by Lucy Lawrie
‘I think you should stay out of it. He hasn’t pursued the Law Society complaint, right? Or lodged a tribunal claim? Well, don’t give him a reason to change his mind.’
‘I suppose.’ I turned round to look at Sophie.
‘She’s asleep,’ I murmured. ‘A wee ten minutes won’t hurt, I suppose, though it is kind of late in the day.’
‘My mother . . . had an affair once, you know,’ announced Jonathan out of nowhere. An unpleasant smell drifted into the car – we were driving past the sewage treatment works on Seafield Road.
‘Oh?’ I said faintly. He had paused, mid-sentence, to negotiate a lane change, which made it unclear whether his emphasis had been on ‘mother’ or ‘affair’. For a moment I had a terrible feeling that he was about to accuse me of having an affair, and had offered up the example of his mother’s infidelity by way of comparison. I had to remind myself that nothing illicit had actually happened with Malkie – other than in my mind.
‘Yes. With this appalling man, Mr Caravaggio,’ he went on, pulling the corners of his mouth down.
‘Mr Caravaggio?’
‘Yes. He was an old schoolfriend of Dad’s. He was called Tony but he made us call him Mr Caravaggio.’
I couldn’t help laughing at the withering contempt in his voice.
‘But he had an ice cream van, which he used to bring round to the house, so we put up with him.’
‘He had an ice cream van?’
‘Yes, it used to play that tune – ‘Just One Cornetto’. He ran a couple of Italian restaurants too. But then he sold up and bought a taxi, as far as I can remember.’
I wondered why Jonathan had chosen this moment to bring up the affair. He and his mother seemed to have had a bit of a falling out in B&Q. I wasn’t sure what it was about, exactly, as I had been carrying a fascinated, dribbling Sophie around the mocked-up kitchens and bathroom suites. But Jonathan had been huffing impatiently when I’d caught up with them again, and Dita had just raised her eyebrows at me, and shrugged behind his back. He’d then decreed it was time to go home, but she’d stayed behind, saying she’d do a bit more shopping and get the bus back later on.
Whatever the argument had been about, surely it was not grounds to expose Dita with regards to her affair. But I was afraid I’d be drawn into difficult territory if the conversation continued, so I changed the subject.
‘So, Braid Hills. If you were me – if you were the lawyer – what would you do?’
It was a question Jonathan loved to be asked – a way of engaging him on almost any topic. He smiled and settled himself into his seat more comfortably.
‘Outline the facts of the case again,’ he said. ‘Let’s knock this one on the head.’
As we drove on I stifled a smile at the way Jonathan had taken the bait. He had always been so invested in the idea of me as a lawyer, so eager to get involved. At the time we’d first met, I had been in the process of applying for coveted legal traineeships, and he soon developed a habit of offering unwanted career advice. In retrospect, the most useful advice anybody could have given me at that time would have been ‘people who look like Bambi should not go into law’, but his advice veered more to dealing with office politics, how to impress the partners without being annoying, long-term career planning – that type of thing. He seemed to adopt my burgeoning legal career as his own personal project.
Given the nature of our first date, I should have seen it coming. When Jonathan had phoned, the day after he’d extracted my phone number outside The Underground, he’d sounded quite mysterious. He wanted me to meet him at one o’clock the next day, at the Caledonian Hotel on Princes Street.
I decided to dress casually in my ancient Armani jeans and my favourite black velvet hoodie. But when Jonathan swept up to meet me by the old-fashioned revolving doors, he was wearing a pinstripe suit and carrying a briefcase.
‘Hi, Cass,’ he said breezily, ushering me in with an outstretched arm. I thought it was a bit cocky of him to shorten my name when I had only known him five minutes.
However, all this was forgotten when we went into the lobby and he gestured to a large sign which read: Torquil Forsythe & Chalmers – Annual Corporate Round-Up.
‘What’s this?’
