by Zoe May
‘I’m not going to lie, Rachel, your email certainly took me by surprise, but funnily enough I think this case could be quite a good thing for the firm,’ Nigel continues
A good thing? Not just interesting but a good thing! Wow.
‘Right, okay, great!’ I reply, eager to hear more.
‘You may have noticed that a few weeks ago, Mr Pearson visited the company,’ Nigel says.
I cringe, remembering the incident in the hall with Mr Pearson commenting that my jacket was on inside out.
‘Yes, I remember,’ I reply.
‘He came in to discuss the image of the company. As you know, we’ve been focusing on corporate cases in recent years, pursuing the highest paying wins over supporting clients who may not have such deep pockets,’ Nigel says, lowering his voice a little, as though his admission is a shameful secret he doesn’t really want to acknowledge.
‘We’ve needed to focus on money for the sake of the firm and all its employees, times have been tough and in a difficult economic climate, you have to follow your business interests,’ Nigel says.
I get the feeling he’s rehearsed this defense. Perhaps he’s said the same thing at some point to Mr Pearson.
‘But while protecting the interests of the firm is of course important, it’s also important to give back. Not just to make a positive contribution, but for the sake of our public image,’ Nigel continues.
I picture him sitting at his desk, winding the cord of his phone between his fingers the way he does when he’s taking an important call, concentrating, and choosing his words wisely. Nigel’s a pretty suave person. He wears custom-designed bespoke suits that cost thousands of pounds. He goes skiing twice a year and has a VIP membership to the Royal Opera House. I’ve never once heard him talk about ‘making a positive contribution’ or helping people in need. He’s a great lawyer, but Nigel is all about pursuing the maximum amount of profit possible. He’s part of the reason I’ve put in such long hours over the past few years. He creates a working environment that’s all about making the maximum return, and if I’m reading this right, it sounds like maybe he’s taken the pursuit of profit too far. Perhaps Mr Pearson has put his foot down.
‘Our competitors have been engaging in quite a lot of pro bono work, whereas, as you’ll know, we haven’t been focusing on that side of the business for a while,’ Nigel comments.
I can’t help smiling as I imagine him squirming, twisting his phone cord, hating to admit how corporate and money-hungry he is.
‘Yes…’ I reply, wondering where exactly he’s going with this.
‘It’s not like neglecting pro bono work was a deliberate move or anything like that, we’ve just had so much demand from our corporate clients and unfortunately pro bono cases weren’t top priority,’ Nigel says, clearly feeling a little defensive.
‘No, I understand,’ I insist.
‘Anyway, unfortunately, Mr Pearson believes it’s beginning to affect our public image. He came to see me to discuss the issue, stressing that we needed to take on a more diverse range of cases in order to show that the firm cares about people and real life issues as well as its commercial interests,’ Nigel explains.
‘Oh right,’ I reply, relieved that I finally know what Mr Pearson’s visit was about.
‘He asked me to look into pro bono cases and get back to him with a few proposals, and then I got your email and I thought it seemed like the perfect opportunity!’ Nigel enthuses.
My ears prick up. Oh my God! Nigel wants to take on my case! It makes total sense that he’d be at a complete loss when it comes to finding clients that aren’t deep-pocketed multi-national corporations. Supporting a community in southern India to uphold its local tax laws must have struck Nigel as an ideal way to reshape the firm’s public image.
‘Mr Pearson and I have discussed it, and we think your case could make a real splash in the press. It could inject a bit of life into our brand,’ Nigel says.
I feel my heart swelling with triumph. Of course, Nigel isn’t particularly bothered about the plight of the local people over here and is more interested in the firm’s image, but who cares? What matters is that he sounds like he wants to take on the case! That’s the most important thing.
‘We think it would be a good idea if you partner with a local firm over there in India. Find the evidence you need and build your case. You can come back here and work remotely or, and I don’t know if this is something you’re considering, but perhaps you could extend your trip and stay for a while, build your case on the ground?’ Nigel suggests.
