“Can’t beat Crystal Palace, even the dodgy end,” I say. I grew up in that London neighborhood, where I lived until I was thirteen, and my new client comes from there too.
I tap the top paper in the stack on my desk—a term sheet I’m working on for her. Her ad agency is partnering up with a smaller one for a number of media clients, and my firm is handling the legal issues of the new pairing. Untangling prior contracts, I’ve found a few particularly thorny ones with unfortunate terms. Her last attorney was a selfish prick, adding in layers of unnecessary loopholes that likely just padded his billables. He was also her ex. More proof that exes are douches. “We’ll get this all sorted out,” I tell her, keeping my opinion of her ex to myself.
“Thank you, Oliver.” She smooths a hand over her tight black bun. “It’s been a terrible year, and I want something to go well. I had a very public split recently.” She waves a hand to dismiss her words. “But you don’t need to hear about that.”
“I’m sorry you’ve had a rough go of it,” I say lightly. I did hear of her divorce. Or rather, my Aunt Jane did, and she told me before the appointment. Since I hired her a few months ago, Jane’s job has been not only to staff the reception desk and manage the office, but also to stay abreast of every iota of gossip.
“It’s better now. Or it will be soon,” Geneva says, stiff-upper-lipping it.
“It will be,” I reassure her. I don’t know all of her situation, but I do hope it improves.
“And on that cheery note, I’d better be off,” she says.
I rise, escorting her to the reception area, where Jane beams from her post at the desk. “You already look happier,” Jane tells Geneva. “Like I told you when you arrived, Ollie has a way of setting everyone at ease.”
“Oliver,” I say low, in a friendly warning.
Jane gives us an oops grin. “He’ll always be Ollie to me.”
“Ollie,” Geneva says, laughing. “It’s a very sweet name.”
Sweet.
An adjective no corporate attorney wants assigned to him.
“Would you like Jane to call you a Lyft?” I steer the conversation away from nicknames. “An UberX to whisk you home? Horse-drawn carriage, maybe? On the house.”
Geneva’s lips quirk at the over-the-top suggestion.
“I wasn’t sure ‘on the house’ was in an attorney’s vocabulary.”
“Shh. Don’t tell the bar he said them,” Jane whispers.
“I’ll keep it quiet.” She seems to be enjoying the banter—a good sign for business. “But I must know—does the carriage come with a footman?” she asks with a smile.
That smile is like a signature on the client roster. It tells me she has all the faith in the world in my firm, which is how I want her to feel.
That’s how I want all our clients to feel. Absolutely reassured.
“But of course,” I say, not sure where I’d find a footman but still playing along.
Geneva, though, gestures to the lift. “I like to walk in the spring. But thank you so much. I appreciate it.”
When she leaves, Jane gives me an approving nod. “Try to be a little less charming next time, dear.”
“That would be impossible.”
“I know,” she says with a wink.
“Also, you should try to call me Oliver.”
“I will, Ollie,” she says with a wave.
I return to my office, make a few initial calls to the other attorneys involved in Geneva’s business, then shoot her a quick email letting her know I’ve begun the work. I lean back in my office chair made of old tires. I had my doubts when Jane ordered it—finding recycled replacements is another passion of hers—but the chair is not only kinder to cows than leather, it turns out it’s also pleasant on the arse.
As I gaze out the window, I picture the deal coming together, imagining what it could do for this firm. How it could shoot us to another level, raise our profile, allow us to attract bigger clients and pay our staffers even more. It’s an enticing image, being able to provide for those in my employ while sticking it to her ex.
Well, not directly to her ex.
I simply have zero tolerance for bad legal advice.
And zero tolerance for lateness.
I grab my phone, lock up my office, and head out, chatting on the way with Jane about her weekend plans. No surprises—they involve snuggling cats, gardening, and reading the gossip blogs, much like they always do.
“Thank you again for the job, love.” She plants a kiss on my cheek. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be working for that wretched temp agency.”
“What? You didn’t like shuffling papers for bond traders who spent the day shouting into phones when not cursing and punching things?”
“Shockingly, I did not,” she says with a smile.
