In My Defence

-Phoebe-

At six o’clock in the morning, the car park was almost empty.

Perfect.

I pulled into one of the spaces near the far end, switched off the engine and glanced at the dashboard clock.

6:00.

Exactly.

I liked exact.

There was something deeply satisfying about starting the day before most people had even considered opening their eyes. No calls. No emails requiring an immediate answer. No client suddenly deciding that something they had ignored for three weeks was now an emergency.

Just quiet.

I picked up my gym bag, locked the car and headed towards the entrance.

The October air was cold enough to wake me properly, although I’d already been awake for nearly an hour.

Alarm at five.

Out of bed by five-oh-three.

Shower.

Hair tied back.

Same drive.

Same car park.

Same routine.

I liked routine.

Routine behaved itself.

People, on the other hand, were less reliable.

I stepped through the glass doors and smiled at the receptionist.

“Morning.”

“Good morning, Phoebe.”

“Morning.”

I tapped my membership card against the reader.

Green.

“Have a good session.”

“Thank you.”

And that was that.

I wasn’t unfriendly.

I felt this was worth clarifying.

I just didn’t understand why every pleasant interaction had to develop into a conversation.

A smile and a good morning were more than enough at six in the morning.

Frankly, they were more than enough at most times of day.

I headed towards the changing rooms and opened locker forty-three.

Not technically mine.

But I had used it so consistently for the last two years that seeing someone else’s belongings inside it now felt vaguely personal.

Thankfully, it was empty.

I changed quickly, tied my hair into a higher ponytail and checked the time.

6:07.

Good.

An hour in the gym.

Shower.

Coffee.

Office.

At my desk by eight.

Simple.

I pushed through the gym doors, put my headphones in and headed for the treadmill.

For the next hour, nobody needed anything from me.

No clients.

No associates.

No trainee standing nervously in my doorway with the wordsHave you got a minute?despite clearly requiring at least twenty.

Nobody asking me to decide something.

Nobody asking me to fix something.

Just me, a treadmill and the comforting knowledge that my phone was in a locker where I could pretend it didn’t exist.

I increased the incline.

This was the best part of the day.

Not because I particularly enjoyed running.

I tolerated running.

There was a difference.

But for an hour, everything narrowed down to something manageable.

Speed.

Incline.

Distance.

Numbers had always been easier than feelings.

Numbers stayed where you put them.

At twenty past six, the doors opened again.

I didn’t look immediately.

I didn’t need to.

He normally arrived around now.

Not that I had been keeping track.

I hadn’t.

You noticed patterns when you saw the same people five mornings a week.

That was all.

He walked past the treadmills.

Tall. Dirty-blond hair. Shorts, despite the fact it was approximately three degrees outside.

Questionable judgement.

Our eyes met.

He smiled.

“Morning.”

I pulled one headphone away.

“Morning.”

Small smile.

Headphone back in.

He carried on towards the weights.

I carried on walking.

That was the extent of our relationship.

If you could call it one.

I didn’t know his name.

He didn’t know mine.

We had crossed paths often enough that eventually pretending we had never seen each other before would have been ridiculous.

At first, we had nodded.

Then he had said hello.

I had said hello back.

Somewhere along the way, it had becomemorning.

Thrilling stuff.

I knew almost nothing about him.

He played tennis.

He seemed to know everyone.

He owned an unreasonable number of quarter-zips.

And he drank a flat white.

I only knew that because he was often ordering one when I went upstairs for coffee.

Not because I paid attention.

There was a difference.

Probably.

At seven exactly, I finished.

He was by the free weights, talking to one of the trainers.

Of course he was.

The receptionists knew him.

The tennis coaches knew him.

The café staff knew him.

I’d even seen him stop to help an elderly member with one of the rowing machines once.

There were people who moved through life collecting acquaintances.

He appeared to be one of them.

I was not.

My circle was small.

Intentionally so.

Too many people meant too many obligations, too many birthdays and too many group chats with forty-seven unread messages because someone had suggested dinner three weeks from Thursday and nobody could agree on a restaurant.

No, thank you.

I showered, dried my hair and changed into a charcoal trouser suit and white shirt.

Work clothes were another form of armour.

Clean lines.

No fuss.

I checked myself in the mirror, added lipstick and slid my watch onto my wrist.

7:26.

On schedule.

Upstairs, the café was warmer than reception, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the grounds.

“Morning, Phoebe.”

“Morning.”

The barista had already reached for a cup.

“Americano?”

“Please.”

“You eating?”

“No.”

“You never eat.”

“I’ll survive.”

“You say that every time.”

“And yet.”

She laughed and handed me the coffee.

I moved towards my usual table by the window.

My phone had been vibrating steadily since I’d taken it out of the locker.

Seven emails.

Two messages.

One missed call.

The day had apparently started without me.

Rude.

I opened my laptop.

The first email was from Clara, my assistant.

Morning. Foster wants to see you when you arrive. Says it’s urgent.

