“IRIS,” she says. “Georgie named it after her great-aunt.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Now I’m questioning whether they’re taking the piss and wasting my time. “What the hell areyou talking about? Her aunt’s name is Riri and the system stands for Integrated Resort Intelligence System.”
“Yeah, we made the acronym fit after,” she says. “Georgie did that. Her aunt’s real name was Iris. Riri was a nickname.”
I stare at them, something fundamental shifting in my chest. I didn’t realize that was her legal name.
Georgie named the system after her aunt?
Her dead aunt who she loved more than anything.
Is this true?
My stomach churns hard enough that I have to grip the edge of my desk.
Christ. What have I done?
Five developers are willing to torch their careers. Not just because Georgie’s their friend—though she clearly is—but because of what’s happening to her.
Did I get this completely backward?
She was right about Craig, that time in the stairwell. I did let him off too easily. Pulled him aside for a “quiet word” like we were on a building site, like a bit of casual sexism was just boys being boys. Old habits from when I was twenty and that’s how things got sorted.
But I’m not laying bricks anymore. I’m running a company with hundreds of employees, half of them women, and I’m still acting like it’s a construction site where everyone just needs thicker skin.
The kid with the poster is still holding it up. His arms must be getting tired. Poor bastard’s committed.
“Show me everything you’ve got,” I say.
Georgie
“Ready for lunch?” Jake asks, poking his head into the living room.
“Ten minutes,” I mumble, hunched over my laptop.
“Okay, I’m grabbing a quick shower then,” he calls, already thundering upstairs.
I finish theSpareRoomad for Riri’s house:
Two flat mates wanted, ideally twenties, must tolerate occasional crying, heavy wine consumption, and aggressive 3 a.m. coding noises when I stress-debug.
For fuck’s sake, Georgie. Get it together. Nobody wants to live with that.
I delete and replace it with:
Professional females preferred. Two rooms available in lovely Victorian terrace with quiet, professional, twenty-five-year-old.
There. Boring. Normal. Doesn’t scream “emotionally fragile tech girl.”
I’ve decided on females because Jake has been leaving his disgusting man-socks around the house, and they smell like something died.
I hit post before I can overthink it. I’m done being lonely.
At uni, I’d made a small, precious circle of friends. We weren’t the popular ones who went to every party. We were the library café regulars, the ones who saved each other seats during lectures and shared notes when someone overslept.
Steve slowly poisoned those connections. Every time I wanted to see them, he’d develop a crisis. A terrible day that needed immediate soothing. A headache that required my immediate attention. Little guilt trips disguised as need.
“You’re going outagain?” he’d say. “I thought we were going to have a quiet night in.”
