He leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘Jokes aside, how are you getting on there?’
Zara measured her words before speaking. ‘It’s everything I thought it would be.’
He took a sip of his drink. ‘I won’t ask if that’s good or bad. What are you working on?’
She grimaced. ‘I’ve got this local girl, a teenager, pregnant by her mother’s boyfriend. He’s a thug through and through. I’m trying to get her out of there.’
Safran swirled his glass on the table, making the ice cubes clink. ‘It sounds very noble. Are you happy?’
She scoffed. ‘Are you?’
He paused momentarily. ‘I think I’m getting there, yeah.’
She narrowed her eyes in doubt. ‘Smart people are never happy. Their expectations are too high.’
‘Then you must be the unhappiest of us all.’ Their eyes locked for a moment. Without elaborating, he changed the subject. ‘So, I have a new one for you.’
She groaned.
‘What do you have if three lawyers are buried up to their necks in cement?’
‘I don’t know. What do I have?’
‘Not enough cement.’
She shook her head, a smile curling at the corner of her lips.
‘Ah, they’re getting better!’ he said.
‘No. I just haven’t heard one in a while.’
Safran laughed and raised his drink. ‘Here’s to you, Zar – boldly going where no high-flying, sane lawyer has ever gone before.’
She raised her glass, threw back her head and drank.
Artemis House on Whitechapel Road was cramped but comfortable and the streets outside echoed with charm. There were no anodyne courtyards teeming with suits, no sand-blasted buildings that gleamed on high. The trust-fund kids in the modern block round the corner were long scared off by the social housing quota. East London was, Zara wryly noted, as multicultural and insular as ever.
Her office was on the fourth floor of a boxy grey building with stark pebbledash walls and seven storeys of uniformly grimy windows. Her fibreboard desk with its oak veneer sat in exactly the wrong spot to catch a breeze in the summer and any heat in the winter. She had tried to move it once but found she could no longer open her office door.
She hunched over her weathered keyboard, arranging words, then rearranging them. Part of her role as an independent sexual violence advisor was filtering out the complicated language that had so long served as her arsenal – not only the legalese but the theatrics and rhetoric. There was no need for it here. Her role at the sexual assault referral centre, or SARC, was to support rape victims and to present the facts clearly and comprehensively so they could be knitted together in language that was easy to digest. Her team worked tirelessly to arch the gap between right and wrong, between the spoken truth and that which lay beneath it. The difference they made was visible, tangible and repeatedly affirmed that Zara had made the right decision in leaving Bedford Row.
Despite this assurance, however, she found it hard to focus. She did good work – she knew that – but her efforts seemed insipidly grey next to those around her, a ragtag group of lawyers, doctors, interpreters and volunteers. Their dedication glowed bright in its quest for truth, flowed tirelessly in the battle for justice. Their lunchtime debates were loud and electric, their collective passion formidable in its strength. In comparison her efforts felt listless and weak, and there was no room for apathy here. She had moved three miles from chambers and found herself in the real East End, a place in which sentiment and emotion were unvarnished by decorum. You couldn’t coast here. There was no shield of bureaucracy, no room for bluff or bluster. Here, there was nothing behind which to hide.
Zara read over the words on the screen, her fingers immobile above the keys. She edited the final line of the letter and saved it to the network. Just as she closed the file, she heard a knock on her door.
Stuart Cook, the centre’s founder, walked in and placed a thin blue folder on her desk. He pulled back a chair and sat down opposite. Despite his unruly blond hair and an eye that looked slightly to the left of where he aimed it, Stuart was a handsome man. At thirty-nine, he had an old-money pedigree and an unwavering desire to help the weak. Those more cynical than he accused him of having a saviour complex but he paid this no attention. He knew his team made a difference to people’s lives and it was only this that mattered. He had met Zara at a conference on diversity and the law, and when she quit he was the first knocking on her door.
He gestured now to the file on her desk. ‘Do you think you can take a look at this for the San Telmo case? Just see if there’s anything to worry about.’
Zara flicked through the file. ‘Of course. When do you need it by?’
He smiled impishly. ‘This afternoon.’
Zara whistled, low and soft. ‘Okay, but I’m going to need coffee.’
‘What am I? The intern?’
She smiled. ‘All I’m saying is I’m going to need coffee.’
‘Fine.’ Stuart stood and tucked the chair beneath the desk. ‘You’re lucky you’re good.’
‘I’m good because I’m good.’
Stuart chuckled and left with thanks. A second later, he stuck his head back in. ‘I forgot to mention: Lisa from the Paddington SARC called. I know you’re not in the pit today but do you think you can take a case? The client is closer to us than them.’
‘Yes, that should be fine.’
‘Great. She – Jodie Wolfe – is coming in to see you at eleven.’
Zara glanced at her watch. ‘Do you know anything about the case?’
Stuart shook his head. ‘Abigail’s sorted it with security and booked the Lincoln meeting room. That’s all I know – sorry.’
‘Okay, thanks. I’ll go over now if it’s free.’ She gestured at the newest pile of paper on her desk. ‘This has got to the tipping point.’
Carefully, she gathered an armful of folders and balanced her laptop on top. Adding a box of tissues to the pile, she gingerly walked to ‘the pit’. This was the central nervous system of Artemis House, the hub in which all clients were received and assigned a caseworker. It was painted a pale yellow – ‘summer meadow’ it had said on the tin – with soft lighting and pastel furnishings. Pictures of lilies and sacks of brightly coloured