8. Freedom

A cutting voice called after me. “Uhm, Chloé? May I ask where you are going? We have a conference call at one.”

I turned around. Tracey looked at me through her narrow glasses, raising her eyebrows. “Well?”

I slowly approached her. “I have a court hearing,” I said with a low voice.

Her eyebrows now nearly reached her hairline. “I didn’t know we do litigation.”

“Actually, it’s my divorce hearing,” I explained reluctantly.

I thought I could see something akin to malicious joy in her eyes. “Oh I see. How dreadful.” She attempted a commiserative smile.

“Well, it’s not pleasant. Please excuse me. I must go.”

“I assume you have prepared everything for the call.”

“Of course. Don’t worry, I should be back for the call. And I’ll make up for the time.” I gave her a little smile, turned on my heel and walked toward the exit, her eyes burning in my back.

I took the lift into the underground garage where my car was parked. Inside the car, my heart suddenly started racing and I felt sick. I leaned my head against the stirring wheel. Divorce. Finally. On the other hand, it was the absolute termination of a marriage and the destruction of my hope to have the picture-perfect family. Failure. Feeling guilty towards the girls.

Then I thought of all the horrible things that were contained in the pleadings drafted by Jean’s lawyer. I thought of the humiliating fact that Jean sued me for spousal maintenance. A healthy, free man sued his wife, at whose expense he had lived for years, in order to take even more money from her. I started to get angry. It was not a case of personal failure - it was my chance for freedom. I switched on the engine.

* * *

It was the summer of 1997. Patricia and I had spontaneously decided to escape the city and, after checking with our respective bosses, had booked a week at the Club Med in Mauritius. Having just returned from a business trip first to Hong Kong and then Chicago, all I wanted to do was to sleep in the sun. On our first evening, I met Jean at the pre-dinner drinks. Tall, French and gorgeous, he was the resident golf instructor and more than happy to give me some private lessons. I wasn’t really interested in a holiday fling and initially resisted his flirtation. But the more I learned about him and his life the more we connected and I found myself wanting our time together not to come to an end.

“I think I have fallen in love with you, madame,” he announced to me on our last evening when we took a moonlit walk on the beach and we had stopped to kiss.

“Oh Jean. This is wonderful and it is awful - I’m leaving tomorrow! And you have to stay here for how long again?”

“Until the end of the season - end of December.”

“And then? Will you go back to Paris?”

“They offered me a job in New Caledonia.”

“But that’s on the other side of the planet! No - you can’t go there!”

“I don’t know. But it will be hard to give up the beach and the sun. I have to see - maybe I can find something in Paris in the spring.”

“Or in Frankfurt?” I asked hopefully. “There are plenty of golf clubs around Frankfurt.”

“But I don’t speak German. Why don’t you get transferred to your Paris office? You could work there, no? They need lawyers everywhere, no?”

I looked at him and knew I could not let this man disappear from my life. So, against all odds, we tried to keep a long distance thing going. But with nearly 6000 kilometres, twelve flight hours and three hours time difference separating us and with each of us working day and night, it was impossible. After three months I was so disillusioned that I broke it off, went on the rebound and found myself pregnant with my first child.

Two years after our first meeting and one year after Noëlle’s birth, Jean called me out of the blue. When I heard his voice, my heart raced.

“Jean! Oh my god. It’s been so long - where are you, what are you doing?”

“I am back in Paris. I work here now - I try to be an estate agent, ha - can you imagine. How are you? Have you got a boyfriend or did you get married?”

“I’m still at the same law firm. No, I’m not married - I don’t have a boyfriend. But - actually, I’m not alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I have a daughter. Her name is Noëlle. She is one year old and she is beautiful.”

“Oh, c’est magnifique! I want to meet her! I have never stopped thinking about you, Chloé. I was just too scared when we were together. You were so intense, and so - how do you say - sophistiquée. Then yesterday I watched this movie - Notting Hill? It reminded me of us and I thought perhaps it could work. If you want to.”

I did not hesitate for one moment. “Of course I do. I have never stopped thinking about you either. When can you come to see us?”

