Supersonic

by Anouschka Zagorski

  This time we found it easier to follow Paolo’s steps, although it was still difficult for me to let Frank lead. It was like he was trying to pull and push me around the room. As mentioned, no comparison to Felipe. It required physical confidence to dance well, not confidence as a lawyer. But maybe he would improve. I was an optimist after all.

  When the class was over Frank invited me to have a Corona beer at the small bar in the room adjacent to the studio.

  “Cheers, we earned this!” He clinked his bottle with mine. “I think we did quite well together!” He declared enthusiastically.

  “I agree,” I replied honestly. “When the women had to swap partners and I had to dance with each of the other men in turn, I realised that all of them had very little rhythm! Except Paolo of course, but that was an altogether different experience” - it’s deceptive how much strength and energy this tiny man had! “Nonetheless, a dancing couple should match physically - with my height I just cannot dance well with a man who is so much shorter than me!”

  “I absolutely agree, that really is much better,” Frank said and stretched himself to his full height.

  “My boyfriend is about the same height as you,” I said. He should not get any ideas.

  “Uh-huh.” Frank appeared mildly interested. “What does he do again - dentist or something?”

  “No, otolaryngologist.”

  “Yuk - that must be disgusting to examine people’s mucus all day.” Frank pulled a face.

  “That’s not how he sees it. I think it’s all quite abstract to him. Just as we don’t see the jobs or human problems, which may be affected by our projects, but only the legal issues.”

  “Hm. Maybe. Do you want another beer?”

  “Oh no, thanks, I’ve got to get home.” I took my bag and jacket from the adjacent stool. “Thanks again for the beer. See you in the office tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow. You go ahead, I’ll stay for another drink.” He glanced at Paolo who was talking in loud Spanish with two dark-skinned women skimpily dressed in colourful clothes.

  I followed his gaze, took in the women and understood. He was wasting his time with me, so he needed to look elsewhere. I winked at him. “Well then, have fun. And good luck!”

  * * *

  As my birthday rapidly approached, my workload distracted me from having any more panic attacks, as well as further dance lessons. Frank did not seem to mind at all as he told me, grinning contentedly, that he had found another dance partner, a Cuban girl. Judging by his grin, they did not leave it at dancing.

  At the beginning of December - it was the Friday before my birthday - Tracey called me into her office.

  “I had a telephone message from a client from Francobank - it seems like they have a new deal. I thought it might make sense for you to be there when I call him back,” she explained quickly while dialling a London number on her spider.

  After two rings a male voice answered. “Deepak.”

  “Oh, hello, Deepak, it’s Tracey, from Pratt & Wonkey,” Tracey chimed into the phone.

  “Hi Tracey,” replied a grumpy voice.

  “Hi there!” Tracey was unperturbed. “I’m here with my senior associate Chloé who is working with me on some deals.”

  I leaned towards the loud speaker. “Good afternoon.”

  “Hi,” the voice replied curtly.

  Tracey continued. “I understand you may have a new transaction you might like us to help you with?”

  “Yeah. It’s a huge property deal for the real estate investment arm of Holman Bank, HOLREF. Two point five billion. Euros. We don’t have much time though. They absolutely need to close at the end of the week after next.”

  I mouthed a ‘no way’ to Tracey. That wasn’t even a full two weeks - impossible.

  She briefly met my eye. “Do we know how many properties there are?”

  “About one hundred and eighty. All in Germany.”

  “Right, and the number and jurisdiction of borrowers?”

  “Don’t know exactly. About fifty. German limited companies - GmbHs I think. You can ask Nigel from Howard Hewitt. I think you know him. He’s already drafted the loan agreement.”

  Now it was Tracey’s turn to mouth ‘no way’ to me. I wrinkled my brow. I knew why she was irritated. Traditionally, the credit agreement is drafted by the lender’s lawyers, because otherwise it would be too borrower-friendly and negotiations would be extended.

  “Yes, I do know Nigel, Deepak. But - on the assumption that we have no conflict of interest and can assist you on this - you should insist that your lawyers draft the credit agreement as is customary.”

