Take My Breath Away (2 page)

Roxanne Wake danced through the revolving doors and out on to the Strand. Traffic was shuffling to a standstill, but for once she didn’t care about breathing in the fumes. She shimmied between the cars and lorries; limbs loose, energy boundless as a child’s. A motorbike courier almost struck her as she crossed the far carriageway, but she skipped out of reach of his pounding wheels and her heart didn’t even miss a beat. Nothing could go wrong, not today of all days. The day she had begun a new life.

People in the pavement throng jostled past, didn’t give her a second glance. It was wonderful not to be noticed. Finally she could say that she’d escaped from the past. She was free.

The last seven years might never have happened. Her first morning in the new job was over and she had survived. No, forget it, that was lawyers’ under-statement. Truth was, it had gone like a dream. The law meant so much to her, but she had never worked for a firm of solicitors before today. Let alone an outfit like Creed.

Yet as the Human Resources manager took her on a whistle-stop tour of the office to meet her new colleagues, she was made to feel as if amongst friends. She couldn’t remember all the names, let alone match them to the blur of faces. Creed boasted a welfare counsellor, a client care czar and a team of knowledge dissemination executives. There was an office reading group, led by a Brixton poet celebrated for being tough on rhyme, tough on the causes of rhyme. She’d seen
the staff gym, the jacuzzi and the wholefood restaurant, she’d shaken hands with the in-house masseuse and the part-time sculptor-in-residence, she’d been invited to dress down every Friday. No one asked a single awkward question. She’d not picked up the slightest hint that anyone doubted who she was.

She could hug herself. Everything was going to plan. Her secret was safe.

Okay, so there had been one moment of alarm. It had come during her meeting with Fergus McHugh, the firm’s director of Public Relations. Cool yet charming, he’d asked for a few crisp words for a news release about her appointment. Conjuring up a quote proved easy enough. She’d discovered an unsuspected flair for the superlative-laden soundbite.

‘“I’m thrilled to have joined Creed. Everyone recognises this is the country’s leading human rights law firm. I’ve always admired senior partner Will Janus and his passionate commitment to civil liberties.” Will that do?’

‘Perfect.’ Fergus McHugh’s smile dazzled like the streaks of blond in his hair. ‘Couldn’t have scripted it better myself. All we need now is a head and shoulders snap to send out in the Press pack.’

Shit
. She should have foreseen this. She swallowed hard. Absurdly, she had the sense that Fergus could read her thoughts, found in them a source of cruel amusement. But that was just paranoia. Luck was on her side – it had to be, on this day. The photographer was delayed by gridlock caused by a demonstration heading for Whitehall and in the end Fergus ran out of time. He confessed that he and Will Janus were overdue for lunch with the Home Secretary.

Roxanne uttered a silent prayer of thanks. Her new
name meant nothing to anyone, but there was just a chance, a remote chance, that a photograph might stir memories that she needed to stay buried. Seven years was a long time. She looked so different now. Interviewing witnesses at the advice centre in Hengist Street had taught her that most people could be relied upon to forget what they’d seen last week, let alone a picture in the papers from long ago. But there was still a risk. Never mind, she told herself. You’ve got away with it.

On her way into work that morning she had bought herself something to eat in the middle of the day, but she was in the mood for something special. Creed’s restaurant was said to be excellent, Egon Ronay was a fan, but she wasn’t ready to share lunchtimes with her new colleagues. She needed to get out for half an hour. At last she had something to celebrate, if only with herself. It wasn’t every day that you started afresh. She hurried up Southampton Street to Covent Garden. Thorntons had a shop there and she treated herself to a thick bar of fudge.

She had this love-hate thing with chocolate. During her darkest days, she could never keep it down. Things were so different now. Food wasn’t a problem any more. She inhaled the sweet perfume of the shop, hardly bearing to postpone the moment when she unwrapped her prize. Her skin was in goosebumps just anticipating the taste. Since she’d started working at Hengist Street, she had put on half a stone, but these days she was relaxed about that. It was good to sin, every now and then.

