Page 14 of Love Is an Art

“But Mr. van der Zee also wrote an email worrying that one of the investments was too risky, given that they had so many retirees investing in the fund,” I say. “Plaintiffs are going to love that email.”

“That’s for the plaintiffs to find. They argue their case. We argue ours. But make sure to prepare a rebuttal.”

“Will do.” I stand. “The investment was within the parameters of the fund’s investment criteria, so legally, he’s fine.”

Tom knocks on the door.

“Shouldn’t you be reviewing your documents?” he asks, that self-satisfied smirk back on his face.

I stare at him. “We finished.”

He waves his phone and smiles. Then he shakes his head and sighs. “The paralegal just emailed that she forgot to send over a batch of emails—in your range.”

I narrow my eyes. Do I suspect he had something to do with this being “forgotten”?

Yes. Yes, I do.

I hadn’t trusted Tom from the get-go when we met as first-year associates at the law firm, but I hadn’t been cautious enough. We’d worked together that fall on a case. Tom had told me that he didn’t need help one weekend—he had the matter well in hand. I was in the middle of an all-hands-on-deck M&A litigation, so that worked for me. But then Tom complained to the partner about my not helping him. That partner then gave me a critical review that I wasn’t a team player.

“Congratulations on getting the job done, Tom,” Paul says.

“I’ll get right on it.” I walk toward the door. As I brush by Tom, he leans in and whispers, “You’re slipping, Jackowski. Too much pro bono.”

I keep my face blank. It annoys him when he doesn’t get a reaction out of me. He tilts his head to peer more closely at me.

“Have a great weekend,” I say. And he frowns.

Ha.

But then he smiles and says, “Cheers! I won our bet.”

I wince. That means my team is reviewing the documents arriving on Monday.

“Hurry,” Paul says. “Time is of the essence, and now we’re behind.”

“Yes, I will.” The door closes behind me as I leave.

I murmur hello to the executive assistants sitting in cubicles lining the hallway outside the closed doors of the lawyers. The grunt of printers printing, a telephone ringing, and a hushed tone asking, “How can I help you?” form the background noise to my thoughts.