‘I thought you’d be interested in this, since you’re applying for legal traineeships.’ He led the way through double doors into a conference room, and located two empty chairs in the front row. ‘Torquil Forsythe is one of Edinburgh’s biggest law firms – you know that, right? And I’m a client of theirs, or at least Wraithe’s is, so I was invited to this corporate round-up. It’s just a few seminars giving an overview of corporate law developments over the last twelve months.’
‘What? But I’m wearing a hoodie!’
‘Don’t worry.’ Jonathan settled into his seat and began leafing through the spiral-bound booklet of PowerPoint slides that had been handed to him on the way in.
Before I had a chance to say anything else, a dark-suited man walked up to the lectern.
‘Ladies and gentlemen – welcome. It’s great to see so many of you here today for our whistle-stop tour of what has been a fascinating twelve months in the world of corporate law . . .’
There were five seminars, beginning with: ‘When is a share sale not a share sale?’ after which point I nearly lost the will to live. The final talk was presented by three newly qualified assistants, who had been given permission by a client to give a blow-by-blow account of a recent transaction. The highlight of this was apparently when they were down in London for meetings, and suddenly learned that the deal was closing at another law firm on the other side of the city. They realised they would have to draft the final clauses of the share sale and purchase agreement in a taxi on the way to the completion meeting.
The talk finished to thunderous applause. I stared at Jonathan in bewilderment.
‘You see, Cassie,’ he said, ‘THAT is what it’s going to be like being a corporate lawyer.’ He banged his hand down on his knee and I jumped, spilling my glass of still mineral water down my top.
‘You’ll need to think on your feet, and draft contracts in the back of taxis,’ he went on. ‘But once they see how smart you are, you’ll be straight on the track to partnership, and you’ll be on half a mil a year before you know it.’
I smiled sweetly, making a mental note never to return this man’s calls ever again. We were married eighteen months later.
*
Of course, none of Jonathan’s advice about Braid Hills (which centred around paying each of the ‘loony’ employees to resign) helped when Elliot McCabe phoned again the next day, late in the afternoon. I nearly didn’t answer the phone – I had shut down my computer and was rushing off to collect Sophie. Dita, who usually did this on a Monday, had phoned to say she’d been persuaded to stay for tea at the house of an ancient friend.
‘All hell’s broken loose. I’ve had four employees raise official grievances about the haunting.’
‘Four?’ I didn’t like the sound of this at all. I put my laptop bag on my desk and sat down again.
‘That’s not even counting David McLaren, who’s still off sick. One of them is threatening to resign and claim constructive dismissal. But the thing is, they’ve approached me as a group, asking me for permission to take part in a television programme.’
‘Oh – about employment grievances?’
‘Not exactly, no. The name of the programme is Workplace Phantoms.’
Silence. This was worse than I thought.
‘They’ve backed me into a corner. If I don’t agree to it, that will prove that I’m not taking it seriously. And David McLaren has emailed me to say that his therapist thinks it’s a good idea.’
‘So what does the programme entail?’
‘Well, they’re bringing in a team of experts. Three professional ghosthunters from Florida, a priest experienced in carrying out exorcisms, a psychic to give her view as to what is causing the manifestation, and a sceptic, a psychology prof
essor from Glasgow. They plan to conduct interviews with all of the employees who’ve supposedly had paranormal experiences, and carry out an all-night vigil.’
‘So what does this have to do with employment law?’ I asked, bewildered.
‘Well, the thing is, Murray Radcliffe was on the phone earlier – it was just a courtesy call to ask how things were going. But when I told him about the filming and my concerns about it, he was kind enough to offer your services. Suggested that you could be on hand for the vigil. Er . . . at no additional charge. Just backup for me, really – make sure nobody oversteps the mark at any point during the night. I think the employees are playing silly buggers and if I tell them the company’s lawyers are going to be there that might make them rein it in a bit.’
‘Well it would be very unusual for . . .’
‘I appreciate that. I wouldn’t have thought of it if Murray hadn’t suggested it. But now I come to think of it, I really would feel happier with you on board.’
So Radcliffe had landed me in it again – fantasising, no doubt, about Elliot’s wife with her position on the board of Turley Sturrock.
