The Break-Up Clause by Niamh Hargan
Chapter Thirty-Six
The following day consists of ZOLA’s staff again being divided into groups, this time at the hotel, alternately participating in team-building activities (Fia has her two truths and a lie already locked and loaded) and thinking quite serious thoughts about the law.
Later that evening, Fia walks back into Garrett Castle with just minutes to spare – she’s been like a yo-yo today, having had to return home again in the afternoon to get changed. Not for the first time, it occurs to her that it would probably have been much simpler to just stay down here for the whole Summit. That’s how she’s explained to her parents that she’ll be staying tonight: a matter of pure convenience.
In the ballroom, other people are already beginning to take their seats, and Fia rushes to consult the chart. She sees, with some surprise, that she’s been graced with a seat at Celia Hannity’s table. It’s Celia, a few other partners – including her old boss Damien from the Dublin office – plus miscellaneous senior associates from different branches. She is going to be the most junior person at the table. Of course, she notices that. To be a lawyer at a large firm is to be unrelentingly aware of the hierarchy, your own place within it, and any microinteractions that might indicate an imminent climb or fall.
In fact, though, as Fia takes her seat, as the goat’s cheese tartlet turns to the salmon-or-beef, and one glass of champagne turns to two or three, she somehow finds that sense of the pecking order melting away. Maybe, she thinks, this is exactly the point of the Summer Summit. Maybe somebody, somewhere, had the wisdom to know that a few days away from one’s usual routines, usual friendships, usual clothes would be just the ticket for breaking down some barriers.
Undeniably, it is sort of fun to take in the grandeur of the space, the slight sense of excess to it all, with everyone dressed in their finery. Most of Fia’s normal life seems to be spent in either a suit or in running gear. In the slice of time that remains, she’s a fairly simple dresser. She’s not a sequins-just-because type of girl. Tonight, though, she’s borrowed a frock from Maeve – an over-the-head, no-zips-or-buttons number that falls to the ground in a sheath of shimmery gold. Maeve was also drafted in to create some sort of chignon at the back of Fia’s head – not a million miles from her usual workplace bun, but a little softer, wisps of hair left loose to frame her face.
The whole combination of factors seems to conspire to make her feel like a slightly different person tonight. Certainly not the version of herself who, just hours ago, sat in an old dressing gown while her little sister did her hair, dripping the juice from a peach down her chin and cackling with laughter – but then, not quite her typical ZOLA self, either. A more glamorous version of that, perhaps: a lawyer like the ones on television, whose days seemed to involve a lot of sex and not much photocopying.
Celia encourages her to tell their tablemates about a recent case, and as Fia does just that, some hybrid of excitement and contentment buzzes in the back of her mind. This train, she thinks, is well and truly on the tracks. How incredible, after all the anxiety of recent weeks, to know that for sure. Despite a few close shaves along the way, she’s somehow managed not to fuck up at least this one thing, embarrassingly, keen for any new morsel of information.
It was true, what she told Benjamin that night on the roof: she has no great love for the inherent substance of her work – none whatsoever. She was not born caring about powers of attorney, and she will not die caring about them. But the feeling of accomplishment, the feeling that she is at last beginning to be properly noticed, valued … if there is a person alive who doesn’t enjoy those things, Fia would like to meet them.
Benjamin, incidentally, is way across the room right now at another (less illustrious) table. The two of them having been placed in separate groups for today’s activities, she hasn’t seen him since the beach yesterday. However, she’s let herself observe him over the first two courses of this evening’s meal – just for a few seconds here or there, watching as he nodded along in conversation.
‘Seemed a very civil fella, that Benjamin,’ her mother said when Fia arrived home yesterday. ‘And very easy to feed.’
Fia just chuckled. Overall, she finds stereotypes about Irish mammies to be incredibly wearying. She has never heard her own mother so much as mention immersion heaters or wooden spoons, for instance. Undeniably, though, perhaps it is the fate of every Irish person to veer occasionally towards the caricature version of themselves. And one of Rosemary Callaghan’s absolute favourite qualities in another human being is willingness to eat what is put in front of them. Woe betide the vegan, the coeliac, or the fusspot who enters her kitchen.
‘What did the two of you talk about at breakfast?’ she asked her mam, then. Had he said anything about what he planned to do after the summer, she wondered to herself silently. Or even about Fia herself? As regards the latter, especially, she found herself almost unbearably, embarrassingly, keen for any new morsel of information.
Her mother, however, was of no help whatsoever.
‘Oh, just this and that,’ she replied breezily. ‘Isn’t it great how he’s having the career change? I couldn’t believe it when he told me he’d never had a sausage sandwich in his life. And them such fans of the hot dog in America. You wouldn’t just run that parcel in next door there, would you, Fia? I’ve told the postman a dozen times that we’re number 24 and they’re number 26, but sure what’s the use? Any more of a dope and, I’m telling you, that fella would need watering twice a day.’
By the time the dessert plates and coffee cups are cleared, there is the usual sense of release that comes with the end of speeches and a sit-down meal. Everyone is ready to get up and mingle, and Garrett Castle is perfectly appointed for just that. Outside the ballroom, the whole ground floor appears to be one reception space after another: a reading room here, another little nook there, and in the entire north-east corner of the hotel, a large extended lounge area.
Plush floral sofas are arranged in clusters, and Fia sinks down into one, among a bunch of people she knows. Someone from the London office with whom she’s had many a chat at Summer Summits past presses a white wine into her hands, and Fia takes it with a grateful smile. No matter the apparent success of dinner, there’s a certain relief in finding herself back with those of her own age and stage.
Ryan shows up not too long after – handsome as ever in his suit, smiling as he settles himself beside her on the sofa, his hip nestled against hers. Of course, their history has taught them nothing if not discretion. Surrounded as they are by others, there are no wandering hands, no flirtatious comments – the occasional secret smirk or raised eyebrow from Ryan is about as risqué as things get.
Sadly, however, Fia can hardly even enjoy it. She can’t enjoy it because she’s distracted – and, specifically, she’s distracted by Benjamin Lowry.
Benjamin, in the far corner of the room near the bar, looking at her.
Over and over, she feels his eyes on her. She can just sense it. Each time she turns her neck in his direction, though, he’s already looking away, all innocence. Has the reverse been happening a little bit, too? Fia could neither confirm nor deny.
This time, however, it’s different. When Fia casually lets her glance wander over towards Benjamin, he is nowhere to be seen. She scans the room, feeling her heartbeat quicken in her chest, and … it’s true. He appears to be gone altogether.
She turns her attention back to her group, doing her best to concentrate on the story someone is telling – but the feeling in her stomach as she looks at Ryan suddenly makes at least one thing undeniably clear to her.
‘I’ll be back in a sec, okay? I’m just going to run to the bathroom,’ she murmurs to him, barely awaiting his nod before she slips away.
She doesn’t go to the bathroom, though. She goes, instead, out to the hotel lobby, a little away from the cacophony of people. Then, one quick phone call later (and a few minutes to try to settle herself), she’s headed back to the lounge. She’s just approaching its open doorway, in fact, when suddenly, there he is.
Right in front of her, for the first time all day, it’s her summer associate.