‘Black thanks, Michael,’ she said, smoothing her hair. A liveried butler noted her order on a pad and glided out.
And there were the boxes. As much as she tried to affect nonchalance, they pulled her gaze like tiny black holes. Small, black and velvet-lined, one sat in front of each of the Partners, like miniature portals to the other side. The side of Partnership: of three-course gratis lunches, 10am starts and 4pm knock-offs. Of calling the shots instead of taking them in the tit. Of profit sharing. And no more bloody billable hour targets. All of which, as every Senior Associate had engraved on their heart, spelled unimaginable freedom, respite, and bliss.
Despite the promise of all that, however, there were only three applicants this year: herself; a scary-brilliant patent lawyer called Dr Margaret Minters; and some young upstart from tax who fancied his chances of ascension before thirty like they all did. But the boxes were what she was focused on – if only sheer force of intention could compel their contents one way and not the other, like she seemed to be able to do for everything else in her life. The boxes each contained two marbles: one yellow, one blue. When the time came, the silver canister in front of Michael would be handed around and each partner would deposit a yellow or a blue; in conscious adaptation of the archaic ritual, a single blue was sufficient to kill her application.
‘Well,’ said Michael, surveying the faces. ‘I think we’d all agree. Ms Mitsok has put in a very impressive application.’ There came a general murmuring of agreement, and Cressida flushed. Relax, she thought. Your arms are water. ‘For my part,’ he said, turning to her, ‘I am certain you would be a wonderful addition to the Partnership.’
‘Thank you,’ said Cressida, proffering a carefully modulated smile.
‘But this is an opportunity for questions. To iron out any remaining issues. If there are any, of course …’ He regarded the room. ‘Partners?’
Cressida watched and waited as little butterflies flip-flopped in her stomach. Richard Branagan, her direct supervising partner in Building & Construction, gave her an encouraging smile from halfway down the table and she smiled back. In an hour I’m meeting Felipe at the Westin, she thought. And the delightful Tiffany D. In the ‘modern master bedroom well-appointed for quiet yet energising escapes’. Chocolate. Porsche. Yacht.
For a moment there was silence, and for a second, then another, there came a flush of hope – would they go straight to the vote? The Managing Partner would pick up that canister, she’d be asked to wait again outside, and they’d go straight to popping in their little marbles. She swallowed, smiling.
But then a voice began from down the table.
‘You do realise …’
Cressida searched quickly for its owner. Ah yes. Foster. Sixtyish, grey tie, Insurance. He’d never liked her. She braced herself but regarded him coolly.
‘… that you’ll be the youngest female appointment to Partnership in this firm’s sixty-six year history?’
She feigned surprise. ‘No,’ she said, smiling. ‘Well. I apologise that it took me so long.’
A chuckle ran the length of the table and Cressida relaxed, just an inch.
‘But doesn’t that mean, Miss Mitsok,’ another voice piped up. Fuck. ‘… that you’re likely to have other priorities soon? Family, for example?’
Her heart dropped to her stomach. Wenn Davis, Perth Environment and Planning; no women in his practice. Her mind raced. Could he really, actually ask that? But that was the thing, she knew. He bloody could. He could ask anything, especially when confidentiality undertakings bound everything HR that ever happened at the firm. And yet – the appearance of gender tolerance was also essential, so duly there was a rustle of concern at his words. Knowing the territory, Davis pressed on.
‘Come, gentlemen,’ he chided them. ‘We all know this meeting is entirely in camera. There has to be an honest discussion – the firm’s future relies on it.’
Cressida held up her hand, palm out, all reason and measure.
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘If you’re wondering whether I’m going to disappear in a few years – abandoning the firm’s most important clients to the demands of … motherhood, for example’ – she spoke the word with distaste – ‘the answer is no. I’ll be quite content as a childless Alpha Female with several million in blue chip, thanks.’ And thank God Felipe wasn’t clucky. ‘Have you heard how expensive those child creatures are? I’d rather keep the money myself.’
The table laughed, more warmly this time. Cressida chalked up another point in her favour. Her coffee arrived and she sipped it, scalding herself but not flinching. The butler retreated to a corner and waited.
‘Well,’ the Managing Partner said as the room settled, ‘if there are no other questions?’ He reached for the black compendium in front of him, and Cressida’s stomach did somersaults.
‘Hang on a minute, Michael.’ The assembled heads turned, and a tiny frown creased Cressida’s brow. So there was a woman in the room after all. And one Cressida didn’t recognise. That was odd. Almost every single staffer of Hannes Swartling she knew either by introduction and careful grooming during the time she had been with the firm, or from memorising their bios on the firm website. But she didn’t remember this face. For something to do she picked up her coffee cup and sipped it, but it was empty and she put it down again.
‘I see from your application that you’re a building and construction lawyer,’ the woman said. ‘But some time ago you spent’ – she inspected the document in front of her – ‘two years at ASIC. Prosecuting white-collar crime, of all things. Just on that … Do you anticipate your relationship with your father will affect your role in the Partnership?’
Cressida blinked. One. It only took one.
‘I’m sorry, and you are …?’
‘Ah, Cressida,’ Michael said, turning to her, ‘this is Debra Bollos. Up from Melbourne. New Head of Finance down there. But you’ve been most recently in our Hong Kong office, is that right, Debra?’
‘Five years,’ the woman said, with an eye-roll that seemed meant to speak volumes. About what, exactly, Cressida wasn’t sure. Her own Southeast Asian work had been the highlight of her career – plenty of work, distant supervision, and a lean enough team to be able to get on with it. Plus Asian men were much more polite to women, she’d found. The Muslim countries had been the best – unlike most Australian male lawyers she’d worked with, they didn’t drink alcohol like drains.
A man in a green tie next to her leant forward. ‘Actually yes,’ he said, while Cressida racked her brain for his name. Andrew somebody; Tax, Melbourne.
‘Ah. Andrew, hello,’ said Cressida.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Yes, I was going to ask about that.’ He glanced at Debra. ‘He’s coming up for parole soon, isn’t he?’
Cressida stared. Four years it had been since her father had been arrested, seven since he’d been found out, and here they were, questioning her about it as if it was yesterday. She swallowed and spoke.
‘Debra, Andrew,’ she began. ‘My father’s past in this firm has nothing to do with mine.’ She turned to the Managing Partner, letting a sliver of irritation grate. ‘Surely my application is sufficient on its face without needing to refer to irrelevant matters.’ She regarded the rest of the table again. Her people. Something these two irrelevant anomalies were not. ‘Those that know me know this