A Walkout
A WALKOUT
Shirin enters the Shard’s revolving doors in chunky sandals and a summer dress. It is unseasonably warm for March. In fact on her way to work she saw a BBC News report that it is one of the hottest Marches on record in the UK. People online are saying it’s a result of climate change, joking that they’ll enjoy it anyway, even if they feel bad about it. It is a sign, Shirin thinks, that they are having a heat wave in March on the day she is part of something so monumental to her career, to her dignity.
Mariam sent her a voice note earlier in the morning to say she thinks at least forty people will take part, and that some magazines and newspapers have agreed to cover it. Shirin didn’t realize how well-connected Mariam is. Though, actually, it is unsurprising, because at every publishing event people seem to know Mariam.
When she heard about the sheer number of people taking part, the potential publicity scandal of it, Shirin’s instinct was to shy away, thinking maybe they are taking it too far, that this is too big for her. But then she thought of the past year, of blow after blow, and of Rob Grayson being the final knockout punch—but only if she lets it be. Change doesn’t happen on its own. And change isn’t comfortable. That’s the whole point.
She taps her employee card to trigger the gate to open and eyes the security guards by the doors, imagining they are looking at her with suspicion. She is being ridiculous.
At 10:55 A.M. they will all go to the event room as though they are attending the compulsory talk between David Hoffman and Rob Grayson. Then, when David introduces Rob, and just when Rob begins to speak, they will all silently get up and leave. Mariam has created placards with slogans like NO BIGOTS , MORALS BEFORE ￡￡￡ , and DROP ROB GRAYSON . Across the road from Hoffman is another publisher, and Shirin has received messages from some of them saying they will join the protest during their lunch break, in solidarity. Various newspapers also share the building with them. It is a prime place to stage a protest.
She remembers, when she first joined Hoffman, being so amazed to work in the Shard. She feels a strange nostalgia now for this corporate building, for this role at a company that has made her so miserable. Last night, she thought long and hard about her decision. She is now taking stock of each little thing, because that’s what you do when you realize you won’t see something again. It is like a final kiss with a lover—bittersweet—and she savors it like a keepsake of this time in her life that wasn’t pleasant but that she thinks was necessary.
There are numerous people waiting to get into the different lifts. She recognizes some of them from her floor outside lift H. David’s personal assistant, whom she always sees around but has never spoken to, is talking to an author. The author is wearing a long beige trench coat despite the blistering heat outside. Even for aesthetics, it seems a strange choice.
When the lift lights up, the PA turns to everyone and asks if they mind if she and Rob go in it separately. It takes Shirin a moment to actually process the words that have come out of her mouth. The others nod, and she stands there thinking: Surely not. The PA steps into the lift, and that’s when Shirin sees Rob. He is wearing sunglasses, which he removes once inside and folds over the neck of his dark T-shirt.
For two seconds they make eye contact. His head turns to the side in slight wonder, his lips almost smiling, like he has seen an old friend. He looks strangely unimpressive and rather small, unlike the pictures online. In photographs he is always onstage, alone, so she imagined him much taller. She is so shocked that initially her face remains impassive, frozen in place. Her heart, however, is beating quickly, so fast now that she has to turn away from him. Bile, in the form of the coffee she has just drunk, threatens to rise, and it is the only time she has ever had such a visceral reaction to seeing someone. She swallows hard, placing her hand, which is now cold, against her clammy neck. But despite her bodily instinct to flee, she turns back to the lifts and, unsurprisingly, Rob is looking right at her, still. The way he looks at her is like he has forgotten everything, but when Shirin doesn’t return his smile, when she looks at him with a steely expression, she sees his facade slip. She feels strength then, a power she always thought she did not have. She is face-to-face with this weak bully, and she is not the same person she was back then. She will no longer cower away from him. Too much has happened for her to do that now. Then the lift doors shut and, just like that, she is no longer face-to-face with Rob Grayson.
“Tell me again that this will go smoothly,” Shirin says to Mariam in an empty meeting room. Her heart is still beating fast, her mouth impossibly dry. She takes a long sip of water, her hands shaky, which results in her missing her mouth, water dripping down her chin, which she quickly wipes off.
“Yes, of course it will! Don’t panic, Shirin. Now is not the time to panic.” Mariam has her hands on her hips, looking down at Shirin as though to say, You can do this—don’t let me down.
“What if it’s only you and me who get up? What if everyone else backs out?” she asks quickly.
“That’s not going to happen. And even if it did, would that be the worst thing?” Mariam reasons calmly.
