“I’m not saying ’e’s in the right,” Jules says. “But you don’t need to wait for ’im to reach out. Just pick up the dog and bone and give ’im a bell.”
“I’m not going to call him,” I say. “I’m moving to Dubai next month for my new case anyway.”
Even though I’m going to a place I’ve never been, the process of leaving is soothing and familiar. I know what to do. I pack up and delete his number. Moving on is something I’m good at.
“It’s better this way,” I go on, speaking very firmly to try and prop up the flimsy words. “We were just never meant to be.”
Jules snorts loudly, not bothering to hide her skepticism. “I don’t know if I believe anyone’s reallymade to be,” she says, helping herself to the chips she’s just given me. “I reckon you justmake it be. Love is a choice every damn day, innit?”
The old me would’ve been grievously offended by this idea of love being a choice—“How dare you insinuate that soul mates don’t exist?”I would’ve ranted.
But maybe this more pragmatic view is just as dreamy after all. Maybe the most romantic thing of all is to continually choose somebody, even—and especially—on the days it’s hard and laced with hurt. And rather than leaving our love stories up to the flimsy whims of fate, perhaps we each have the ability to shape our own destiny through the enduring power of commitment.
“Beef bagel’s up, be back in a jiffy,” Jules says, hopping back into the King’s Head kitchen to collect the food, leaving me chewing on the true meaning of love that I’ve resisted and rejected and rewritten for my whole life.
Early the next week, I use my elevated partner status to pop out for a lunchtime spin class across from the office, without feeling (as) guilty about being away from the desk. At the end of the class, I check my phone and have three missed calls and seven texts from Harold. The top text reads:PR crisis. Get back to office now.
The following messages are just different iterations of his escalating impatience. A quick Google search reveals the headlines. There’s been a massive oil spill in the North Sea off Great Britain, caused by the explosion of one of Turpi’s oil rigs. It’s an environmental catastrophe. The worst in decades, the reports say.
My stomach turns as I read estimates on the number of marine species impacted and how many years it will take for the ocean to heal. The outward disgust at Turpi turns inward as I feel my complicity as their consultant.
When I get to the office in Canary Wharf, I find Harold and his compadres huddled together in his office, barking orders and excuses.
“We don’t owe the public anything,” Harold is ranting to anyone who will listen. “And the investors will hold steady so long as we can prove the financial impact will be negligible. The stock hasn’t sold off yet—we’ve got to reassure them”
Reassure them that you’re not losing money, you’re just destroying the ocean?I want to bite back.
“Kat,” Harold says, as I put my bag down at the desk. “Go down to the eighteenth floor and build out the PR messaging with the team. They’re sure to bungle it.”
I’m used to acquiescing to these kinds of requests, but I’m not the junior consultant anymore. I’m the partner. This is my opportunity to speak up. To be the change in the system, like I always said I would be once I had the power.
So I clench my jaw and stand firm. “We need to issue an apology,” I say. “We can’t pretend like Turpi didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Are you mad?” Harold sneers. “Of course we didn’t do anything wrong. Oil spills are the normal cost of doing business in this industry. Reasonable people will understand that.”
“Let’s put that in the PR statement,” I mutter dryly, under my breath.
“It’s not a bad quote,” Harold says, unironically. “Now let’s get cracking.” He shoos me away, like he’s a lord and I’m the help.
And so I find myself heading down to the eighteenth floor, per Harold’s request. When I tell the internal communications team that Harold wants me to weigh in on the messaging, someone shoves a printout in my hand. It’s the latest version of the draft, andit starts off:While we at Turpi regret the current circumstances, we want to wholeheartedly assure our investors and customers that we take great pride in our unwavering commitment to supporting a healthy planet for all.
If it weren’t such a catastrophic moment, it would be comical. Sitting down at a spare desk, I start typing a new version—a simple apology that takes ownership.
Harold appears at my side as I’m editing it. “What’s taking so long?” he fumes. “We needed to put out a statement five hours ago.” Reading the document over my shoulder, his face boils over. “Who wrote this piece of shite?”
Folding my arms, I meet his inflamed gaze. “I did,” I say coolly.
“This is the problem with girls in business,” Harold mutters, half to himself, half to me. “They’re too damn soft.”
Something inside me switches, or already has. I’m no longer scared of Harold or what he might do if I resist him. “Can you repeat that, please?” I ask him in an artificially subservient voice. “Want to make sure that I caught it verbatim for the statement.”
“Fuck off, Kat,” he says. “Show some respect.”
I’m about to unleash a sarcastic comeback about how he’s shownmenothing but respect when my attention is snagged by the office TVs. BBC is on, and Turpi has made the headline:Climate Activists Gather in London Amid Turpi’s Catastrophic Oil Spill.
Video footage turns to a climate rally forming outside at Trafalgar Square in Westminster, a great paved space in front of the majestic National Gallery, dominated by a sky-high memorial column and multiple stately fountains. Packing the square, protesters are holding handmade signs and chanting pro-Earth slogans. The camera flashes to a group of students.
A little girl with long black braids appears on screen. She’s in a purple jumper with a pleated skirt and mismatched knee-high socks. It’s Mala, being interviewed by a reporter.
