The Break-Up Clause by Niamh Hargan
Chapter Twenty-Two
Fia practically giggles all the way back to ZOLA. Even when she has returned to her desk, with all sorts of other work matters to absorb her attention, she can’t seem to help the sniggers that burst forth periodically. The sound pierces the silence of their little room, and Benjamin no longer needs to ask what’s so funny.
‘Sorry,’ she tells him, not sounding hugely sorry. ‘I just—’ Another snort of laughter, another half-hearted attempt to smother it. ‘I’m sorry.’
There is, by now, an almost permanent expression of chagrin on Benjamin’s face. And, really, Fia knows she should try to be more sensitive. She supposes she cannot entirely blame him if – in the period since finding her here, at the firm – he hasn’t exactly been at his most logical. She hasn’t been at her most logical.
The remainder of their meeting with Susan was fairly uneventful. It didn’t take long for the other woman to accept, once and for all, that she was on a hiding to nothing, as far as the emotional availability of her clients went. None of her questions or insights – none of the ways she must usually have been able to draw people out, bring them together – seemed to quite apply to the situation at hand. Any sort of romantic reconciliation was off the cards.
Onwards, then, to the practicalities of separation. The good news was that neither Fia nor Benjamin wanted to take anything from (or give anything to) the other. As such, there wasn’t much to thrash out there. It was agreed that Susan would email both parties a form to complete and sign, and that they would all three meet just once more to approve Susan’s draft marital settlement agreement. After that, Susan would file said agreement with the court. A judge would stamp it, issue a final degree of divorce, and they were done. Easy.
It’s almost 6 p.m. when Fia receives the follow-up email from Susan, and she glances over at Benjamin, a moment of silent recognition passing between them. He’s received one, too.
‘I guess the seventh won’t work since we’re in Dublin,’ he says then, no preamble. ‘But could you do the following week? Or maybe we could even just sign off on the whole thing by email, depending on—’
‘Hang on,’ Fia interrupts, her mind beginning to reel ever so slightly. ‘Go back to that last part. What did you just say?’
‘Susan wants to meet with us again on July seventh to discuss the draft settlement agreement,’ Benjamin says, enunciating deliberately this time, as though, in her, he is faced unavoidably with a moron. ‘But that’s when you and I are out of town for the Summer Summit, and so I thought … oh.’ Benjamin trails to a stop, his mouth tugging upwards in sly amusement.
Whatever expression is on Fia’s own face right now, she could not precisely say – abject horror, maybe, disbelief. In any case, as the seconds pass and the silence stretches out, it seems like Benjamin is getting the picture.
‘… Did you not know?’ he asks, a new impishness in his voice. ‘The summer associates are going on that now.’
And, all of a sudden, it is as though Fia is propelled by some force outside herself. Leaving Benjamin there in her (their) office, perhaps literally mid-sentence, she takes off like a rocket.
Why does she do it? Why doesn’t she simply address the matter with Benjamin directly? She doesn’t know. But, for whatever reason, Fia speeds all the way to the far side of the fifty-eighth floor – no small distance away – until she’s approaching Celia Hannity’s corner office. Then, in those last few seconds, she reduces her pace a bit, smooths her hands over her suit, tries generally to create a slightly less frenzied impression before she appears in her boss’s view.
For a moment, the two exchange pleasantries, Fia hovering in Celia’s doorway. That can only last so long, though. Fia would simply never, in ordinary circumstances, come to an equity partner for random chit-chat. It is for this reason that she finds herself making up some bullshit question about a probate case, purely by way of explaining her own lingering presence. This really isn’t ideal. She isn’t afraid to ask Celia things, but she normally takes a lot of care to make sure these aren’t things she could possibly find out via any other resource available to her. Celia is always fair, but she does not suffer fools.
When they’re done with that whole charade, Fia, as casually as she can muster, says, ‘By the way, Celia, the, uh … the summer associates aren’t coming to the Summer Summit are they?’
‘No, they are,’ Celia corrects. ‘Did you miss the email about it last week?’
Quite likely Fia has missed the email. She gets a million fucking emails every minute of the day. This – a thing she can never say out loud – sometimes feels like the central truth of her professional existence.
‘But … the paralegals don’t come,’ she all but bleats. ‘Or the PAs.’
At this, Celia looks more than slightly perturbed. ‘Fia, the summer associates aren’t paralegals or PAs. The summer associates are the future of the profession – the future of this firm. And it’s important for them to have some insight into the cross-jurisdictional nature of our work here at ZOLA. That’s why we decided to invite them this year. Really, we should have been doing it long before now. I’ve been saying so for years, but not all the equity partners were … like-minded.’
Celia’s frustration with her fellow partners is thinly veiled, and likewise, Fia can sense that the older woman is somewhat disappointed in her now,too – in her failure to fully embrace the firm’s ethos or whatnot. She sets about redeeming herself at short notice.
‘Right. Of course. That makes total sense,’ she says, doing her best to sound enthusiastic, or at least to sound normal.
Perhaps she doesn’t quite get there, though, because Celia’s eyes narrow.
‘Is there something I need to know, with you and Benjamin?’
‘What? No!’
‘Because if you’re having some sort of an issue – if you guys just aren’t gelling, or if there’s anything else … challenging happening … I can’t help you unless you tell me about it.’
And, for the briefest of brief seconds, Fia actually does consider telling Celia all about it – the whole mess. There would be a relief in doing so, she’s sure. But then, she gets a hold of herself. Along with the relief, there’d be a bunch of other stuff, too: the mortification, the very real fear for her future.
‘No, no, everything’s good,’ she replies.
‘You sure? I’d like to think we’ve made some kind of progress since I was your age, but I don’t know. Some guys still can’t seem to see a woman for anything other than T&A.’
This time, Fia catches her boss’s meaning exactly. She’s fairly horrified by the impression she might have inadvertently given Celia.
‘Oh, no!’ she replies, more fulsomely. ‘There’s nothing like that with Benjamin. He’s great. Honestly. No problem at all.’
She smiles brightly, even as this new reality settles like lead in her stomach: Benjamin Lowry – not just here, but in Dublin, too, encroaching on her much-anticipated safe haven.
At least, however, he is not a sex pest. She can say that much for him.