“Aaah, there she is, my own rising star!”
I was in the reception area of Bartels & Peters waiting for my mail as Lawrence Bartels made his entrance, in the swanky navy trench coat he’d had made to measure somewhere deep in the wilds of Italy. Where exactly was a closely guarded secret, as if the rest of the world would descend on this undiscovered gem en masse otherwise. He flounced up to me with outstretched arms, in the manner of a talk-show host. “Good afternoon, cara amici. Come into my office.”
I wondered what I was in for; I was almost certain that Peter van Benschop had lodged a complaint about me. Walking out on a client was indefensible, and I had a feeling a trip to the day care wouldn’t count as a worthy excuse.
There are few, if any, law firms that are in business to serve their fellow man out of the kindness of their hearts. Bartels & Peters certainly wasn’t one of them. It was all about billable hours. Though working here was a great improvement over my previous place of employment, an international mergers and acquisitions firm. There I’d regularly been woken in the middle of the night on account of some foreign client needing to get something done before close of business in whatever time zone they were in. I slogged away many a night with a slice of congealed pizza on the mouse pad. Canceled many a vacation.
When Aaron was on the way, it became clear I’d have to dial it back a bit. Then, as if someone up in heaven had taken a personal interest in my situation, I was offered a job at Bartels & Peters. A stone’s throw from my apartment, and I’d have to come in only three days a week, virtually unheard of in the legal profession. It should have made my life a lot easier. But all I can say is: the front lines of the law are a cakewalk compared with the demands of a three-year-old.
Lawrence had an office befitting a successful law partner. A desk the size of a pool table that made him look even smaller and chubbier dominated the room, and an antique Persian carpet covered the marble floor. A baffling but doubtlessly priceless work of art hung on the wall.
“Sit, sit!” Rence boomed, as if he were standing on a stage and had to muster the rapt attention of two hundred audience members.
“Are you going to chew me out?”
“What are you talking about? Peter van Benschop just called me, and he’s wildly enthusiastic. He told me he’s seldom encountered such a tough female. Which may not be all that surprising, considering the nature of his oeuvre, let’s say. He’s crazy about you.”
“So he didn’t mention the fact that I had to leave?”
Rence’s face fell. He waved his hand, irked. “I don’t want to know about it. Haven’t I told you over and over again not to be so damn honest? Being believable, that’s what it’s about. Honesty’s a bad trait in a lawyer. Don’t you know that?”
“I’m sorry.”
He burst out laughing. “And don’t ever admit you’re sorry either. Just don’t do that. Ever!”
“If I’m not here to be raked over the coals and beg forgiveness, why am I here?”
“Because, dear Iris, I wanted to compliment you on your success today. That’s the one and only reason for this little tête-à-tête—no need to get all anxious. All I wanted to say was: Well done. I don’t care what it is that you did; whatever you did, it was a good job, and that’s all that matters.”
“In that case, thanks.”
“Now. Peter van Benschop is coming to the office tomorrow to hear the strategy we’re proposing. He’d like to get the whole business behind him by the end of the week.”
“Impossible, I’m afraid.”
“Excuse me?”
I considered telling him the truth, but decided to simply stick to the facts. “I can’t come in Wednesday and Thursday, and Friday is my day off anyway. I can work from home. But I can get less done there than here.”
“Had this been discussed?”
“No. Circumstances beyond my control, I’m afraid.”
Rence silently shook his head of unruly gray curls, or what was left of them. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge that he was balding.
“I’m sorry,” I added.
“I’ve already told you I don’t want to hear any excuses!” he burst out. “Fuck it, Iris. Fuck it all.” A ball of spittle was stuck to his bottom lip. With a theatrical flourish he got up, walked over to the window, and stood with his back to me. Eccentric. Flamboyant. Exhausting.
“Then I’m not sorry. Actually, I’m not sorry at all. Haven’t you ever heard of emergency leave? Maternity leave? Or should I take all thirty of my outstanding vacation days in one go?”
Rence was speechless. “Okay, then,” he finally said. “I’ve already told you I don’t care what you do as long as you’re doing a good job. So even if you have to do your work from the North Pole, just do what you have to. As long as Peter van Benschop is happy, and as long as I’m happy with the bill I can send him when it’s done.”
“Don’t worry.”
“You’ll never guess who my latest client is . . .” It was evening, and since Aaron was sleeping over at my mother’s, I was in a bar having a drink with a girlfriend. Like any normal lawyer.
“No idea. The Pope? Oh no, wait a minute.” Binnie held her forefinger in the air. “Your mother is finally being charged with irreformable iciness toward others.”
“Ha, ha.” Binnie and I had known each other since elementary school. Ever since my mother had asked her to say “Good afternoon, Mrs. Kastelein” instead of her usual elated “Hellooooo!” those two had never gotten along. My mother was as prim and proper as Binnie was exuberant and messy. Binnie’s real name was really Brigitte, but she hated that name. No one could remember how she’d first come up with “Binnie.”