Of course he did.

I replied.

I’ll be in by eight. Tell him to calm down.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

I am absolutely not telling Daniel Foster to calm down.

I smiled.

Coward.

Correct.

The next few emails were predictable.

Drafts.

Clients.

A speaking invitation.

Marketing asking whether I could write eight hundred words about being a woman in law.

I deleted that one.

I was already busy being a woman in law.

I didn’t have time to write about it.

Then:

From: Daniel Foster

Subject: Call me.

No hello.

No explanation.

Classic Daniel.

I reached for my coffee.

“Morning.”

I looked up.

Him again.

Flat white in hand.

Naturally.

“Morning.”

His eyes dropped to the laptop.

“Working already?”

“Unfortunately.”

“That seems bleak.”

“It pays the bills.”

“Fair point.”

He reached for the newspaper on the neighbouring table.

My phone started ringing.

Daniel.

I glanced down.

When I looked up again, the stranger with the flat white had started moving away.

He lifted the coffee slightly.

“Have a good day.”

“You too.”

Then he was gone.

I answered.

“Morning, Daniel.”

“Phoebe. Where are you?”

“At the club.”

“You’re at the gym?”

“I was.”

“At seven thirty?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because generally speaking, Daniel, that’s when I go.”

“I’ve never understood people who exercise before work.”

“And yet you’ve still managed to build a meaningful life.”

“I’ve built a law firm.”

“Debatable whether that counts.”

He exhaled through his nose.

I knew that sound.

The one that meant he was trying not to laugh.

“We’ve got something.”

I closed my laptop.

“What sort of something?”

“A large one.”

“How large?”

“Potentially nine figures.”

That got my attention.

“What happened?”

“Acquisition completed eighteen months ago. Buyer now claims they were misled during due diligence. Seller says everything was disclosed. Warranty claim, possible breach of contract, shareholders threatening proceedings.”

“Who’s the client?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

“When did it come in?”

“Forty minutes ago.”

“And they’ve instructed us?”

“Not formally.”

Meaning we were pitching.

“What do they want?”

“You.”

I paused.

“By name?”

“By name.”

That didn’t happen every day.

It happened.

Just not every day.

“Who recommended me?”

“Possibly someone from Rathbone.”

That made sense.

The Rathbone dispute had lasted eighteen months, involved four jurisdictions and aged me approximately six years.

We had also won.

“When’s the meeting?”

“Nine.”

“Today?”

“No, Phoebe. Next Christmas.”

“You’re becoming increasingly irritating.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“By Catherine?”

“Frequently.”

“Smart woman.”

“She wants to know if you’re coming for dinner Sunday.”

“I might be working.”

“You’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do because I’m your managing partner.”

“That’s not how weekends work.”

“It is now.”

I smiled.

“I’ll text her.”

“Today.”

“Yes, Dad.”

Silence.

Very deliberate silence.

“You hate that.”

“I do.”

“Noted.”

“And eat something.”

“I’m drinking coffee.”

“That is not food.”

“It contains milk.”

“Phoebe.”

“Daniel.”

“Be here by eight.”

“I was going to be there by eight anyway.”

“Good. Drive safely.”

His voice softened on the last two words.

There he was.

The man half the firm found terrifying.

To me, mostly a man who disguised concern as irritation.

“I always do.”

The line went dead.

I packed away my laptop.

As I passed the stranger’s table, he looked up.

“Everything alright?”

That surprised me.

We had never progressed beyondmorningbefore.

“Work.”

He nodded.

“Good work or bad work?”

“Too early to tell.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It usually is.”

He smiled.

“Good luck, then.”

“Thanks.”

I headed outside.

By seven forty-two, I was on the road.

Traffic thickened as I got closer to central London.

My phone connected through the car and Clara called.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“Foster said you’re on your way.”

“I am.”

“He’s pacing.”

“That’s never a good sign.”

“He’s asked three times whether you’ve read the documents.”

“I’ve had them for twelve minutes.”

“I told him that.”

“And?”

“He said twelve minutes is quite a long time for you.”

I sighed.

“One day I’m going to start deliberately underperforming.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No. I’m not.”

She laughed.

“I moved your eight-thirty. Anything else you want me to shift?”

“Not yet.”

There was a pause.

“Your dad called.”

My grip tightened slightly around the steering wheel.

“Did he?”

“He asked if you were free this weekend.”

“What did you say?”

“That I don’t manage your personal life.”

“Excellent.”

“He said he’d text.”

“Fine.”

We hung up.

A minute later, my phone lit up.

Dad

I left it.

Not because I was avoiding him.

I was driving.

There was a difference.

Probably.

My mother died when I was twelve.

Dad stayed.

He loved me.

I never doubted that.

He just hadn’t known what to do with a twelve-year-old girl who had lost her mum.

He had been grieving too.

I understood that now.

At twelve, I hadn’t.

Mum had known everything.

