by Ber Carroll
Still no response. Katie started to get a bad feeling. She shot a look at Stephen. He seemed to find their reaction as puzzling as she did.
‘Mum? Dad?’ she prompted.
Only Frankie met her eyes. She instantly realised that he wasn’t overwhelmed. He was dismayed.
Chapter 2
‘Mum, why are you crying?’
‘I’m not crying.’
‘Yes, you are – I saw you.’
‘It’s something in my eye.’
‘What is it? Let me look.’
‘Only a piece of dirt, I imagine.’
‘Your tissue is wet.’
‘I’ve been dabbing my eye.’
‘Are you sure you’re not sad?’
‘I’m fine, Katie. Just fine. Now go and do your homework.’
Katie dumped her school satchel on the kitchen table. She laid out her books and decided to do Maths first. She wrote the date on the top of the page: 11 June 1984
After dinner, Rose popped next door and Stephen went out on the street to have a kick around with his friends. Katie had Frankie all to herself.
‘Mum was crying today,’ she told him.
She saw him stiffen but he didn’t deny it.
She continued to watch him very carefully. ‘Why was she crying, Dad?’
‘Today is a sad day for her.’
From the sound of his voice and the expression on his face, it seemed that it was a sad day for him too. She was about to ask why when they heard the all-too-familiar sound of glass smashing.
‘Don’t tell me Stephen’s put that ball through another window!’ sighed Frankie.
He had, and with all the commotion that followed, both Katie and her dad forgot all about the sad day.
Chapter 3
Katie’s computer screen danced in front of her eyes, the black print blurring into the white background. She blinked away the urge to sleep. The clock at the bottom of her screen indicated that she had only one hour to complete the draft contract for Citibank. Then Pete Wilde, the bank’s legal counsel, would arrive at her office expecting a smiling lawyer, a near-perfect draft and a top-notch lunch. Yet again, she lamented that she hadn’t left her parents’ house earlier the night before. But she had been hanging out to give the tickets to her mother. What a letdown that had been!
‘Katie!’
She jerked up her head when she heard the familiar no-nonsense voice. Claudine, the legal secretary she shared with three other senior associates, was standing at her door. Her red hair, cut in a sharp bob, framed a face that was prematurely furrowed with frown lines.
‘You’ve been out all night!’ she stated accusingly as her buttonlike eyes took in Katie’s exhausted face.
‘It was my mum’s birthday.’
‘Too much wine, too little sleep?’
‘Precisely.’
Claudine dealt with the demands and egos of her four bosses with steely efficiency. Katie liked her and she was sure that beneath Claudine’s brusqueness the feeling was reciprocated. Some days, without being aware of it, Claudine helped Katie keep her sanity, her plain-speaking manner like a lifeline in the snake pit of politics and legal jargon.
‘Then you won’t be pleased that the launch of the High Potential programme has been moved,’ said Claudine.
‘Don’t tell me it’s on tonight,’ Katie groaned.
‘Brent Lavell can’t make Thursday and, as you are aware, everything must revolve around Brent.’
Brent Lavell was the managing partner of Morley Ferguson James. He was an old-style leader who used a mix of bullying, fear and coercion to get results from the forty-odd partners and six hundred staff. Claudine’s dislike of him was merited as he was particularly abominable to the legal secretaries.
‘Don’t say things like that too loud,’ Katie cautioned her.
‘It’s not anything I wouldn’t say to his face,’ she declared and huffed her way back to her desk.
I don’t know what she’s so put out about, Katie thought with a weary sigh. It’s not as if she has to go to the launch.
Her eyes returned to the text on her screen and she scrolled down, scanning the clauses. Tired as she was, she loved her job. She got great satisfaction from the attention to detail that was required to do it well. The underlying structure and justice to the law appealed to her own sense of order and fairness. Over the last year she had started to spend more face-to-face time with her clients, an aspect that she enjoyed enormously.
The midday sun filtered through the beige blinds and warmed her back as she worked. Small and functional, her office was painted in pastel blue. A nondescript print hung on the left wall, a clock on the right. The offices of MFJ were places for work, not comfort. The only concession to a personal life was the framed family photograph on Katie’s desk.
Her phone rang and she absently picked it up.
‘Can you talk?’
It was Stephen.
‘Only quickly. I have a contract for an overpaid executive that I need to finish.’
‘What did you make of last night?’ he asked.
Katie was sardonic. ‘You’d swear it was a five-thousand-dollar invoice I had given them and not a gift worth that amount.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ he said in his slow, careful way. ‘Maybe they don’t want to go back. After all, it’s been forty years.’
‘How could you not want to go back to the country where you were born?’ Katie protested. ‘Where your brothers and sisters still live?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe something happened there . . .’
Katie didn’t have time to dwell on this for another familiar figure had appeared at her door: Neil Gatwood, her boss.
‘I have to go, Stephen. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?’
Neil leant on the doorframe, hands in his pockets, bespectacled and excessively thin. Some of the staff referred to him as ‘the nerd’, but he was Katie’s champion. He had pushed her through promotion after promotion, and granted her enough leeway to prove herself. She owed him a lot. Sometimes the debt was overwhelming.
