by Mark Dawson
‘He’s popular with Fulton and Wilson,’ I say.
Tanner nods. ‘I know he is,’ he says, ‘but they’re not the only ones who get to vote. It’s a majority decision. Look, there’re no guarantees on this but I just thought you ought to know.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I really appreciate it.’
‘You owe me a beer.’
A NEW FACE AT THE PHOTOCOPIER
Despite my elation at Tanner’s news, the morning is still dragging by. I’m still tired from last night. I’d love to be able to find a quiet comer and curl up to sleep. I’ve been drafting a fifty-page witness statement spelling out the reasons why the court should release the Freezing Order over Brian’s assets. Freezing Orders freeze bank accounts, stop you doing anything with your property, your cash, your assets. But it’s difficult to summon up enthusiasm for arguments I know have absolutely no chance of success. The court was eager to make this Freezing Order; in the Judge’s opinion, Brian Fey was up to no good.
I’m lazily running the statement through the photocopier when I realize someone is waiting behind me.
‘Won’t be a moment,’ I say, immediately trying to look industrious. I’ve been caught daydreaming in here too many times before.
‘There’s no hurry,’ replies a voice I don’t recognize.
I turn around as the copier punches staples through the documents for me.
‘Hi,’ I beam.
‘Hi,’ says the slim, good-looking girl standing in the doorway.
‘We haven’t met, have we?’
‘I’m Rachel.’
She can’t be more than twenty-four, fresh out of Chester or Store Street law school. She looks keen and determined. There’s a spread of light freckles across the bridge of her nose, ducking down onto her cheeks. Red hair tied back in a bunch with a scrunchy. Lightly tanned, probably the product of six months’ traveling between the end of college and the beginning of training. She’s laden down with a double-armful of law reports.
‘Here, let me help you.’ I unload the books onto the counter next to the copier. I take her hand and squeeze it gently. ‘Daniel Tate.’
‘Hello, Daniel.’
‘Those look interesting,’ I grin, nodding at the spread-eagled books. Some of the dusty spines date back to the late nineteenth century.
Nervous laugh: ‘I just hope I’ve got the right references. I’m supposed to be researching contractual capacity. At least I think that’s what he wants. It’s been six months since I did that. There was this course at law school but now I can’t remember a thing about it.’
‘I shouldn’t worry. Listen, a word of advice: one of the first things you’ll find out working here is that no one ever actually does any law. It’s all letter writing and presentation these days, The barristers do all the interesting stuff.’
‘Great,’ she says. ‘Letter writing and presentation - two of my strengths.’
‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’
‘I’m Mr Fulton’s new trainee. Started yesterday.’
‘Fulton…’ I pause melodramatically.
‘He’s not that bad, is he?’
The look of mild terror my allusion to Fulton provokes is familiar, and even a little appealing. She’s probably finding the whole experience terrifying. Just like I did.
‘No, not that bad,’ I say. ‘I mean, comparatively speaking, he’s an angel.’
She brightens, then starts to blush, ‘You must think I’m pathetic, don’t you? I never thought doing this would be so - I don’t know - so daunting. It’s like another world. So much to learn.’
‘Law school seems irrelevant now?’ I grin.
‘Exactly,’ she says.
‘So you do know what I mean?’
‘I can just about remember,’ I say, ‘although it was a while ago.’ My copying finished, I collect it from the tray. ‘All yours.’
‘Well, it was nice meeting you,’ she says.
I shine what I hope is a friendly, reassuring smile. ‘You too. If you need any help, my office’s just around the corner.’
She looks up from angling an opened book on the copier plate and follows the direction of my pointed finger. ‘Thanks,’ she says cheerfully. ‘I might take you up on that.’
‘And if you want the low-down on the office, let me know. We could maybe do it over a coffee or something?’
Whoah, back up. I can’t believe that I just said that.
‘That’d be nice,’ she says.
And I can’t believe that she said yes.
‘I’ll give you a call,’ I say.
