‘I mean, I need someone who’s across contracts and the legal jargon that goes with that,’ Megan continued.
She was still stroking that bloody new handbag like it was a guinea-pig at a petting zoo. If Dean had got that from his mate Terry, the chances were it was actually a knock-off. Becky should tell her. She should say, right now, that she could handle things in Megan’s absence. She might not know every shortcut an Excel spreadsheet had to offer, but she knew enough. Definitely enough for the sandwich-business. And she was very personable. Everyone said so. If there were new opportunities in those two weeks Megan was gone, Becky would be more than able to sell It’s A Wrap’s services and win bids…
‘I thought the contracts were all the same,’ Hazel piped up, recommencing the cheese grating. ‘A template on the computer.’
‘The basics might be,’ Megan stated, sounding a bit annoyed. ‘But every client is different. They all have little requests that need attention. And that always requires delicate tweaking of the wording, you know, additional clauses and sub-clauses… and sub-clauses of sub-clauses.’
How up-herself did Megan sound now? Becky’s usual placid nature was disintegrating, morphing into bubbling acid that could melt platinum. If she didn’t say something soon, her temper was going to lead to some sort of self-destruction, or ruination of their products. She stuck the knife in the butter tub like she was lancing a boil.
‘Well,’ Hazel continued, ‘no one knows our customers’ needs better than Becky.’
Hazel had said ‘Becky’ at a volume slightly higher than the rest of the sentence and Becky’s internal furore was starting to make itself known on her cheeks. Now was her chance. Make a stand.
‘Well, obviously I’ll be counting on you all to keep things running at ground level,’ Megan said, finally putting the handbag back on her shoulder. ‘But, Hazel, if you do know anyone qualified to step into the breach and do management while I’m away, please let me know.’
That was it! That was absolutely it! Becky stood up from her stool before she was tempted to hurl this morning’s delivery of crab sticks at her sister. With as much composure as she had left, despite the trousers gnawing at her bellybutton, she swept out the door that led to the back garden, slamming it hard behind her.
Four
London, UK
‘She’s going to take everything, isn’t she? Because that’s what they do, isn’t it? It’s all whispered sexual promises and home-cooking at the beginning, and then it’s commands about DIY and M&S meals you have to microwave yourself. And then… then it’s bitter accusations that you’ve been ignoring their needs, when really you’ve been negotiating million-dollar contracts so they can carry on having spa weekends with their friends where they go all-in for facials and Watsu, but complain about how terrible their lives are and how their husbands are nothing but unreasonable bastards who haven’t been able to find their erogenous zones since the honeymoon. Well, Elias, I challenge any man to find Kristina’s erogenous zone when the hedges haven’t been cut for a decade. Do you get what I’m saying? But, of course, it’s all my fault, isn’t it? Everything is always my fault.’
Solicitor Elias Mardas sat back in the hotel meeting room chair and regarded his client, Chad. Hair flecked with silver, wearing a navy suit from Moss London, this businessman would usually be the epitome of calm and controlled. Chad was used to negotiating hard with counterparts across the globe and here the man was, unravelling in a hotel in Central London. Not that Elias was surprised. This was what usually happened. Most of his clients became a shadow of their former selves, when it came to the topic of divorce. And that’s where Elias came in. It was his job to control this whole process, legal and emotional, to ensure that his client dealt with the inevitable fall-out and arrived at Destination Decree Absolute in the best possible position. Matrimonial law might not have been his legal area of choice when he’d first qualified – originally he had intended to deal with property and real estate – but circumstances had changed and he had changed and this was his niche. His company, working alone, picking and choosing his clients. He excelled at it and it was lucrative. What more could you want from a career?
‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’ Chad wanted to know. ‘You haven’t said anything in forty-five minutes.’ He picked up his water glass and downed a mouthful. ‘I’m not paying you an extortionate amount of money per hour to say nothing. I want strategy and planning. I want to wipe that triumphant look off Kristina’s face when she realises that she isn’t going to win this time.’ He blew out a breath. ‘She isn’t going to completely win this time, is she?’ He hesitated only for a beat. ‘Fuck! Of course she is! They always do!’ Chad stood up then, beginning to pace, along the carpet in front of the full-length window giving them a London summer skyline, all shafts of light gleaming off steel and glass.
‘Sit down, Chad,’ Elias told him, topping up both their water glasses.
‘I can’t sit down,’ Chad replied. ‘It’s the stress! I’ve never been this stressed! It’s playing havoc with my piles and she knows that. She will know that.’ He aimed a designer shoe at the pot of a fake orchid plant in the corner, then yelped.
Elias figured that Chad was very nearly done. The anger was calming a little. When the meeting had started, Chad had exploded into a frenzied verbal tirade, his face turning a vibrant beetroot. He’d had to loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt, despite the air-conditioned atmosphere. He’d then patrolled the space like an over-zealous security guard, blaming mainly Kristina’s signing up to a weekly book club as the reason their marriage had completely fallen apart. But Elias knew exactly why the marriage had fallen apart. He knew exactly how every marriage fell apart. Communication. Or, rather, the lack of it.
‘Sit down, Chad,’ Elias repeated. He adjusted his dark-framed glasses to make sure he was looking directly at his client when Chad decided to turn and face the table again. Unless he was going to go and put the boot in to every plant in the room, then re-joining the discussion was the only other option.
His client’s shoulders lifted, up and almost to the top of his ears, then finally released. Chad turned around and hastened back to his seat. ‘OK,’ Chad said on an out breath, as he sat. ‘OK. Tell me what I can do.’
Elias picked up his pen and toyed with it in between his fingers. ‘You’re not going to like what I have to say,’ he began. ‘But you have to trust me on it.’ This was always his opening gambit in these initial meetings. It was tried and tested. It was a method he wished he’d been able to adopt during his own divorce. But he’d been wounded back then. Naïve. Used.
‘I don’t even like you saying I’m not going to like what you’re going to say,’ Chad admitted with a nervous laugh.
‘But will you trust me on it?’ Elias asked, blue-green eyes looking directly into Chad’s brown ones. This approach only worked if his clients had complete confidence in his abilities. He knew the way he worked was contrary to most of his contemporaries, but his global recommendations among Chad’s peers made his small firm one of the most sought-after divorce practices.