He pushed his glasses higher up his nose, a constantly necessary action as they were far too big for him. ‘I just wanted to check that you’ve heard about tonight.’
‘Claudine told me.’
‘Good. I’ll see you there.’
There was little else to say. She and Neil had talked about the partnership many, many times. Now the time for talking was over. They both knew it was mostly up to her from here on in.
At 6 pm Katie closed the door on the minimalist decor of her office. She yawned; it was eleven hours since she had started her work day, and a mere three hours’ sleep was not enough for her body to go the distance. Outside in the twilight, streams of people were making their way home and she wished she was one of them. She cursed Brent Lavell and his last-minute change of plans.
The restaurant was down in Darling Harbour, a twenty-minute walk from Elizabeth Street and a welcome chance to clear her head. She lit a cigarette and smoked as she walked. Her knee-high boots scrunched over dead leaves as she wondered who the other contenders were. There were ninety senior associates in all and an average of three a year got promoted to partner. It was a highly political process that, until now, had been conducted behind closed doors. Specialist knowledge, fee-earning history and client development were the criteria examined by the selection committee. If all else was equal, it came down to prejudice in terms of gender, schooling and golfing prowess.
Katie was under no illusion that Brent’s greed was the primary motivator behind the High Potential programme. He was undoubtedly giving himself a pat on the back for a winning formula: allow six people to think they were in with a chance, reap the benefits while they work themselves to the bone, and have no obligation to the three unlucky ones other than a ‘maybe next time’.
Nevertheless, Katie was excited about the opportunity. Even as far back as high school she had aspired to be a partner, and having an open competition ma
de the race fairer than it might otherwise have been. She was well aware that she had two things working against her: her gender and her schooling. She possessed neither the testosterone nor the old schoolboy camaraderie to ingratiate herself with the senior partners. That left her with her fee earnings, her experience and her clientele, all very commendable and hopefully enough to get her over the line in the two-to-one odds of the programme.
Heavy drops of rain started to fall as Katie descended the steps to Cockle Bay; tourists dived for shelter under the canopies of nearby bars and restaurants. With no particular agenda, they could afford an impromptu drink while they waited for the rain to pass. Katie was already a few minutes late and hurried on, intermittently looking up to check the neon-lit name of each establishment. The rain quickly soaked into her hair and jacket. By the time she reached the end of the wharf, she was dripping wet. She found temporary shelter while she called Claudine’s number on her mobile phone.
‘I’m at the end of the wharf. I can’t find the place.’
‘Go back towards the bridge and take the escalator to the second level,’ Claudine instructed briskly, the sound of a TV in the background.
‘Damn. I never thought of looking up there. Thanks.’
Katie retraced her steps, her boots splashing through the fresh puddles of rainwater. The downpour was illuminated by the spectrum of lights reflecting off the dark water of the harbour. She found the escalator and when she reached the top the restaurant was facing her. She was ten minutes late.
As soon as Katie opened the door to the function room, she realised she had underestimated what the launch of the programme entailed. Forty dark-suited champagne-drinking partners filled the room. Brent Lavell, his silver hair glinting under the down lights, was up on the podium and the five other contenders formed a perfect line to his right. A few things struck Katie in those initial moments. First: wet, bedraggled and looking her absolute worst, she would have to join the line of contenders. Second: Carole Matthews and Isabelle Romero were there. With herself included, that made three women in total and, incredibly, an equal ratio of women to men. Third: behind the contenders, a large drop-down screen flashed the word Congratulations! and from what Brent was saying, it seemed that it was the catchphrase of the evening.
‘And congratulations to Carole for boosting our cross-border business and qualifying for the programme!’
Carole smiled, elegant, poised, not a strand of smooth blonde hair out of place. Katie didn’t know her very well but the word around the corridors was that she was a Trojan worker, a talented lawyer, and she took no shit.
Brent spotted Katie by the door.
‘Katie, you’ve arrived. Nasty weather out there. Come and join us.’ With Katie obediently in transit, he addressed the wider audience once more. ‘Last, but far from least, we have Katie Horgan from Employee Law and Industrial Relations. Over the last two years, Katie has made a name for MFJ in the financial-services industry and has been one of our top fee earners. Congratulations on qualifying for the programme, Katie!’
Isabelle shot Katie a sympathetic smile as she stepped onto the platform. Katie, feeling like a drowned rat, grimaced in return. She turned to face the audience, a statuesque figure alongside the other two women. Isabelle was the shortest, the top of her head level with Katie’s shoulder. Born and educated in Colombia, Isabelle was very highly regarded by her clients and colleagues alike. She worked in the corporate division of MFJ and often put jobs Katie’s way. Katie tried to return the favour when she could. She was glad to see Isabelle in the line-up; there was nobody more deserving of a partnership.
Brent moved on. ‘I am most proud of the fact that we have an equal representation of women and men in this programme because I am personally very committed to affirmative action . . .’
Somehow Katie kept a straight face. The fact that just two of the forty existing partners were female spoke for itself. Brent’s bias towards the men was even evident in the order he had apparently called the contenders to the podium: the men first, the women a lame afterthought.
