I take notes like a woman preparing for battle. Shoulders back equals confidence. Steepled fingers equal authority. Saying “I’ll need that in writing” equals making corporate lawyers nervous. Also: breathe. Remember to breathe. And nervous burps is a no-no, although there’s no mention of that on the internet, which is a glaring oversight. The nervous burps are, I suspect, unique to me.
Because thisisa war.
McLaren Hotels didn’t just fuck with the wrong girl. They fucked with a girl who knows their system better than they do, and who’s got nothing left to lose.
Time to show them what happens when you assume the quiet girl in IT won’t fight back.
Craig and Patrick are about to learn that hell hath no fury like a female programmer scorned.
FORTY
The lawyer’s eye twitch
Georgie
Dylan, the security guard,escorts us through the McLaren lobby, and every click of my heels makes me want to vomit. My hands are already gross and clammy. I have my evidence folder (and backup evidence folder, and backup-backup saved to three different clouds), but I still hate confrontations.
Nonetheless, I am determined to do myself proud.
“Back so soon,” I croak at Dylan, trying for humor.
His face does this pained, sympathetic thing. Only days ago, he was marching me out like a criminal, apologizing with his eyes while doing his job. Poor Dylan.
The lift opens and I spot Emma and Tom from marketing. I wave like everything’s normal. They smile back with that awful sympathy smile. The one that says, “We heard what happened and we’re so sorry you’re fucked.”
Jake’s hand finds my elbow. I must be swaying.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs.
I straighten my spine. Yes, I bloody am. I’ve done my research. I believe in myself.
My working hypothesis: they want to scare me into signing something. An NDA about Patrick. But actually taking me to court? Unlikely. I ran the cost-benefit analysis—suing someone who lives in their deceased aunt’s house and has £20,000 in savings isn’t worth their lawyers’ hourly rate. This is a billion-pound company. I’m not even a rounding error in their litigation budget.
So, they’ll try intimidation. And I’m going to tell them, very politely and with excellent posture, to go to hell.
I’ve calculated what my severance package should be.
Two years of service, plus compensation for wrongful dismissal. Enough money to survive while I figure out next steps and lick my wounds without having to rush immediately into another job.
Everyone we pass is staring. My face burns but I attempt polite smiles. Like maybe if I’m nice enough, professional enough, they’ll forget they saw me escorted out in tears. No matter what my severance package is, that matters to me.
I feel like we’re going to a funeral. Mine, specifically.
Jake’s dressed smartly in a suit and tie. He usually looks like he’s about to climb something. I’m wearing the same green dressI wore to that dumb presentation all those months ago and now it feels like a bad omen.
The lift ride feels eternal. My chest’s so tight I can’t get proper breaths.
I get even more nervous walking into the conference room, which shouldn’t be possible since my anxiety was already operating at full capacity.
Five people in sharp suits sit around the conference table.
Someone’s taking notes on a yellow legal pad, the writing too small for me to read upside down, though I desperately want to know.
“Please, sit,” one lawyer says, gesturing to chairs that put us smack in the middle.
We’re literally surrounded by legal sharks. I feel like those gazelles in nature documentaries, the ones that freeze right before the lions pounce. Except the gazelles don’t have to sit down first and make small talk.
I sit and give myself an internal pep talk.You have the evidence you need, Georgie. Take these fuckers to town. Do not let them railroad you.
