Exit Strategies

by Catherine Todd

  I decided to skip the treat-your-stepmother-with-respect lecture. “Mine too,” I told him.

  “Mom?” he asked, looking vulnerable again.

  “Yes?”

  “Dad wouldn’t have wanted things to work out this way, would he?”

  “Of course not,” I told him, with a little more certainty than I felt. “I know your father wanted a good education for you, no matter what. Besides, one thing I am absolutely sure of is that your dad would have been really, really proud of you at this moment.”

  He blushed. “Oh, Mom,” he said.

  On Monday, while I was attempting to deal with megastacks of papers (mostly writing up corporate minutes, scripted in advance, the bane of every new associate in the corporate field), my direct line rang.

  “Rebecca Weston,” I said, although it was usually Allie.

  “Ms. Weston, good afternoon,” said the plummy voice at the other end of the line. “This is Scott Forsby at Ranier Associates.” He paused. “We’re an executive and legal search firm.”

  A headhunter? I was silent.

  “Well, ahem, I’ve been asked to approach you to see if you might consider accepting what we consider a highly advantageous employment offer at a very prestigious firm.”

  I almost said, “Me?” but decided this was not the moment for excessive humility. Still, I felt there must be some mistake. First-year associates at third-tier law firms are not normally recruiting targets, even if you discount the hype about prestige and advantage.

  “Are you there, Ms. Weston?” he said.

  “I’m here,” I said. “You’ve just caught me a bit off guard.”

  “I understand,” said Plummy Voice. “Would you like to discuss this at another time?”

  “What is it precisely that we’re discussing?”

  “For starters, an annual salary of two hundred thousand plus a substantial bonus.”

  I gasped. “Where is this firm, Saudi Arabia?”

  He chuckled. “Newport Beach,” he said.

  “A firm in Newport Beach wants to pay a first-year associate more than two hundred thousand a year? That’s a high starting salary even for New York. What’s the catch?”

  He coughed. “You’re a first-year associate?”

  Suddenly I knew what the catch was. But I would let him spell it out.

  “I am,” I told him.

  “I just need to verify one or two things,” he said.

  I smiled into the phone. “Go ahead.”

  “We understand that you are currently the billing attorney for a substantial piece of business,” he said.

  “That’s correct,” I said.

  “You haven’t signed any agreement not to take clients with you in the event you leave your present position?”

  “Correct again,” I told him.

  “Would you say that there is a high likelihood that your personal clients would want to follow you to another firm?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully.

  “The offer would be contingent on that circumstance,” he said carefully.

  “I’m sure it would be,” I said with a laugh. “I don’t think anyone would be courting me otherwise.”

  He seemed relieved that I understood the realities of the situation. “And may I ask about your employment before your current position?” he said. “Summer internships, that sort of thing.”

  I said dryly, “I was the receptionist at my current firm for six years.”

  “I’m sorry? The what?”

  I smiled. “The receptionist. You know, the one that picks up the phones and says, ‘Roth, Tolbert and Anderson.’ On a slow day I’d empty the wastebaskets too, but it wasn’t part of the job description.”

  “Remarkable,” he said.

  “Not your usual client profile?”

  He laughed, sounding human for the first time. “Not at all,” he said. “More power to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are there any questions you’d like to ask?”

  “Sure. Tell me something about the firm.”

  He did. Looking to build a high-profile practice. Celebrity clients. Possible branch offices. Up-and-coming. Et cetera.

  “What is the average number of billable hours per year for an associate?” I asked.

  “Between twenty-five hundred and three thousand,” he said proudly.

  Twenty-five hundred to three thousand hours annually worked out to about ten billable hours every single day if you didn’t work weekends (ha) and took a four-week vacation (standard). Ten billable hours a day is not how long your body is at the office; it’s how much work you do for clients, in addition to lunch, bathroom breaks, walkabouts, personal phone calls, and shooting the shit with the other lawyers. If you’re honest, that means at least twelve or thirteen hours every day at the firm. And that’s just the average.