“I need to organise a few things but I should be able to come next weekend.”

And so he did. When he entered our apartment for the first time Noëlle toddled up to him with a smile, pointed at him and said “Dada!” It was love at first sight for both of them. Two months later he moved in, without money or a job. Patricia warned me to be careful but I was so in love and so happy. We were a little family. We spent our first Christmas with his parents, who adored Noëlle, and were delighted to look after her for a few days. Jean and I decided to revisit the place where we first met, and flew to Mauritius for the new millennium. It was there, a few minutes after midnight on 1 January 2000, that he got down on one knee, presented his grandmother’s ring and asked me to marry him.

Of course I said yes. Of course I did not think of money. I was going to be a partner soon and would earn enough for both of us. He promised he would learn German and get a job, if only for his masculine pride. Patricia was happy for me but still worried that I might commit to someone who made himself financially dependent on me. When months later I was about to marry a still unemployed Jean in France, Patricia urged me to at least enter into a standard French law prenuptial agreement. It made perfect sense since I was earning well as a partner at Solomons and Jean had nothing. It did not, however, make sense to my proud French fiancé. Several days before the wedding it came to a head with Jean and his father (‘zees ees not romontik!’) but I insisted, threatening to call the wedding off. So one hour prior to the marriage ceremony in the mairie in Grasse we sat in front of the notary - who conveniently also happened to be the mayor - and agreed a séparation des biens - matrimonial separation of goods. Nonetheless, in the end, it was a beautiful day. This may have been partly to do with the bride and groom relaxing, due to the large glass of champagne served by the notary’s secretary after the agreement was signed and sealed.

And now, six years, many broken promises, fights, tears and therapy sessions later, we were in court, waiting for our divorce and for the judgment on Jean’s spousal support claim. Life was absurd sometimes, I thought bitterly.

* * *

Jean appeared, tanned and wearing a cream linen suit. His lawyer was also in a cream tweed suit - was it Chanel? I tried to glance inconspicuously at the buttons - and holding a huge camel Hermès Birkin bag. My lawyer Anthea Voss and I had kept our outfit muted - black skirt suit, understated handbag, flat shoes. OK, she wore flat shoes. I had stuck to my principles (no flat shoes with a skirt!) and had for this happy occasion treated myself to elegant dark grey Prada pumps. New shoes make you feel wonderful - and I could use some cheering up. Furthermore, Jean had always liked my legs. There was nothing wrong with a hint of see-what-you’re-missing attitude at a divorce hearing.

Really, what had gone wrong here? I had been crazy about this man, had to have him, marry him - even though, deep down, I suspected it might not last forever. I might have had high standards and certain expectations of a man - but what was wrong with that?

I never tried to change him. I thought I gave a man just what I required as well: personal freedom. We all need to be given room for development. If you confine someone - your partner, your child - and dictate how he should lead his life, you don’t leave him any choice but to run away from you.

“We have a supplemental motion,” Jean’s lawyer, Elizabeth van Grossenburg, began and graciously handed copies of a legal document to the judge and Anthea.

Anthea skimmed through the document while I was looking over her shoulder. I could only make out the words ‘extension of plaintiff’s claim’, ‘increased demand due to necessary training’, and finally ‘requiring further monthly spousal support of €5,200’. I felt nauseous. Jean ignored the horrified glance I shot at him. He made the face of a martyr, apparently listening intensely to the whispering of the interpreter sitting next to him.

“I cannot and will not get into this motion since I see it for the first time,” Anthea commented, slightly shaking her head.

The judge peered over her glasses. “I am able to relate to that,” she replied. “Was this really necessary at this late stage?” she asked Jean’s lawyer.

“Your Honour, I’m afraid my client was only able to give us the documents yesterday. In addition they have not been translated yet, but in my view this is a justified motion.”

“I tend to disagree. I will tell you now that I think nothing of it.”

“Well...” Elizabeth van Grossenburg did not finish the sentence but instead pressed her lips together. She inhaled audibly through her nose, wiggled her head and shrugged indifferently. I suppressed a grin. She deserved it, that cow.

