I am so annoyed by my discovery that I am being paid less than everyone else (not to mention far less than the average legal wage) that I cannot speak to any of my colleagues.  I get three texts from Liz and Jane, which I ignore and a call from Alex, which I divert.

Luckily my secondment saves me from immediate interaction with them. Margaret has decided to take my on a guided tour of the office.

“This is where we keep the stationery; this is the secret biscuit store; this is the best place to go if you need time out…”

“I may need to use that today.”

“Really? Well, go ahead,” she laughs. “It’s got padded walls which are great for punching. I often go in there after meeting our management board, but what do you need it for?”

I toy with the idea of telling her my discovery. And, to be frank, I have to tell someone.

“I found out that I am being paid less than everyone else in the team, except the trainees and paralegals, of course.”

“Ouch.”

“Exactly. Even lessor qualified lawyers are being paid more than me.”

“Double ouch. So, what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you have to do something or it will fester away like a canker and make you hate all your colleagues. Do you mind me asking how you made this discovery?”

I do. Because I cannot tell her that I spent Saturday rifling through my Boss’s secret papers. So I lie.

“I found a spread sheet on the copier, at the weekend.”

“What were you doing in at the weekend?” She scrutinises me.

“I was trying to keep on top of things.”

“Haven’t you got juniors to help you with that?”

“In theory.”

“Helen!” she exclaims, “You have to be more assertive.  Perhaps if you were you would not be going in at the weekend and you would not be paid more than anyone else.”

Perhaps.  I hang my head dolefully.

“If I were you, I would march down to your Boss’s office and present him with an ultimatum: equal pay or I leave.”

“Then I shall have to leave.”

“Well, be prepared for that!” she commands. “Besides is it so terrible?”

Actually, it’s quite enticing. I could go off and do something worthwhile and useful with my life. Before I can do that, however, I must finish my tour and get down working on my secondment.

Margaret has arranged for me to share a room with Peter, one of the accountants.

“It was the only free desk,” she chuckles, “For some strange reason no one seems to want to share an office with an accountant.”

It doesn’t’ take me long to understand why. He barely utters a word all morning and, suddenly, he turns round and tells me that spread sheets are the key to world domination.

Normally I would meet this sort of comment with the huge scoffing it deserves, but I’m trying to make a good impression. “Really?”

“Yes,” he nods. “I’m not joking. Spread sheets and logarithms run the world.”

“That must make accountants very powerful.”

“It does.” he agrees. “Accountants and programmers are like gods. The universe would collapse if it wasn’t for us. There would be no order; no logic; no sense.”

“You mean it would be chaos, conflict and mayhem?” I joke. “Sounds like a law firm.”

“Yes, I should imagine so. Although I wouldn’t really know; I’ve never had very much time for lawyers.”

“Me neither.”

“I find them rather arrogant.”

“Yes, me too.”

“And pompous.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“And overbearing.”

“Absolutely.”

“But you are one,” he frowns.

“In qualification maybe,” I admit, “but not in spirit.”

“Then we shall get on well.” He says this very seriously, nodding to himself, without looking up.

“Perhaps you can teach me spread sheets?” I offer.

“Perhaps.”  Then, without saying another word, he gets up and shuffles out.

Mid afternoon, Margaret pops in to see how I’m getting on. “Have you bonded with Peter?” she asks.

“It’s hard to tell.

She laughs. “There is a sure fire way to find out: did he give his spread sheets rule the world speech?”

“Yes!” I exclaim.

“Then you did. He only gives that speech if he’s comfortable; if not he simply doesn’t speak at all. We have had people in here for months, years, even; he hasn’t uttered a single word to them.”

“Then, I suppose I should be flattered.”

“You should!” she laughs.  “You managed it in one single morning.  So, since you’ve obviously settled in, I thought you might want review the office manual and compliance guides.  Your report said that some of them might need updating, so perhaps you could take a look?”

“Certainly.”

“Great. I’ve asked Katherine to help you if you need her.”