  It was much worse than the time I was putting in now, and that was bad enough, which may be why, instead of shrieking “Salvation!” my first reaction was a kind of dread. Still, the money, the silver seat belt that kept you in place, was amazing. I could pay for my mother’s care and make up some of David’s tuition. I could take a vacation in lodgings that didn’t require setup and assembly. I could buy Burdick Fancy Feast instead of the supermarket brand.

  All I had to do was bring in Crystol Enterprises and stay best buddies with my old friend Bobbie.

  “We’d appreciate it if you’d keep this confidential,” he said. “But at least say you’ll think about it.”

  “I don’t imagine I’ll be able to help it,” I told him.

  He laughed. “For the record, I’m very, very impressed that someone in your position could bring in such a substantial piece of business,” he said. “I’ve checked, and I know you’re not related to…the client.”

  “You know a lot,” I told him. “How did you even hear about this? How did you get this number?”

  “Trade secrets,” he said calmly. “It’s my job.”

  “Isabel,” I said. “How would you like a glorious spa weekend in sunny Mexico?”

  “What’s the catch?” she asked.

  “You wound me,” I told her.

  “What’s the catch?”

  I sighed. “I have to go to Bobbie Crystol’s Opening Weekend at Casa Alegría. She invited me to bring a guest.”

  “Why do you want me to go? It’s a business event, isn’t it?”

  “There’ll be lots of different people there,” I said. “Anyway, I’d be interested in your opinion of the place.”

  “That bad? What’s up?”

  “Actually, I don’t think it will be bad. I’m sort of looking forward to some aromatherapy and a good massage. Well, I’m not really up for Bobby’s sick-minds-make-sick-molecules shtick. And I’m not terribly eager to massage her ego all weekend. But—”

  “And I am?”

  “You wouldn’t have to do any of that. You could just sort of keep your ear to the ground while I’m sucking up to Bobbie.”

  “Why don’t we just go somewhere else and forget it?”

  “I can’t afford to abandon her to Taylor.” I told her about the headhunter’s offer, swearing her to secrecy.

  “Wow, Becky. Congratulations! Are you going to take it?” she asked.

  “Do you think I should?” I asked, surprised.

  “Get real,” she told me. “Don’t turn them down till you’ve thought about it. It’s a lot of money.”

  “I know. Visions of sugarplums keep crowding out more urgent considerations, like getting my work done. I mean, if I took this job, I might not even have to worry about Carole or the trust. Maybe the devil really does reside in Newport Beach.”

  “He certainly has enough disciples there. It’s the scam capital of California.”

  “Anyway, you see why I have to go on this weekend.”

  “I do,” she agreed. “And you see why I can’t. You have to stay totally focused on Bobbie Crystol if you want this new job. Besides, you don’
t need me to find out if Taylor Anderson is trying to take over your client. You know he is.”

  “I’m worried about more than that. What if she’s doing harm to some of her patients? If I take this new job, I’ll have to swallow whatever she’s dishing out to the world, as long as it’s legal. My entire livelihood will depend on keeping her happy. I have to be sure that’s something I can live with.”

  “You’re trying to dig up the dirt on your client? The one who’s going to make you a partner?” She sounded amused.

  “I wouldn’t call it ‘digging up the dirt,’” I protested. “It’s more like wondering. Anyway, I’m really hoping there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “The best way not to find something is not to look,” she said.

  I’d already heard that advice from Lauren. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  “It’s too early to tell. Go to the spa and do what it takes to keep the client. Just keep your eyes open. You can always make a grand renunciation later if you have to, but it’s better to start from a position of strength.”

  Good advice on the whole. I decided to switch gears. “So how’s Daniel?” I asked casually.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He’s home visiting.”

  “Home being…”

  “Right. The T word.”

