Beginnings: Chapter 1 - Veronica - Sex Stories

Beginnings: Chapter 1 - Veronica

... liberty of making a telephone call to Veronica Hamilton and asked her whether you could possibly spend a few weeks during the summer working at her firm. She said she is quite busy at the moment but she will see what she can do. She has suggested meeting with you to discuss it.” “Veronica Hamilton? Are you joking?” I could tell by the self-satisfied look that had settled comfortably on my mother’s face that she wasn’t. “You expect me to go and work for several weeks with your divorce lawyer?” “What I expect, young lady, is for you to take your life and your career seriously. I made a lot of sacrifices to give you the best opportunity to make a success of yourself, and I expect you to do just that.” “I don’t believe it!” I snapped. “I’m twenty-one, not twelve!” “Then you need to start behaving like it.” “But I have no interest in family law,” I protested. My mother said nothing. She just gave me ‘that’ look; the one that she always used when she was intent on getting her way, and that for some reason withered me inside like a fallen autumn leaf and always had. It felt as though my summer, as well as my life, was being planned for me and that the idea that I had any control whatsoever over it was nothing more than an illusion. Veronica Hamilton was one of the family law partners at Berman Bruce, a leading firm of solicitors in Brighton and at that time, and at just thirty-nine years old, had already secured for herself a formidable reputation as an uncompromising, if not ...

... ruthless, divorce lawyer. I had never met her before, although I had spoken to her once, very briefly, on the telephone during the course of my parents’ divorce. The experience had been rather like feeling a sudden and heavy glacier moving quickly over me. My mother, however, had nothing but unmitigated praise for the way Veronica had handled her divorce, although I know this was not a sentiment my father shared. One thing, however, was clear: I was not looking forward to spending six minutes, let alone six weeks, with Berman Bruce or Veronica Hamilton. My mother had arranged for me to meet Veronica at the firm’s offices that later that same day. Although it had turned out to be another sultry, sticky summer evening, I had decided to play it safe in terms of my choice of wardrobe: a smart black fitted skirt suit, a white blouse with a serious look, and some black, heeled pumps of the kind which my feet had always struggled, unsuccessfully, to get themselves accustomed to. I knew I was going to feel intimidated enough as it was and I wanted to give Veronica Hamilton no additional motive for making me feel thoroughly inadequate. I arrived at the firm’s modern and airy offices at half-past four that evening, in good time for my appointment fifteen minutes later, and I was asked by the receptionist to sit and wait in what was an impressively plush waiting area to the side of the imposing reception desk. A heavy, glass-topped coffee table was immaculately decorated by a host of quality, ...