“In any case, should we not first deal with my client’s motion - the application for divorce?” Anthea reminded the judge.

“Certainly. I will question the parties themselves on the issue of their separation and the irretrievable breakdown of their marriage. Mrs. Delorme, when did you separate from your husband?” she asked me.

“At the end of January 2004,” I replied calmly.

“Do you consider your marriage as having ‘irretrievably broken down’?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to resume matrimonial cohabitation with your husband?”

“No.”

“Thank you. Mr. Delorme?”

“Oui, eh, yes?”

“When did you and your wife separate? Do you also consider your marriage as having ‘irretrievably broken down’ or do you want to resume matrimonial cohabitation with your wife?”

Jean looked at the interpreter who repeated the questions in French. He answered her, gesticulating with his hands. She turned back to the judge. “According to my memory it was March 2004. No, I do not want to resume the marriage. I do, however, regret this.”

“Thank you. I find that by notarial deed the parties have agreed to matrimonial separation of goods. Regarding the apportionment of pension claims, Mr. Delorme will receive a monthly amount of €298,85 since during the marriage only Mrs. Delorme acquired pension rights whereas Mr. Delorme was not employed.”

“At this point we also want to know whether Mrs. Delorme also acquired company pension benefits at her previous firms - Howard Hewitt and Solomons,” Elizabeth van Grossenburg interrupted the judge.

“No I did not,” I explained quickly. Good god. She really wanted to squeeze the last cent out of me.

“Good. Then that is clear.” The judge took her dictaphone and summarised the testimonies. Finally, glancing first at me and then at Jean, she dictated slowly “the parties’ marriage is therefore hereby dissolved.” She stopped the tape and turned to Elizabeth van Grossenburg. “I assume you will not forgo the right to appeal.”

“Considering that we have applied for spousal support for the next two months, absolutely not,” she replied.

“That’s how they try to get support for a longer period - his claim terminates with the final dissolution of the marriage which only occurs when the written judgment is received plus the two week time limit for filing an objection,” Anthea explained to me in a whisper.

“I thought as much,” responded the judge. “I have made a note. Good. That was the divorce. Now we turn to Mr. Delorme’s motion for spousal support.”

Divorced. I was divorced now. I held back the tears I could feel welling up in my eyes. People say this often as an aside - he or she is divorced. It’s just a status, but they don’t think about the traumatic experience that it represents - that time period preceding the actual end of the marriage and the beginning of the separation. The legal battles. This cold, sober judgment. Naked facts. When people get married the registrar or priest congratulates them. On the other hand, the judge divorcing a couple neither expresses his regret nor his condolences. Maybe this should be changed; maybe the newly divorced couple should also drink to a separate future.

“In my opinion the issue of spousal support is governed by French law since Mr. Delorme is domiciled in France.” Mrs. van Grossenburg dramatically put on some rimless spectacles.

“I agree with you. Mrs. Voss?”

“That is indeed correct.” Anthea nodded.

“Good. I understand that French law provides for a claim for spousal support up to the effective date of the divorce. However, it is not clear what form this takes - in particular it is questionable whether the support is to be paid monthly or in form of a one off payment - like a lump sum settlement. Do you have an idea, Mrs. van Grossenburg?”

“Indeed we do think that a lump sum payment should be considered because article 303 of the French code civil provides for this in the case of spousal support after the divorce; so that would make sense. Since my client was forced to borrow money in order to survive, it would be just what he needs.”

Borrowing money to survive?? I was starting to get angry, my short stint of mourning having been blown away completely. Jean nodded vehemently and made a languish face when the interpreter had finished with her translation.

Anthea took the floor. “My learned colleague assumes that there is a basis for a spousal support claims. I have discussed this with my correspondent lawyer in Paris. The law relating to spousal support is much more restrictive in France than it is in Germany. There may be no issue regarding an increased obligation, upon the spouse, to seek employment after the marriage has failed but the responsibility of each spouse to provide for him - or herself is much higher than under German law.”