  “Look, Tracey, I don’t really care. I’ll tell HOLREF but it’s their call; they have the timing issue and they will pay your bill in the end.” Deepak sounded even more impatient than initially.

  “I’m sorry to insist, Deepak, but I really cannot advise you to accept that because it is not in your best interest. We have our P&W/Francobank precedents we could use and that would also save us a lot of time - which I understand is of the essence.”

  “Hmm. I guess you’re right. OK, I’ll speak to Steve Fry from HOLREF. He is in charge of this project.”

  “Lovely. And we will do our conflict check and prepare a fee estimate.” Tracey pressed on the red button, smiling contentedly, and the loud speaker fell silent.

  “I know Steve Fry,” I explained. “He used to be a lawyer at Howard Hewitt. Not a very friendly chap. As far as I know he was up for partnership, didn’t make it and then his boss arranged for him to get the job at HOLREF.”

  “He obviously left on good terms if he now instructs his old firm.”

  “I know - that happens a lot, doesn’t it. Didn’t some of the Francobank guys work at P&W?”

  “Yes, nearly half of their real estate finance team. Francobank is a major client of the firm and looks to us to fill their internal legal requirements. So the London office regularly sends associates for secondment. The ones that we don’t need to come back are kept on and become permanent employees of Francobank. It’s a win-win for all.”

  “Very clever. Now, let’s see - I can prepare the fee quote if you want, and of course I’m happy to do the deal - it’s a very tight deadline though. I’ll need my trainee and Jessica or Indira to assist me. I assume Frank Smith and his team would do the German corporate and property law aspects?”

  “Yes, why don’t you ask him. And you can take Indira. I need Jessica myself.”

  Indira was our new colleague who had applied directly from India. She was shy and, having only started that month, still needed to be shown the ropes. That would be making things more difficult considering the tight time frame.

  I just rose from my chair when Tracey’s telephone rung. She picked it up by pressing the loudspeaker button. “Tracey Taylor?”

  “Tracey. It’s Steve Fry. I just spoke to Deepak.” The voice sounded unfriendly.

  Tracey motioned me to stay. “Oh, hello Steve. Is Nigel on the line too?”

  “No.”

  “In that case, I hope he does not mind me talking to you directly. We do take the rules of professional ethics seriously.”

  “Whatever. Deepak told me you object to our lawyers drafting the credit agreement.”

  “Well, Steve. I am sure you know that this is highly unusual and that as bank’s counsel we would usually draft the credit agreement.”

  “I DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHAT’S USUAL! THIS IS OUR DEAL, WE PAY ALL THE LEGAL FEES AND WE CHOOSE WHO DRAFTS THE CREDIT AGREEMENT!” Fry started to scream.

  Tracey went bright red in the face. She breathed in, obviously trying to keep her poise. “It is my duty to advise the bank that this is not in their interest. I just don’t think it’s done.”

  “THE DRAFT IS READY, AND I AM NOT GOING TO LET MYSELF
BE TOLD WHAT IS DONE AND WHAT NOT! YOU ARE JEOPARDISING THE DEAL! THIS IS A MEGA TWO POINT FIVE BILLION DEAL AND IT HAS TO BE DONE NOW!!” Fry’s voice almost cracked.

  “There is no need to scream at me, Steve. I still owe a duty to my client,” Tracey said coolly.

  Steve’s voice went quiet but with a twang. “Nigel will send you the draft agreement. Either you accept that or you’re off the deal.” He hung up.

  The red blotches on Tracey’s neck disappeared slowly. She looked out of the window. I didn’t dare to move. I still had a vivid memory of that banker William’s behaviour in London. This one here wasn’t even our client.

  She turned back to the telephone and dialled an internal number.

  “Yes, what is it?” Frank Smith’s baritone answered.

  “Hello, this is Tracey,” she said, sounding like a little girl.

  “Yes, I see that - what can I do for you, Tracey?” he replied benevolently.

  “I just had a call from Francobank and then from HOLREF.” She quickly summarised the calls.