Creed’s offices filled the seven storeys of Avalon Buildings, a skinny block squeezed in between Savoy Court and Carting House. Reception was a large and
airy space, fringed by a jungle of potted plants. Interior designers had eschewed minimalism in favour of comfort and touches of luxury. The armchairs for visiting clients were soft and deep and the aroma of Kenyan coffee wafted from a filter machine in the corner. A feng shui expert had positioned the fountain to perfection. It gushed soothingly as Roxanne walked in from the street.
GQ
and
Granta
were laid out on a wrought iron coffee table with a mosaic tiled top picking out the firm’s logo. Glossy brochures describing the firm’s specialities were scattered around, each boasting a foreword by a celebrity client. Large abstract paintings hung on the wall, random doodles of blue, brown and green. Celine Dion crooned from concealed speakers, promising that her heart would go on. Visiting a lawyer had become a lifestyle experience.

Not, Roxanne told herself, that this was a solicitors’ firm like any other. Creed prided themselves on that. All the literature, the advertising, had this common theme.
Lawyers who are different
. The firm had earned a reputation as a scourge of both private and public sector employers who treated staff unethically. The partners didn’t handle divorce, property work or criminal law. Their specialism was civil rights in the workplace and clients included trade unions, whistleblowers and a lobby full of equal opportunities campaigners. Advocates from Creed had acted in landmark cases transforming the balance of power at work.

‘Creed has three priorities,’ Will Janus had once famously said. ‘Litigation, litigation and litigation.’

It was a jest, a snippet of self-parody, a reminder of what a self-deprecating, regular guy he was. Professional traditions had passed their sell-by date. Will often evangelised about the need to fight the forces of
legalism. He wanted to make justice available for the many, not the few. Creed didn’t so much employ staff as have profit-sharing executive stakeholders. Will preached solving disputes by e-mediation and spreading the gospel via Creedlaw.com. His firm led the way in providing joined-up legal services. Yet everyone knew that, if there had to be an old-fashioned bare-knuckle fight in the courts, there was no better advocate to have on your side than Will Janus. He’d been a winner all his life.

The catwalk blondes behind the reception desk had scarily perfect smiles. Roxanne did not miss the charm-laden efficiency with which they greeted her by name, even though she’d forgotten to clip her identity tag back on to her lapel. One more thing she would have to learn. So much to do, so many habits that had to become second nature. Even if she had not changed her appearance and name, even if the short CV she had sent to Ben Yarrow had not economised so savagely on the truth, she would have been an impostor. At least she had a chance to become a new woman. Remembering her badge was only the start. She must
be
Roxanne Wake, every single second that she was here.

She’d been given a room of her own, even though she was an unqualified lawyer with no track record to speak of and she’d half expected to be herded into a noisy open plan office along with a clutch of colleagues. Lucky. These days she liked being alone. The room was crammed with gleaming computer equipment, installed that morning by geeks bearing gifts from the information technology department. Potted plants with shiny green leaves warded off bad chi, otherwise the decor was limited to a virgin year
planner on one wall, an internal telephone list tacked to another. When she’d settled in, she would give her surroundings a little more personality. Better be careful, though, about the personality she chose. No family photographs, no loveable drawings of stick people crayoned by infant relatives. Think Roxanne Wake, she instructed herself. Think Roxanne Wake.

She closed her eyes and experimented in her mind with colour and knick-knacks. Better play safe and put up a couple of theatre posters and a Monet print. Nothing distinctive, nothing that invited comment or gave chatterboxes with time on their hands an opportunity to ask tricky questions. It was so easy to let something slip. At Hengist Street she had succeeded in keeping herself to herself. Everyone was so busy that few opportunities arose for friendships to build. Roxanne needed it to be the same at Creed.

‘Everything all right?’

Even before he spoke, she knew that Ben Yarrow, head of the Ethical Employment department, had opened the door. His aftershave was unmistakable.
Eurotrash
by Wal-Mart, or some such. It smelled as if he soaked in it. He wore a wedding ring and she wondered why his wife hadn’t urged him to douse himself less liberally or at least with better taste. As for his dress sense… but perhaps Ben wasn’t accustomed to taking advice. He spent too much of his life giving it.

She opened her eyes and switched on a smile. Not simply because Ben was one of Creed’s senior partners, and her ultimate boss. What mattered was that he was the man who had picked her out, given her the chance to change her life. She owed him.