  “Maybe it’s not so bad, Isabel. It’s just a place. It doesn’t mean Daniel bites the heads off of rattlesnakes or something like that.”

  “You know what Phil Sheridan said about Texas?” she asked gloomily.

  “Who’s he?” I asked.

  “Was. Who was he. He was a general in the Civil War, but before that he served in Texas. He said, ‘If I owned Texas and hell, I would rent out Texas and live in hell.’”

  I laughed. “That’s sort of what Satan said about heaven in Paradise Lost. That doesn’t mean heaven’s a bad place, does it?”

  “Humph,” she said.

  Wendy Richards buzzed me as I was taking out my half sandwich (turkey, mustard, lettuce, and nonfat mayonnaise), preparing for what is euphemistically called a working lunch. In reality I had to clear the papers away momentarily lest I drop blobs of honey Dijon on my documents.

  “There’s a Mark Lawrence on the outside line,” she said. “I didn’t know if you’d want to be disturbed.”

  I licked my fingers to avoid getting the phone sticky. “Put him through, please,” I said. I loved it that Mark didn’t announce himself as Dr. Lawrence, the way every other person with an M.D. degree did, at least in my experience.

  “Hi,” he said when I came on the line. “I know it’s very late notice, but if you haven’t eaten yet, I’m only a couple of blocks away. I wondered if you’d like to have lunch.”

  I looked down at my sandwich, not too much the worse for wear. I pushed the ends of the wrapping back together. “I’d love to,” I said. “I haven’t done anything about lunch yet.” I looked at my watch; it was one o’clock.

  “Great,” he said, and named the restaurant where we should meet.

  After I hung up I wondered whether I should have accepted with such alacrity. Despite being out of what is politely known as “circulation” for a period too lengthy to dwell upon with any degree of comfort (if you don’t count the fix-ups like Lyman, and look how that ended), even I knew that you weren’t supposed to seem too available and eager. It was the old I-don’t-want-to-join-any-club-that-would-let-me-in routine overlaid by the omnipresent admonitions of The Rules. It’s not as if it were a date or anything, but I didn’t want Mark to think I was interested in him, because it would just cause embarrassment later. Heaven knows he didn’t need another woman chasing him, and I…

  I was acting like a dork, or maybe a dorkette. It was just lunch.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mark was sitting in a booth next to the window, so I could see him from the sidewalk as I approached. Already I could see there were obvious advantages to lunching with him; by myself, I always got seated near the men’s room or up against the cart where the busboys stacked the dirty dishes.

  He saw me too and waved. He was wearing shorts and a light blue polo shirt. He had chest hair. I tried not to gape. I had never seen him dressed so casually.

  “Hi,” I said as I sat down across from him. “What are you doing downtown?” I almost said “like that,” but I caught myself in time.

  “I’ve got jury duty,” he said. “I have a couple of hours till I have to go back. I’m so glad you could join me. Jury duty is so boring. All you do is sit and wait for hours.”

  “You mean you’re just in that giant holding tank with everybody else?” I asked him. “You’re not there to be an expert witness explaining why the accused was really in a fugue state or something when he shot up the postal clerk convention?”

  He smiled. “Nope. Those people get paid. I’m just a draftee. I never get on a jury, because one side or the other is always afraid I’d have mystical powers of persuasion once we retired to the jury room. It never fails. People have the oddest views of psychiatrists. I always get excused, but once every few years I have to go through the motions anyway. The truth is, I wouldn’t mind being on a jury. It might be interesting.”

  “I’ve been on one a couple of times, at least I was before law school. Criminal cases. It gave me a really jaundiced view of humanity. Nobody listens to the case or the judge’s instructions. They just vote with their prejudices.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you didn’t go into criminal law?”

  I shook my head. “I went with Roth, Tolbert and Anderson because I already worked there, and they offered me a job. Also because in law school you find out that most people who come to trial are guilty, and it seemed equally dispiriting either to prosecute them or to try to get them off.”

