrate Leckner who had an arm wrapped around Saskia’s neck while she whispered drunkenly in her ear.

  ‘Krystyn . . .’ Andy pleaded.

  She shook her head and turned away.

  Andy reached Saskia just in time to be pulled into a photo with her and Magistrate Leckner.

  ‘Andrew, I’ve been speaking to your charming wife about her jewellery business. This is positively divine.’ The older woman fondled Saskia’s ear cuff.

  The photographer snapped, then snapped again. ‘The shots will go up on the Law Council website, your honour,’ he said.

  ‘I look forward to seeing them,’ she said. ‘And I promise to look out for more work by you, Miss Hill!’

  Day 61, Thursday, December 11

  Saskia dropped to her knees and started pulling jumpers and jeans out of the bottom drawer of her dressing table. After weeks of endless corporate outings in grey buildings with drab people she was finally doing something with her friends.