“What needs to be decided, in particular, is whether Mrs. Delorme is obliged to finance his professional training or whether she was only obliged to pay him spousal support until he had sufficient time to gain a foothold.”

“Your Honour, may I point out to the court again that my client fulfilled exactly this obligation - if such an obligation exists - since she paid monthly support during the first year of the separation, so that her husband had enough time to seek employment.” I quickly whispered something in Anthea’s ear whereupon she continued. “And one year was quite enough since, immediately after the separation, he returned to Paris where he has family and friends and where there are no language or other barriers.”

Mrs. van Grossenburg jumped up. “He was prevented from working in his profession for many years because he looked after the children!”

I rolled my eyes, simmering with rage. Here we go again - that ridiculous miserable story line. It was such bullshit. Only because once in a while he drove Noëlle to school and threw some eggs into a frying pan for her, he was prevented from working at all. Yes, sure, Jana and I only ever lounged around, twiddling our thumbs. What about his daughter Marie who, in my absence, was predominantly taken care of by Jana? When I would address this issue, he would say: “Oh mon amour, you know the babies, it’s a bit difficult for the men.”

The judge rejected Mrs. Van Grossenburg’s objection coolly. “It is irrelevant who looked after the children and when. The court will not require evidence on this point.”

I breathed again. Thank God. I think I would have screamed if all this crap from his pleadings had been re-opened.

“Mr. Delorme, I have not understood your Curriculum Vitae properly - you were a golf teacher, and now you require training to become a golf teacher?” The judge looked at Jean severely.

Jean managed to avoid her gaze by turning innocently to his interpreter. I knew very well that he understood more than he pretended. He listened to the French translation and then ranted on in French. The interpreter seemed to have succumbed to his charm in the meantime as she translated in the same vindicatory tone of voice he had adopted.

“Yes, yes of course I am a golf teacher but then they - I think here he means the French Golf Federation - changed the rules and I was required to re-take some of the exams. So when I returned to Paris I undertook training to be a golf coach.”

“So you did re-take these exams?” the judge asked.

The interpreter translated the question for Jean, whereupon he whispered his answer to her, which she promptly translated. “No, it was a kind of training to be a coach for managers in connection with playing golf.”

I think all of us stared blankly. Mrs. van Grossenburg rummaged in her Birkin and took out some papers. “Ah, yes, here it is - here are copies, unfortunately only in French, of the training programme. It seems to be a kind of behaviour coaching by reference to the game of golf.” She handed the copies to the judge and Anthea.

“Hang on, the programme shows that the training comprises a total of fifteen hours over a period of three months - and this is why your client was prevented from working for an entire year?” Anthea quizzed.

“Hm, you are right, Mrs. Voss,” the judge agreed meditatively. “What do you say to that, Mrs. van Grossenburg?”

“Uhm, yes. Correct, looks like it indeed - Mr. Delorme, is this correct, there are only fifteen hours per week?” She turned to Jean.

He whispered in her ear. She replied quietly. “Can you get a certificate or something?”

I heard him saying in a low voice “this is no problem, I can get anything”, then she turned back to the judge. “My client assured me that the training took up more time. We will submit further certificates.”

“We would be very interested in seeing those as well, of course,” Anthea interjected ironically, having attentively followed the short conversation between Jean and his lawyer. “We are very curious indeed.”

“Good. After having concluded this training as a golf coach in February this year, Mr. Delorme now intends to take up employment this November with a car insurance company?”

“Correct, your Honour - his monthly gross salary will be about three thousand Euros.” Mrs. van Grossenburg seemed to be relieved about the change of topic.

“We don’t understand this. Where is the connection between the training which was allegedly necessary and this employment?” Anthea demurred.

“My client only accepted this employment because your client stopped making the monthly support payments,” Mrs. van Grossenburg retorted pointedly.

