Breaking The Lawyer

Chapter 1 'I really wish things didn't have to be likes this, Amelia.' Jacob Stott, senior legal partner at Stott and Gough, shrugged and shook his head in an apologetic fashion. 'Off the record, it's just a case of last in, first out. I really am terribly sorry this is happening. You must reiterate this to your mother. You're a cracking little solicitor, and as soon as things pick up, you'll be welcomed back here, if you want it. People will be fighting for you, eventually.' Fat bloody chance, I thought, but nodded and smiled like a good professional should. You would be amazed how much your acting abilities get tested in this game. I think I may have winced slightly at the "cracking little solicitor" comment though. Patronising swine. He was just panicking because my mother is a very well respected judge in this area. But then again, I was panicking because my mother is a well respected judge and quite formidable with it. I hoped she would understand the impact the recession has had on the legal world, and not automatically presume it was all my own fault. I was genuinely very good at my job. This is not me being pig headed but out of all the newly qualified solicitors, my record of winning cases and securing big corporal contracts was level with people ten years my senior. I work damn hard, mainly because I'm terrified of failing and have a somewhat conservative social life that only consists of my best friend Ricky and the aforementioned mother, but hey. My relationship with my mother was a complicated one. We are, on the whole, extremely close. My university friends often told me that they were jealous of the easy friendship we have. Several unstrained phone calls a day, frequent dinners together as well as the odd night out in the local pubs being the norm. When it came to anything academic, from high school onwards, I was always found lacking. Now most recently, it was my job that caused all the controversy, or to be more precise, how I conducted myself in the job. If it wasn't how she would have handled it, I was wrong. Apparently I had my father's work ethic but since I never knew him, I had to accept it as the truth. I had nothing concrete to argue about. Standing up on very shaky legs, I was surprised to not hear my knees knocking against one another as I smoothed down my trusty, grey a-line skirt and tried to regain a little composure before walking back into the busy office. Bloody brilliant, I thought as I felt all the eyes of the legal secretaries and other solicitors who weren't in court boring into the back of my head as crossed the office, calves trembling in ridiculously high heels. My mind flitted to the slippers shaped like sheep sitting next to my mother's ridiculously comfy settee before compromising with the flip flops that lay next to my own front door. I concentrated on trying to placate the balls of my feet by leaning ominously while I shredded some documents and filled my briefcase with the pitiful amount of tat and junk I'd managed to accumulate in a year. It amounted to a picture frame filled with a picture of my mother holding a very scruffy young looking Ebenezer, a long haired pink fluffy pencil case that was pretty much empty apart from a leaking biro, ink covered receipts from a few hastily bought Tesco lunches from days gone by, and a few hair clips. Talking of hair, strands were getting stuck to my face. The dreaded nervous sweating must have started. After years of experience, I knew there was absolutely nothing I could do to control it. My sweat glands had evil minds of their own. The urge to hide in the air conditioned confines of my little car, Tess, overwhelmed me. Anything that wasn't in my briefcase now, wasn't worth having. 'I'll call you on my way home, honey.' whispered Ricky conspiratorially. He was the only male legal secretary in the company, my right hand man and the gay best friend all girls long for. 'Or, Hound in an hour?' The Black Hound, as it was more formally known, was our little home from home, Ricky and I spent many a night talking about his non-existent boyfriend, and how he wished my boyfriend was non-existent. I just shook my head and promised to text him when I got home. Bless him; he is such a worrier. The boyfriend Rick wishes was non-existent is called Frankie. He had a number seven hit in 2002 with his cheesy boy band mates. You might remember the song. "Get It On" it was called. Hideously catchy, and the video included them running inexplicably through an amusement park, in just their jeans, chests glistening with what I can only presume was baby oil. Even if you can't remember that specifically, you know the type. I have always been surprised Ricky wasn't fonder of him, or at least the band. The best thing in the world when you're fourteen, makes you smile when it comes on the radio when you're in your early twenties, but after that you deny all knowledge of remembering them, the song, or anything else it entailed. There are exceptions on drunken nights out, of course, the only time when long forgotten musical acts like Chesney Hawkes, Steps and Tiffany get rolled out. When I first met him, that is Frankie not Chesney Hawkes, in the Hound actually, I found myself nodding along bizarrely and realised I had just confirmed to him that I'd had his poster on my wall when I was in my teens. In reality I had run to the toilets and googled like mad until I found him and his band, claiming a coughing fit for not answering his deluge of questions about which band member was "fittest". I'll admit, I was slightly bowled over by how many people knew him, how many women shamelessly flirted with him, but how we wanted to take little, old me home. Or rather chunky, relatively young me home. It's worn off a little now, as has that 'can't keep your hands off each other so let's spend every waking minute together' stuff. But, we're seven months into our relationship now. It can't last forever, can it? Chapter 2 The familiar journey home was undeniably dull but at least the time of day with my unscheduled early finish meant little traffic to sit in, and consequently no time to think. It would have usually have been bliss. The house seemed eerily quiet as I wrestled my briefcase, sore feet and battered ego through the front door. Well, quiet for a house that was supposed to be being used as a studio for a currently out of work musician. I kept getting into trouble for calling him 'out of work'. Apparently nobody paid for a work in progress anymore. They only wanted the finished article and he wasn't going to send in 'any old rubbish'. He wanted perfection. I couldn't help but think he'll be waiting a hell of a long time for his next pay cheque. No drums echoed down the parquet floored hallway, and no bass guitars were causing my feet to vibrate. Where was he? I heard the familiar thud of Ebenezer jumping off my bed and lolloping down the staircase too quickly, coming to a skidding, panting halt at my feet. 