Shirin is about to say, Yes, because we’d get a reputation, then she wonders why that matters now. They didn’t care when Maman Bozorg was in hospital, and then she never got to say goodbye to her. They also didn’t care about giving her a fair shot at promotion. And now they’re publishing a racist who made her life a misery. Her desire is to quit anyway, so what does it matter? “I’m nervous. Like, so nervous I need to use the toilet every five minutes.”
Mariam puts her hand on Shirin’s shoulder. “Me too, Shirin, me too.”
When they leave the meeting room they pass by the kitchen. The coffee machine man is shaking his head as he empties another batch of spoiled coffee.
“What’s happened?” Mariam asks.
“I knew it,” he says. “I knew it was mice.”
The gray aluminum fridge that contains all their packed lunches and individual dairy-free milks has been pulled out of its spot, and the cleaners tell them they need to leave the kitchen.
The walk up the stairs to the event room feels as though it takes both forever and no time at all. The stairs to the floor above are spiral and wide, and walking in front of them and behind them are all the other staff from their level. Normally there is loud chatter when such a horde moves together to the events floor, but there is a hushed atmosphere now, a marked change that you’d only really notice if you knew what was about to happen. By the time they get there, the only seats available are the ones at the front. The seats are black plastic with metal legs, and the backrest curves to the shape of Shirin’s spine as she settles in. There is no one on the stage yet, but the screens display the cover of Rob Grayson’s book. It has all happened so quickly—to have the cover already produced, proofs already printed. This has clearly been in the works secretly for a long time. It’s like they knew what they were doing was wrong and waited until it was too late to go back before they announced it.
Mariam’s arm is pressed against Shirin’s, partly because the chairs are so close together and also, Shirin thinks, as a gesture of support. They are one. They can do this. Looking around, they see their colleagues holding coffee in teacups and mini pastries balanced on their knees or on the side of the saucers. It is rare that such events get catering, though it usually incentivizes people to arrive early so as not to miss it. Normally Shirin and Mariam stock up on the almond croissants and custard tarts, washing them down with the bitter coffee provided.
Suddenly there is a hush, and people stop talking. David strides up to center stage in tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt, open at the neck to expose his dark chest hair. Shirin only really sees him at such events, when he is addressing the whole company. He sometimes talks to the junior members of staff at the Christmas party, making dad jokes and buying them rounds of drinks. Though she has not been blessed with his presence in this way before.
He stands by the microphone in the center, though behind him are two low-back armchairs with a coffee table in between. On the table is a jug of water and two glasses. He begins with a preamble about how excited he is to introduce Rob, that he has admired his work for a long time, and that they really are privileged to have him with them today. Shirin cannot concentrate on exactly what he is saying because her brain is whirling from thought to thought.
Growing up, when she aspired to be an editor, she never considered the political role she’d have to play in her job. But she can’t just let it go—even though she tries not to, she cares too much. She cares about the readers, like herself, so desperate to see themselves in books. For the younger generation wanting to get into an industry they’re passionate about, but always being the minority. There are so many reasons she needs to do this, and this is what she reminds herself of when her body wants her to flee rather than fight.
There is weak applause and then Rob Grayson stands before everyone. He has removed his trench coat and wears a plain T-shirt with PRADA in red across the front, pinstripe trousers, and chunky Balenciaga trainers. It is a terrible outfit. His stubble is strawberry blonde, his hair mousy and short on the back and sides, long in the front. He looks almost inoffensive, but then he also deceived her ten years ago. David pats him on the back as they hug. It is such an unnecessarily chummy display of affection that Shirin struggles not to look away.
She realizes she’s been holding her breath when Mariam nudges her with her shoulder. It is then that she exhales slowly. She touches the locket she is wearing—the one Maman Bozorg gave her—and hopes she would be proud of what she’s planning to do.
David sits down on one of the chairs on the stage and crosses his legs, looking up adoringly at Rob. Rob takes the mic from the stand, puts it in his other hand, and paces the stage cockily. He’s on the right-hand side, looking down, then up, at the crowd when he begins.
“Wow, this is—”
And that is when Shirin and Mariam stand up. Her heart is beating painfully in her chest now, her hands impossibly clammy. Because they are at the front, they don’t see Kate, Derek, Naomi, and Ross stand in unison too. And then Joanie. Even Toby from the post room. And then half the room also stands up. They don’t immediately leave, they stand there in solidarity for about ten seconds, before turning. When she sees the sheer number of people joining them, more than a hundred of them, Shirin’s eyes prickle. It is a moving sight.
As they leave the building, she presses Send on her drafted email to Lilian resigning from her position at Hoffman, with immediate effect.