Page 12 of The Do-Over

I’m just about to start typing when a notification pops up on my screen to say there is a new email from our managing partner, Martin Osborne. There’s nothing unusual about this; he sends out emails periodically either to announce promotions, share results or congratulate teams on successful transactions. I think they’re supposed to be motivational, but I generally skim read the subject line and delete them without reading the detail. The subject line of this mail is simply ‘John Curbishley’, which piques my interest sufficiently for me to open the mail and read the rest.

To all Partners and Associates,

It is with great sadness that I have to announce the death of our friend and senior partner, John Curbishley, after a short illness. He is survived by his wife, Alice, and his two sons, Richard and Stephen. I have offered sincere condolences to the family on behalf of everyone at Morton Lansdowne, and assured his wife that we will do everything in our power to support her during the difficult days ahead.

The funeral directors will be organising an electronic book of condolence, and I have asked Margaret to share the link with you all as soon as it is available. Obviously, things will take a little longer during the holiday season.

On a personal note, I’d just like to say how much I admired John, both as a friend and colleague, and I know many of you will feel the same. In light of that, we would ask all UK-based associates to make every effort to clear their diaries so they can attend his memorial service. Margaret will circulate the date as soon as we receive word from the family. It’s expected that there will be a service in the Temple church, followed by a reception at Skinners’ Hall, the home of the Worshipful Company of Skinners, of which John was an active member.

My first reaction is disbelief. Although I didn’t like John at all, he’s been a part of the furniture at Morton Lansdowne for the entire time I’ve been there, and I can’t imagine the eighth floor without his brooding, malevolent presence. I’m also a little disorientated by the mention of his family. I’ve never imagined John, or any of the other senior partners, having a life outside work. I wonder what the illness was. He seemed to be in his usual acerbic form when I met with him just over a week ago for one of our regular debriefs. I bring up a mental image of his office to try to see if I can remember there being any pictures of his family. I think there was a frame on his desk, but I never got to see what it contained.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the voice comes over the tannoy as the train begins to slow, ‘we will shortly be arriving at Paris Gare du Nord. On behalf of the train manager and all the crew, I’d like to thank you for choosing Eurostar for your journey today, and we wish you a pleasant stay in Paris. If Paris is not your final destination, please contact one of our station staff, who will be pleased to assist you with your connection. Thank you, and good morning.’

I snap my laptop shut and start gathering my stuff together, pushing all thoughts of John aside as I focus my mind in preparation for the day ahead.

7

John was obviously well connected as, despite barely two weeks having passed since the email announcing his death, everything has been arranged and the memorial service is today. The Temple church is already packed by the time that Alasdair and I arrive and, to begin with, I worry that there won’t be anywhere for us to sit. There’s an empty block of pews in the middle, but I can spot the reserved signs even from here. I’m scanning the other pews despondently when I suddenly spot Janice waving and pointing to a seat next to her.

‘I saved a seat for my favourite partner,’ she tells me conspiratorially when I reach her. ‘Although I didn’t realise you’d be bringing a plus one.’ She looks curiously at Alasdair for a moment before speaking again. ‘I’ve seen you before somewhere. Property, am I right?’

‘Very good,’ Alasdair tells her.

‘I expect we can squeeze you both in if I shuffle up a bit,’ she tells him as she wriggles along to make room. When we sit, it’s so tight that I can feel both Janice’s and Alasdair’s hips digging into mine.

‘Although I’m grateful,’ I murmur to Janice, ‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to have favourites.’

‘Well, I do,’ she retorts. ‘You’re the only one who ever says thank you, and that gets you preferential treatment.’

I’m just about to tell her how depressingly low that sets the bar when the organ music swells and the doors swing open to reveal a man in robes, holding an ornate cross on a long wooden pole. As the organ continues to get louder, he raises it high and advances into the church. Behind him, in solemn procession, walk Martin Osborne and the other senior partners, decked out in their academic regalia. The guy with the cross halts by the empty block and the partners file into the second row of pews.

‘Wow,’ I whisper to Alasdair. ‘He’s got the full complement. All the senior partners are here.’

After the partners come another set of men wearing fur robes. ‘Representatives from the Skinners’ company,’ Janice informs me as they take up their places behind the partners. ‘And here come the Freemasons,’ she continues as another block of men in dark suits, wearing colourful sashes and chains around their necks, file into the pews behind the Skinners.

‘I tell you what,’ Janice murmurs. ‘If you wanted to wipe out the legal heart of London, a bomb in here right now would do a pretty fine job.’

The final group to enter the church are, I’m guessing, John’s family. There’s an elegantly dressed woman I’d estimate to be in her late fifties, along with two young men who are very obviously his sons, from their facial features. I watch them closely as they take their place in the front row, admiring their poise under pressure. It’s got to be an emotional moment for them, but all three are perfectly dry eyed and holding their heads up high.

‘She’s doing well, isn’t she?’ Alasdair whispers. ‘It must have been a hell of a shock. I heard it was a heart attack. Not quite face down in the soup, but not far off.’

I nod my head as the final members of the family procession take their seats. My cursory glance turns into a full-on double-take as I realise that I recognise the two people sitting next to John’s sons. What the bloody hell are Rollo and his mum doing here? Before I have a chance to say anything to Alasdair, however, the minister is asking us to stand for the choir introit.

‘I think John would have been pleased with that,’ I observe to Alasdair and Janice as we make our way through the city towards Skinners’ Hall for the reception. The firm laid on buses, but it’s a beautiful crisp winter’s day so the three of us decided to walk.

‘Don’t you think it’s odd that neither of his sons gave a tribute?’ Alasdair remarks. ‘I mean, it was nice what the other people said about him, but you didn’t get any insight into what he was like at home.’

‘I’d still love to know what his connection to Sarah is,’ I tell him.

‘Who’s Sarah?’ Janice asks.

‘I’ve no idea what her real name is. The woman who was sitting slightly apart from the other family members, with the little boy. She lives on the same road as me.’ I decide not to mention the parking wars, as it’s not a story that shows me in my best light.

‘Daughter, maybe?’ Alasdair offers.

‘No,’ Janice says firmly. ‘He didn’t have any daughters. Two sons, that was it. She might be with one of the sons, I suppose, although she looked quite a lot older than them, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t have any grandchildren.’

‘How do you know all of this?’ Alasdair asks her. I’m not at all surprised, but he hasn’t come across the formidable Janice in person before.

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