One morning in January, Johnson called her into his office, up on high. He asked how she was, with that fake air of concern. Sarah was fine, thank you. Having chemo, yes. He mentioned a distant cousin who had been treated for cancer twenty years ago and was doing just fine now. Sarah couldn’t care less about all the stories of recovery people regaled her with now, at every opportunity, tossing them like bones for her to chew over. They changed nothing for her. She wanted to tell him that her mother had died of it, that she felt sick as a dog, that he could keep his false compassion, thank you very much. What did he know about ulcers all over your mouth, so that it was too painful to eat, feet that burned so that by the end of the day you could barely walk, about feeling so exhausted that the smallest staircase seemed impossible? His show of pity masked his complete indifference to the fact that in a few weeks’ time she would have no hair, that her body looked so thin in the mirror it scared her, that she was scared of everything, scared of suffering, scared of dying, that she didn’t sleep at night, threw up three times a day; that some mornings she wasn’t even sure she could stay standing up. He could fuck right off with his caring concern. And his cousin could fuck off, too.

As always, Sarah was calm and polite.

Johnson got to the point: he wanted another partner to join her on the Bilgouvar case.

Sarah couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It took her a few moments to find her voice, to object. Bilgouvar had been her client for years, she didn’t need anyone else to handle their interests. Johnson sighed and pointed to that meeting, the one meeting at which she had showed up late – she had got up at dawn to go to the hospital for tests before beginning her day at work. The scanner had jammed. Bad luck, said the technician apologetically, the last time that happened was three years ago. Hurrying to make up for lost time, Sarah had arrived at the meeting out of breath. It had barely begun. Of course, Johnson didn’t care two hoots about that, he wasn’t interested in Sarah’s excuses, the hospital hardware, none of it mattered. Luckily, Inès had been there. She was always on time, he said. Just perfect. And there was the day Sarah had collapsed during a hearing that had to be postponed, he reminded her. He was speaking in a soothing, honeyed voice now – the tone she loathed more than anything – telling her that he-understood-she-had-her-treatment-plan and that everybody-here-wished-her-a-full-and-speedy-recovery. Johnson was great at that, the ready-made phrases that sounded false, and hollow, and didn’t mean a thing. Sarah was-in-need-of-support, that was the-true-spirit-of-this-firm, we-understand-the-true-meaning-of-teamwork.

To support-her-through-this-difficult-time she would be working-from-now-on with … Gary Curst.