Page 2 of Hard Heart

Even though he didn’t have the balls to sack me himself, Lloyd Bester had written me a five-thousand-dollar cheque, presumably as a sort of apology for being an arsehole and raising a philandering prick as a son, and cast me out into the streets of New York. It was Rhoda, his wife, who’d called that evening to say how sorry she was that both her husband and her son were absolute cockwombles—not the exact wording she used, but the sentiment was there—and ask if there was anything she could do to help.

At that point, I’d had two choices.

One, call my dad, admit he was absolutely right about the musician thing, and slink back home to London with my tail between my legs, thereby wasting the two years I’d spent in New York studying for my JD and cramming my way through the bar exam, as well as throwing away the visa I’d filled in a million forms to get.

Or two, I could find a new job in the US.

“I’d rather stay here for a while and get more experience with the US legal system.”

I’d never be short of work—everyone sued everyone else at the drop of a hat. The problem? I’d been making calls all afternoon, and the big New York firms were hiring for next year, not this year. I needed to buy groceries now.

“I’ll ask around,” Rhoda had said when we spoke last Monday. “And if Lloyd doesn’t give you a glowing reference, you call me and I’ll set him straight.”

“He always said I was too soft-spoken for the courtroom,” I confessed.

“You’d be an asset to any firm.”

I’d completed every application form I could find, but it wasn’t until yesterday afternoon that I’d received a call back. One of Rhoda’s contacts had come through.

Sort of.

“You’ll get another job easily,” Flora said, always the optimist. “Perhaps you could even become a prosecutor like Grandma Maggie?”

That had been my dream, ever since I was a little girl listening to our grandma’s stories of taking dangerous criminals off the street. She’d been a heroine of our times, a woman who smashed through glass ceilings, who butted heads with male rivals and came out on top. And who wouldn’t want to make the world a safer place?

Dad had encouraged the three of us to study accountancy because the only things certain in life were death and taxes, but that wasn’t where my heart lay. I preferred words. So, I’d studied law at LSE, but when I got to New York, Lloyd Bester had not-so-tactfully proclaimed that any silver-tongued defence lawyer would wipe the floor with me. No, I’d be better off focusing on entertainment law—I was diplomatic and trustworthy; I had an eye for detail and a good knowledge of revenue models and deal structures, thanks to my dad; I could translate legalese into plain English; and I understood the importance of discretion. Reluctantly, I’d seen his point. My peers seemed energised by standing up and arguing their point, while I’d grown ever more drained. Let that inside voice out, Rhoda used to tell me. Speak your mind.

“I’ve been offered a new job,” I said to Flora. “It’s not quite what I hoped for, but it’ll give me breathing space until I find something better.”

“What kind of job?”

“Working for a nonprofit.”

In Virginia. Not only did it pay peanuts, but unless I sat another bar exam, I’d be stuck in a support role. A researcher, a clerk, a paralegal. I’d asked for twenty-four hours to consider my decision, but unless I wanted to hear endless “I told you sos” from Margaret as she parroted Dad, I’d have little choice but to accept. I tried to think positive—I could stay there for a year, gain some experience, and come back to New York next fall. It might even be interesting.

“Like a charity?” Flora asked.

“It’s called the Justice Project. They review old cases where the applicant claims they were wrongfully convicted, identify potential miscarriages of justice, and try to get those who are innocent exonerated.”

“That sounds more interesting than reviewing movie star contracts. Although it would have been cool if you got to meet Scott Lowes or Armand Taylor.”

“I don’t think either of them is a client of Bester & Block.”

“Boo. Well, good on you for getting a new job already. Maybe Rudd will let you take over the lease? You could get a roommate.”

In a one-bedroom apartment?

“I’ll have to relocate to Richmond.”

“Wait, I thought you said you weren’t coming back to London.”

“Richmond, Virginia.”

“Oh… Where is that?”

“Six hours south.”

“Crikey. Is it safe?”