Which shampoo I liked. Where my PE kit was. Which teacher I couldn’t stand. What I meant when I said I was fine and wasn’t.

Dad knew none of it.

He tried.

Badly, sometimes.

Eventually, I learnt to do things myself.

Lunches.

School forms.

Uniform.

Lifts.

If I needed something, I sorted it.

It was easier.

Less disappointing.

Then, a few years ago, Dad moved away and met Claire.

Claire was lovely.

Annoyingly lovely.

She also had a daughter.

Lily.

Eleven.

Almost exactly the age I had been when Mum died.

Dad was brilliant with her.

He took her to hockey.

Helped with homework.

Picked her up from school.

Remembered her friends’ names.

The first time I heard him say, “I’ll pick Lily up, don’t worry,” something inside me twisted.

Which was ridiculous.

I was thirty-two.

Lily had done nothing wrong.

Neither had Dad, really.

He had simply learnt.

I just wished occasionally that he had learnt with me.

My phone lit up at the next set of lights.

Dad: Claire’s doing lunch Sunday if you’re free. Lily’s been asking when you’re coming down. Would be lovely to see you x

I stared at it for a second.

Then drove on.

I’d answer later.

I always did.

By eight-oh-three, I was walking into Hartley Finch.

By the time I reached the lifts, I had said morning seven times.

Any more and I would require a lie down.

Clara was waiting outside my office holding another coffee.

“I already had one.”

“I know.”

I took it.

“This is why I keep you.”

“I thought it was my organisational ability.”

“That too.”

“Daniel’s in the main conference room.”

“Who else?”

“Martin, Eleanor, two from corporate and someone from tax.”

“Tax?”

“That was my reaction.”

I walked into my office.

A printed bundle sat on my desk.

It was enormous.

I looked at Clara.

“Forty-two short documents?”

“I believe Daniel lied.”

“Shocking.”

“I tabbed the important ones.”

“You’re excellent.”

“You told me that Tuesday.”

“You continue to earn it.”

I started reading.

Share purchase agreement.

Board papers.

Letter before action.

By page sixteen, I understood why Daniel was interested.

By page thirty, I understood why the client had started calling before seven.

By page forty-two, I understood why they wanted me.

This was a mess.

An expensive one.

My favourite kind.

“You’re smiling,” Clara said.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I found a problem.”

“Normal people don’t smile when they find problems.”

“Normal people aren’t paid to solve them.”

She shook her head.

“Conference room in ten.”

“I’ll be there.”

After she left, Daniel appeared in my doorway.

No knock.

Naturally.

He looked at me.

Then my coffee.

Then my desk.

“Where’s breakfast?”

“Good morning to you too.”

“Phoebe.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He placed a paper bag on my desk.

I looked inside.

Croissant.

Fruit.

Something wrapped in foil.

“You bought me breakfast?”

“Catherine did.”

“Of course she did.”

“She left a note saying, ‘Make sure Phoebe eats this because neither of you is capable of looking after yourselves when there’s work involved.’”

I smiled.

“She knows you well.”

“She was referring to both of us.”

“I choose not to believe that.”

He picked up one of the documents.

“You’ve read these?”

“Most.”

“You’ve had them forty minutes.”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Show-off.”

“You hired me.”

“One of my poorer decisions.”

“Your worst?”

“Not even close.”

A nervous trainee appeared at the door.

“Mr Foster? Sorry—”

“Stop apologising before you’ve done anything wrong.”

The trainee blinked.

“Yes. Sorry.”

Daniel stared at him.

I bit my lip.

“Go,” he said.

The trainee vanished.

I looked at Daniel.

“You enjoy that.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

He ignored me.

“Conference room. Five minutes.”

“I’ll be there.”

He turned.

“Daniel?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll text Catherine.”

“Today.”

“Yes.”

“And call your father.”

My expression shifted before I could stop it.

Naturally, Daniel noticed.

“He called Clara.”

“Traitor.”

“She worries.”

“So does everyone, apparently.”

“Somebody has to.”

“I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

Daniel’s expression softened.

Only slightly.

“I know you are.”

No argument.

No patronising smile.

Just certainty.

“Doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone.”

I looked at him.

He tapped the paper bag.

“Eat the bloody croissant.”

Then he walked out.

I stared after him.

“Bossy bastard.”

From the corridor:

“I heard that.”

I smiled.

Of course he had.

Five minutes later, I picked up the bundle and headed towards the conference room.

The name of the firm acting for the other side sat neatly on the front sheet.

Newman & Co.

I knew them.

Everyone did.

Old firm.

Well connected.

Strong corporate practice.

Family firm, if I remembered correctly.

Very traditional.

Very established.

Very expensive.

I scanned the names attached to the matter.

None meant anything to me.

Not yet.

I closed the file.

Nine figures.

A furious client.

A disputed acquisition.

Forty-two attachments before breakfast.

Excellent.

My day had officially begun.