“Okay.” I watch him walk away, down the path, over the bridge, back toward the high street.
I’m not sure if we broke up or just had a bad fight. All I know is that he isn’t here next to me. That it’ll take a lot to come back from that.
I want to blame Rory for overreacting. I want to blame Jules for spilling the story. But even as my temper tries to flare with self-righteous smoke, I know the only person I can actually blame is myself. I should’ve come clean right away and told Rory the whole backstory last week, before we kissed for the first time. Then he would’ve understood.
Clouds have cloaked the sky, and it starts to rain as I stay there on the bench, unable to join the party. Rather than bringing any rejuvenation, the droplets land on my skin with a rubbery eraser texture, wiping away everything I wanted to keep in place.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The pain that follows isn’t an acute spasm or a sharp slicing open of the heart. It’s a mellow ache with no escape, stretching from my limbs into my lungs and back out again.
If Rory had left because he didn’t want to be with me or didn’t love me, I think I could eventually come to terms with that. But there’s no resolution in knowing he doesn’t trust me.
That’s what keeps me from falling asleep in that rickety old inn the night of Jules and Nina’s wedding. And that’s what nearly makes me call Rory the next day, when I’m back at Marlow House, eating takeout from Pizza Express on the couch as I sift through the mound of work emails that came through over the weekend and text Blake about what happened because it’s too painful to talk about on the phone.
I don’t call Rory either. He was clear that he needs space, and I need to respect that. His personality isn’t prone to handle surprises well, and once he gets over the initial shock, I’m hoping he’ll comearound and understand that my feelings are genuine. But I can’t force that realization. He has to get there on his own.
Distracting myself from the damage, I throw myself into work. It’s a bit disconcerting, how convincingly I can project the image that everything is fine. Dressed in my fiercest power suits, I run meetings with laser-sharp efficiency, and no one seems to notice that anything is amiss.
Rory would notice. He’d be able to tell that something was wrong. The thought makes me miss him before I remember that I’m not supposed to do that.
At the office, the mood is brash and buoyant as we head into the final few weeks of the case. The oil market has been on an upward tear, with barrel prices rising from an attractive supply–demand dynamic (attractive to oil companies and investors, that is; unattractive to environmentalists). Consumer demand has been surging for cars and airplanes, and supply has hit roadblocks because of OPEC constraints and capacity limitations from companies who’ve diversified away from fossil fuels.
Turpi, given its unwavering commitment to oil, has been well positioned to benefit from this dynamic. The stock has been rallying to new highs, and both the investors and the press are back on Harold’s side, praising his judgment.
To say that Harold is smug would be an understatement. He won’t shut up about listing off all the reasons that he was right to keep Turpi from entering the clean energy market. “Those chavs aren’t critiquing me now, are they?” he says one afternoon the week after the wedding debacle. “I’m the only CEO in the world who has the balls to do what’s right economically and say to hell with all the social impact nonsense.”
Part of me is tempted to record one of these conversations and post it on YouTube, but if my name were attached to it, I’d be blacklisted in the business world. No company wants an undercover journalist lurking in their midst. It’s not worth the risk, though I do wish people could hear him.
And I wish I could tell Rory about it. But another weekend comes and goes without hearing anything from him. The silence is almost less bearable than receiving a formal breakup text, the way it keeps me hanging on to that hopeless sort of hope. But the idea of actually receiving that breakup message makes me welcome the silence, which at least leaves room to imagine a reunion.
It’s only been a few days, and I’m not ready to admit defeat. I’m not surrendering to Rory.
And I’m not giving into Harold either. Though Rory isn’t at my side anymore, his repeated comments about needing to hold Harold accountable have stuck with me like glue tugging at my skin. And being in the midst of a heartbreak makes me feel more resilient to everything else. Like I can withstand anything right now.
So the week after the wedding, during one of the long days of silence from Rory, I reach back out to HR and say I’d like to discuss the Annabel’s situation again. And I post Oliver this time, with an email that provides context about what happened, including Harold’s apology and HR’s “resolution.” I’m less afraid to have the story recorded in writing anymore. In a way, I actually like the idea that there’s an email trail. It helps me feel like there’s a record of it.
Almost immediately, Oliver emails back saying that he’s escalating the situation to Leo & Sons leadership. He thanks me for letting him know, says he believes me and is only sorry he didn’t know earlier.
It’s as good a reaction as I could’ve hoped for, but I’m not expecting anything meaningful to happen. Harold is too entrenched to be ousted by the firm he’s paying to consult for him. The most that would happen is for Leo & Sons to drop Turpi as a client, though it’s highly unlikely given the money at stake.
Still, I feel better having resurrected the investigation, and there’s a certain pride that comes from acting on my own accord rather than relying on Rory to shepherd me through it. Although I still heard his voice in my head the whole time.
It was the warm, chummy voice that I’d gotten to know and love so much. Not the cold, clinical tone he’d used when he clammed up into a shell of himself at the wedding. The one that gave me the eerie, searing sensation that I was nothing more than a stranger to the person I’d hoped to spend my forever with.
CHAPTER FORTY
The next Monday, I’m sitting at my desk at the office, watching Harold do a BBC interview about the bull market for oil and commodities. His stringy hair, freshly dyed, has been gelled and fluffed to new heights, and he reeks of ego more than ever. As he evades the reporter’s questions about the long-term industry outlook and instead uses the microphone to shout about his own genius, I’m filled with an urge to punch the TV screen perched on the office wall. Instead, I just put it on mute as I receive an incoming call on my work line.
It’s Oliver. “Kat,” he says. “Thought I’d give a bell and check in. Heard the case is tying up nicely. Nice one—know it hasn’t been the easiest.”
I fill him in on the key performance indicators and synergies and latest financial projections, assuring him that we’re on track to meet the deliverables. The numbers roll easily off my tongue and give me a certain comfort, almost as if I have some kind of control over the future by confidently stating these projections.
“So, I’ve got some good news,” he says after I’ve given him the rundown. “I pushed again with management, and I’ve just gotten the green light to promote you to partner. Effective immediately, even though it’s off cycle.”
A surreal sort of thrill courses through me. I’m sure I must have misheard him. “What?” I say, my corporate tone dropping as I try to process his words. “Are you serious?”
From their desks scrunched up next to mine, I can feel the juniors looking on curiously, straining their ears for a juicy piece of office gossip. The open floor plan leaves little room for privacy, but this is news I don’t mind sharing.
