My name's Mark Dowd, and until a few months ago I was a corporate lawyer with Crombie, Noble, Hansen and Petrie, one of the giants of American law, with offices in New York and half a dozen other major cities across the country, plus London, Paris and Rome. I'm 31, six-feet-one tall and, if I say so myself, good looking, with typical black Irish features -- vigorous hair the colour of jet, flashing dark eyes and high cheekbones that I flatter myself give me a kind of Heathcliff look. I work out regularly enough that I'm trim without being a Schwarzenegger-build-alike. Dad and Mom died in an auto crash a few years ago; he was considered one of the giants among East Coast jurists, and as their sole beneficiary any financial concerns I might ever have had -- as if -- went with them. (My listing in The New Yorker's 100 Most Eligible Bachelors a few years ago, courtesy of an old girlfriend who was a journalist there, was embarrassing.)
Entering the law wasn't so much a career decision for me as an inheritance. After graduating Harvard I chose to join CNHP rather than my old man's venerable Boston firm, and I opted for the New York office to move out of his sphere of influence. Despite that, in my first couple of years I got totally sick of hearing the phrase, always delivered in reverential tones, "He's Jordan Dowd's boy". It was dreaming of one day hearing "Jordan was Mark Dowd's father" that drove me in the early days. In a firm like ours 70-plus hour weeks aren't just common, they're expected. No-one tells you that, it's just known that that's what required if you want to rise to the top in a pool of ambitious young sharks who'll give you their friendliest smile as they rip out your guts. At the point when my tale starts I was probably within two years of partner status, moving towards salary and bonuses in the very high six figures, probably seven with the right client base and enough billable hours.
I knew I had a problem when my supervising partner, Mitchell McKendrick, called me in to his office. He and I had met with one of our biggest corporate clients earlier in the day, and at one point I'd completely goofed out. I'd called the client -- a stuffy WASP -- Mr Gerschowitz, I'd forgotten the name of the business rival they were prosecuting (in my own defense, there have been so many in the past couple of years), and generally I'd looked like an incompetent paralegal on my first day in the job as I leafed wildly through my file. The moment passed, but not without a long, uncomfortable silence from both McKendrick and the client. So I knew I was going to get chewed out. I wasn't prepared for the full message he had for me though.
McKendrick's only about ten years older than me, but as I sat in front of his huge antique desk he gave me a fatherly smile, which is always a bad sign in a stuffed shirt like him. "Mark," he began, "we're worried about you...have been for a little while now. It's not just the, er, embarrassment earlier today, there have been one or two other problems reported as well." I desperately searched my mind for what they might be, while still trying to listen to MM. "You're going to be a very good lawyer, Mark. Hell, you are a very good lawyer. You've got a bright future with CNHP, and we don't want to see that go to waste." I started to wonder who 'we' were -- who else had he discussed me with?
"So here's what we're suggesting. We'd like you to take a few weeks out -- a month say -- to recharge the old batteries. Don't think about the law, just go home, relax, and re-focus your mind. You know what? You should tell Lisa to take some of that leave she's owed, and the two of you should go see Europe." Lisa, my 'significant other', was also a lawyer in the NY office. McKendrick continued, "Our guys over there can help with bookings and stuff. What do you think?" I started to protest but MM held up a silencing hand and, for the first time, looked uncomfortable. "This isn't exactly a suggestion Mark. We take the wellbeing of our team very seriously, and Marcus Freeland feels that, in the long-term, this will be in the best interests of both you and the firm." Jesus Christ, he'd talked about my 'problems' with our Executive Board member. I'd only ever met Freeland a handful of times; but of course, the old bastard had known my dad half his life, and no doubt he felt the firm had to play right by 'Jordan Dowd's boy'.
And that was it. With a "Take care of yourself, Mark," McKendrick swiveled his eyes down to a paper on his desk to indicate the interview was over. I took the back stairs down the ten flights to the parking garage rather than walk back through the office under the curious, and malicious, eyes, of all my colleagues. I'd call Lisa to pick up my coat and my attaché case. My God -- in an environment like CNHP, four weeks out was close to professional suicide. Not only would I be missing out on dozens of opportunities, and hundreds of billable hours; whenever in the future the partners were looking for prospects to pull further up the ladder, I'd be the guy with a month's gap on his sick record. As for Europe, Lisa was as aware of the realities as I was: she was less likely to take four weeks' leave than the Republicans were to pick a black lesbian presidential candidate.
The thing I most wanted to do at that moment was crawl into the nearest bar and get slammed. Instead I got into my Smart Coupe and headed towards the Brooklyn Bridge. Lisa said I was nuts buying a two-seat car shaped like a bubble, but it's a big help winding through the Manhattan traffic. I was tense all the way home, and my jaw ached from being clamped as I tried not to think about my immediate future. I didn't even begin to relax until I got into my beautiful red brick Federal-style house in Brooklyn Heights, a couple of minutes from The Promenade and the breathtaking view back to Manhattan across the East River. Then I slumped into my favorite armchair and stared at the wall. I was still there four hours later when Lisa arrived home, to find me in darkness. She was sympathetic, naturally, but nervous, as if she maybe thought whatever I'd got was catching. In bed that night she held me with a tenderness unusual for her. I lay awake thinking for the first time about what I could do for the next month. I'd always believed that I had a great novel in me: now my employers had given me the window of opportunity to get down to writing it. And when I was a kid I'd shown some talent for art. I'd always thought the East River view would look great in a watercolor, or maybe a pencil sketch. I decided that CNHP hadn't stabbed me in the back: in reality they'd helped me find myself. Yeah, right.
The next day, Friday, I was still in bed at two in the afternoon, having unable as yet to motivate myself to leap into the wonderful new life I was going to build. Finally, I was roused by noises from another room. Clearly our Filipino cleaner, Percela, had arrived -- she came in twice a week. Realizing I'd have to give her access to the bedroom I dragged myself to my feet, stretching and yawning furiously. At that moment the door opened -- to reveal a woman I'd never seen in my life before. She gasped on seeing me. I couldn't blame her for where her eyes went first; after all, where would most women look when coming unexpectedly on a young, well-toned naked man standing in front of them? She mumbled some sort of apology in Spanish and darted out of the room. Cursing under my breath I pulled on a robe and followed, to find out what the hell was going on.
