Memory One
MEMORY ONE
MARIE
It was too early for this shit.
Yellow sunlight pattered through the windows, one of the benefits of working from a building that faced Bryant Park rather than another row of skyscrapers. The thrill of working in New York was starting to wear off quicker than a hangover, and I wasn’t a person who suffered with hangovers, so make of that what you would.
I stood next to the reception desk, half listening to what Dessy was enthusiastically telling me about her weekend, catching sentences about something being big and something else not working, which I guessed had something to do with the two dates she’d scheduled for the same time.
“How was your weekend? Did you manage to do something other than go through that file?”
I liked Dessy, otherwise known as Desdemona or Des. She’d worked at my father’s law firm since she’d dropped out of college when she was nineteen, knowing she couldn’t go back home to Oklahoma. Dessy liked country music and cowboys, big hair and big dicks and said she wanted to be Dolly Parton in her next life. She was fascinated with my Irish accent and the number of swear words I knew, and openly confessed that she never wanted to visit my home country because it would rain too much.
She was right, of course, because it did rain too much, which was why it was so green.
I missed the green.
“I had a date,” I sighed, wishing I’d been re-reading the file instead.
“How was he?” She leaned on the desk, all interested. More interested than I was.
“Tall. Boring. Asked lots of questions about Greens and whether I’d inherit it.” I shrugged. This wasn’t the first time my inheritance had received more interest than me and it wouldn’t be the last.
“Was he the accountant or the lawyer?”
“The lawyer. I should stop dating lawyers. All we end up talking about is work. Cases. Files. Clients. Judges.” It was making me feel drowsy just thinking about it.
“You should date a cowboy. Then you just won’t talk.” Dessy looked dreamy. “I know some from the bar who’d like to wrangle you, a little Irish beauty queen.”
I rolled my eyes, having heard all this before. “I have no idea what you mean by cowboy. I just think of films and hats and men in boots.”
“Don’t knock it. It does the trick. Did I tell you about -”
We both quietened as the familiar figure of my father strode in, his usual navy blue suit crisp and creaseless, his hair that was once the same shade of almost black as mine now sprinkled with silver and his eyes the same shade of grey as the Irish sea on a stormy day.
My mam fell in love with him because he reminded her of Ireland, or so she said. I’d realised when I was old enough she’d fallen in love with him because their chemistry was off the scale, their marriage setting a standard that I was beginning to think was unattainable for a mere mortal like myself.
Joseph Green was not Irish. He was one hundred percent American, born and bred in New York, a perfect mix of German, Swedish, French and Spanish somewhere along the way, not that he spoke anything but English. He’d met my mother when she was summering on Cape Cod, her and her three sisters visiting their aunt, who’d also married an American. Joseph had dived into the water when Bridget’s hat had blown off, striding out soaking wet, with his drenched shirt giving my mam an eyeful and by the end of the summer she’d agreed to marry him.
Then he’d discovered Ireland and our farm, finding out two months into their engagement that his bride was due to inherit the whole lot.
“Marie.” He gave me his firmest nod. “I’m glad you’re early. We need to talk about today.”
“Of course.” I cast Dessy a meaningful glance, one that suggested I would rather be discussing cowboys. “I know I’m just there to observe, really, but I have read through the file.” I’d qualified as a lawyer two years ago, having done my law degree and legal practice course over in London, then taking the New York Bar after another year of studying. I was able to practice both in England and New York, which had been the goal, as we had an office in London as well which would eventually be run by me or my brother. Our father wanted flexibility, so Aiden and I had been expected to dedicate ourselves to our books and then our practice, which I’d swallowed prettily until now.
“You won’t be observing, Marie. You’ll have to take a lead.”
I walked alongside him into the nearest meeting room. “What do you mean?”
“Lonny’s had to go to the hospital with his wife and no one else knows the file as well as you. I have every faith that you’ll get what the client wants from the mediation. Let’s sit down and you can talk me through your strategy.”
An hour later and I felt like I’d been grilled by law enforcement twice over. My dad was thorough and insistent and encouraging, so by the time he left me to stew over the key notes from the file once more, I was fired up and forgot to miss Ireland, instead contemplating what I knew of the lawyers who worked in commercial property for the Callaghan firm that represented our opposition.
Callaghan, Price and Waters was an old legal practice who weren’t dissimilar to Greens. Price and Waters were long since dead, their names lingering on. They’d been established at the same time, but while the larger of our offices was in New York, Callaghans were bigger in London. We’d shared work if there’d been a conflict of interest and we couldn’t take on a case, and they’d done the same, but I hadn’t actually come up against them yet.
