“Flora MacKenzie.”
“Yes, it is you, isn’t it?” came Margo’s clipped, very formal voice. Flora had studied her carefully, given that she got to spend so much time at close proximity to Joel, and was utterly terrified of her: her immaculate clothes and the way she would look at you as if you were an idiot if you ever asked her for anything. “You’re the Scot.”
She somehow said this like somebody might say, “You’re the Martian with the four heads.”
Flora swallowed nervously. “Yes?”
“Could you come upstairs, please?”
“Why?” said Flora before she could help herself. She didn’t work for Joel, she worked for various other partners, far further down the ladder.
Margo paused. She obviously didn’t appreciate being interrogated by some nothing hick junior from the fourth floor.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she said icily.
It quickly ran through Flora’s head to say that she actually required a blow-dry, a wax, a fake tan, and a full makeover to make her ready, but she thought better than to risk it just then.
“I’ll be straight up,” she said, replacing the phone and trying not to panic.
Flora’s career so far had involved her keeping her head down at H&I, the University of the Highlands and Islands, doing a law undergraduate course, and making up for what she lacked in natural ability by working her socks off, then going for job interview after job interview, polishing her shoes and her CV and clattering around a huge, unfriendly and unfamiliar London, asking for advice, trying to make connections, competing against a million other young people trying to do the same thing. And when she scored a job at a big firm, with the opportunity to move up, maybe even one day convert her degree, she’d soaked in everything, tried to hold on to everything, learn as much as she could, asking everyone for advice.
Never once in all that time did anyone say to her: don’t fall for your boss, you idiot. And never once did she think it would happen.
Until it did.
It had been such a brief interview. At various stages of the process, she’d been quizzed by cadres of terrifying women who barked questions at her and old men who sighed as if thinking it wasn’t fair that they couldn’t ask her whether she was planning to get pregnant. She’d met HR, bumped into other grads, many of whom she recognized trailing round the same, slightly dispiriting trail—there were, as ever, far more people qualified for the jobs than places for them to go.
But she had done her research, knew her area down to the ground, was utterly prepared by the years at the kitchen table with her mother constantly asking her if she’d done her homework—could she do more? Was she ready? Was the exam passed? There were smarter people than Flora, but not many who worked harder. Then right at the end she’d been asked to step into the partner’s office. And there he was.
He was yelling at someone at the other end of the phone. His accent was noisy, unapologetically American, and he was gesticulating with his free arm, hollering something about district impartiality and how they had another think coming, and Margo—although Flora didn’t know who this glamorous woman was then—had indicated briefly that this was the new junior, and he’d waved his assistant away crossly, then paused, jammed the phone down, and stuck out his hand, a faint smile breaking across his face as he almost paid attention.
“Hi,” he said. “Joel Binder.”
“Flora MacKenzie.”
“Great,” he’d said. “Welcome to the firm.” And that was it. That was all it was. She’d stayed gazing at him—his chestnut-colored hair, strong profile, and oddly full lips—until Margo had ushered her out. Flora hadn’t noticed the look the woman had given her as they’d left the room.
“He seems nice,” she said, feeling herself blush hot. He didn’t look like most of the lawyers she knew—stressed, over-worked; dandruff on their shoulders; skin that didn’t see the outdoors anything like enough; yeasty paunches.
Margo simply hummed and didn’t say anything.
He didn’t speak to her again for about six months. Occasionally she watched him in meetings as she sat there shyly trying to take notes and miss nothing; he was commanding, rude, aggressive, and an overwhelmingly successful lawyer, and Flora, to her utter shame and embarrassment, had a crush on him beyond belief.
“So, tell me about Joel,” she’d said faux casually, out for a getting-to-know-you drink with some of the other slaves—junior paras who were expected to work twenty-hour days for practically no money and basically have no other life at all. “You know, the partner?”
Kai turned to her and burst out laughing.
“Seriously?” he said.
“What?” said Flora, feeling herself go pink and staring at her large glass of white wine, so pale it was almost green. She hadn’t known what to order and had let the others go for it, and was now slightly worried about how to pay for it. Living in London was horrifyingly expensive, even with a salary.
Kai had been there all summer as an intern, and was on the fast track to becoming an actual lawyer, so he was well up on office gossip. He rolled his eyes.
“Christ. Another one.”
“What? What do you mean? I didn’t say anything.”
Where did they get this self-confidence? Flora wondered all the time, particularly about people who’d been raised in London. Did it just arrive? She knew she ought to be doing extra classes—maybe, who knows, even training to be a full lawyer. But after what had happened . . . She couldn’t. Not just yet.
And work seemed so . . . well. It was what she had always wanted. A proper professional, smart job. But after she’d gotten over the novelty factor of having a season ticket and a salary and stylish shoes and lunch breaks, it had started to seem a little . . . Hmm. Repetitive. The paperwork cascaded and never ended, and just as she felt she was getting on top of things, a case would be settled or called off and then it would all start again. She knew she should be studying on top of everything else. But she rather felt she was failing with the “everything else.”
“You’ll get over it, babes,” Kai had reassured her when she’d complained (repeatedly) about her workload. It didn’t matter how late she stayed or how efficient she was with filing. It was a shame, she reflected, that being shit-hot at filing wasn’t actually all that sexy. Probably just as well she’d kept it off her Tinder profile.
“Seriously, didn’t you notice that he’s horrible?”
Oh yeah. He was horrible, Flora reminded herself. Tall, sharp-suited, brusque, American. He strode through the building as if he owned it. He treated the juniors with disdain, could never remember anyone’s name, and never complimented anyone.
“He’s a negger,” said Kai.
“A what?” said Flora, horrified.
“A negger.”
Flora blinked.
“It means he’s mean to people so they notice him and want him to say something nice. It’s like dog training or something.”