I do hear what he’s saying. All too clearly. He’s saying he wants to give me more work and responsibility without the benefit of a higher title. He’s saying I should keep grinding away with no guarantee that it will pay off.
“Would we be able to put it in writing?” I ask. “That I’ll get promoted next year if I successfully close out this case?” I should’ve asked for this last year, and I’m not going to make that mistake again.
“Ah, I’m afraid not,” he says, looking flummoxed, like I’ve been much too presumptuous. “It’s against Leo & Sons policy to put anything in writing.”
But letting clients feel up their consultants is just fine?I want to retort. But I’m not bold enough to say it.
Last year, my boss on the Boston case said that if I took an international case, I’d prove my versatility and be fast-tracked to the promotion. And now, here I am, back in the same spot, hearing the same evasive excuses.
“I understand your frustration,” Oliver says, and I’d bet my bonus that he got the phrase straight from some “EmpatheticLeadership” workshop he was forced to attend. “You’ve worked hard for this promotion, and you must be gutted it’s delayed a bit. But rest assured, Kat, we’ve identified you askey talent. You’re one of the women at the firm we’re focused on developing. You have loads of potential, there’s no doubt.”
I have no desire to scream or spit or sob. I simply want to laugh, but I don’t have the energy for it. My boss and all of his management peers might not be experts at solving business problems like I once thought. But they sure are experts at moving the goal post. They have the formula down to a science. How to motivate me to keep sprinting at an inhuman pace and maximize my output before rewarding me with the prize.
Still, I’ve come this far, and after a decade in the business world, what’s one more year?
The exit options I’ll have with the partner title on my résumé will make it worth it. After a year or two as partner, I can leave consulting and come in at a senior level at a company that actually does good things for the world—health care, or maybe education. I’ll be groomed for the C-suite, and all will be well.
And so I tell Oliver that I’d be happy to lead the remainder of the case. That I appreciate his support. That his mentorship means a lot to me. That I’m determined to be a significant contributor to the firm in the year ahead.
I say all the right things, all the buzz words, and he looks pleased at how the conversation has panned out. “Proud of you, lad,” he says, clapping me on the back like I’m one of the boys.
Leaving his office, I find refuge in a bathroom stall, feeling small and shaky as I lower myself to the floor and sit there with my head against the plastic wall.
You’re still on track to be a CEO,I remind myself.You’re still on track.
The phrase doesn’t comfort me as much as I’d hoped. It just reminds me of how large the gap is between where I am and where I want to be. Of how many hours of mindless, heartless work are ahead before I can reach something I care about. Something that gives me the influence and autonomy to change the system.
Still sitting on the bathroom floor, I take out my phone and do the one thing that I know will make me feel better. Not a superficial sort of better. Not a Band-Aid or a “better for now.” An actual, genuine sort of better.
I text Rory.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
He calls back soon after and offers to meet up after work in Islington or anywhere that’s most convenient for me. I’ve returned from the office early and am in no mood to go out into the cold, cold world, so I text him that he can come to Marlow House so long as he brings gelato.
Already on it,he texts back.Be there in a jiffy.
And sure enough, he buzzes up just as I’m pulling on my coziest sweatpants after an excessively long bubble bath during which I watchedThe Holidayon my phone. I’ve rarely felt more in need of an escapist rom-com than today. It doesn’t make me forget the sharpness of the day, but it dulls the edges just a bit.
I’ve meant to freshen up after my bath—brush out my hair, which is slung into a messy bun, and apply some foundation and lip liner—but there wasn’t time. My au naturel version will have to do. It’s probably better that way. The telltale sign of being real friendswith someone is not needing to go out of your way to look more put-together than you feel.
“It’s the gelato delivery boy.” Rory’s voice comes through the intercom, making me feel better before I even see him.
Unlocking the door, I let him in. There he is, in his wool coat and maroon scarf, wearing that old raggedy backpack that makes me feel better about my own lack of elegance.
“Thanks for coming,” I say.
“Happy to be here. I mean, I’m not happy that you’re not happy, obviously. But it’s good to see ya again.”
Unzipping his backpack, Rory pulls out three pints of Badiani’s gelato. “Now onto the big question,” he says. “Tiramisu, salted caramel, or pistachio?”
Those were the flavors I ordered when we went for gelato in Camden Passage. The ones I said were my favorite. It’s a small thing that he remembered this, but it gets me sniffling a bit, in an ugly, gunky sort of way.
For some reason, it makes me feel sad that someone might be so thoughtful without a hidden agenda. The notion that there are such kind people in a world that can be so cruel. I want to hug him again, but that might come across as a romantic gesture, or a pathetic one, so I just pluck one of the pints from his hands. “Let’s start with tiramisu. But I thought you only liked vanilla.”
“I like other flavors too,” he insists. “Vanilla is just my favorite, but I can get that anytime.”
Grabbing peanut butter and spoons for us, I flop down on the couch, connecting my phone to the TV to resume the movie.