“My client financially supported your client during the first year of their separation, to an extraordinary extent, just as she did during their entire marriage. This was an arrangement into which your client practically forced her, due to his idleness. There comes a point at which your client has to support himself. He is a grown-up, living in his hometown, has no children living with him - in contrast to my client who still works full-time and looks after the children. This is really starting to be a joke!” Anthea managed to stay calm but only expressed what I felt. I was grateful to her.

The judge intervened before Mrs. van Grossenburg was able to rebuke. “Well it is quite clear that Mr. Delorme has to provide certificates from the training institution, which prove to what extent he has undergone this training, namely” - she checked her diary - “by Monday in three weeks’ time. Then the deadline for pleadings is 17th October and judgment will be given on 7th November.”

She dictated her decision into her dictaphone. Then she looked at both counsel. “Anything else?”

Anthea and Mrs. van Grossenburg both shook their heads.

“Good, then thank you very much.”

Everybody got up from their seats and starting packing up. I approached Jean. “I’m sorry, Jean. I hope you will be happy.”

He smiled sadly. “Merci. I hope the same for you.” Oh, that French accent. Still charming.

“I could use a drink now,” I joked. “But unfortunately I have to go back to the office. Bye.”

“Au revoir, Chloé. Give my love to the girls.”

And that was that.

* * *

It was loud, steamy and smelled of Chinese food. But the noodles were delicious and a welcome change from the usual sushi. Patricia was sitting opposite me on a wooden bench and sipped her green tea, lost in thought.

“Gosh. I can’t believe you’re divorced now. Six years ago I was at your wedding,” she declared.

“Yes.” I looked around. In this place, like in many other lunchtime hot spots, you had to watch what you were saying. You might sit next to other lawyers and bankers whose ear’s would prick up when hearing specific names mentioned. In particular, if you knew a lawyer colleague or banker client not personally but by name only - which is more often the case than not, considering modern forms of communication - there was an even greater danger of sharing your secrets with a stranger who happened to be interested in them. At this moment, there were already four people I knew by sight. I leaned towards Patricia. “Shh. This place has ears.”

“Oh, right, sorry. I don’t know anybody here.”

“But I do. The two guys over there, they are lawyers at Howard Hewitt; that woman with what looks like a blonde wig is or at least was at Solomons, and the Asian girl there is at Deutsche Bank.”

“One of the HH guys looks cute,” Patricia remarked, unimpressed.

“Patricia! He is a boring German lawyer!”

“So what - I’m married to one. I can’t tell you how fed up I am, Chloé. Michael and I were invited to this dinner at the Union Club and, of course, I had to go alone again. With my state of mind, of course I got drunk; I don’t even remember how I got home. But when I did, Michael woke up and had a real go at me so I slept on the sofa.” She sighed. “That’s becoming standard practice now. Oh, that reminds me, I meant to ask you - what’s the name of Jean’s lawyer?”

“Elizabeth van Grossenburg. Why?”

“Because she sat next to me at that dinner I just mentioned. What an arrogant cow! She was actually talking about how her client is French and suing his wife who was a partner in a big law firm. I interrupted her and told her that I might well know the person she was referring to and that this wife was my friend. She looked me up and down and said in this arrogant bitchy voice Oooh, well, I seeee. Then she stopped talking about it - at least while I was there.” Patricia imitated the arrogant-despicable facial expression which I had had the pleasure to enjoy just a day earlier.

“Yep. That’s her. That’s so unprofessional - you don’t discuss your client’s private matters at a dinner party.” I shook my head in disapproval.

“As I said, she is a stupid bitch. Don’t worry, she didn’t say your name.”

I silently dabbled in my bowl of noodles.

“So, tell me, Chloé. How do you feel?”

“Hm. Relieved. Sad. Disappointed and disillusioned. Guilty. Free.”

“You know, I never told you this, but at your wedding dinner, Michael and I saw you and Jean arguing and Michael said to me: they will not last five years.”

“He was right. Technically of course the marriage lasted six years, but he was right.”

“Yeah,” Patricia confirmed. “And I’m still married to Michael. I remember I felt awful that day - I had bought this lovely Prada outfit months before and then Michael got me pregnant again and all I could wear from the outfit were the shoes.”