APPRAISAL
‘Have you seen the new trainee?’ I blurt to Cohen as soon as I’m safely back in the office.
‘Fulton’s new trainee?’ I’m that obvious.
I nod vigorously. ‘I’ll say one thing for the recruitment policy here. Apart from the odd boiler to keep the average seeming respectable, the partnership signs up some bloody great women.’
‘Easy, tiger,’ he says, ‘you’re off the market.’
I remind myself: Cohen doesn’t know about Hannah.
‘Yeah,’ I agree.
‘So keep your sweaty paws to yourself.’
‘It’s not like I fancy her or anything,’ I protest weakly.
‘Course you don’t,’ he says with a lascivious wink.
UNDER A TUSCAN SUN
The mention of Hannah trips a switch.
Memories spool:
Last September in Tuscany: the sun-bleached bricks of an ancient farmhouse on the crest of a sun-dried valley; Hannah and I dozing in hammocks strung up between the brick pillars of a derelict barn. Two weeks away from London, swapping the noise and smoke of the metropolis for brilliant blue sky and birdsong. Swapping sandwiches and soft drinks from Prêt for fresh pasta with herbs from the garden and red wine from the vineyard at the bottom of the track. Books folded face down on our chests, a pitcher of iced-water slowly warming in the shade, ice-cubes knocking against the glass.
I looked over at my girlfriend and remembered why it was I loved her.
Perhaps feeling my eyes on her, Hannah looked over at me and smiled.
For that brief moment, everything was perfect.
The sun shone down into our eyes. The brown earth baked. We closed our eyes and dozed off again.
GETTING READY FOR BARRYMORE
I’m not sure what Barrymore wants, but he often pops in for off-the-cuff advice. Fifteen minutes before the appointment I follow my usual pre-meeting routine. I hide in the toilets, take a few long swigs from a half-pint of Jack Daniels, straighten my hair and tie, and gargle a mouthful of Listerine.
This routine started a month after I moved to White Hunter from the City. Terry Wogan had asked me for some impromptu advice on the law of inheritance and I had no idea what to tell him. I had no experience; the City firms don’t touch things like that, there’s no money in it for them. I realized then that my expensive corporate education would be completely useless in my new job. These new clients, used to getting what they wanted, had no compunction in seeking snap advice, and no problem assigning blame when that advice was wrong. When my fumbled explanation of the law of intestacy proved wide of the mark, Wogan complained to Wilson and I was hauled over the coals.
And it was the insincerity of sucking up to celebrities I found, to my surprise, I really couldn’t stand. For example: in a conversation with a famous television magician (who shall remain nameless) and a few others, the subject of the London Underground was somehow raised. In response to a general question put to the group, the magician responded haughtily, "Of course I don’t know how much the bloody tube fare costs, I don’t have to, do I?" It’s tough to feel professional loyalty for these kinds of people.
So I started to take little drinks before going into meetings. Just small ones, enough to take the edge off.
They relaxed me, loosened me up, made me much more convincing when I, inevitably, found myself winging it.
After a while, a nip of wh
isky become a regular occurrence. Presentations to the partners were made easier by a small libation. Applications to court went more smoothly after a couple G and Ts. Quite soon after that a drink first thing, the hair of the dog, began to seem like a good idea. The more the pressure, the more I drank.
That took care of the daytime.
In the evenings, we were expected to hit the media scene in order to schmooze. There were clients out there just waiting to be stolen away from their incumbent advisers. The expense account and my liver both took a hammering two or three times a week. It got so that I was a regular face at the Ivy and Teatro, on nodding terms with surly French waiters who silently recharged my empty glasses.
I drank for lubrication and to drown out the disgust at my own insincerity.
And the celebs we were entertaining brought their own entertainment, too, illicit contraband of which a dusting or a handful would occasionally come my way. And it’s rude to refuse a gift when offered, don’t you think?
