21. Bravery reward #2
‘Greta, with the greatest respect, this isn’t about whether you believe there’s a power imbalance.
It’s about whether the university does.’ Leila glanced down, finally giving Greta a brief reprieve from her piercing gaze.
‘You hold an academic contract. She is enrolled here. That is the only overlap we are required to consider. Real feelings do not negate risk. Love doesn’t negate liability.
’ Leila paused, allowing Greta a moment to register the word love.
The word felt like a sudden physical weight.
Love? Was she in love? The thought sent a fresh wave of panic through her.
Was she allowing her career to unravel for someone she barely knew, let alone had admitted to loving?
‘You say you’re deft at identifying harm,’ Leila continued.
‘Our concern is that by the time harm is visible, it’s already occurred…
Look, we don’t police feelings, Greta, but we have to police boundaries…
and this has crossed one.’ She let out a quiet sigh.
‘You’re a clinician. You understand why safeguarding exists, even when everyone involved believes they’re doing their best.’ Her tone remained even, devoid of any malice or judgement.
‘This isn’t a moral condemnation. I am in no way suggesting that you have debased yourself by falling in love with someone younger than you.
’ That word again. ‘The university’s stance will be objective and will reflect your lack of mandatory disclosure.
With all due respect, you cannot expect this institution to pretend there has been no conflict when there plainly has been. ’
Greta felt her heart sink from her chest into the deepest pit of her stomach, where it began to fizz and digest. What the fuck was she thinking? Even now, with everything on the line, she couldn’t find the ability to say the words that would save her.
I don’t love her. I choose my career. I’ll end it. I’m sorry.
She moistened her dry lips and tried to steady the erratic breaths that were slipping from her control. Her molars pressed into one another, her ears full of the noise of them grinding.
‘May I ask what happens now?’ Greta’s voice was thin, finally threatening to betray her completely.
‘Miss Saint John will be contacted. A meeting will be arranged with the Head of Student Services or a representative from the student welfare team, who will in turn liaise with the Student Safeguarding Team if necessary.’
Safeguarding. The word made Greta want to retch every time it was uttered.
Dylan was nearly thirty, yet here was the insinuation of abuse.
A silent accusation that a predatory Greta had used her position to exploit Dylan’s vulnerability.
The air in the room suddenly grew thin, as if the oxygen had been sucked out and replaced by a noxious gas.
Gripping her thighs with both hands, Greta anchored herself to her seat.
Her breaths came deep and even in through her nose, out through her mouth, to stop herself from vomiting.
Greta cleared her throat and swallowed hard. ‘And then?’ she whispered, her voice trembling.
‘You will be notified of our decision in due course,’ Leila replied.
Her soft tone belied the weight of her words, but the kindness didn’t reach Greta.
The heavy and suffocating silence stretched between them, before Leila blew out a long breath.
‘Listen, Greta,’ her voice softened even further.
‘I don’t doubt your sincerity, or your feelings for Dylan.
And I’m not here to pass judgment on your private life.
This is purely a policy-driven conversation and decision. ’
Greta managed a stiff nod.
Leila smiled. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
***
‘Fuck,’ Dylan said bluntly, over-enunciating the ‘k’ as she stared at the side of Greta’s face.
Greta didn't look up; she kept her eyes fixed on her drink. Sitting at the corner of the kitchen island, she turned the stem of her wine glass with the tips of her fingers, watching the pale rosé swoosh against the glass. Sitting beside her, Dylan picked at the label of an alcohol-free beer. Greta hadn’t changed yet.
The navy power suit she was too exhausted to shed had felt like the only thing holding her together on the drive home.
She had headed straight for the wine the moment she walked through the door.
Waiting in the hallway was Dylan, worry etched on her face.
As Greta’s eyes landed on her, dressed in black jeans and a brown crew neck, she realised Dylan was everything she needed to see after the sobering reality of the day.
‘Yeeeah,’ Greta replied softly, before slowly tipping her wine glass to her lips and taking a sip.
‘I’m sorry, G.’
Greta finally looked at her. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong,’ she said, her tone soft and warm.
‘Are you fucking kidding? This whole thing is my fault,’ Dylan replied, flicking a ragged piece of the beer label onto the shiny grey surface. ‘I should have just left you alone. You’d forgotten about me and—’
‘Hmm,’ Greta interrupted, shaking her head as she swallowed. ‘I hadn’t.’