'Hello, boy. Where's your Daddy, eh? Has he gone walkies without you?' He fell to his back, grey shaggy hair sticking out all over the place, legs akimbo but instantly making me feel better. That little mutt never fails to make me smile. It's a bit of a standing joke that I treat him like a toddler and that he is a bit of a replacement child for the working woman I am used to being. I'm so glad I rescued him and brought him into my life a few years ago. Rescue dogs are my Achilles heel. I just want to save and love them all. In a semi-detached house in the middle of a city though, it is just not practical. Such a shame really, now I'm jobless I could have started a rescue shelter. Shit, I'm jobless! Who would have thought I'd have spent thirty-five thousand years getting the best qualifications and here I am without a job at the grand old age of twenty-seven? Not bloody me, I can tell you. I cringe as I realise I am in the same position I have moaned about Frankie being in for the duration of our relationship. Where was he? Quickly changing into my emergency pyjamas (my house has three storeys with my bedroom being at the top, and after a particularly hard day it is just not feasible to expect me to climb all those stairs just to get changed), I settled down on the sofa and reluctantly pulled up Frankie's name on my mobile. Before I could even press the call button, there was a ridiculously loud thumping on my front door. I jumped up, dropping my phone which went hurtling across the floor and kept a barking Ebenezer in the living room while I went to investigate. There was a strange scuffling noise against the front door and I wished, not for the first time, that we had got ourselves a front door with a peephole. I could almost hear my mother's voice saying 'Amelia Jordan, don't you dare put yourself at risk like this' in her usually chastising tone. Armed with only the chain on the door, I opened it the few inches it would allow and felt a heavy weight pushing against it. This really confused me, as the guy who had evidently knocked was standing a few feet from the door clad in stonewashed denim, very nineties, a woolly hat and a thoroughly pissed off expression. 'Davy Sladek.' 'Excuse me?' I replied, perplexed. Was that even English? 'Davy Sladek.' He answered. Noting my bewilderment, he added 'It's my name. It's Polish.' 'I'm terribly sorry, Mr Sladek. Can I help you?' I garbled feeling a horrible mixture of nerves and extreme mortification at my reaction to his unusual name. 'First off, is he yours?' The giant of a man used the toe of his work boot to point at the mass leaning up against my front door. Looking down, unfortunately knowing exactly what I was going to find, my stomach sunk as Frankie's head lolled away from me while he tried to scramble to his feet. After a few fruitless seconds, all movement stopped again. I nodded, feeling my face flush as the nervous sweating took hold once again. 'Make sure he knows I'm coming back for what he owes me.' Davy grunted as he turned on his heel, reaching for my front gate. 'What do you mean what he owes you? Is it taxi fare? Don't tell me he's thrown up in your cab? I'm so sorry! This isn't the first time this has happened. I have my purse just inside if you'd like to wait there.' I garbled remorsefully. Davy snorted back a menacing laugh. 'Unless you've got a bloody big purse, you'll have a hard job paying back what he owes me, love. I'm no taxi driver. Just, erm, let's call me an 'acquaintance' of his.' He was gone before my nonplussed brain could manage to formulate any more words, jumping into the passenger side of a red work van parked on the other side of the road which sped off into the distance. What on earth did my boyfriend owe people like that money for? All of a sudden my resolve snapped. I don't have the energy to deal with a drunken Frankie after the day I've had, I thought. I took the chain off the door so Frankie fell through on to the welcome mat backwards, strolled back to the living room, located my phone which had lodged itself between two hardbacks on my beloved pine book case, attached Ebenezer's blue, sparkly lead, to his equally blue and sparkly diamante collar, and left the house. How strong am I? Maybe the question should actually be 'how stupid am I?' believing that that waste of space protruding lengthways out of my house could actually change his partying, loutish ways. There was something seriously amiss here, and at this moment in time, Frankie could fend for himself. 'Ricky,' I bellowed into my mobile, 'We're on our way round.' 'I'll get the dog bowl.' He answered, unsurprised by my curtness. Driving there, I nearly laughed at the fact that when I announced that 'we' were coming round, Ricky hadn't even questioned whether I meant my supposedly loving, ex-rock/pop star boyfriend, but quite rightly assumed it would be with my adorable canine friend in tow. It was only a five minute drive, but by the time I was pressing the buzzer to announce my arrival to his apartment block with Ebenezer tucked surreptitiously under my arm, I was seething with rage. A far cry from the cool, calm and collected professional I had hoped to be, but I instead envisioned me through the neighbour's eyes, abandoning my drunken lover on the front porch. There was no dressing that up was there? What will the neighbours say? We've become that kind of household that nobody wants to be associated with in a nice area like mine. I stomped up the stairs in a thoroughly unladylike fashion, chuntering about having to walk up them in the first place. Dogs were not allowed in the building apparently, so by avoiding the lift, I would hopefully be avoiding the steely, icy glare of Jeffrey the caretaker. Vile, little, power crazed creature. I would stake money on the fact that he was a lot less hygienic than my beautiful puppy. By the way, my beautiful 'puppy', according to the vet, is at least five years old but his face belies this, honestly. I hate that because he was from a rescue, I don't know his background, but it makes me more determined to make his future bright and lovely for him. Scary when I don't know if my own future will be so at the moment.