“Among the protestors are grade-two students at Hendrick Primary School in Clerkenwell,” the reporter says. “Here we have seven-year-old Mala, who’s come with her mum and classmates. Mala, what do you think about the oil spill?”
“It’s horrid,” Mala says, speaking clearly and solemnly into the microphone. “Some people don’t care about our lovely Earth. It makes me sad. But also glad because we’re here and the big people in the government will have to notice us and change the laws. They will do!”
I feel myself getting choked up as I watch it. Kids intuitively understand right and wrong and are so hopeful that justice will prevail. That their voice will be heard.
After Mala, the reporter moves over to Rory, who’s wearing his rain coat over his button-down shirt, like he’s prepared for a downpour. My chest clenches and releases at the sight of him. The painful frustration I’ve felt toward him is replaced by a poignant sort of pride at how he’s out there on the street, standing up for what he believes in. Advocating for the Earth that has no voice.
While I’m here in an ivory tower helping the culprit cover his tracks.
“Mr. Cooper,” the reporter says, “what was the motivation for coming out here with your students today?”
Rory looks flustered to be on camera, but he answers the reporter’s question like he knows it’s for something bigger than himself. “Well, when we got into school today, some of the kids had heard about an oil spill and were asking what it meant,” he says, lookingat the reporter rather than the camera. “We turned on the news, and when we learned this rally was happening, the students asked if we could go. I called their parents to check, and a few came to chaperone. I’m just so proud of the kids for wanting to get involved. This is more impactful than any kind of school lesson, in my opinion. I just hope—”
Harold snaps up the remote and turns the TV off mid-sentence. It zaps to blackness. “What a bunch of wankers,” he jeers. “Those people don’t understand how the world works. That’s why they’re bloody skint while I’ve got five properties around the globe.”
If I’d thought my patience had broken earlier, now it’s fully snapped. Even though I’m not with Rory, I still have an unshakable need to defend him. I don’t fight the instinct, not when it’s more important to fight this evil.
“Those peopleare my friends,” I say, loudly enough for everyone on the floor to hear. “And they’re right.”
Harold looks at me like I’ve just sprouted three heads. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Some decent ethics,” I say, energized by the thrill of finally speaking my mind.
“That’s enough,” Harold grumbles. “Turn in the new draft of the press release. You’re partner now—this is what you’ve been trained to do.”
It’s probably true. Maybe I have been trained to go along and do what the client says. To value profits over the planet. To sacrifice the common good for the bottom line.
But this is the beginning of un-training myself so I can start over and live a better life. Even if I can’t live that life with Rory, I still want to live it. For the students in his class. For my nephewsand niece. For the kids I hope to have someday, and for their kids.
And for me too, so I can look back when I’m eighty and be proud of my choices.
“No,” I say, in a strange, strong voice that I recognize immediately as my own. Like it’s returned to me after a long sabbatical. “I quit.”
Now it’s Harold’s turn to laugh—a coarse, phlegmy sound that makes me think of lung disease. “You can’t quit,” he says, as if this were obvious.
The old CEO dream comes to mind, but it’s lost its luster. The closer I’ve gotten to the top, the more the disillusionment has swelled. What I once worshipped as gold now leaves me cold.
As I stare at the TV that’s gone black, it’s newly clear to me that success isn’t about scale. It’s about soul. Not how many people you impact, but how deeply you do it.
I don’t need to be CEO to make a difference. I just need to be a decent human being with a backbone. Transformative change happens at the micro level, not the macro.
And though I’ve been determined to shatter the glass ceiling and advance gender equality in the business world, I’m now wondering if maybe the only thing I owe the trailblazing women who came before me is a thank-you for the doors they’ve helped open. The doors I can walk into. Or out of.
“Yes, I can,” I tell Harold. “And I do.”
Without waiting for permission of any kind, I go back up to the thirty-second floor and make a phone call to Leo & Sons HR, officially turning in my notice, effective immediately. Hastily packing up my office, I don’t take much, leaving behind thepartner plaque, half-filled notebooks, and designer heels stashed under my desk.
The juniors watch me go, looking almost like they want to clap or follow me out. But they stay tethered to their desks without saying a word.
The elevators are taking too long, and I’m overcome by the need to evacuate the building and everything it represents as quickly as possible. Slipping on my trainers, I dash to the stairs. I’m panting a few floors in, but I don’t stop until I’m out of the marble lobby and onto the sidewalk.
Flagging down the first cab I see, I hop in the back. “To Trafalgar Square, please,” I wheeze. “As fast as you can.”
“You late to something, ma’am?” the driver asks, eyeing my disheveled state in the rearview mirror.
“Yes,” I say as the cab lurches into motion. “I am.”
I’m late to prioritizing the important things and valuing sincere goodness over simulated greatness. I’m late to running toward love, not just sprinting away from it. I’m late to unshackling myself from the hectic, hollow life I’ve proudly chained myself to for so many years.