Their client lived in England, residing just outside of Oxford, somewhere I’d never been but always wanted to go. Our client was from Long Island, and was the neighbour of Callaghans’ man, the dispute around a boundary, with both parties having what I could see were equal arguments to a plot of land in New York, which was worth a ridiculous amount of money and could also cost another ridiculous amount of money on legal fees if both parties didn’t come to an agreement in the next few days.
This wasn’t the only case against Callaghans. It had timed nicely for a case that was going to court, starting tomorrow and scheduled for eleven days. My father was lead on that case and I was shadowing him, still learning the ropes, although given he’d passed the boundary dispute onto me, maybe he thought I’d finally learned some of them.
I read through the information on the lawyers from Callaghans that one of the secretaries had compiled. There were no photos printed, just biographies that’d been photocopied from the “ Legal 500 ” and some recent news articles.
Leonard Gifford, Kingsley Hammond, Pierre Newcomb, Peter Callaghan, Grant Callaghan.
No women. That didn’t surprise me. Big traditional law firms like mine were teaming with white men, usually white men who’d all grown up together or were in the same club as someone’s uncle who’d opened a door for them. I’d grown up with knowing that because I was a woman I was seen as having talents in other areas.
My grandfather had suffered a conniption when he found out I was studying law.
“What’s the point?” he’d said, dabbing a finger towards me as if I was a cardboard cut out of myself. “She’s not going to take the Bar. She must study something more suitable. Literature or philosophy. Our offices are no place for my granddaughter.”
Surprisingly, it’d been my father who’d come to my rescue, not that I’d needed it. Ignoring someone was a technique I’d perfected somewhat, probably because I was one of nine siblings.
“She’s the brightest of them all and she’s wanted to be a lawyer since she was a child. Don’t penalise her because she’s a girl. She can study what she likes.” My father hadn’t raised his voice or sounded grumpy. He was a better lawyer than his dad, far more laid back and tolerant, but then he needed to be being married to my mother.
She was fiery and fierce, her temper belonging to a red head, if we were still being stereotypical, only she had the same dark hair as me, typically Celtic.
The conversation about what I was studying had stopped there. My grandfather had visited me four times at Stanford, and then again at University College, London, attending every graduation too and no more was ever said about a woman working at his law firm and not as a secretary.
Two years before I joined, two other women joined as counsel, probably to pave the way for me, which they had. Another two had joined since, bringing the grand count to five out of almost thirty lawyers. It was slow progress, but it was still progress.
I tidied up the file, putting the papers back in order, glancing out of the windows into the atrium of the building. The prelude to the mediation was taking place here and would block out most of the day, although the actual mediation was tomorrow. We’d be in the same room trying to hammer out a deal until we'd flattened every kink. No going home until both parties agreed.
That was if we could get them to agree to the mediation today.
File in hand, I headed to the elevator, the pinch of my new shoes on my toes making me question today’s life choices. I leaned against the side, hoping that I’d have the ride to the twelfth floor to myself, stealing a few minutes of peace before what would be a very full on day commenced.
The doors reopened and a tall man came in, his broad shoulders swallowing up the space. I took him in, not having seen him before but finding something familiar in his features and the way he was carrying himself.
He was strikingly handsome with thick dark hair that would be a challenge to keep as tidy as it was right now. He was clean shaved with a strong jaw and high cheekbones that made him look far too delicious. I wondered if Dessy had seen him and what her thoughts would be.
“You work here at Greens?” His accent was English, the smooth, well-formed vowels of someone who’d been privately educated.
“I do.” I clutched the file closer to my chest, trying to relax my shoulders.
“Could you make sure we have coffee and tea in meeting room three? There seems to have been an oversight.”
I bit back the first wave of words that wanted to explode from my mouth instead relaxing the file and applying my most charming of smiles. There wasn’t much doubt that this was someone from the Callaghan party, someone who had no idea who he was speaking to.
I rose to my full five feet four inches with heels and tipped my chin up, narrowing my eyes at him. I didn’t do anything to soften my Irish accent which I’d promised myself I’d never lose when I spoke.
“There’s a kitchen next to meeting room three from which you can help yourself. Or call down to reception if a big tough man like you isn’t capable of making a pot of coffee.” I blinked slowly at him, not giving a tenth of an inch of a smile.
He shook his head and balled up his fist, looking frustrated at himself. “Shit. You’re not a secretary.”
“Correct. I’m not a secretary. I’m one of the partners.” I didn’t stretch out my hand for him to shake. “In this neck of the woods, women can have a variety of jobs.”
“They can in London too. I just assumed - ”
“Which made an ass out of you.” He hadn’t pressed the floor he wanted to stop at. I decided not to enlighten him.