‘And Cassie, I’ve decided I want to settle the Bobby Spencer case. Can we bung a couple of grand at him and get him to go away? I just don’t want to have a tribunal claim hanging over me on top of all this.’
‘Fine. I’ll draw up a compromise agreement. Are you sure?’ I wondered if I should try and talk him out of it – tell him to stick to his guns and we’d fight the tribunal case. I should at least try and appear confident about the prospects of winning, given that I’d backed Elliot’s decision to dismiss. But the truth was, the case could go either way, and it would cost Elliot a great deal just to have me defending at the hearing, even if we won. And if Bobby was prepared to go away for a couple of grand, that sounded like a good deal. Christ, I’d even pay it myself.
‘Yes. Offer anything up to three thousand.’
‘Really? I’ll start at five hundred and see where we get to.’
I bumped into Murray Radcliffe in the lobby, as I was making a dash for the front door.
‘Ah, Cassie – did you speak to Elliot McCabe?’ he asked.
‘I did. I’m not sure how much use I’ll be at the vigil, but . . .’ I stopped. Jonathan was always telling me off for saying that sort of thing.
But Murray regarded me with a slight wince, as though thinking I might have a point. ‘Hmm. That new associate – Malkie Hamilton. He’s got media law experience. He led a big case involving a television company at his last firm. Have a word with him about going to this vigil. Pull out all the stops for this one, Cassie.’
‘Yes. Yes, Murray. Consider them . . . pulled.’
So I was under orders to spend the night with Malkie. Was someone trying to tell me something, I wondered, as Murray swept past me and up the stairs.
*
When I got home, I popped Sophie into the Baby Bjorn and we went round the house tidying up, turning on lamps and closing the curtains. She was adept at crawling now, and I could no longer leave her in the baby chair, or in a nest of cushions with her toys. And I liked to feel the warm weight of her against my chest, especially when we were alone in the house.
In the bedroom I laid out pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt on the bed, and unstrapped Sophie so that I could put her down while I got changed. Moving over to the window to draw the curtains, my eye was drawn to something on the back lawn. Stones from the rockery had been placed on the grass and arranged to form letters a foot wide.
YOU
A shock of adrenalin ripped through me. I drew the curtains so hard that the stitching gave way at the curtain hooks on one side, and the fabric flopped down, leaving a grey triangle of exposed sky. I grabbed the bedside phone and called Jonathan.
‘Shit,’ he said, and paused for a moment. ‘It’s probably just some local kids.’
But what local kids? And why?
‘I think I should come home, though. And just to be on the safe side, you should get out of the house. Take Sophie and get her into the car. Drive to Sainsbury’s. I’ll meet you there.’
My breathing slowed down a little as I pushed Sophie’s buggy through the automatic doors and headed towards the café. I ordered a cup of tea, and a piece of toast and a yoghurt for her. That would have to do for her dinner, poor thing. The cashier, seeing how much my hands were shaking as I pulled coins out of my purse, carried the tray over to a table.
Sophie’s mouth pulled downwards into a cartoon pout when I slotted her into a high chair and presented her with the toast. Her current favourite meal was butternut squash and chicken purée and anything else was liable to be met with extreme disapproval.
‘Come on, Soph, have some nice toast.’
Her mouth opened, red and wide, and she began to howl.
‘Shush, shush, Sophie . . .’ I picked her out of the high chair and pulled her into my chest, but her shoe knocked over the cup of tea, soaking my leg with scalding water.
Gasping with pain, I tried to blot my skirt with napkins, while Sophie’s screams rose in pitch and intensity.
‘Could I give you a hand, dear?’ I turned to see an elderly lady with white curly hair and large spectacles. She looked vaguely familiar.
‘It’s Cassie, isn’t it? And this young lady will be Sophie, unless I’m very much mistaken?’
With mumbled thanks, I handed Sophie to her and started mopping up the tea on the table and the floor. Sophie stopped crying, staring with great curiosity into the old lady’s plump, lined face.
A café assistant appeared at my side with a mop.
