Chapter 11
11
If you ever want to find out if you’re as indispensable at work as everyone tells you you are, try resigning. As a partner, I certainly expected the process of offboarding me, as the HR department described it, to take a week or two at a bare minimum. I’m therefore more than a little surprised to be handing in my car park pass and nosing the Porsche out of the parking lot for the final time just as most of the workers in the offices around us are heading out for lunch.
By the time I was finished with Martin, an HR representative was already waiting to take me down for my exit interview. As soon as they realised that I wasn’t carrying a grudge or planning to sue, they pretty much lost interest and just took me through the paperwork instead. The only thing that surprised me at that point was that, despite resigning, I’m being put on gardening leave for nine months, during which time I’m not allowed to work for any other law firms. When I queried it, they told me that it was standard practice because I currently have sensitive information that could benefit competitors, so they were protecting themselves. I’m also not allowed to talk to anyone from Morton Lansdowne or any other commercial law firm during that time, which is going to be a bit tricky for Alasdair and me. At the end of the gardening leave, I’ll be paid for a further three months in lieu of notice, and the restrictions will be lifted as hopefully any information I have will be out of date by then.
It was a curiously banal process which made me realise that they didn’t actually care about me as a person at all. I came away with the distinct impression that none of us are anything more than payroll numbers as far as HR is concerned; what we actually do or the rank we hold is totally irrelevant to them. I was tempted to point out the lack of humanity in Human Resources, but I think the irony would have been lost on them.
After HR had ‘processed’ me, I had yet another meeting with Helen Armitage. This time, however, she’d also summoned two other junior partners based purely, from what I was able to gather, on the fact that they happened to be in the office today. Laura, the junior associate who’d been in Paris with me, was also there and seemed a little overwhelmed by everything, if the wide-eyed looks she kept giving me were anything to go by. It took just over an hour to hand over the current transaction and then that was it. Janice was summoned to help me clear my office, which took no more than five minutes because I hardly had anything personal in there, and she escorted me down to the parking lot and relieved me of my pass. The most emotional moment came courtesy of Alana, who’d applied and failed to get partner at the same time as me. She marched into my office and delivered an impassioned monologue about how I was a disgrace to feminism and why had I bothered applying for partnership, a role that most people (especially her) would crawl over their dead grandmother’s body for, if I was just going to chuck it in the bin after little more than six months? I would have explained, only, having delivered her message, she promptly turned on her heel and stalked out again, leaving Janice and me staring after her in disbelief.
Janice was her typical efficient self, and I’ve realised that she’s probably the only person at Morton Lansdowne that I’m actually going to miss. Apart from Alasdair, of course. I wonder how he’ll take the news? He’s in Ireland at the moment, so I imagine it will take a while for word to reach him. I would have liked to be able to tell him myself, but the gardening leave ban means I can’t. I hope he’ll be OK. I guess we couldn’t have continued as we were forever, so maybe this is for the best where he’s concerned as well.
I did make a vague plan on the way home to knock on Rebecca’s door and see if she was free for lunch, but there’s no sign of her SUV when I pull into the space outside my house. I haven’t seen her properly since we buried the hatchet on the day of John Curbishley’s memorial service, but we’ve waved to each other a few times when I’ve been working in my study over the weekend and she and Rollo have passed my window on their way to or from one of his activities.
As I let myself into the house, I automatically turn left into my study, before I realise that I have no reason to be in here and no laptop to sit down in front of. This is the moment when the enormity of what I’ve done hits me properly, and I suddenly feel a bit wobbly. I make my way carefully into the kitchen, where I pour myself a glass of water, holding it with both hands as I drink so as not to drop it. After refilling the glass, I sink down onto one of the sofas in the living space and lower my head into my hands. I don’t even realise I’m crying until the first fat, salty tear drops off my chin and makes a wet mark on my blouse. I study the stain with fascination; I can’t remember the last time I cried. I’ve been angry plenty of times during my time at Morton Lansdowne, frustrated too, but I’ve never cried. I’m not even sure what I’m crying for. It’s not as if they sacked me or made me redundant; this was purely my decision. So why the hell am I sobbing like my heart is broken?
My impromptu and unexplained self-pity fest is interrupted by the sound of a key being inserted in the front door. My first thought is that maybe Janice has come to check up on me, but that’s obviously not possible as she returned my front door key before I left. Before I have a chance to come up with any other theories, the door swings open to reveal a wiry man who I guess must be in his mid-forties. He’s whistling a tune I don’t recognise and carrying what looks like a large gym bag. I’ve never seen him in my life before. He’s totally oblivious to me as he closes the front door, but my heart is thumping hard in my chest. Who the hell is he, and why does he have a key to my house? The thought has barely registered before my mind conjures up a more sinister scenario. He’s got some sort of weapon in the bag. He’s going to murder me, put me in the bag and then bury me somewhere in the woods. By the time he finally notices me, I’ve gone into full fight-or-flight mode.
