Page 1 of Behind Frenemy Lines

Kriya

I knew I was in trouble the moment I opened my eyes. It was the morning of my first-ever training contract interview, and someone had started drilling in the road outside the window of my tiny student room.

I rolled over and grabbed my phone, panic rising in me. It was a full hour past the time I’d set my alarm to go off.

“Oh no no no no no!”

My big mistake had been spending all those hours the night before reading up on the firm I was interviewing with.

Swithin Watkins was highly ranked in all the legal directories, a Times Top 50 employer for women, and one of the biggest law firms in the world, raking in over ￡ 2 billion in revenue the previous year.

It was also, according to several online forums for disaffected lawyers, “hell on earth,” “evil. fucking evil,” and “full of people I wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire.”

“Everyone who works there missed their vocation as a Spanish inquisitor circa the 1500s,” said one memorable comment.

After reading all of that, I hadn’t been able to fall asleep till two a.m., despite climbing into bed at 9:30 p.m. like an old person. Which was why I was now throwing on my clothes in mad haste, about to be late for the most important job interview of my life.

My phone pinged. I seized it as I raced around the flat, brushing my teeth. Tom had texted, like a good boyfriend:

Good luck today! You’ll smash it xx

Which should have cheered me up. Except my best friend Zuri had texted ten minutes earlier:

Interview today right? Good luck!

Eh do you need your shoes

I froze.

I’d forgotten I’d lent my smart shoes to Zuri, to wear to her dissertation presentation the week before. The shoes were sensible low-heeled black pumps Amma had bought me from Bata, and I didn’t have anything else suitable to wear.

Unless I wore my party shoes. They were pointy-toed patent stiletto heels I’d bought mostly because it was nice to imagine myself as the kind of person who would wear stilettos. They made my toes go numb after two minutes, but I was going to be on the bus for most of the way anyway.

Except turned out the bus terminated two stops early. I found myself hurtling down Farringdon Road in those heels, dodging commuters, students, and the remains of someone’s kebab smeared over the pavement. I got to the firm with three minutes to spare.

I took a moment to catch my breath, staring up at the imposing grey office building. I straightened my blazer, exhaling. Then I took a step towards the building, caught that damned stiletto heel in a grate, and came crashing down on the steps leading up to the entrance.

As I was picking myself up, feeling like a bloody idiot, I heard someone clear their throat. Towering above me, outlined against the white English sky, was the most beautiful East Asian man I’d ever seen in my life.

Not beautiful like a kpop idol. More like an Asian American actor who starts out playing the scene-stealing comic relief in a quirky sitcom, then all of a sudden he’s a sex symbol and cast as the lead in the “this one’s for the Chinese market” instalment in a huge Hollywood franchise.

He had designer stubble and a tiny mole under his right eye, and beautiful, glossy, thick black hair.

He could have been in an advertisement for hair tonic.

“I’m fine,” I said, yearning for death.

I scrambled to my feet. Only then I realised he hadn’t asked.

He was cradling four bulging lever arch files in his arms. He squinted at me over them, as though I were a half-eaten pavement kebab he’d almost stepped in by accident.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

He had a British accent. When you’ve lived in the UK for a while, this stops being sexy, but because my life sucks, his was really sexy.

I flushed. Luckily no one can tell. “I, uh, I was invited to the assessment centre. For the, um, for a training contract? At the firm?”

It struck me that maybe he was looking at me like that because he didn’t expect someone like me to be interviewing for a training contract somewhere like Swithin Watkins.

Probably I should have puffed up with defiance.

Instead I felt even more like something nasty on the pavement you’d be annoyed about having to clean off your shoe.

“You’re in the wrong place.” He started going up the steps.

“Is this not Swithin Watkins?” I pointed at the sign next to the large glass doors. “It says ‘Swithin Watkins’ right there.”

“There are two buildings,” said the beautiful but unfriendly man, without pausing. “You want the one over there.” He jerked his head.

I looked across the street and saw another imposing building, this one sand-coloured, with a sign next to the glass revolving doors. That sign also said “Swithin Watkins.”

“Shit!”

I ended up being eight minutes late to the assessment centre. As I sidled in, the other candidates glanced at me before looking away quickly, as though worried the no-doubt terrible impression left by my unpunctuality might somehow rub off on them if they stared for too long.

We were in a light-filled meeting room on the fourteenth floor, with large windows looking out on the City of London. From where I was sitting, I could see the towers of Smithfield Market, with their green domes.

That wasn’t the only thing I saw. There were five other candidates waiting for the assessment centre to start—all women, but that was where any resemblance ended. Not only was I the sole candidate who wasn’t white, I was the only person who wasn’t blonde, or thin.

I was beginning to wonder if it had been a mistake to apply to the firm. And a mistake to study law. And a mistake to come to the UK in the first place. Maybe I should have stayed in Malaysia. At least I had the right to work in Malaysia.

I gazed out at the City skyline while the Graduate Recruitment lady droned on about their international secondments. It was hard not to yearn after all the jobs I could’ve gone for if not for needing a visa. Jobs that were meaningful, that weren’t simply about the preservation of wealth.

I could have joined a nonprofit, like the refugee rights organisation I’d interned with last summer. I could have applied to the Government Legal Department. I could have joined a normal law firm that helped actual people with their problems.

Those types of employers weren’t prepared to sponsor a visa, though. For that, you needed a big firm like Swithin Watkins, one that wouldn’t notice the cost.

Except it didn’t seem likely Swithin Watkins would be volunteering to sponsor me. There were two Hannahs in the cohort of candidates. That meant there were more Hannahs than non-white people of any background present.

I shrank into my chair. The memory of Beautiful East Asian Guy from earlier didn’t help. He was probably an aberration, the exception that proved the rule. And our encounter had hardly been one to boost my confidence. Remembering it made me want to wither up with sheer embarrassment.

At least I’d probably never see him again. Looking around me, I had a feeling the firm wouldn’t be taking me on.