What he wants, always, is my time and attention. None of this is done out of love—it’s simply his innate need to win at all costs. He still wants to win a divorce that took place nearly fifteen years ago, during which he stole everything from my mom but custody of me, and then he came back and stole that too.
I’m twenty-nine, way too old to be a pawn, but he still does his best, offering extravagant vacations, timed to hurt my mother—on her birthday, or Mother’s Day—and claims it’s a coincidence. When I was younger, he said he’d pay for college, but only if I spent the summers with him and his new wife on Nantucket. Law school? Sure. But I’d have to give him every Thanksgiving and winter break in exchange.
I take a vicious sort of pleasure in being the one thing he can’t buy.
“Tell him I’m busy,” I say to Terri when he calls.
She gives me one of those heavy sighs of hers, the kind that says she doesn’t approve of ignoring a parent, even if he’s an asshole.
“Gemma,” she says, “just talk to him. He’s called so often even I’m starting to feel bad for him.”
I love Terri, but sometimes I wish the other associates kept her busy enough that she’d have less time for scolding me into responsible adult behavior.
Internally groaning, I hit the speaker button, my voice civil and nothing more. “Hi, Dad.”
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for a while. FMG must be keeping you busy.”
“They are.” I turn to my laptop and start clearing out junk mail.
“So, have they made you partner yet?”
His timing is impeccable. “It won’t happen for a few more months.”
“You know if you came to my firm, you’d already be a partner. You might be an equity partner by now.”
“So you’ve mentioned. Repeatedly.” And I might not always love the work I do at FMG, but I’d hate the work I’d do for my father. I doubt there’s ever been a time when his firm wasn’t on the wrong side of history.
“Speaking of work,” he continues, “I was thinking I might make a donation to that charity you like. That women’s thing…the domestic abuse one.”
So generous, Dad, to give money to a charity you don’t even know the name of. Surely, no strings attached there.
“The Women’s Defense Fund.”
“Is fifty thousand enough, you think? If so, I’ll probably throw a little party to celebrate. And since you’ve inspired the donation with your work, I’d love to have you there.”
Fifty grand to charity for a few hours of my time—he makes it sound so simple, so clear-cut, but it never is. If I agree, it will suddenly involve other events, or will be taking place on Christmas day, somewhere far from my mom. With my father there’s always a catch.
“Well, let me know when it is. I’m pretty busy here.”
“I was thinking February,” he says. “Maybe we’ll do it in conjunction with Stephani’s birthday.”
My irritation coalesces into a tight ball of rage. Stephani is his wife, the one with whom he cheated on my mother, the one who now lives in my mother’s house.
What he’s saying is he is willing to pay fifty grand for me to attend Stephani’s birthday. He wants The Washingtonian and Town and Country to show us together as a family, and he’ll make sure the press refers to me as their daughter, cutting my mother out of the picture entirely, as if she never existed.
“I’m definitely not available then, Dad,” I reply. “I’d better go.”
I stare out the window after I hang up, trying to see LA the way I did nine years ago, back when it seemed like a fresh start, a break from my family’s chaos. I was so different then—someone who smiled simply at the feel of the sun on her face, someone with big dreams. Would I still be her if I hadn’t worked at Stadler during law school? Who would I be if I’d been able to stay?
I guess the question is pointless, since staying wasn’t an option.
But I miss those other versions of myself anyway.
Fields asks to see me in his office that afternoon, a turn of events Terri is expecting too much from. She thinks he’s going to tell me I’ve made partner, except the principals here don’t give anything away freely—partnerships, bonuses, praise. If it was up to them, they’d pay us in nickels thrown at our feet while we dance. And if Fields didn’t announce my promotion at the meeting, he’s sure as hell not going to hand it over privately.
I walk down the long hall to his corner office, with its sweeping views of downtown LA, but stop short when I realize Ben Tate is already there. If Ben and I are being called in at the same time, it means one of us is here to get scolded, and this time it’s probably me. I may or may not have recently encouraged people to call Ben “the Undertaker”. If he doesn’t want unbecoming nicknames, maybe he shouldn’t go after a client’s ex-wife for funeral expenses.
I plaster a smile on my face and stride to the available seat. I will laugh this off, apologize, and then make whichever associate ratted me out wish he’d never heard my name.
This is already the case for most of them.
Ben and I eye each other. I scoot my chair an inch farther from his.
“What am I going to do with you two?” Fields asks, glancing between us. “You always look like you’re one step from a knife fight.”
“To be fair, Gemma looks like that with everyone,” says Ben with one of his glib smiles.
“Au contraire,” I reply. “I’m thrilled to see you here, as it means you’re not off getting a homeless mother evicted from a shelter somewhere.”
“That was an accident,” he growls.
I smile; his irritation delights me. “Hmm.”
“Anyhow,” sighs Fields, who is now fondly remembering the days when you could just call a mouthy woman a witch and have her drowned, “as I’ve just been discussing with Ben, a gender discrimination suit is being brought against Fiducia, one that may prove lucrative.”
I sit up a little straighter. Fiducia—a well-known investment capital firm that gives lots of lip service to ideas about diversity and acceptance and workplace equality—is big. They would generate press, and that’s what I need. My long-term goal is to exclusively practice family law, but it takes a while to build a name. Walter, my favorite corporate client, is giving me enough work until that happens, but I wouldn’t mind taking the fast track, and a newsworthy discrimination suit would provide it. Plus, if I win, it will be impossible for them to not make me partner afterward.
“Margaret Lawson, the plaintiff, is fifty-four years old and was with Fiducia for well over a decade. She was passed over for promotion nine years in a row and was let go when she complained about it.”
This case is sounding better and better. I will dance on Fields’ desk and let him throw nickels at my feet to get my hands on it. I will fight Ben to the death for the chance, though that implies fighting Ben to the death is a disincentive, which it is not.
“I’d like you and Ben to work on it together,” Arvin concludes, and my spine crumples. “You’ve handled gender discrimination cases before, and Ben’s an expert at negotiating a settlement.”