‘Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?’ I demand, springing to my feet and trying to look as imposing as I can which, given that he must be at least a foot taller than me, isn’t very successful.
‘I am Lukasz,’ he replies in a thick Eastern European accent, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. ‘I come to water your plants.’ He points at the hanging baskets and flowerpots on the other side of the bifold doors.
The initial relief that he’s not going to attack me after all is short lived, as I now realise how rude I’ve just been.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell him in a more conciliatory tone. ‘It’s just that I’ve never seen you before, and it was a bit of a surprise.’
He smiles. ‘I have never seen you before either. My boss, he gives me the key of your house and he says, “Lukasz, you must look after the plants for this lady. She has a very important job and is very busy.” So, every few days, I come here and I take care of them for you.’
‘Thank you. They do look amazing.’
He nods to acknowledge the compliment. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you look sad. Did you receive bad news?’
God, my face is probably a mess. Funnily enough, I never considered how I looked while I was busy being convinced I was facing my untimely end. ‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’m fine. I just had a bit of a shock, that’s all. I’ll go and sort myself out while you carry on.’
Before he has a chance to say any more, I bolt up the stairs into my bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind me. I look at myself in the mirror and I’m amazed poor Lukasz didn’t turn and run. I look like I’ve escaped from some kind of mental institution. However, before I get a chance to sort myself out, the tears restart. This is ridiculous; I can’t spend the whole day crying, particularly as I’m still not 100 per cent sure what it is I’m crying about.
‘Pull yourself together, Thea, for God’s sake,’ I tell my reflection crossly, before turning on the taps and attacking my face with the flannel. The end result is not pretty; my skin is red and blotchy, particularly around my eyes, but at least the sad panda look is gone.
When I tentatively make my way back downstairs, Lukasz has gone but I can tell he’s watered everything because the hanging baskets are dripping noisily onto the paving slabs below. What a strange way to earn a living, I think to myself as I watch the droplets of water hitting the ground. I wonder how many houses he has the keys to. How many houses does he visit each day, doing exactly what he does for me? I mean, he was here for, what, ten minutes? Instinctively, I start to do the maths in my head. Assuming he works an eight-hour day and allowing twenty minutes between appointments, that’s sixteen houses every day. My mind now switches tack, and I hurry into my study to find the paperwork for my garden contract. It only takes seconds to confirm what I thought; I pay ￡100 per month for ‘gardening services’. Assuming Lukasz is here for ten minutes, three times a week, that translates to half an hour per week or two hours a month, which means his employer is essentially charging me ￡50 an hour to pour water into some pots. I doubt very much that Lukasz is being paid that much, which means that there’s a middleman creaming a fat profit off me.
I’m just about to pick up the phone to call the company and tell them I’m cancelling the contract because their charges are ridiculous when the hypocrisy of the situation hits me. As a partner at Morton Lansdowne, I was charged out at over ￡500 per hour. I am, or at least I was, corporate Lukasz. The reminder of the sudden loss of my identity overwhelms me as the tears start falling freely once more. I have no idea how long I sit at the desk in my study crying my heart out, but it feels like an age. When it eventually stops, I go back upstairs and give my face another good wash before checking the time. Three o’clock. How can it only be three o’clock when so much has happened today? Normally, I’d be in the thick of things with at least another five hours to go before leaving the office. How on earth do people manage to fill their days if they don’t work? At this rate, I’ll be stir crazy by six, and that’s just today. What the hell am I going to do tomorrow, and the day after that?
Thankfully, before I can go too much further down this particular rabbit hole, my phone pings with a message and I see it’s from Alasdair.
You RESIGNED? WTAF Thea?? I’m in meetings till 8.30 but will call you after.
Shit. What am I going to do? After thinking for a while, I tap out a message that I’m pretty certain won’t get me into trouble, even if they find it.
Turns out it wasn’t just a wobble after all. I’m fine, don’t worry about me. This is what I want. Plus, I’m not really supposed to talk to anyone from work while I’m on gardening leave – sorry *sad face*. Take care of yourself, won’t you. Tx
I am really going to miss him, but the more I think about it, the more I think it’s for the best. A clean break for both of us. Although I enjoy his company and the sex is fun, he probably needs to meet someone who can give him more than I can and, after nine months of enforced no contact, he’s bound to have moved on. As for me, who knows? I do sometimes wonder if my ‘one’ is out there, but on balance I doubt it. All my relationships to date have been casual, like Alasdair. On the rare occasions I’ve allowed myself to contemplate taking things to a deeper level, something inside me has pushed back; proper relationships sound very needy and draining to me.
After staring aimlessly out of my study window for a while, I decide I need to make a to-do list. I rummage in my bag and pull out my notebook and fountain pen. Most of my colleagues take notes with biros, but I’ve always preferred the feel of a fountain pen, much to their amusement. Turning to a fresh, blank sheet, I start to write:
Update family.
Figure out what to do now.
…
I stare and stare at the empty third item, willing my mind to come up with something, but it’s overpowered by item two. What on earth am I going to do with the rest of my life?