“You looked lovely, though, Patricia - your belly was tiny! Yes, Jean and I argued a few times that night. In particular when Noëlle couldn’t get to sleep and was crying and asking for me - you know what he said? He said ‘zere are enough people to look after her, zeez eez my wedding-eh’. “

Patricia laughed. “Sorry. I know that’s not funny.”

I smiled sadly. “I was so upset that he was so selfish and did not understand that I needed to look after my little daughter for a while. Especially because he had always been so lovely with Noëlle - I mean, I don’t think I would have married him if it hadn’t been for the love at first sight between him and her. He is the only father she has known!”

“That’s true. He was, and he still is - he makes no difference, emotionally, between Noëlle and Marie, does he? You know, Chloé, you really have to give him credit for that.”

“Yes, I know. He still wants more money from me though and he has never paid a cent for the girls, let alone his own daughter.”

“That’s so dishonourable!”

“Maybe he is now showing his true character. On the other hand, he was very angry and depressed after our separation - he kept blaming me for, as he put it, ‘throwing him away’.”

“Obviously his ego could not take that.”

“Maybe. He quite liked to be the centre of attention. It was like he would compete with me for the sake of it. At his cousin’s wedding for example, I wore this gorgeous red Valentino dress in the evening and even I was quite pleased with myself - but I was virtually ignored by everybody because he had this new coat-length dinner jacket and people would compliment him on his outfit.”

“He would always tell people how gorgeous you were though.”

“Yes, he did - in my presence. But when we were alone, he would tell me that I was such a control freak and so tense about tidiness and money. He would say in the nicest way ‘Chloé, you are a wonderful woman but you are not normal, you need a psychologe’. It was like brainwashing me. I believed him, until I went to see a psychologist who told me there was nothing ‘wrong’ with me as such and that I was like any grown-up who has normal neuroses.” I sighed. “I think I really did try to make it work, Patricia, but we were just not on the same level of communication. It wasn’t a language thing. Perhaps I just didn’t bring out the best in him. He didn’t bring out the best in me. So, really, it was better to make a painful break than to draw out the agony.”

“I think you’ve done the right thing. How did Hugo react to you being divorced now? I thought he might propose to you on the same day!”

“No! Good god, no!” I exclaimed without thinking.

“That’s a fierce reaction! Were you not expecting it - or even hoping for it?”

“Not really - the last thing I want is to get married again! Or have a child. I have fought so long for my liberty. I just want to be free. Have my own house. With my girls.”

Were we not already enough as a family? Marie’s favourite song currently was We are Family. I knew she considered her mother, her sister and herself as being that family.

“Wow, you want to buy a house? That’s fantastic!”

“Yes, I am looking around. I don’t want to live in Hugo’s place, if we were to separate...”

“Who said anything about separating?” Patricia stared at me in surprise.

I backtracked. “No, no. I’m not saying we will separate. But, if I’m honest, things haven’t been great, as you know. If I’m going to tell Hugo that I don’t want to get married again or have more children, well he should be free to find a woman who does.”

“That sounds very cold and rational. If he really loves you, that won’t matter.”

I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Patricia, be realistic. Anyway, there’s no use talking about it. Let’s eat up - I want to have a quick look at some winter coats before I go back to the fun factory!”

Patricia giggled. “The fun factory - I am soo glad I don’t have to go and work at Howard Hewitt anymore! Urgh, can you imagine?”

I contemplated Patricia in her Hermès-laden outfit. “No way.”

“Exactly. Oh, and can we go to Cartier, too? Michael said he might allow me to buy a ballon bleu watch as my Christmas present from him.”

“Really? Wow, that’s generous of him! Of course we can!” I waved at the waitress to get the bill.

* * *

Cartier was just around the corner. While Patricia was shown different versions of the ballon bleu I browsed the rings on display. I couldn’t really wear the Trinity ring, that had the names of Jean, Noëlle and Marie engraved on it, any longer. That is when I saw it. Brushed white gold, about one centimetre in width, with the Cartier double C in the middle which was encrusted with diamonds. Ohhhh. I was in love. With a ring. But I could hardly buy that for myself. Theoretically I had the means to buy it, but such a special ring should be given to a woman by a man - for a special occasion or simply because he adores her (and can afford to buy it). A sales assistant appeared by my side. She must have sensed my interest.