Stay? I’ve been investigating this case for hours on end and yet weirdly, I haven’t given much thought to potentially staying here to fight it. I didn’t want to get carried away. Could it take a few more weeks to build the case? Probably not. I’d probably be looking at a few months at least. Maybe even longer. I gulp. I kind of knew, deep down, that staying her for a while was what I was potentially signing up for, but I didn’t let myself consider it, as I assumed Nigel would laugh at my email and hit ‘delete’. I hadn’t dared contemplate sticking around.
‘I’ll have to think about it,’ I tell Nigel. ‘Are you really serious about this? The firm definitely wants me to take on this case?’ I ask, still unable to quite wrap my head around it.
‘Yes, we do,’ Nigel insists. ‘Obviously, there are still some areas to explore – which firm you’ll be working with locally, whether you’ll be needing support from a paralegal here, contracts, that kind of thing, but we’re serious about this.’
‘Wow, this is great!’ I enthuse.
‘The PR team won’t stop talking about it! They’re keen to make a big splash!’ Nigel laughs.
‘I bet!’ I reply, thinking of the PR team, several of whom are frustrated aspiring novelists, who would no doubt love to get their teeth stuck into a story about a corrupt guru in southern India. It would definitely make a welcome change to all the dry press releases we put out about corporate cases.
‘Look, why don’t you give it some thought over the weekend and get back to me on Monday?’ Nigel proposes.
‘Sounds good,’ I reply, as I spot Paul, walking towards me.
He stops and lingers outside the library, peering at an information stand.
‘Okay, well let’s catch up on Monday. Same time?’ Nigel suggests.
‘Yep, same time. That would be great,’ I enthuse, although I still feel distracted by Paul.
I can feel him listening in on my call.
‘Excellent, speak soon,’ Nigel says. ‘And good work!’
‘Thanks Nigel!’ I reply. ‘Speak to you on Monday.
I say goodbye and hang up.
‘Seriously?’ Paul balks as I take a deep breath, still reeling from the call.
‘Sorry, what?’ I look over at him, properly taking him in.
He’s still wearing the white ashram robes, with his hair bound into those awful stubby dreadlocks. A few of his dreadlocks have even been adorned with ribbons and beads. Blossom probably threaded them on. He looks ridiculous and for the first time in years, I feel no desire whatsoever when I look at him. In fact, I feel a slight sense of revulsion. Despite being in India, Paul looks pasty and puffy-faced and totally unattractive.
‘You’re here in India and you’re still talking to Nigel?’ Paul scoffs.
I roll my eyes. ‘Why don’t you just mind your own business?’
‘You can’t stop working for five minutes, can you?’ Paul sneers.
I look him up and down and feel a surge of anger. I step towards him and look him straight in the eye.
‘Do you know what, Paul? I really, genuinely, don’t care what you think of me anymore. You broke up with me. You made your point. So why the hell do you feel the need to put me down? Get over yourself,’ I spit.
I don’t bother waiting for a reaction. I turn around and march back to the library.
I have a case to prepare.
Chapter Eighteen
I know it’s Saturday and
I should probably take a day off from reading about tax law but I get a notification on the phone I borrowed from Meera that a book I ordered from the library has arrived and I can’t resist going to collect it.
I take it out and bring it back to the guesthouse, with the intention of lying in a hammock and leafing through it, but when I get back, I see Seb, skipping with a rope on the lawn.
‘Hey stranger!’ he says, grinning as he spots me.
‘Hey!’ I reply, feeling secretly very pleased to see him.
I’ve been so busy burrowing away in the library for the past few days that mine and Seb’s paths have barely crossed. I wanted to give him space as well. After our talk the other day, I figured time for reflection was probably what he needed, rather than having me around, flirting with him.
‘How’s it going!?’ Seb asks.
I sit down on the lawn next to him and place my library book by my side.
‘Not bad,’ I reply. ‘Really good, actually. I’ve been doing a lot of reading.’
‘Yeah,’ Seb lets his skipping rope drop and glances towards my book. ‘I noticed!’
I laugh, feeling a little embarrassed at the title of my book: The Tax System in India: Evolution and Present Structure.