I started to develop an assortment of insidious little habits. But it’s nothing to worry about, nothing I can’t handle. Just as soon as work allows, I’m going to cut back.
Barrymore is waiting downstairs. I pass through reception, where Richard Madeley and Judy Finnegan are comparing tans with Mark Perryman from the property department, and stop by the door to the conference room. I can see Barrymore’s silhouette in the smoked glass. He looks down at his watch.
I smooth out my suit, tug down my French cuffs and walk confidently inside.
SEAGULL PARTNER
The meeting goes well. Barrymore has an idea for a new game show and he wants some legal input before he takes it to the execs. I listened, pretended to take notes, made encouraging noises when they were required. He leaves more than happy to pay the £500 he’ll be charged for my time.
I walk him to the door and then pop outside for a chilly fag break. I nod at Gloria Hunniford as she exits the building. As I make my way back inside I’m intercepted by Tim Renwick, one of the younger partners in the litigation department.
We call Renwick the Seagull Partner. This on account of the fact that his attitude to problem-solving is to fly in, make lots of noise, crap over everything and then fly off again. His main negotiation tactic: shout louder than the other guy. He’s known for loud braces and an insistence on good-looking female trainees to whom he suggests it’d benefit their careers if they’d let him shag them. They often agree. He’s only five years older than me and we’ve never really hit it off. Jealousy and the fact he earns at least three times as much as I do have nothing to do with it, OK?
‘Tate,’ he says, stepping into my way, ‘how was Barrymore?’
‘He just needed some reassuring on this idea he’s had.’
‘Don’t know why we bother with him, but Hunter insists.’
‘Maybe he thinks he’ll make it back again.’ Renwick flashes a superficial smile that tells me what he thinks of that proposition. But he changes the subject: ‘What’s your capacity like at the moment? I have to do a beauty parade for the new Clooney movie. He’s looking for UK lawyers.’
Like our grotty little firm has any chance of landing George Clooney. He’ll be snapped up by Abrahams & Co or Pattersons double quick.
‘I’m pretty busy,’ I say.
‘You can find time for something for me,’ he insists. ‘Don’t forget what Fulton said about targets. We need to get the billings up. Here’s your chance.’
‘Look, I don’t know…’
‘I’m not really asking.’
Listen to him, the macho bastard. ‘What is it?’ I sigh wearily.
‘One of my clients needs a witness statement drafting,’ he says. ‘Nothing fancy. It ought to be straightforward.’
This really takes the biscuit but what can I say? Turning work away is a cardinal sin at White Hunter. And, despite his lack of seniority, Renwick has a vote in the partnership election. He’s not someone I can afford to upset.
‘I’ve had my secretary copy the pleadings, the previous statements and a summary of the case that Counsel prepared. The facts are a bit complicated and you’ll need to study them before the meeting.’
‘When’s that?’
‘I’ve set it up for 3. He’s in London for a shoot some show he’s appearing in - and he can only do today. He’s got a busy schedule. Wants to meet you at his hotel. The details are all with my secretary.’
‘It’s already 2.30.’
‘Then you’d better get going.’
‘But-’
‘It’s nothing too demanding - the other statements are all in the eighty-page ballpark and we’re probably looking at something around that kind of length.’ His tone says: this better not be a problem.
I say: ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’
I think: Bye-bye social life.
‘We’re exchanging evidence with the other side on Thursday so I’ll need it to review with Counsel by Wednesday morning at the latest.’
Wilson’s deadline for the stuff on Monster Munch is Wednesday morning.
‘Go and see my secretary for the details. And you’d better get going now. You’re going to be late.’
IT’S A SMALL, SMALL WORLD
As I leave in a taxi headed to the hotel I flick through the thumbnail summary of the case Counsel has prepared.
I can hardly believe it.
White Hunter is representing Vincent Haines, the American actor who plays one of the male leads in Skin Trade. Haines has been sued by an LA production company for breach of contract after he ditched a project there, a police movie - Defence of the Badge – so he could appear in the series here. We’re defending the claim on his behalf. Haines is staying at the Sanderson while the series shoots, and I’ve been slotted in to see him this afternoon.
