wrong.”
Chapter 4
T he water cooler was just outside my office. My door was closed, but I was aware of people standing around chatting. Then Jill’s voice entered the mix. “OK, folks, drinks for Tally in the conference room in ten. Can you pass it on?” It was late on Friday afternoon, two days before the wedding.
I knew it was meant to be a surprise, but the boxes of sparkling wine and packets of nibbles that had appeared in the office kitchen the day before sort of gave the game away.
I checked my hair and put on a fresh coat of lippy. Eventually Jill knocked on my door and informed me that I was needed in the conference room. Everybody loved Jill. She was one of a pool of six office PAs that all the lawyers shared.
Jill was in her mid-fifties, plump and maternal, and like a lot of women who return to work after running a home and raising a family, she was extremely efficient. She was also the person you turned to if you needed Elastoplast, aspirin or a needle and thread. Some of the younger people in the office had actually taken to calling her Mum, which I think she rather enjoyed on the quiet. If somebody was leaving, Jill organized the collection and bought the present. When people were off sick or in hospital, she got the goofy get-well card and made sure that everybody signed it.
“You know, you really shouldn’t have,” I said, regarding the surprise party.
“Shouldn’t have what?” she said, grinning.
“Gone to all this trouble.”
“I have no idea of what you speak,” Jill said.
“Well, thanks anyway. I really appreciate it.”
Jill and I made our way along the corridor. The room we referred to as the conference room was in fact a large, windowless storage facility. Granted, it did contain a long Ikea table and eight chairs, but the walls were piled high with boxes of stationery, printer ink cartridges and tatty old files. As I walked in, a couple of people cheered and started singing “Here Comes the Bride.” “Aw, stop it,” I said. I was laughing, but my cheeks were burning bright red. I wasn’t entirely at ease being the center of attention.
Carole, another of the PAs, handed me a glass of wine. “Sorry it’s only cheap sparkling and Pringles, but petty cash wouldn’t stretch to Moët.” Law firms committed to defending outcasts, whistle-blowers and pariahs—even highly distinguished ones like Dacre’s—tend not to be too flush with cash.
By now I was being met with hugs and kisses from the women and wisecracks from the middle-aged blokes: “Marriage isn’t a word; it’s a sentence.” “Marriage means commitment, but so does insanity.” Everybody asked where we were going on honeymoon. “India,” I said. “But not until December, when the weather’s a bit cooler. I can’t wait.”
Of course Josh and I were taking a few days off after the wedding, but it was going to be spent getting my flat ready for the builders, who were starting the following Thursday. We had decided that until we’d saved enough for a deposit on a house, I should move into Josh’s flat. It made sense because his place was twice the size of mine. Meanwhile we would rent out my flat. I’d bought it as a fixer-upper, but after three years, I hadn’t gotten around to doing much fixing. The place was in dire need of a new kitchen, bathroom and complete redecoration—hence the builders.
Finally, George Dacre, the firm’s senior partner, began tapping his wineglass with a Biro. “OK, ladies and gents, a bit o’ hush, if you wouldn’t mind.” You’d think from the broad Yorkshire accent, the comb-over and beer gut bursting out of his shirt that George was the aging MC at a workingmen’s club in Bingley. In fact, George was Sir George Dacre, National Union of Miners’ official turned eminent human rights lawyer. When he received his knighthood in 2004, in the Queen’s New Year’s Honours List, the Guardian described him as “a great liberal, radical and man of the left who devotes
Chapter 4
T he water cooler was just outside my office. My door was closed, but I was aware of people standing around chatting. Then Jill’s voice entered the mix. “OK, folks, drinks for Tally in the conference room in ten. Can you pass it on?” It was late on Friday afternoon, two days before the wedding.
I knew it was meant to be a surprise, but the boxes of sparkling wine and packets of nibbles that had appeared in the office kitchen the day before sort of gave the game away.
I checked my hair and put on a fresh coat of lippy. Eventually Jill knocked on my door and informed me that I was needed in the conference room. Everybody loved Jill. She was one of a pool of six office PAs that all the lawyers shared.
Jill was in her mid-fifties, plump and maternal, and like a lot of women who return to work after running a home and raising a family, she was extremely efficient. She was also the person you turned to if you needed Elastoplast, aspirin or a needle and thread. Some of the younger people in the office had actually taken to calling her Mum, which I think she rather enjoyed on the quiet. If somebody was leaving, Jill organized the collection and bought the present. When people were off sick or in hospital, she got the goofy get-well card and made sure that everybody signed it.
“You know, you really shouldn’t have,” I said, regarding the surprise party.
“Shouldn’t have what?” she said, grinning.
“Gone to all this trouble.”
“I have no idea of what you speak,” Jill said.
“Well, thanks anyway. I really appreciate it.”
Jill and I made our way along the corridor. The room we referred to as the conference room was in fact a large, windowless storage facility. Granted, it did contain a long Ikea table and eight chairs, but the walls were piled high with boxes of stationery, printer ink cartridges and tatty old files. As I walked in, a couple of people cheered and started singing “Here Comes the Bride.” “Aw, stop it,” I said. I was laughing, but my cheeks were burning bright red. I wasn’t entirely at ease being the center of attention.
Carole, another of the PAs, handed me a glass of wine. “Sorry it’s only cheap sparkling and Pringles, but petty cash wouldn’t stretch to Moët.” Law firms committed to defending outcasts, whistle-blowers and pariahs—even highly distinguished ones like Dacre’s—tend not to be too flush with cash.
By now I was being met with hugs and kisses from the women and wisecracks from the middle-aged blokes: “Marriage isn’t a word; it’s a sentence.” “Marriage means commitment, but so does insanity.” Everybody asked where we were going on honeymoon. “India,” I said. “But not until December, when the weather’s a bit cooler. I can’t wait.”
Of course Josh and I were taking a few days off after the wedding, but it was going to be spent getting my flat ready for the builders, who were starting the following Thursday. We had decided that until we’d saved enough for a deposit on a house, I should move into Josh’s flat. It made sense because his place was twice the size of mine. Meanwhile we would rent out my flat. I’d bought it as a fixer-upper, but after three years, I hadn’t gotten around to doing much fixing. The place was in dire need of a new kitchen, bathroom and complete redecoration—hence the builders.
Finally, George Dacre, the firm’s senior partner, began tapping his wineglass with a Biro. “OK, ladies and gents, a bit o’ hush, if you wouldn’t mind.” You’d think from the broad Yorkshire accent, the comb-over and beer gut bursting out of his shirt that George was the aging MC at a workingmen’s club in Bingley. In fact, George was Sir George Dacre, National Union of Miners’ official turned eminent human rights lawyer. When he received his knighthood in 2004, in the Queen’s New Year’s Honours List, the Guardian described him as “a great liberal, radical and man of the left who devotes
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