  “Hm. I do sympathise, Tracey, but considering that our likely fees on this will probably be three to four hundred thousand Euros I guess we can make an exception?”

  “I just don’t want to create a precedent,” she replied defiantly.

  “I’m sure we won’t,” he appeased her.

  “What about the timing? Can you do it?”

  “Yes, sure. There are twenty four hours to a day and seven days in a week.”

  She sighed. “OK. We’ll do the conflict check, draft a fee letter and copy you into all correspondence. Thanks.” She hung up.

  I rose from my chair again. There was nothing to be added. Every minute counted now. I thought of my birthday at the weekend. I might as well forget about that.

  I was about to leave her room when she called me back. “Oh, Chloé? Uhm... can I just say something?”

  “Yes?” I waited. She looked at me sharply.

  “Casual Friday means no jeans. I know the other partners do not care about this but I want the rule to be upheld in my team.”

  I looked down at myself. I was wearing tailored Seven for All Mankind jeans in a dark wash and with ironed creases down the front and back, a tan Hermès belt, a white shirt, a bouclé Chloé blazer and light brown high-heeled Tod’s loafers. With a blank look I perused her outfit, which consisted of beige baggy corduroy pants, a white blouse and a long thickly knitted patchwork cardigan decorated with tassels, all in a beige-ochre-orange-brown mix. These trousers of Tracy’s were hardly any better than their white summer counterpart, with an elasticated waistband, which Jessica called pyjama pants behind Tracey’s back. No comment.

  “Uh-huh. OK. I actually didn’t know.” I said slowly, which was true. Many colleagues and even partners wore denim on Fridays, and I mean the faded blue ones, drainpipe style with a pleated front. Hello from the Eighties.

  She blushed, visibly crossed. “Well you always look very smart and glamorous of course, but that’s the rule - no denim.”

  Was there a hidden compliment? I didn’t think so - it was more of a statement.

  “No problem, Tracey. Thanks for letting me know.”

  Thus having clarified this important matter, I walked passed Jessica’s office to get to Indira whose office was next door. Jessica saw me and wildly waved at me, motioning to me to come in. “Come in, quick, and close the door,” she whispered with excitement.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Haven’t you heard? It seems like Tracey has to go back to London by May next year! David told me that his boss told him that the Frankfurt partners do not intend to extend her secondment contract! That means you’re going to be my boss soon, yay!” She bounced on her chair several times.

  “Really? No, I didn’t know about this. That would explain her particular nasty mood today.” I related to Jessica how Tracey had criticised my outfit.

  Her eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. “What! She dares to criticise you, whilst wearing pyjama pants and some old carpet? I mean, really!”

  I could not help but laugh. “That cardigan really is something else.”

  Her eyes twinkled with malicious joy. “And it’s her fluffy favourite - goes sooo well with her frizzball hair!”

  Jessica’s telephone rang. She checked the display. “Ooops, here we go - talk about the She-Devil!” She winked at me as she picked up the receiver and cheerfully said something to Tracey.

  Outside her door I reflected upon what Jessica had told me. This was just the sort of news that I needed. Another five months and we would all be free. And I would no longer have to play the uneasy role of her senior associate.

  * * *

  The next morning I woke up when a door was slammed shut. I grunted, turned onto my other side and felt around for Hugo. I was alone. Please let me fall asleep again. I don’t have to go to the office today. Slowly I drifted back to sleep.

  Suddenly I was widely awake. Hang on. It was my birthday. Forty! It had arrived. Having dreaded it, it now felt like any other day. I checked the alarm on my nightstand. Twenty to eight. I listened. I could make out my children’s voices downstairs. I threw the duvet off me, got up and went to the bathroom, grabbing my blackberry out of my black Marc Jacobs bag on my way. The red light was flashing. While I brushed my teeth I quickly went through my emails. HOLREF’s lawyers had been industrious and had sent the draft credit agreement over night. Judging by the data size of the attachment it should consist of at least one hundred and fifty pages. I would have to print them out and review them later.

  I walked down the stairs and opened the door to the girls’ rooms.