A short, eager-looking girl pops up. “Hello!” she says. “I’m Kath, I sit just out there. I’ll be able to help you with anything you need.  Would you like a cup of tea and a biscuit?”

A cup of tea and a biscuit? Melinda has never offered me so much as a glass of water.

“That would be lovely, thanks. I take it black, no sugar.”

“Ok!” she whirls off to fetch it.

“She’s a marvel,” Margaret says. “I don’t know what we would do without her.”

“She’s certainly an improvement on my present secretary,” I tell her. “She thinks just turning up is enough to pass for work.”

She frown. “I thought legal secretaries were the elite forces of the secretarial world?”

“If being ‘elite’ means moaning a lot, earning too much and bossing people round, absolutely. They are a crack team! ”

“Well, that surprises me,” she shakes her head. “I always thought law firms were such efficient, disciplined places. “

And I thought Margaret was an intelligent, insightful woman!

“The only discipline is for the Assistants” I tell her. “We are drilled and martialled to within an inch of our lives but after that it’s chaos.”

“Well, things are a little different here;” she tells me. “If anything it’s the other way around. The traders have no self-control.”

“Sounds like paradise!”

She laughs. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

I would: anywhere where professionals have autonomy is a Utopian dream…..

Kathleen returns with my tea and Peters shuffles back clutching another pile of papers.

“Payment orders,” he explains. “And P&L data.”

“Aha,” I nod.

“Life blood of the firm.”

The day wears on with amendments and revisions. Peter remains stoically in the corner, immersed in his computer; occasionally muttering something about formulas or metadata.  Jane calls, I ignore her. She texts me, I ignore that too.  She (somehow) gets through to Katherine but I tell her I’m too busy to take calls.

“It sounded pretty urgent,” she tells me.

“I don’t care. I don’t wish to speak to her.”

“Oh, ok.” I can tell she’s confused but I can’t explain.

“Something wrong?” Peter asks, when she’s gone.

I had almost forgotten he was there.

“No.”

“I can tell when people are lying.”

Lying! “I’m not lying; I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs.

He resumes his programming (or whatever it is he’s doing).

Then something occurs to me. “Could you do projections, you know: calculations to work out, say, losses of over a period of years, with interest?”

“Spread sheets can do anything you ask them.”

Could they find me a new job I wonder? “If I were to give you some figures, could you run me some forecasts for me?”

“Happy to.”  He seems pleased that I have taken an interest in his work.

I rummage in my bag and pull out the copy of the pay review table; I write down the average wages of Alex, Liz and Simon beside mine, then I hand it to Peter.

“These are the present figures,” I tell him, “As you can see there is a big difference between the two. I want you to assume that the gap has been growing by, say, £1000, for the first two years then £2000 for the next four.  I want to know what that actually means in lost income with compound interest before and after tax at, say, 40%.”

“No problem,” he smiles, knowingly. “I’ll do it when I’ve finished this.

A few hours later, he hands me the figures. Even after tax, the losses are eye watering: enough for a deposit on a small flat.  I am staring at them, like a zombie, when Jane calls again.  I pick it up automatically, forgetting my embargo.

“Where have you been?!” she demands.

“Busy.”

“Well, if you had bothered to pick up your calls, I would have been able to tell you the news.”

“What news?”

“We’re merging.”

“Merging!?”

“Yes! With Carlton’s old firm!”

“How do you know that?”

“My friend works there, it’s all over their offices.  They are saying that Carlton went ahead to pave the way. So what do you think?”

I thought Carlton had been sacked! But, no, he was an envoy! And some envoy:  Carlton is a vile, repugnant pervert, devoid of all human emotion. Does that mean that they are all like him? Will we be overrun by an army of automated Carlton-clones? Will females be forced to wear body armour and carry protective weapons to work?

Then a thought occurs to me: at least they pay their Associates well.

“It could have its advantages,” I muse. “It might be good to have some blood in the team; not everyone is so well appreciated by the old guard.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she scoffs. “More partners only more trouble. We might not like the ones we have got but at least they are devils we know.”

Yes, and looking at these figures, it seems I sold my soul to them far too cheaply.