message discreet enough to avoid dropping him in it if Bella should happen to hear what she’d said but clear enough to show that she was in earnest.
Having settled that for herself, Trish took The Predators’ Ball by Connie Bruck out of her bookshelf to continue her education in the mysteries of junk-bond financing. That should help her feel more like the high-flying, knowledgeable lawyer she was supposed to be.
Just before she went up to bed, she opened up her laptop and wrote a funny, warm email to George about nothing very much. When she sent it, she saw that he’d sent her another one. It described the trip he’d arranged for his
mother to meet some winemakers he knew in Napa Valley, and the extra special wines they’d brought out for her to taste. He added that the winemaking friends all wanted to know what Trish was like and said he must bring her out next time. He hoped her ears weren’t burning too hotly after all his boasting about her, and he also hoped that her work for Antony Shelley was going well.
of course, you’ll be able to use all your family-law experience in court when you come to explain to the judge exactly how the DOB’s directors bullied your client so much that his judgment went wonky. He’s probably a typical bullies’ victim, isn’t he, Trish? In which case you can delve into his childhood and perform your usual miracles of empathy.
Trish laughed when she saw that and started making a case on those lines, hearing the emotive phrases she might use to describe Nick Gurles’s pyschology and that of his tormentors. It was a pity she wouldn’t have a jury to persuade this time. Eased by the knowledge that she had George in her life – and that however miserable he might have been as a homesick eight year old, he was securely confident now – she switched off the computer and went to bed.
The sleeping pills were beside her pillow, but she didn’t think she’d need one now and settled down with The Predators’ Ball until the words grew fuzzy and her eyelids were too heavy to hold up.
Chapter 6
Dave hadn’t arrived by the time Trish reached chambers, so she got to her own desk without having to perform her usual dance around his sensibilities. The grey-and-black files above her desk looked invitingly efficient. There were still about thirty-five to be cross-referenced, but within them she knew she had all the facts about Nick Gurles just where she wanted them.
Except the missing note from 13 March, she reminded herself, surprised that it hadn’t yet arrived from Sprindlers. She went to the clerks’ room to investigate. There were piles of envelopes there, neatly ranged along the table under the tenants’ pigeonholes.
‘Why hasn’t the post been sorted, Kath?’ Trish asked the only inhabitant of the room, a temp who’d become something of a fixture over the last few months.
‘It’s sorted, but Dave doesn’t like it being pidged till he’s had a look.’
Pidged? thought Trish with all the half-joking outrage of a Bateman cartoon character faced with some appalling solecism. Pidged , indeed.
She saw her own pile of envelopes and picked them up.
‘Oh, please don’t,’ said Kath, sounding scared. ‘Dave will kill me if he thinks I’ve let you take it before he’s seen it.’
‘Me particularly?’
‘No. Any of you. He has to see it first, so he knows what’s come in and doesn’t shout at solicitors for not sending something that one of you’s had for weeks and lost.’
That was fair enough, Trish thought, so she smiled at Kath, but went on riffling through the pile until she came to an envelope with the Sprindlers logo in the corner.
‘Look, I need this one, so I’ll take it now. You don’t have to tell Dave – I will.’
‘OK. But could you bear to say you took it when I wasn’t in here?’
Trish was about to laugh when she thought of all the cases she’d argued that turned on the cruelty of people who used their superior strength or
Having settled that for herself, Trish took The Predators’ Ball by Connie Bruck out of her bookshelf to continue her education in the mysteries of junk-bond financing. That should help her feel more like the high-flying, knowledgeable lawyer she was supposed to be.
Just before she went up to bed, she opened up her laptop and wrote a funny, warm email to George about nothing very much. When she sent it, she saw that he’d sent her another one. It described the trip he’d arranged for his
mother to meet some winemakers he knew in Napa Valley, and the extra special wines they’d brought out for her to taste. He added that the winemaking friends all wanted to know what Trish was like and said he must bring her out next time. He hoped her ears weren’t burning too hotly after all his boasting about her, and he also hoped that her work for Antony Shelley was going well.
of course, you’ll be able to use all your family-law experience in court when you come to explain to the judge exactly how the DOB’s directors bullied your client so much that his judgment went wonky. He’s probably a typical bullies’ victim, isn’t he, Trish? In which case you can delve into his childhood and perform your usual miracles of empathy.
Trish laughed when she saw that and started making a case on those lines, hearing the emotive phrases she might use to describe Nick Gurles’s pyschology and that of his tormentors. It was a pity she wouldn’t have a jury to persuade this time. Eased by the knowledge that she had George in her life – and that however miserable he might have been as a homesick eight year old, he was securely confident now – she switched off the computer and went to bed.
The sleeping pills were beside her pillow, but she didn’t think she’d need one now and settled down with The Predators’ Ball until the words grew fuzzy and her eyelids were too heavy to hold up.
Chapter 6
Dave hadn’t arrived by the time Trish reached chambers, so she got to her own desk without having to perform her usual dance around his sensibilities. The grey-and-black files above her desk looked invitingly efficient. There were still about thirty-five to be cross-referenced, but within them she knew she had all the facts about Nick Gurles just where she wanted them.
Except the missing note from 13 March, she reminded herself, surprised that it hadn’t yet arrived from Sprindlers. She went to the clerks’ room to investigate. There were piles of envelopes there, neatly ranged along the table under the tenants’ pigeonholes.
‘Why hasn’t the post been sorted, Kath?’ Trish asked the only inhabitant of the room, a temp who’d become something of a fixture over the last few months.
‘It’s sorted, but Dave doesn’t like it being pidged till he’s had a look.’
Pidged? thought Trish with all the half-joking outrage of a Bateman cartoon character faced with some appalling solecism. Pidged , indeed.
She saw her own pile of envelopes and picked them up.
‘Oh, please don’t,’ said Kath, sounding scared. ‘Dave will kill me if he thinks I’ve let you take it before he’s seen it.’
‘Me particularly?’
‘No. Any of you. He has to see it first, so he knows what’s come in and doesn’t shout at solicitors for not sending something that one of you’s had for weeks and lost.’
That was fair enough, Trish thought, so she smiled at Kath, but went on riffling through the pile until she came to an envelope with the Sprindlers logo in the corner.
‘Look, I need this one, so I’ll take it now. You don’t have to tell Dave – I will.’
‘OK. But could you bear to say you took it when I wasn’t in here?’
Trish was about to laugh when she thought of all the cases she’d argued that turned on the cruelty of people who used their superior strength or
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