‘People have been very kind,’ she said.

He fiddled with the ends of his blood-red tie. ‘I have
something for you. Joel Anthony is working on a new discrimination case, writing up the statements. You can help him interview the witnesses.’

‘What sort of discrimination?’

‘Specifically, sexual harassment.
Alleged
sexual harassment.’

His puckish face creased into a grin. He was a small man, balding, with a ginger beard. In her mind she reinvented him as a troll, lurking under a bridge and plotting mayhem. She bit her lip, not wanting to give a hint of what was passing through her mind. She doubted whether his talents encompassed a capacity to laugh at himself.

‘Who are we representing?’

Ben chuckled. ‘We’re on the side of the angels, Roxanne. That’s the first thing you need to learn here. Our clients are always the victims of circumstance. Even blue chip companies bleed. It will make a change for you, not having the chance to embark on a crusade on behalf of a wronged applicant. Oh, one more thing I have to tell you. As it happens, the allegations concern a director colleague of Ali Khan. Remember him?’

How could she forget? A few weeks earlier, Ben and Roxanne had fought against each other at a tribunal hearing in Woburn Place. Roxanne’s client, Tara Glass, had worked in the finance department of Thrust Media. Thrust was owned by the legendary entrepreneur Ali Khan. After ten days Tara was sacked, the stated reason her bad attitude. She kept coming in late and spending half her time on the phone to her boyfriend. Tara said the truth was that she’d threatened to blow the gaff on Ali Khan for bribing people of influence and putting his personal bills through the company’s accounts. The company offered big bucks
to settle, but she wanted her day in court. What’s the claim worth? she had asked. Unlimited compensation, Roxanne told her, if the case was proved.

At first Ben’s cross-examination was gentle, almost sympathetic. Maybe he wasn’t so fearsome after all, Roxanne thought, or perhaps he was simply smart enough to recognise when he was on a loser. Then suddenly, the questions started coming like machine-gun fire. Why hadn’t Tara walked out the moment her conscience was troubled by the frauds? Why wait until she was sacked before speaking out?

‘Or perhaps the brown envelopes you talk about never existed,’ he suggested, casting a sly glance at the tribunal members.

‘I saw them,’ Tara insisted. ‘I had to wrestle with my conscience every day I was in that office.’

‘Your conscience, yes.’ Ben shook his head. ‘So, Ms Glass, you believe in always telling the truth, do you?’

‘Of course I do.’ She leaned forward in the witness box, meeting his gaze. ‘Passionately. I wouldn’t be here otherwise, would I?’

‘Sure about that?’ He paused. ‘Would you care to turn to page fifteen in the bundle, Ms Glass?’

Sitting in silence in the stuffy tribunal room, Roxanne felt her heart begin to pound.
Where is this going?

All at once, as she leafed through the pack of documents in front of her, Tara’s hands began to shake. As if she could see an abyss opening up, but could not help plunging towards it.

She whispered something inaudible.

‘Speak up,’ the tribunal chairman insisted.

‘I have the page,’ Tara said with difficulty.

Ben smirked. ‘It’s your job application form, isn’t it? 
See the box where you said you had no previous convictions? Were you telling the truth when you filled that in?’

Tara’s cheeks were ashen. ‘All that stuff was a long time ago.’

Ben’s eyebrows shot up. ‘A little less than five years?’

‘I was a student then.’

‘Who earned part-time cash selling her body to businessmen in a hotel near Russell Square?’

‘I was broke! Up to my eyeballs in debt. You have no idea.’

‘And the incident eighteen months ago, when you were caught smoking heroin in your boyfriend’s flat? Too relaxed to recall that when you signed the drugs-free declaration?’

‘You bastard!’ Tara choked back a sob. ‘This has nothing to do with my case!’

‘Ms Glass,’ the chairman said in a warning tone. ‘Mr Yarrow is merely doing his job.’

Roxanne felt an emptiness in her stomach. The case was haemorrhaging in front of her eyes. She’d been so fired up with the injustice of what they had done to Tara, so determined to make the company pay. Meanwhile Ben Yarrow had been doing what Ali Khan paid him handsomely to do. Digging deep.