Page 78 of Behind Frenemy Lines

Charles’s lips flattened into a thin line. “Whatever your feelings about the client, you have a duty of confidentiality. You could be struck off. And you’d be implicating the firm.”

And me,he didn’t say. But he didn’t have to. I knew it was true. And I knew Charles was right, according to the rules we’d both been trained to follow.

But the rules, the whole system, had been designed to benefit and protect people like Shaw Boey and Jamaludin. The wealthy, the powerful, the unscrupulous. There had to be times when the rules didn’t apply.

“We’re not acting for them yet,” I said. “This is the windowof time when I could make a difference. Anyway, the fact they approached us for advice isn’t in itself privileged.”

Charles ignored this as the sophistry that, to be fair, it was.

“I should be clear,” he said. “If you are serious about this, I would need to report you.” He looked miserable. “I don’t need to remind you that you’re in a vulnerable position.”

“Trust me,” I said. “I know.”

There was no reason to feel disappointed. Why should Charles back me up on this? It was unreasonable of me to expect that of him. Just because he could cook and made me laugh and we were, as it turned out, incredibly sexually compatible, it didn’t mean we had anything meaningful in common.

“I know this is… difficult,” Charles said carefully. “But don’t rush into doing anything you might regret. You’ve had a lot to take in. It’s worth sitting on it.”

I looked at him, the worried crease in his forehead, and felt a pang. I could see he wanted to do the right thing. So did I. If only we could have agreed on what that was.

“You should talk to someone,” added Charles. “You could talk to Farah.”

“I guess,” I said. “Yeah.”

I did feel in need of advice, from someone I could trust with my concerns—someone senior, with a lifetime’s worth of experience navigating thorny cases. Someone who understood me. I didn’t know Farah well enough, and she didn’t know me. But there was someone I could ask.

I didn’t tell Charles I was going to speak to Arthur. He would have thought it was a bad idea.

I could see his point of view. Arthur had hit on me on a business trip. He’d pressured me to give up my office. He’dtried to take my biggest client off me. And he’d been weird about it the whole time.

But Charles hadn’t seen the years when Arthur had been kind and reliable: all the opportunities he’d sent my way, all the times he’d stepped in to help disentangle legal dilemmas and client dramas. I’d trained under him. I’d relied on his professional judgment for the best part of a decade. Surely, I thought, he’d come through for me now.

More fool me. When I got to Arthur’s office, there was someone in there with him—a blonde woman, sitting with her back to me.

According to Outlook, his diary was free for the next half an hour, but after that, he was booked up for the rest of the day. I hesitated, wondering whether to knock on the door and find out how much longer this meeting was going to run, and if I’d have a chance to have a word before his next meeting.

Then Arthur reached out and took the woman’s hand.

She moved, her profile coming into view, and I saw it was Emily, the junior associate I’d run into on the way out of Arthur’s office the other day. She flinched away from him, her body language screaming discomfort, but she stopped short of pulling her hand away. Or maybe she was trying, and he wasn’t letting her.

I opened the door without knocking.

“Sorry, Arthur. Emily, have you got a moment? It’s urgent.”

Emily’s head whipped around. She looked like a rabbit caught in headlights, her eyes huge.

Arthur rose to his feet, flustered. “Oh, I—we were talking about Sanson. I was telling Emily I’d like her to pick up more of the work. As we discussed.”

“Great. Yeah. I can brief you about Sanson some other time,” I said to Emily. I jerked my head towards the corridor. “Come on. I’ll tell you about the case.”

I marched her along the corridor until we were out of sight of Arthur’s office, then ducked into one of the refreshmentareas—the coffee machine was broken, so we’d be safe from interruption.

“Are you OK?” I said.

Emily came to life. “I—yes. I’m fine.” Her eyes darted nervously to the entrance to the refreshment area. “What—um—did you say you were going to tell me about the case?”

“There is no case,” I said. “It was an excuse. Did Arthur do anything? Or say anything to you?”

“No, I—he was just, kind of, stroking my hand.” Emily shuddered. “And talking about his ex-wife.”

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