“Go on, tell me.” Binnie took a big sip and placed her empty glass on the bar with a bang.
“Peter van Benschop.”
“Who?”
“Peter van Benschop of the fabulously wealthy shipping family Van Benschop.”
Binnie’s eyes began to gleam. “Is he single?”
“No idea.”
“But surely that’s the first thing to find out when you get a man like that as a client. What’s he look like? How old? How tall?”
“In his forties . . . around six feet . . . Now that I think of it, he may be your type. You like a man to be dominant, don’t you?”
“Love it.”
I almost lost my footing because some guy trying to order a drink at the bar jostled me. He struck me as the type who works in a realtor’s office. Ugly suit and an insolent look on his face. White wine spilled out of his glass and onto my chest, right at nipple level. Whether he knew what had happened or not, he pretended to be unaware of what he’d done.
“Hey, watch it,” Binnie snapped at him. “You’ve just splashed your wine all over her shirt.”
Turning to face us, he inspected Binnie from head to toe. “Jesus, you’re a tall one.”
“No? Really?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Wow, are you ever tall,” the guy repeated.
“Tall enough to notice you’re already getting pretty thin on top. What do you think, Iris? Will he look good bald?”
“Oh, let it go.” I took a napkin and started dabbing at the wet spot. I looked like someone who’d forgotten to stuff a bra pad into her nursing brassiere. Lovely.
“I don’t think it’ll suit him.” Binnie put her finger to her chin and looked thoughtful. “He’s got such a funny round little head. I’m sorry, but someone will have to tell him. Five years from now, I’m afraid you’ll look like a little piglet.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“If I were you I’d try to make the best of the few good years I still had. I’d start by trying to act a little less boorish. Watch where you go, and if by chance you should cause a little accident and spill some white wine on a lady, make sure you apologize.”
He stared blankly at her for a few seconds. “Cunt.”
“I, too, very much enjoyed making your acquaintance.” Binnie turned toward me. “Peter van Benschop the millionaire. I can already picture it. I’m so ready for a rich man. Because being a journalist is great—it’s all that I expected it to be. Yes, I have shaken Nelson Mandela’s hand, and yes, George Clooney is gorgeous in real life, and yes, I’ve written exposés about fraud and written impressive articles about shar-pei amphetamine abuse. But I hadn’t taken into account that I’d have to get my rocks off on the prestige and the top journalism awards that will undoubtedly be heaped upon me some day. Because the pay is a pittance. How long do I have to keep sharing an apartment with a roommate? And having to cope with tanning product smeared all over the sink or listening to Marie-Ellen screwing noisily at two in the afternoon while I’m trying to make a deadline? Oh, Iris, if Peter and I get married, you can be my bridesmaid.”
“Are you also willing to get chained up in an S&M dungeon?”
“What?”
“And get a prick rammed down your throat until you choke, be forced to drink piss from the source, engage in strangle-sex . . .”
“What?”
I paused a moment, for the effect.
“Tell me! Tell! Tell!”
“Peter van Benschop makes very twisted movies. Try Googling the name ‘Pissing Peter.’ Can’t tell you more than that—client-attorney confidentiality.”
“Hmm. But is he good looking?”
“If you like a Geraldo Rivera type.”
“To tell you the truth, I prefer Mediterranean men with fine, elegant hands. Only they never like me back and it isn’t very sexy to feel their erection poking into your kneecaps while you’re French-kissing. How’s your love life, anyway?”
“The pits.”
“Oh, come on. You, who are constantly meeting men in need? If you ask me, lawyer and dental hygienist are the best professions for snaring a man.”
“Oh, come off it.”
“Men who find themselves in a helpless situation and are completely dependent on you. Vulnerable and scared, they yearn for safety and warmth.”
“I can assure you that they don’t have romance in mind.”
“No, darling, it’s you who doesn’t have romance in mind. Ever since you had a kid, you’ve decided you’re permanently retired from the relationship scene. Wake up! You’re young, pretty, independent, funny, and you don’t have any obvious physical handicaps. In ten years’ time, Aaron won’t want to be mothered anymore; he’ll be all consumed with motorbikes and girls, and then you’ll think: ‘What the hell did I do all those years?’ Why not try online dating?”
“Oh, please.”
“If you ask me, you’re not at all happy.”
I shrugged.
Binnie looked at me with concern. “Are you all right?”
I shrugged my shoulders again. “Problems with Aaron. I’m afraid he’s going to get kicked out of day care.”
“How come?”
“Never mind. I’m just glad not to have to think about that right now.”
Binnie place her hand on my arm. “It’s going to be okay.”
“That’s what I keep trying to tell myself.” Except that it’s getting harder and harder to do.