“You’ve got to do something, really. I can’t even touch you.”
“I could send you to hell. With the help of these arms.”
Paul does not stop touching them, testing their strength.
“Could you please stop?”
He raises his arms and steps back, then straightens his tie. “Shall we go meet our client?”
“Tell me he’s at least paying, please.”
“Uh…”
“Paul!” I say between my teeth. I don’t want to shout and attract our new client’s attention.
“You know we get a pro bono from time to time, for tax, image…”
“I hate you.”
“That’s not true.”
The client glances unconsciously in our direction, making us both sit up straight and forcing us to end our conversation and join him in the waiting room. I adjust my tie as I walk down the corridor, followed by Paul and his slapping face, then stop in front of him and clear my throat.
“Mr…”
“Graham,” Paul suggests.
“Mr Graham, I’m Mr Kennedy.” I hold out my hand. He takes it.
A weak, distracted grip. A sweaty hand.
We are not doing well at all.
“Seth, please. Just Seth. When I hear Mr Graham, I immediately think of my father, and that’s certainly not a pleasant thought.”
“Mr Graham,” I repeat, to clarify that point one, we are not in confidence; point two, we will not become friends; point three, he should not speak unless asked; point four, we will get nowhere with this attitude. “I will look into your case.”
“Look into it?” He asks hesitantly.
The person with him stands up immediately and puts a hand on his shoulder.
“That’s what I said. Before I decide whether to accept the case.”
“Oh, sure… I understand.”
“If you want to follow me to my office,” I point down the corridor. “Alone,” I specify in a peremptory tone.
“I’ll wait for you here, don’t worry,” the other says, encouraging him.
“I’ll leave you then,” Paul announces before disappearing, not without getting another dirty look from yours truly.
“Why don’t we…” I point again at my office, arm outstretched, hand open.
He walks ahead of me into my office, turning to face me as I close the door behind me. I give him a quick look as I walk around the desk to sit down.
It only takes a few seconds for me to realise that we don’t stand a chance.
Apart from his helpless puppy-dog look, his submissive and uncertain manner, his insecure walk, his hunched posture, his nervous hands now sliding down his jeans, not to mention the last night’s make-up, which he had obviously not completely removed before going to bed, the fact remains that he is single, gay, broke and certainly in a precarious job or worse, of dubious morals. At the same time, the other party is a wealthy lady representing a good family with a large and comfortable house, a bevvy of lawyers ready to tear us to shreds, and probably a bevvy of witnesses prepared to refute our every argument.
