Page 15 of Leaning In

I smile at her back, even though I know she can’t see me. Over the years, we’ve bonded over annoying bosses, bizarre coworkers, perpetually broken printers, and the slow, soul-chipping experience of being regularly passed over for promotions. Originally, I was assigned to be her mentor when she started, which was ironic considering the fact that we work in totally different branches of the company. My title is marketing strategy, i.e. research, planning, client relations. It’s exactly what happens when you want to study art and your parents want you to study something sensible. You split the difference and end up adjacent to the creative work. Instead of ever saying out loud “I want to do that”, I’ve spent six years quietly hoping someone will look at my sketches and simply… realise. It’s not a strategy. But it’s safer than asking and being told no.

Meanwhile Alicia is in the finance department. Despite our different departments I’m glad they paired us together, because the two of us have become firm friends over the years. However, the fact that neither of us have managed to climb out of our junior positions since then is endlessly frustrating.

Me, because they seem to think I’m good for client-facing charm, but not much else. Alicia, because… well, they never say it out loud. They never have to. She’s a Black woman in a company where the people at the top all look eerily similar to each other, and nothing like her. Her invoices get processed twice as fast as anyone’s in the building, she ticks every box on paper, and somehow the opportunities still keep landing on people who look a little more like those in charge. I always bring up how amazing she is during our yearly “peer reviews”, but it doesn’t seem to change anything.

At least they don’t seem to care about us sitting by departments, meaning that Alicia and I have managed to claim these two “hot desks” as our own. Slightly against the rules of “hot desking” but no one ever complained. And now we’ve fully made them our own, complete with stickers.

“You should speak to Damien about the designs you drafted for the last project,” she tells me a few minutes later. “I thought they were way better than the ones they ended up using, and you said he was leading this one too.”

“And you should speak to Johnny about your new invoice system,” I counter.

“I tried that before and it didn’t work, but you might have more luck than I did.”

I look across the divider at her desk space, and she gives me a smile that looks a tad more like a grimace.

“Maybe,” I hedge. “I just don’t know if they would like them.”

The last campaign I worked on was with a fashion brand from the US who wanted to expand into the UK market. The Haus of Lamont clothes were beautiful. So beautiful that I wish I could actually afford to buy them without having to ask my parents for money—something I now refuse to do. Instead I settled for doing some rough sketches that are sitting on my desk at home because I don’t want to step on the design team’s toes.

“I’m sure they’d love them,” Alicia says.

“You sound suspiciously encouraging. I’m not sure that fits with the company policy.”

“Your designs are good.”

“Well it’s been a fun side project for me.” I shrug.

And it has been. I enjoy having a creative outlet. A few years ago, I stopped drawing properly altogether, and I’m not sure why. I relegated myself to only the occasional doodle, but recently, I’ve started taking it back up again.

We continue working in silence for a few more minutes, as rain pounds down on the office windows, London cast in a grey haze.

“Any fun plans tonight?” she asks, as we start packing up our bags.

“Dinner at my friend Michael’s. His parties are always an eclectic mix—last time I sat between a conservation scientist and a man who’d been on Pointless.” I pause, sliding my laptop into my bag. “Do you want me to text him and ask if you can come? He always says the more the merrier.”

“I can’t. My cousin’s down from Birmingham for the weekend. But I hope you have fun. Maybe you’ll meet the man of your dreams.”

“Statistically, one of them might be the man of my mum’s dreams,” I say, shouldering my bag. “There’s usually at least one tall finance man.”

“Text me if anything interesting happens,” Alicia calls after me as I leave.

Nothing interesting is going to happen. It’s just dinner at a friend’s.

***

This is far better than last Friday’s date with Angus. Nobody has yet mentioned their favourite Microsoft Office product. Though the night is young.

The doorbell rings and Michael gestures for us to start as he extricates himself from the table to answer it.

“Fordy! You made it,” I hear Michael’s voice from the hallway. “I thought you had volunteering tonight.”

“I managed to leg it here,” a voice says. I know that voice. Shit. My pulse quickens.

No, brain. Stop it. You’re friends with his sister. Not allowed.

I look down at the salad on my plate, which has suddenly become incredibly interesting. Oh look—a radish, what a fascinating choice.

Michael comes back into the room followed by a familiar head of tousled brown hair and eyes with an annoyingly attractive crinkle on either side.