  “Good morning my darlings!”

  Marie and Noëlle sat on the floor, playing with their ‘Baby born’ dolls. Marie was dressed up as a pirate, eye patch inclusive, Noëlle as Barbie’s Rapunzel.

  “Hello Mummy! We are playing pirate and princess” both crowed cheerfully. Noëlle struck what she considered a regal pose. Marie waved a plastic sword at her with an attempt of a menacing growl.

  “I can see that - you look very pretty, honey, and you, Marie look very scary - I hardly recognised you! Darlings have you seen Hugo?”

  “Yes, he said he had to go to work,” Noëlle replied.

  “I see. Oh well. Have you two had anything to eat yet?”

  “No.”

  “I’m hungry, Mummy!” Marie moaned.

  “Then I’ll go downstairs and prepare some breakfast. You two follow me shortly, ok?”

  “Okay! Mummy can we have pancakes?” Noëlle asked.

  “Of course, we’ll have a special breakfast!”

  “Oh, yes - Marie,” Noëlle nudged her sister. “Get that drawing for Mumma!”

  I waited, smiling at Marie waggling to her desk and returning - her one visible eye beaming with pride - with a large piece of paper. “For you, Mumma!”

  I took it from her and examined it. It was a scrawled drawing of a pirate and a neatly drawn princess. Underneath they had handwritten, in slightly faulty French, ‘Bon aniversair MAMAN’, and signed it Noëlle and MaRIe.

  “That is so beautiful, thank you so much my angels - it’s the best present ever! Come to me for a hug and a big kiss! Mwa! Mwa!”

  “Did you get a big present from Hugo?” Noëlle asked.

  “No, not yet. He left before I woke up.”

  She looked disappointed. “But it’s your Birthday, Mummy! You have to get a cake and a party and lots of big presents!”

  “But I’m all grown up, darling. It’s not so important.”

  “I’m gonna draw you another picture!” Marie announced and hugged me.

  “That’s so sweet my darling, thank you! Mwa!” I kissed her again. “Now! As to those pancakes. I’ll make myself some coffee and then we can prepare th
e pancakes together, ok?”

  “OK, Mummy.”

  “I have to go pee-pee!” Marie ran out to the bathroom, pulling at her pirate trousers.

  I went downstairs to the kitchen to make myself a big cup of coffee with frothy milk. I fixed their drawing, with magnets, to the door of the fridge. I leaned against the counter, holding my steamy mug and looking outside into the garden. Tiny snowflakes had started to fall on the lawn. I felt all warm inside. I loved it when it snowed on my birthday.

  That was when I spotted the present next to the toaster. It was wrapped in Christmas paper and had an envelope on top. I looked at it more closely - my name was written on it. I opened it curiously and pulled out a card with a photo of a vintage car. I turned the card to read it.

  My angel, I wish you all the best for your big birthday! May you always be of good health and may your dream of your own house come true! My present for you is a contribution for your new kitchen and one for your new bathroom! With love, Hugo.

  I peered inside the envelope. There were four green one hundred Euro bills. Then I carefully unwrapped the present. It was an ultrasonic toothbrush. I stared at it, waiting for my reaction. It did not come. Somehow I felt nothing.

  * * *

  I checked again the changes I had made, at the client’s instructions, to the CP letter as well as addressees on the distribution list. Then I pressed send. I inhaled deeply and exhaled with relief. It was closing day of the HOLREF transaction. We were nearly there. I did not want to think about having to spend another all-nighter in the office, and it being nearly noon already. At that moment my telephone rang. I recognised Deepak’s number and picked it up.

  “Hi, Deepak.”

  “WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE!! I TOLD YOU TO SEND THE LETTER TO ME FIRST!!”

  My heart fell somewhere between my knees; my empty stomach churned. What?? I had followed his instructions religiously. He had said: once you make the change, send it out.

  “Deepak, I am so sorry, I must have misunderstood you - you saw the draft, there was only that small change, which we have discussed and then you said make the change and send it out.” I was stunned and absolutely sure that I had not made a mistake.