‘. . . and I have no doubt that they’ll give the male contenders a run for their money.’
Katie knew the men to varying degrees. David Smythe was the first in line. Sandy-haired and podgy, he looked like an overgrown schoolboy. David had been a senior associate for more than ten years and made it known to all that he considered a partnership his due. He specialised in taxation law and, on the occasions that Katie had to consult with him, she found him self-satisfied, arrogant and totally humourless.
Jim Donnelly was next. He had been seconded from the Dublin office a few years back and, after contributing to some groundbreaking precedents in Australia, Brent had persuaded him to stay permanently. Now Jim travelled extensively around the State resolving commercial and regulatory disputes and, when settlement couldn’t be reached, instructing barristers. As he was rarely in the Sydney office, Katie only knew him well enough to exchange the most fleeting hello on the few occasions that their paths crossed. She hadn’t failed to notice how good-looking he was. His face was strong and interesting. It demanded notice.
Oliver Thame was the third male contender and Katie knew him the best. In fact, Oliver was good friends with Geoff and up to a few months ago they had socialised in the same circles. When the split became public, Oliver had approached Katie to say how sorry he was and that he hoped they would still be friends. Katie had been touched by his sincerity. At work Oliver was quiet, diligent and very suited to his specialisation in the government arena. On a social level he was less reserved and had a roguish sense of humour.
As soon as she saw the other contenders, Katie realised that the odds were not as good as she had initially thought. Jim’s high profile and Isabelle’s extensive experience gave them a strong lead. That left Katie, Carole, David and Oliver to fight for the third partnership. It would be a fierce and dirty fight. One that she wasn’t at all sure she could win.
Brent was still talking and she tried to concentrate on what he was saying.
‘This programme is an intensive training camp for the future partners of our business. Firstly, there will be a one-week residential course in which you will learn the theory of leadership and explore your own leadership style. You will have a few weeks to put the leadership theory into practice here in Sydney before you depart on a four-month overseas assignment. Later in the year there will be a second residential during which you will have the opportunity to share your overseas experience with your colleagues. Your performance at both residentials will be independently assessed by the facilitators and the feedback will form an important part of our decision. Your billable hours will be tracked while you are overseas and you will be expected to meet your annual target. Similarly, there will be no adjustment for the time spent away on the residential courses. It’s tough at the top, guys!’
He laughed and there was a corresponding titter from the audience of champagne-drinking partners. But not one of the aspiring partners smiled. As it was they were expected to bill seven hours a day to clients. With emails and general admin often not billable, the only way to meet such a target was to work an inordinate amount of overtime. It would be nigh on impossible to rack up enough billable hours to offset the time they were away at the courses.
Brent finished speaking and Katie stepped down from the podium with relief. She made a beeline for the rest rooms, where her reflection in the mirror was every bit as bad as she had expected: her long curly hair had frizzed at the ends and a blush, brought about by the rush through the rain, had stained her cheeks.
How could anybody consider me a future partner looking like this? Why the hell didn’t I get a taxi?
She riffled through her bag, looking for something she could use to tie back her hair. Amongst the loose change she spotted a hairclip. She wound her dark damp tresses into a knot and clasped the clip into place.
The next emergency was her face. She patted some powder over her porcelain skin and, as a final touch
, applied a coat of lip gloss. Then, a deep breath later, she walked back into the room of piranhas.
The crowd had segregated into tidy knots around each High Potential contender. Katie scanned the room, trying to decide where to slip in. She set her sights on a group of less prominent partners who were talking amongst themselves.
‘Katie!’ Theo Costello shook her hand when she joined his group. ‘Well done!’
Theo, Isabelle’s boss, was a warm-hearted, convivial man who wasn’t as money-oriented as the other partners. A grandfatherly figure, with old-fashioned charm, he was always talking of an imminent retirement that never eventuated.
‘Thanks, Theo.’
A waiter hovered nearby and Katie caught his attention. She took a glass of champagne from his tray and downed a big gulp.
‘You must be happy to see Isabelle in the running,’ she said.
Isabelle was Theo’s protégée. Ten years ago she had been a raw graduate with a heavy foreign accent. With Theo’s encouragement and mentoring, she was now at the top of her field.
Theo lowered his voice to respond. ‘I’m happy to see all you ladies up there. To tell the truth, I’m fed up of working with crusty old men.’
‘What’s that you’re saying, Theo?’ Meredith Allen, one of the two female partners, joined their small group. Meredith was in her early forties. She’d worked all the hours on earth to get her partnership and consequently looked older than her age.
Theo put a friendly arm around Meredith’s shoulders. ‘I’m saying we need a few more women around to shake things up.’
‘You can say that again.’
Meredith was always on the sidelines rallying for Katie and the other female lawyers. She had a razor-sharp intellect and an efficient yet pleasant personality.
‘Do you know where you’re going on your overseas assignment?’ she asked Katie.
‘Not yet. I think we find out at the residential course.’
‘It sounds very exciting – I regret now that I didn’t do something like that when I was younger. I should say that Neil will miss not having you around.’