I work from home on Monday, chugging tea by the kettle as I avoid reaching out to HR. Rationally, I know I should report what happened at Annabel’s, and I told Rory I would on our walk back from gelato.
But I don’t want to.
If the news got out, the story would be tangled up with my name for years to come. I’ve worked too hard to let one night tarnish my reputation. It could jeopardize my promotion—or even if it didn’t, people would be quick to discredit the partner title as something I didn’t actually earn.
And though the events have already happened, there’s a feeling that I can negate them by staying quiet. That I can stay unsoiled in other people’s eyes and be less blemished in my own.
My inner deliberation is stuck in a circular loop, moving more backward than forward, when a double-decker bus squeaks up to St. Mary’s outside. I glance out the window, glad for the distraction.I’ve told Rory to look for me on his commute to work. To avoid sounding like a creepy stalker lady, I’ve made it seem like this will be the very first time I’ll be perched in his line of sight.
There he is, peering up from his usual seat on the bus.
It feels different from when we made eye contact before (or more accurately, when Ithoughtwe’d made eye contact). There’s none of the scintillating drama, none of the goose bumps or heart palpitations.
I miss the butterfly rush that comes from having a crush, and there’s still a substantial part of me that resents Rory for his role in ruining my royal future. But there’s a slim silver lining in no longer feeling like I have to be graceful or sophisticated enough to earn his approval. Now that I know he’s no knight in shining armor, there’s no pressure to impress.
Mouth stuffed full of Shreddies, I wave at Rory. He waves back wildly, like spotting me is just the greatest thing in the world. It makes me roll my eyes, that his life is so uneventful that this is a big deal for him. But it wins me over too.
How are my curtains this morning?I text him, as the bus rolls out of view down Upper Street.Still crooked?
I’ve fiddled with them, trying to even out the sides so it won’t trigger his OCD. I don’t like the idea of making him stressed out, even over something small like that.
Nice and symmetrical!he replies.You sure know how to make a guy’s day.
I catch myself smiling, although I’m not exactly feeling in a joyous mood. My phone buzzes again, and Rory’s name is back on my screen, almost as if he could feel my nerves reverberating through the coiled London streets.
Have you reached out to HR yet? It’ll all be okay!
The accountability makes it harder to give into the temptation to just stay quiet. I know he’ll be checking in. He already is.
Ironically, what I like best about Rory is one of the things that bothered me initially. That he’s not interested in dating me. That he doesn’t see me as anything other than a strictly platonic buddy to talk to while he pines after his girl back home.
Though I’m still not sure I approve of his ex, the fact that he’s in love with her simplifies everything. I don’t have to worry about Rory falling for me and my oh-so-charming ways, only to have to break his heart because there’s absolutely no way I could or would fall in love with such a plain and simple hometown guy.
Knowing that he has no ulterior motive helps me accept and appreciate his friendship. At least in the moments I’m not still moping about how he’s an American neighbor and not an English noble.
After a dozen rewrites of the email to Leo & Son’s HR team, I do end up sending it the following week, right before the self-imposed window closes when I’d end up talking myself out of it for good. The final version doesn’t say much, just that I have a time-sensitive matter I’d like to discuss in person or on the phone.
It’s impossible to focus on work as I await a reply. I keep my video off in the status meeting and try not to gag as I see Harold’s face. His pompous demeanor is unchanged, like that night never happened. In some ways, I welcome this deletion. But more so, I resent it and his privileged pageantry to carry on as if all is well in the world.
A full four and a half hours later, Helena from HR replies with a curt one-liner:Will find time for us to connect. Thx.A calendar invite pops up—a fifteen-minute Zoom meeting two weeks from now.
She apparently missed—or just disregarded—thetime-sensitivepart of my message. I propose a new time for this afternoon. Not knowing if she’ll show, I dial into the Zoom meeting and try to repeat the script in my head. I’ve written bullet points of what I want to say, and I keep them open on a Word doc on my computer to prop up my wobbly courage.
Helena’s bird-shaped face pops onto the screen seven minutes late, which leaves exactly eight minutes for our conversation. She’s multitasking on her phone—texting or replying to emails or maybe swiping through a dating app.
I spit it all out in one breath before I can change my mind..
Helena handles the news without the smallest change in her appearance, though perhaps that’s due to the excessive Botox that seems to have frozen her face in a constipated expression. She seems shockingly unshocked, and it gives me the feeling that I’m not the first person who’s reported something similar against Harold.
This injects me with a surge of boldness. I’m not just doing this for me; I’m doing it for the other women who’ve been on the wrong end of Harold’s eyes and hands. And all the future women who might be if he doesn’t face any ramifications for his actions.
Helena starts asking questions that sound like they’re being read from a checklist. “Could you please confirm whether you’ve spoken about this with anyone else at the company?” she asks in a harsh European accent.
“No,” I say. “I came to you first.”
“And from your perspective, was there consent?”
“No,” I say, wavering as that word crawls its way up and down my body. “There wasn’t.”