  “That sounds cynical,” he said.

  “Is that a professional opinion?” I asked him.

  He put down his breadstick. “Relax, will you, Becky? I’m not sitting here judging you. And I’m certainly not here in some professional capacity.” He looked a little sad and disappointed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not very good at this.”

  “It’s just lunch,” he said.

  “I know, but I feel a little awkward around you,” I blurted out.

  “Then I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe this was a mistake. I thought it had been long enough since I saw you professionally that we could be friends.”

  I was horrified by the way things were going. I’d made a big uncomfortable scene out of nothing. “It’s not that,” I protested.

  “Yes?” he asked kindly.

  “Well, maybe it is that, in a way.” I looked at him. He looked normal and friendly and smart but not intimidating. I felt encouraged. “It’s just that the balance is off,” I told him.

  “The balance?”

  I nodded and took a sip of my water. I brushed the menu away with an extravagant gesture. “I don’t know anything about you, even though I’ve known you for years. How do you think that makes me feel in a situation like this? I mean, you know practically everything about me, most of it bad.” There, I’d said it, what had been worrying me ever since we started exchanging more than perfunctory greetings at mass gatherings.

  He sat back against the seat and opened his mouth. Just then the waitress came up, pad in hand, so we did a quick fumbling with the menu and ordered the daily special. When she had gone, I said, “I read in an article that seventy percent of diners will order the special, no matter what it is.”

  He ignored me. “First of all,” he said, looking disconcerted, “how could I know everything about you? I haven’t seen you professionally in more than five years, and even then…And besides, what do you mean by ‘most of it bad’? That’s absurd.”

  “I told you things I never told anyone else,” I said, meeting his eyes.

  “That’s how it was supposed to work,” he said, “but give yourself a break. You talk about a jaundiced view of humanity? I’ve seen it, ba
by. You can’t imagine. And that’s the point. You can’t imagine. And that is a professional opinion.”

  “Thank you, I think,” I said. “But still…”

  He started to look amused. “You want me to tell you bad things about myself to even the score?”

  I laughed. “Yes, I think I do. Good things too, but bad things first.”

  He looked at the ceiling. “I snore,” he said.

  I shook my head. “No good,” I told him. “It has to be something you can help.”

  He paused. “When I was in med school, I stole something from the bookstore,” he said.

  “Better,” I said. “What was it?”

  “A really, really expensive textbook.”

  “Don’t make excuses,” I said. “Did you ever pay it back?”

  He looked embarrassed “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “Keep going,” I said.

  “You want more?” he asked incredulously.

  “Does that exhaust your repertoire? Your soft palate vibrates and you once had a momentary flirtation with shoplifting? Which you rectified, I might add.”

  “Okay,” he said soberly. “Last one: I haven’t been honest with someone I care about a great deal.”

  “A big lie or a little lie?”

  “A pretty big one.”

  “That’s enough,” I told him lightly. “You’re off the hook.” I was ashamed to press him further. If the “someone” was the Mystery Lady from Jonathan’s or, worse, Dr. Oblomova, I didn’t want to know about it. “Unless you want to confess to a passion for beets or Brussels sprouts, in which case, I’m out of here,” I added.

  “Loathsome and revolting, both of them,” he said gravely. “You’d have to be seriously demented.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” I told him. The waitress brought the specials, which turned out to be swordfish brochettes. We both looked at our plates with approval.

  “Just one thing,” he said, when she had gone.

  “Broccoli?” I asked.

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I,” I said, but then I gestured, go ahead.

  “You were right about balance. I should have thought of it myself. If people tell you secrets about themselves and you don’t reciprocate, if they need you in ways you don’t need them, it makes them vulnerable. That’s okay for therapist-patient, though it gives you a responsibility not to abuse it. But it’s not okay for friends. I should have made it easier for you.”