As the case leader, I’m managing the project and am responsible for the deliverables as well as the two junior consultants on our team. My boss, Oliver, is the partner on the case, which means he doesn’t do any of the actual work. Somewhere north of fifty, Oliver has a one-expression-fits-all stoicism and wears unvarying charcoal pinstripe suits, whose double-breasted blazers he always buttons over his monochrome ties and portly belly. His hobbies include micromanaging to convince himself he’s not losing relevance and leaving the office at onePMto play golf, in that order. As far as I can tell, he’s simply there to provide the stature and gravity that I apparently lack.
“I really think we need to include the data that show that expanding into renewable energy is Turpi’s best bet,” I tell Oliver through the screen. “Even without government subsidies, solar and wind have become cheaper than oil and gas in many markets. Sure, there’ll be an initial hit to profits as Turpi invests in the infrastructure, but it’s the best long-term option. Theonlylong-term option, really.” I’ve made this point about a dozen times, and each time Oliver says the same thing.
“I’m not arguing with your numbers, Kat,” he replies. His crisp English accent has the infuriating effect of making insane things sound quite sensible. “But we need to take our direction from the client. Harold has made it very clear that he’s opposed to renewables, so that’s that.”
Harold is Turpi’s CEO, the one who called meKittenon yesterday’s call. His great-great-grandfather founded the business, so Harold now sits in his predestined throne as king of the dynasty. He quite literally wears his arrogance on his sleeve with monogramed cuff links and gold pinky rings on each hand, and he has a bad habit of dropping his eyes to my chest when I’m talking, like he thinks he’s above modern rules of appropriate workplace behavior. He’s part of the reason I prefer working from home. And also part of the reason I need to become a CEO someday, to kick his generation right out of the corner offices with my pointy-toed pumps.
Neither of my parents are in the business world. Dad’s a social worker and Mom’s always stayed home. But ever since I can remember, they told me I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up, even president or a Fortune 500 CEO. When I asked what a CEO was, Dad said it was the person who got to tell everyone else what to do. “And they never have to wash their own dishes,” I remember Mom adding. I thought that sounded pretty great—the no dishes part especially—and as I got older, the allure only grew.
It’s why I worked so hard to get into the University of Michigan and then to land a coveted Wall Street job after graduation, subsisting on cold brew and four hours of sleep per night before taking the Leo & Sons job to work with global CEOs.
Generations of women have fought hard for equality, and now it’s my turn to stand on their shoulders and help finish the work, or at least take it one notch farther. I’ll swing a sledgehammer through the frat house roof and throw a party as it falls to the ground and we women dance on broken glass, admiring our limitless reflections in the shards that once caged us.
My ambition hasn’t come without fallout. Friendships have fizzled, my family have been hurt by how little I see them, and Mateo probably blames my travel schedule for our relationship faltering, though I know deep down it was something bigger.
“But aren’t we ethically compelled to tell the truth about their failing business model?” I ask Oliver now, trying to keep from sounding argumentative while also standing my ground. “Investing in renewable energy is the right thing to do from both an economic and an environmental perspective.”
I’m not someone who goes to climate rallies or anything, but I’d like to be on the right side of history and not feel like I’m contributing to Earth’s destruction by condoning—even empowering—Turpi’s flagrant carbon emissions. And the financial models are on the same side as my morals. “The future is green, no matter which way you look at it.”
“I hear you,” Oliver says, “but let’s not forget that Turpi is paying us ten million pounds for this project. Our job is to make them happy.”
“I thought our job was to make them money.”
My stony-faced boss nearly smiles at that, like my naivete is darling indeed. “How about this,” he proposes. “No clean energy slides in the PowerPoint, but you can voice over that side of things during the meeting and gauge Harold’s reaction. Fair play?”
I want to push back, but Oliver is in charge of my promotion, which basically feels like he’s in charge of my entire future. So I grit my teeth and repeat, “Fair play.”
It’s probably good that I have the presentation to focus on for the rest of the day so I don’t obsess about Alexander and how he let me down. If I’m being self-aware about it, Iamstill obsessing,but it’s layered beneath the work stuff, shoved under the stress and deadlines of corporate life.
Did you see him again?!Jules texts in the afternoon.
Nope,I reply without explanation. I’m not in the mood to talk about it.
Aww shite babes. But there’s always tomorrow! Xxx
Her optimism annoys me as much as her pessimism did yesterday. I’ve just about accepted that nothing is going to happen with Alexander, and her cheeriness feels like it’s rubbing salt in my open wound.
Yup!I text back because I don’t want Jules thinking I’m mad at her when I’m really just mad at myself and the world, and this love lottery that seems to have voided my winning ticket. There’s always tomorrow.
It turns out that I haven’t successfully given up on Alexander after all. All night, I’m back conjuring up dreamlike scenarios where he meets my eyes and silently pledges his unfailing attachment until the grave and beyond.
It’s not that he’s not interested in me, I conclude when I groggily get out of bed the next morning. I must have just jinxed it by trying too hard.
So, back to my most authentic self, I scarf down my crumpet with one hand while scooping Shreddies from the box with the other. Logging onto my computer, I scroll through my emails. There’s an updated presentation in my inbox, sent across at 3:48AMby one of the junior consultants on my team. The twinge of guilt I feel that she stayed up so late working on it quickly fades away as Irecall all the years I grinded through all-nighters too. Everyone has to put in their time to make it to the top.
Unless you’re like Harold and born into privilege. Or Alexander, but that’s different—he still takes the bus and probably even does his own Waitrose grocery shopping.
Apparently I haven’t successfully stopped thinking about him. I glance out the window every now and then (okay, every ten seconds) but my eyes aren’t stuck to the street the way they were yesterday.
A 4 bus rolls up to St. Mary’s, humming to a stop right in front of me. Allowing myself one quick glance, I brace for the letdown. But there isn’t one.
He’s there again, back in the exact same spot, reading his magazine and looking just as jaw-droppingly gorgeous as I’d made him out to be in my memory.
He’s wearing the same peacoat and maroon scarf as last time, which I find perfectly endearing. What a wonderful quality that he isn’t one of those overly showy princes who refuses to be caught in the same outfit twice. It fits with what I’ve already suspected about him—that he’s a man of the people who wants to understand the plights we commoners face, even though he’s clearly the least common human in the history of humanity.
Amid my delight, there’s devastation. He’s so casually staring down at his magazine, seemingly oblivious to my presence. With all my lost and refound hopes, I channel my most alluring energy, willing him to look up at me as new passengers board the bus. But he doesn’t shift his gaze, not even an inch.
Wild with desperation—but with the competing need to appear cool as a cucumber—I stand up and fiddle with my linen drapes in hopes that Alexander’s peripheral vision will snag on the movementand compel him to look at me. It’s ever so slightly more subtle than the alternative of pounding on the window and bellowing,“HELLOOOO, MY LOVE … LOOK HITHER!”