This is a scary coincidence. I already know plenty about Vincent Haines.
Most pertinently: I know he’s Hannah’s current screen boyfriend and that he’s kissed her far more recently than I have. I’m now wondering whether I should pump him for the details, refresh my memory a little?
The thing is, the showbiz gossip columns have been suggesting for a couple of weeks that there might be an explanation for why their screen kisses look more passionate than you might expect.
AN EXTRACT FROM HELLO!
There was a picture of Haines and Hannah in Hello! last week. The caption beneath the picture read:
SKIN TRADE heartthrob VINCENT HAINES, stepping out (again) with luscious co-star HANNAH WILDE. Rumour has it that these two lovebirds are doing far more together than simply rehearsing their lines. From the looks of things they’re taking method acting to a whole new level!
Vincent Haines, the star of such sub-Hollywood potboilers as Body Double TV, (Still) Crazy for You and Police Academy IX: One More Mission, films that generally by-pass theatrical release on their way to late-night satellite broadcast and the video store bargain bucket.
Vincent Haines, twenty-five, devilishly handsome in a vapid sub-Keanu way.
Vincent Haines, currently sporting a greasy mop, an immaculately trimmed goatee, and my girlfriend on his arm.
LIFESTYLES OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS
Even wearing my best suit I’d feel totally out of place in the lobby of the Sanderson. The place reeks of money and class. I’m waiting for the receptionist - an impassive beauty who sneered disdainfully at me when I rang the desk bell for attention - to relay news of my arrival to Haines’s suite. She nods at whatever the person on the other end of the house phone is saying, and then cups her hand over the receiver.
‘I’m afraid Mr Haines isn’t expecting any visitors this afternoon.’
‘I’m his lawyer,’ I explain. ‘One moment.’
While she relays this information to the person on the other end of the line, I’m worrying about the work beginning to pile up on my desk. In order of urgency, the briefing note and the marketing agreement Wilson wants me to draft for Monster Munch come first. Plus Wilson shouts a lot louder tha
n Renwick does. I’ll have to do those tonight and tomorrow, and then work late to type up whatever inane drivel Vincent Haines comes up with now. Brian’s case will have to take a back seat as soon as I’ve finished with the hearing tomorrow.
My credentials check out. ‘Mr Haines’s suite is on the top floor. It’s that lift over there.’
I follow her instructions and find my way to the door to the suite.
‘Hold on,’ calls a muffled voice after I knock on it. The door is opened on its chain and a blandly handsome male face peers out at me.
‘Yeah?’ the owner of the face says. He’s blond, tanned and considerably younger than me.
‘I’m Daniel Tate. From White Hunter? I’m here to see Vincent Haines. I’ve got an appointment.’
The kid turns and bellows into the suite, ‘Hey Vinny - your lawyer’s here. Do we like let him in, or what?’ The muffled response is in the affirmative; the chain is unhooked and I am admitted.
‘Sorry about that,’ says the kid. ‘We’ve been having problems with fans wanting to see Vincent. London chicks are like so crazy. Can’t keep ’em away. I’m Rip, by the way.’
He extends a broad hand. I take it.
All the curtains in the suite are closed and the atmosphere is wreathed with smoke and the smell of hash. Copies of this week’s Extravaganza are scattered on the floor. A TV set is on, with the sound muted, and changing scenes flicker chill blue light through the room. As my eyes adjust I make out Haines lounging on a sofa, flicking through a copy of Time Out and chugging from a bottle of Absolut, Haines is wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian-print shirt and has rings through his nose, ears, one of his exposed nipples and an eyebrow. A spliff is smoking on a saucer balanced on the back of the sofa. As I pick a careful path through the debris on the floor, he rises unsteadily and offers me his hand. ‘Vincent Haines,’ he says.