‘Just can’t help myself!’ I joke.
Seb laughs and sits down on the grass next to me, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Even sweaty and panting slightly, he looks hot.
‘Meera told me about the case. I think what you’re doing is really cool,’ he comments, smiling at me.
I feel a swell of pride in spite of myself. I know that tax law isn’t cool, but I can tell Seb’s compliment is sincere and it’s nice that, unlike Paul, he doesn’t think I’m a total drag who can’t stop working. It’s nice that he gets it.
‘Thanks, Seb,’ I reply.
‘I knew there was something sparky about you,’ Seb muses, as though he’s almost making the observation to himself.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
Seb turns to me. ‘Well you know how some people get when they come here. They just get swept along with the herd, following the guru, getting competitive over yoga and all that rubbish.’
I think of Paul and Blossom and nod. ‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’
‘As much as I love meditating, you haven’t really done that either,’ Seb comments.
I smile awkwardly.
‘I don’t mean that in a bad way. I mean it in a good way. You’ve found your own way to grow and contribute to this place. I don’t know many people who come to an ashram and become experts in Indian tax law! You’re unique. You’re special,’ Seb remarks, meeting my gaze.
His eyes are shimmering blue as ever and I feel a jolt of electricity. His words are so kind, so sweet and so complimentary, that I feel myself blushing ever-so-slightly.
‘Wow, thanks Seb!’ I gush, still looking into his eyes.
I should look away, but he’s not and I can feel a pull between us. There’s such a connection, it’s so obvious. And yet, his vow… I can’t forget that. I look away.
‘That’s really sweet of you,’ I add, feeling genuinely touched.
There’s something so effortlessly honest and real about Seb. He doesn’t bother with small talk and doesn’t care about trying to say the right thing or trying to impress. That’s why his compliments are so moving and mean something. That, and the fact that I find him irresistibly appealing.
‘You’re welcome!’ Seb says, flopping back on the grass.
He gazes up at the cloudless sky.
I lie back on the grass next to him, admiring the endless sky, although despite its bright beauty, my thoughts wander to Paul. The stark difference between Seb’s encouragement and Paul’s mean bullying comments yesterday is hard to ignore.
‘You know, not everyone has your opinion. I know I shouldn’t care but I ran into Paul yesterday and he was being so rude, saying how I can’t leave work alone. He was really sneering,’ I admit.
‘Ignore him,’ Seb scoffs. ‘He’s probably just bitter that Blossom dumped him. He’s probably lashing out.’
‘Blossom dumped him?’ I balk, feeling a jolt inside.
I prop myself up on my elbow, turning to Seb.
Seb’s eyes widen. ‘Didn’t you know?’
‘What? No. I've been in the library for the past three days,’ I remind him.
‘Oh right, yeah, sorry. I thought you might have heard from Meera or something,’ Seb comments.
‘What happened?’ I ask, leaning closer, eager to hear the full story.
I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help feeling ever so slightly smug. Paul has been such an arse to me ever since I arrived in this place that it’s quite satisfying to hear that he’s been knocked off his perch.
‘Blossom dumped him. In the middle of a meditation session the other day. They had this big fight and she stormed off, telling him she found him “capitalistic and uninspiring”.’
I snort with laughter.
Seb smirks.
‘It was really dramatic. Paul looked like he might cry,’ Seb tells me.
‘Oh God, that’s brilliant!’ I laugh wickedly. ‘I can’t believe he looked like he was going to cry.’
‘His face went all red and blotchy,’ Seb recalls.
I picture Paul with a red and blotchy face. That’s exactly the look he gets whenever he’s about to burst into tears.
Seb grins. ‘Rumor has it that Blossom got back with her ex that evening. Paul had been staying with her, but she just kicked him out and left his bags on the porch. She won’t even acknowledge him now.’
‘Oh my God! How come you know all this?’ I ask.
‘I heard from a guy I know at the gym. He runs one of the other guesthouses. Paul came round looking for a place to stay. Apparently, he was really cut up. He even inquired with Meera to see if there was a room here,’ Seb says.