‘Why don’t you sit with us, dear?’ said the old lady, gesturing to a table opposite, where a man was seated in a wheelchair. ‘I’ll hold the little one while you have some tea. There’s plenty left in our pot.’
I sat down in the chair she indicated. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t quite recall . . .’
‘I’m Jean. Jean Forrester. And this is my husband Gerry, though I don’t think you’ve met him. I don’t think he was around that day you came in for the waxing.’
I looked at her blankly, thinking of car washes.
‘I’m the receptionist at Brand New You.’
‘Oh, that’s right!’ Brand New You Image Consultancy – basically a beauticians with a fancy name. I’d gone there, using up Christmas vouchers from my mother, when my eight-month pregnancy bump had made the usual leg-shaving routine impossible. ‘We chatted while I was waiting for my appointment. We talked about baby names. And you suggested the name Sophie, because that’s your granddaughter’s name.’
‘And then you sent me such a lovely email, to say that the wee darling had been born!’
‘Oh . . . that was my husband actually, he sent—’
‘Such a kind thought, dear. It made my day! Now, Gerry, love, pour Cassie a cup of tea.’
My hands were still trembling as I took the cup, and the tea sloshed into the saucer.
Jean tutted softly. ‘Now, now, dear. Whatever’s the matter? What has got you into such a state?’
The floodgates burst. I put my face into my hands and sobbed, quite unable to speak. Jean jiggled Sophie on her knee, and Gerry solemnly handed me tissues from Jean’s handbag.
What was it that had got me into such a state? What was it, really? Was it the fact that I had nearly poured boiling water over Sophie’s foot, proof of the fact I didn’t deserve to be a mother? Was it the barrage of intrusive thoughts telling me that either Sophie or I was about to die? Or was it my suspicion that I didn’t love my husband any more?
‘Somebody’s been watching the house.’
Jean gasped. ‘Oh, my! No wonder you’re upset.’
I explained about the note and the ‘YOU’ spelled out in the garden.
‘Youths,’ decreed Gerry in a low, rumbly voice. It was the first time he’d spoken. ‘It’ll be one o’ them gangs. I’ve seen them hangin’ about.’
‘It could be,’ agreed Jean, eyes wide behind her plastic specta
cles.
‘Possibly. But I’m worried it might be someone like . . . this undertaker’s assistant . . .’
Jean looked sceptical.
‘I was helping his boss with preparing a case to dismiss him. I’m an employment lawyer.’
Jean raised her eyebrows and nodded meaningfully at her husband. ‘Oh yes – I remember now. You mentioned that in the baby email. Did you hear that, Gerry? This lass is an employment lawyer.’
‘Are you having . . . employment problems?’
‘Oh, my dear, we are! But I couldn’t possibly trouble you with all that now.’
‘It’s okay. Tell me. I’m fine now.’ Strangely, I was. Without doing or saying anything much at all, Jean and Gerry had sucked all the anxiety out of me, and I felt calm for the first time in weeks. I took Sophie back onto my knee. Jean poured some more tea for herself, carefully holding a wodge of napkins under the spout of the teapot to catch the leaks.
‘They’re trying to force me out,’ she said. ‘They’re saying I can’t bring Gerry to work with me any more—’
‘Cassie!’ It was Jonathan, sweeping over in his dark suit and overcoat, exotically professional among the orange tables and chairs. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Jonathan. It’s okay. Jean and Gerry have been keeping me company.’
He gave them a peremptory smile and nod. ‘Let’s get you home, then, Cass. It’s Sophie’s bedtime.’
I handed Sophie to him, and was about to thank Jean and Gerry, and say goodbye, when I hesitated. I would normally run a mile from anything like this – becoming involved in someone’s employment dispute. But somehow, these two . . .
‘Do you need help, at all . . . with your employment dispute? I’m not really supposed to . . . but I hate to leave you in the lurch. I could give you some pointers, get you started at least, though I probably wouldn’t be able to take it much further.’
‘Oh no, dear. We don’t want to get you into trouble. What was the name of your firm again?’