We stopped at the twelfth with a jerk. This lift bothered me sometimes, it’d come to a near stop a few times, usually when I was the last person in the building and it was late at night, leading me to make sure I had a bottle of water and a stash of chocolate bars in my handbag at all times just in case I ended up having a sleepover in a tin can.
I exited and walked into Meeting Room One without looking back. I had work to do and a few more balls to bust, a man who assumed I was there to make his coffee wasn’t worth any more effort.
My client arrived with his wife just after nine-thirty, both of them wearing tailored trouser suits, although her shoulder pads wouldn’t have looked out of place on a football (American) field. It was Polly who also metaphorically wore the trousers. The company her husband owned was in his name, but Polly called the shots and she was also calling the shots with the boundary dispute too.
“Marie, it’s lovely to see you. Your hair looks lovely, by the way.” Polly sat down at the table, arms folded. “I thought your father was overseeing the mediation.”
There were times I wished I’d gone to work at another firm. Most people assumed that I was working there because I was the daughter of the empire, but it wasn’t. I’d finished top of my class and been headhunted by three other firms, although my arranged marriage to Greens was already set in stone.
“There was a change in the court schedule so I’ll be representing you for the mediation tomorrow.” I didn’t offer any reassurance. If I did, it’d sound like I was making excuses or I agreed with them that I wasn’t senior enough.
Polly eyed me, taking in every inch of my face, assessing my make-up and jewellery. “You’re confident we can win?”
I sent a brief prayer to whichever saint was on duty. “There’s no win here. We have to negotiate.”
“But the land’s ours. That document they’re pretending’s from when the buildings were built is a load of shit. They’ve made it all up. Employed someone who’s good on a computer thingy.” She shrugged and shook her head again.
I remained still. “They think exactly the same about your documents. And the expert witnesses that’ve been consulted have said it can’t be determined. So you have a choice: mediate and compromise or take this to court which will be costly and time consuming and you could end up with less than you’d get through mediation.” My words were ones they’d heard before.
Colin, Polly’s husband, leaned forward over the large boardroom table, peering round his wife. “We don’t have to agree tomorrow, do we?”
“We need to aim for tomorrow, even if it goes on beyond midnight.” I would send a late prayer to whichever saints were taking tomorrow’s shift that it didn’t. I actually had a date tomorrow night, which was bad planning on my part and I probably wouldn’t care too much about cancelling but he was cute and he wasn’t a lawyer. In fact, he was exactly the sort of man my father would like me to avoid as he was an artist who earned very little.
I had no desire to get married to an artist – in fact, I had no desire to get married full stop – but sleeping with one was definitely on the agenda, especially this one, who looked like a young Elvis.
“We’ve been involved in mediation before. It was a very long and drawn out process.” Polly wasn’t looking impressed.
“So’s being in court, and you could be in court for a week, minimum. That will be even more drawn out and like I said, is unlikely to yield any better than what you could walk away with tomorrow. I’m advising you, as your counsel, to engage in mediation.”
My tone was pretty firm. Siblings, most younger than me, cousins of a range of ages and working in a predominantly male environment, along with being my mother’s daughter, had made sure I knew how to use my voice and make unspoken threats.
Polly looked at her husband as if seeking permission. I doubted that was the case.
“Okay. What does today involve then?”
Today would’ve been much smoother if they didn’t want to niggle over every point or interrogate me on my advice. We managed to make it to lunchtime before we took a break, the pale sun still managing to glare through the windows.
I hadn’t been aware of the other party, who was using our offices mainly to make it easier for tomorrow in terms of paperwork. The Callaghan offices weren’t as big as ours, although the opposite was true in London, so the agreement had been to use the space here.
I left Polly and Colin to help themselves to the sandwiches that’d been brought in for them and went hunting for the opposition, mainly out of curiosity but with a splash of courtesy on the side.
“Do you know where the Callaghan party has set up?” I asked one of the juniors, Fenella, when I couldn’t see any signs.
“Meeting Room Three. Mr Callaghan is hot. There’s a bet on who’s going to ask him out.” Fenella grinned at me. “Susan in accounts is the favourite.”
“Isn’t he married?” I’d thought he was married from what I’d read.
“No wedding ring and I heard he’s a widower. He might need cheering up.” Her grin was sly this time. “Maybe I should bet on you.”
“I don’t do other lawyers. Too much work talk.”
“Shame.” She shook her head slightly.
“Who’s the other man who was in there this morning?” I remembered my elevator companion.
“What other man? I’ve only seen one man in there today apart from the clients.”
“Bugger.” The opposition was the man who thought my job was to get him coffee.
Fenella shot me a look that suggested I’d lost several marbles on the way to work this morning. “That’s the cutest Irishism I think I’ve heard you say.”
“It isn’t an Irishism.” I needed to kill this conversation. “Catch you later. Let me know who wins the bet.”