Blinking rapidly, Dylan’s chin and bottom lip quivered. ‘You had. And then I fucking fucked it in front of that fucking librarian—’
‘Dyyyl!’ Greta shook her head vehemently. ‘If I didn’t want any of this, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, and you wouldn’t be sitting there, littering in my kitchen.’ She glanced pointedly at the scattering of paper bits on the counter with a half smile.
Using the edge of her little finger, Dylan gathered the remnants of the label, sliding them off the surface into her waiting palm before dropping them into the neck of the empty bottle.
‘I just—’
‘Can we not talk about it? Just for a while. Just for this evening?’ Greta interrupted softly.
‘I’m so sorry, G.’
‘Dylan, if you apologise one more time, I will have Michael remove you.’ Dylan laughed, roughly swiping at a stray tear with her fingers.
‘I can’t worry about the outcome of this.
It will eat me alive,’ Greta said, her tone suddenly airy.
‘I’ve spoken with Human Resources at the PCI.
I have a meeting with them tomorrow and, in the words of Dame Doris, what will be, will be.
’ She squeezed Dylan’s hand. ‘Thank you for being here.’
‘I told you I would be. I’m impressed you didn’t run.’
‘Mmm,’ Greta hummed as she drained her drink. ‘I didn’t. Big girl pants, Dyl.’ She placed down her glass with a sharp chink.
Dylan whistled while tugging at the waistband of Greta’s trousers. ‘Can I see them?’
Greta lightly batted her hand away. ‘They’re metaphorical, Dylan. Not literal Bridgets,’ she chuckled as Dylan poked out her bottom lip and whined.
‘I’ve started my diss,’ Dylan said with a smile, once she’d finished feigning her sulk.
‘Amazing. What title did you settle—’
‘Do I get my reward now?’
‘Reward? Ohhhh…your reward.’
With a knowing smile on her face, Dylan rose from the stool. As Greta’s blazer was eased down over her arms, the sudden warmth of Dylan’s breaths landed on her ear.
‘Although this is a very fancy blue blazer, Doctor Vincent,’ Dylan whispered. ‘It’s a little bit formal for the kitchen.’
A smirk tugged at Greta’s lips as she was spun on her stool, Dylan’s hands already sliding around her thighs towards her arse.
Knowing Dylan’s penchant for picking things up, Greta sensed what was coming and lifted herself just as she was dragged against Dylan's chest. With her arms and legs wrapped tight, her fingers lightly tousled the soft curls she couldn’t get enough of.
‘If you split these trousers, Dylan I’ll—’
‘Shush,’ Dylan said through a cute half-cocked grin. ‘Lips me, G.’
‘Lips you?’ Greta scoffed.
‘Yeah, it’s what the cool kids do, innit?! They lips each other,’ Dylan joked in an accent falling somewhere between Essex and Albert Square.
‘Well, if the cool kids are doing it.’ Greta pressed a kiss to Dylan’s smile. ‘You don’t have to carry me around my flat, you know. I’m not that old, and my fall risk score is very low. It’s been at least six weeks since my last tumble. I am perfectly capa—’
‘Shut up and kiss me properly.’
As their lips met, the tension in Greta thighs tightened around Dylan’s hips. ‘Are you taking me to bed, or...?’
‘To bed?’ Dylan deadpanned, tipping her head back to scan Greta’s face. ‘How very dare you, Doctor! Are you insinuating that just because I have my hands on your arse and you turn me all the way on just by looking at me, that I’m some kind of rug-munching lesbian?’
Greta laughed with her whole chest and kissed her again. ‘Bedroom, Dylan.’
‘Mmm-kay, boss lady,’ Dylan said, slipping into her for absolutely no reason Southern American drawl.
***
Waiting on the bed in nothing but a pair of white boxers, Dylan sat propped up against the pillows as she scanned Greta’s bedroom.
She always thought it looked incredibly expensive but lacked anything resembling a soul.
The Venetian plastered walls, sparse furniture, and aggressive clean lines made it feel both clinical and unfinished.
The poured grey concrete everywhere was depressing; Dylan didn’t see the attraction, considering how much the rent or mortgage must be.
The walls were adorned with more artwork she didn’t appreciate or get, but she figured she just didn’t exist on the right cerebral plane to understand it.
Give her a Lowry; matchstick men and women off to work in a factory—that, she got.
The pieces in Greta’s apartment weren’t literal enough for her, but she had decided she was absolutely fine with being a fine art philistine.
With the harsh white light of the bedside lamps dimmed and the subtle flicker of a few candles, it felt a little less like the waiting room of an aesthetics clinic.