“May I show you any particular piece?” she asked gently. She had obviously noticed my steel Roadster watch on my left wrist and accepted me as a Cartier client.

I looked at her regretfully. “No, thank you very much. I was just admiring this lovely ring while waiting for my friend.” I pointed at the ring and then at Patricia.

The sales assistant leaned over the showcase. “Do you mean the one in the middle? That is the last one in the old design - next year there will be a newly designed C-motive ring.” She unlocked the case and took it out, placing it carefully on a red velvet tray.

“Oh really? That is a pity - it is a gorgeous ring. May I ask its price?”

“In this size about two thousand - I would have to check for the exact price.”

Two thousand? I would have thought it more expensive. “That’s fine - don’t trouble yourself,” I declined politely.

“What’s going on?” Patricia appeared. She looked at the ring. “Oooh, very nice.”

I sighed. “Yes, it is beautiful.” I smiled again at the assistant with regret. “Thank you.”

“You are very welcome.”

“Did you find your watch?” I asked Patricia.

“I am not sure which one I want - the yellow or white gold one. I’ll come back, with Michael perhaps - if he ever has time.”

“Right, let’s go then - I have to go back to the office.”

As we left the shop I thought of what the hotel manager insinuatingly says to Richard Gere’s character in Pretty Woman, when the latter returns the diamond necklace worn by Julia Roberts’ character to the opera: ‘It must be difficult to let go of something so beautiful’. It was indeed difficult. But maybe this ring - and what it represented for me - would one day come to me after all.

I walked back to the P&W building, crossed the entrance lobby and just managed to squeeze into a lift as the doors were closing.

“Hold it!” a male voice shouted as the doors were nearly closed. I quickly pressed the hold button.

“Thank you - oh, my learned colleague!” Michael Stone entered.

“Hello! What a coincidence - I just had lunch with your wife!”

Michael made a sarcastic expression. “Well, that must have been a very important meeting.”

I raised my right eyebrow. “It was, actually.”

“Oh yes, of course - did you not have your divorce hearing?” he asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“Well then - congratulations.” His voice was now dripping with sarcasm.

“Hm.” What was I to say to that.

He noticed my displeasure. “Now, it’s not really great, is it Chloé? A single mother with a full-time job in our world - I don’t know how you think you’ll manage in the long run.”

“Excuse me? A divorce does not make any difference!” I did not know whether to take him seriously.

Ping. The lift stopped. We had arrived on our floor. Michael charged ahead and held the door, leading to our offices, open for me. “Well then, have fun. Bye.”

He paced into the direction of his office while I slowly, and in a bit of a dither, turned the other way towards mine. Did he really mean that? Back in my office I sat down on my chair without taking off my coat, staring at the black computer screen. I activated it and clicked on my time entries. I already had over two hundred billable hours for this month, and it had yet to end. What did he mean I would not manage? Had I not sufficiently proved it? Just you wait. If I achieved two hundred and fifty hours this month he would no longer doubt me. Obviously only the financial figures mattered to the Partners. I knew this only too well. Only the figures counted; everything else was negligible. After all I was in one of the most conservative professions. Lawyers don’t like not being able to pigeonhole a colleague. To them, the best lifestyle would still be that in which they preferred to see themselves as having: an (outwardly) stable family life where the husband works hard, pays the bills and drives a big car whilst the neat, but not too attractive, good wife looks after their home, their two to three children and their dog. Naturally the ‘good wife’ doesn’t work at all or at most has an non-strenuous part-time job. All lawyers living outside that box - unmarried women of child-bearing age, single mothers, homosexuals, foreigners and handicapped - would be regarded with distrust and have to work even harder in order to prove themselves.

I shook my head imperceptibly. No, I would not accept this. There was still a lot of work to be done, in every sense.