Gail and the buzzards

Partners' meeting on the new lateral hire ... More diligence required on the issue of narcissistic personality disorder ... Brave little Gail takes on Ivan ... Dorothy predicts another career is heading for the buzzards

Another partners' meeting.

Ivan, our partner-in-management, is in the ascendancy.

He arrives late, without apology, obviating the need to send the usual terse email to late arrivals.

Ivan is a long, thin man, sallow, with long thin fingers, a beak like a crow's, and glasses like the bottom of an Oroton vase.

We are there to discuss yet another lateral candidate. Some present know him, or know of him, and speak highly of him.

There is a certain nervousness in the room, however, about the prevalence of narcissistic personality disorder in our profession, and the consequent need to do what is called "due diligence".

Ivan, apropos of not much, gives a little, unintelligible speech about "game theory", and about how the candidate, if he was worth his salt, would have applied game theory to work out who he could game on his arrival at the firm.

Puzzled, the partners gathered peer myopically at their notebooks.

"Am I a five eighth in the game, or the reserve on the benches?" they ask themselves.

"Or am I the poor bastard about to be the recipient of a strategically placed digit during a scrum?"

As they ruminate upon this, unexpectedly, one of the sisters launches an attack.

It is difficult, as a sister, to mount an attack. It is easy to be labelled as shrill, hysterical or - worse - aggressive which strangely, in a combative profession, is a compliment when directed at 77 percent of the partners, but a pejorative term when directed at the skirt wearing 23 percent.
 
As a sister, one must lower the tone of one's voice an octave or two, and speak slowly, so as not to sound like a fish wife.

Gail had thought that through, and did her best, although one eyebrow twitched a bit, with the stress of it. 

"What's your vision Ivan?" asks Gail. "How is this person going to affect the existing team?"

Those around the table look up furtively, interest sparked.

"Well," says Ivan, "that's a matter for everyone around this table."

"Well," she says, "you said it was your idea. How will your recruit fit into the team? Does he take existing work, does he bring his own, are partners going to be moved on, is he replacing someone?"

This triggers an outbreak of squirming: jaws open, forty-two eyes agog, particularly the six eyes of those most at risk.

"I think it is a matter for the group he is going into," says Ivan. "To make it work," he adds.

"But it wasn't their idea either. How do you see it working? I think you should answer the question."

Ivan is no longer sallow. His jaw is hard set amidst the dark pink, which is rising from his collar and his purple tie.

Eventually he asked someone else at the meeting to articulate a plan - only to reiterates what he said, in words of four syllables.

Lord, Gail. Where did this come from? Should someone help? Who would have thunk that little Gail, with her funny little sayings, her unruly hair, and her occasional failure to wash the bike chain grease off the back of her calves, would take on the Ivester.

The worst thing you can do to Ivan is make him look silly in a meeting.

Ivan may or may not have a plan, but he does have power, and he got that power with the assistance of his two greatest attributes: an urge to forensically seek revenge, and a complete lack of empathy.

Ah Gail. We liked her. We probably like her more now, the brave little thing.

She must have an alternative career planned. Perhaps she won Lotto, or perhaps her husband wants to see more of her at home. Because he is about to.

She will be subjected to a slow, vengeful professional death, carried out in public.

First, will come the ruining of her reputation and a sudden drop in income.

The denouement will be the figurative hanging, drawing and quartering, and the ceremonial tossing of her remains to the buzzards.

Although, as she is a woman, it might be easier for Ivan to dunk her in a muddy pond to see if she floats.

Figuratively, of course.