Layla’s phone rings all morning. Interviews. A death threat. Her mother. A death threat. Phillip Grayson wanting her to “pop into the office for a talk.” And yet another death threat. She sits on the stairs outside her flat door. She can hear her home phone ringing nonstop inside.
If the truth be told, Layla’s petrified. Not just because of the death threats, but because there’s no turning back now. She’ll have to make a list of all the things she needs. Office space. A barrister. A paralegal. God Almighty, she’ll have to sell her flat and move back in with her parents.
Her mobile rings and she sees her sister’s name.
“If you’re going to speak to the press, Layla, you need to look like a million pounds or they’ll make out that you’re nothing but a council flat girl who has no idea,” Jocelyn says.
“A million isn’t that much these days.”
“Two million, then. So two suits. I’m taking you shopping.”
Jocelyn’s crying. Everyone seems to be these days.
“And if Ali offers you an overdraft, Layla, take it.”
“Well, I’ll think about it, but I may have another way.”
“Layla, do not move back in with Mummy and Baba.”
“Keep telling me that,” Layla says. “I’ll talk to you later.”
She returns Phillip Grayson’s call.
“Come in and let’s talk, Layla,” he says. “If you win this, LeBrac and the Sarrafs will go for compensation. You can’t go after those responsible on your own.”
Can she really still be naive enough to feel surprised? It was always going to be about money for the Graysons of the world.
“Remember when you used to send me out to see the ‘Arab clients,’ as you liked to call them, Phillip?” she says. “Because most of them were old-fashioned and preferred to meet with one of their own kind? So what if they find out that it was you who told the press I was sacked because of my so-called links to a terrorist? I have a feeling they’re going to want to start looking for different legal representation. A firm that doesn’t reek of racism.”
He makes an impatient noise. “Then why call me back, Layla?”
“I want you to swap the word ‘sacked’ for ‘made redundant’ and I want a package. I’ll get back to you with the details. And for your information, Noor LeBrac and the Sarrafs would never go for compensation. Out of respect for the people Louis Sarraf killed.” Layla wishes she had one of those old phones she could slam in his ear.
She hears the sound of the front door opening on the ground floor and tentative footsteps walking towards the stairs.
“Layla?”
Surprised, she peers down the staircase and sees Jemima.
“They’re wasting your time,” Layla calls out. “I’ve already told Grayson what I want.”
Jemima reaches her, holding a takeaway coffee. “Everyone says you’d be a fool not to take the job back.”
“Why, when I can get a redundancy package instead?”
“Enough to pay a paralegal?” Jemima asks.
Layla can’t hide her surprise.
“Offer me a job or you’ll end up with someone like that crap paralegal from Leeds who couldn’t understand your writing.”
Jemima holds out the coffee. “Latte with half a sugar?”
Layla can’t help a smile.
“What else do we need?” Jemima asks.
We. Paralegal. Tick.
Her phone beeps again. “If you’re going to work for me, start by reading this.” She hands the phone to Jemima. “And if it’s a threat, delete it.”
Jemima studies the screen. “Sounds more like a come-on than a threat.”
“Jimmy?”
“Nope. Someone called Rachel.”
Layla’s heartbeat is back to out of control. Forgive me, Jimmy, she thinks, but a come-on from Rachel Ballyntine is what I need at the moment. “What does it say?”
“‘Let’s do this.’”