‘Here?’ I echo, in horror.
‘Yeah, that’s why I assumed you’d have heard, I thought Meera would have said something, but maybe she was trying to be tactful and didn’t want to mention Paul to you,’ Seb suggests.
‘Maybe,’ I comment. ‘Or maybe she didn’t want to distract me from the case.’
‘Yeah, possibly,’ Seb replies, shrugging.
I think back to yesterday and seeing Paul looking so pale and puffy-faced. It makes sense now. He was clearly feeling down on his luck because he’d just been dumped. And yet, I feel no sympathy. It’s so typical of him that the first thing he’d do after being dumped is take shots at me. I realize, finally, that I really am over him. I feel nothing for him. Nothing but pity.
‘So where’s Paul now?’ I ask.
‘I’m not sure, but someone said he’s staying in a hotel in town. The Marriott,’ Seb tells me.
I snort with laughter again. So much for his spiritual quest! He’s been booted out by a hippy girl and ended up at an international chain hotel.
‘Oh my God!’ I chuckle. ‘I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I can’t help it!’
Seb laughs with me, although, despite how amusing I’m finding this whole thing, I’m slightly worried that Seb might think I’m cruel, relishing so much in the suffering of my downtrodden ex.
‘Sorry, it’s just Paul was so rude to me yesterday. I’m just glad he’s got his karma after being such a…’ I pause, searching for the right word, something that isn’t an expletive.
‘A dick. Paul’s a massive dick,’ Seb proffers.
I grin, wickedly. ‘Exactly. He’s a dick!’
I lie back down on the grass, gazing ruminatively up at the blue sky. To think, I wanted to marry somebody like Paul – someone so mean, with such terrible communication skills. It may have been on my Life List to get married by thirty but what’s marriage worth anyway if it’s to somebody like that? Getting married at thirty isn’t an achievement if you end up stuck with the wrong person for the rest of your life. It’s worth waiting around for another couple of years, or however lon
g it takes, to find the right guy.
‘So, do you want to go for dinner?’ Seb asks.
‘Sure,’ I reply, the thought of crashing waves and roadside parathas springing to mind.
Seb goes to have a shower and to kill time while he’s getting ready, I decide to make a bit of an effort. I wash my face and plait my hair. Priya was right, bringing hair straighteners to an ashram was a ridiculous idea. As if I could use them in my treehouse! I put some make-up on. It’s been over a week since I’ve worn make-up. I never thought I’d go without make-up either, but Priya was right about that too. And yet, tonight, I feel like wearing it. I’m not going all out like I did the first night I got here when I saw Paul in the main hall. I must have been nervous that evening. The blue eyeshadow and bright pink lipstick probably were a bit much. I feel more like my usual self now and apply my everyday make-up – a bit of foundation, eyeliner flicks, mascara, a hint of blusher and tinted lip balm.
I root around in my suitcase and find a flowing, floral chiffon top that I haven’t got around to wearing yet. I bought it because I thought it was suitably boho for an ashram, and yet it’s a bit too dressy for standard ashram life. It’s a bit too dressy for roadside parathas too, but I feel like wearing it, nonetheless. I take off my t-shirt and put it on. It looks a bit odd with the leggings I’ve got on so I pull on a pair of jeans instead that I also haven’t got around to wearing since I got here. I feel almost like my London self, in the dressy top and jeans, with my usual make-up on. The only differences are my hair being in a loose wispy plait over my shoulder and my boho bag full of rupees. I put on my Prada wedges, which contrary to Priya’s opinions, have served me well so far, despite growing a little dusty.
I climb down from my treehouse, feeling a lightness inside and a sense of excitement and adventure that’s been missing from my life for ages. I find Meera sitting at the picnic table, flicking through a magazine. We have a chat, catching up on the case as we’ve been doing most evenings since I began looking into things. I consider mentioning Paul and I’m just about to say something, when Seb walks over, looking fresh and totally gorgeous. He’s clearly made an effort too, swapping his usual loose vests and shorts for a shirt and trousers.