Page 1 of The Life Experiment
1Layla
Legal jargon swam around the stark white background of Layla’s laptop screen. She blinked, heavy-lidded, but the words refused to come into focus.
From the desk opposite, Rashida glanced up. ‘Go home if you’re tired.’
‘I could say the same to you,’ Layla replied.
Rashida grinned.Touché.
Beside her, Sinead laughed, but none of the women moved. As the only people left in the darkened office, an unspoken competition had begun. Who would be the last to leave? There could only be one winner and, as usual, Layla was determined it would be her.
It was a friendly competition, mind you. Layla, Rashida and Sinead were allies, working together to shatter Mayweather & Halliwell’s glass ceilings one meeting at a time. It had been that way since Rashida and Layla were allocated desks near each other two years ago, with Sinead joining their cluster earlier in the year. Calling out each other’s achievements and being on hand for any workload meltdowns, Rashida and Sinead were the closest thing Layla had to friends in London.
Located in one of the capital’s finest heritage buildings, Mayweather & Halliwell was the kind of prestigious boutique law firm where staff generally knew each other through family connections or private education establishments. Layla, Rashida and Sinead were the odd ones out,each from decidedly working-class backgrounds and hustling ten times harder to make it to Senior Partner one day.
And Layla was determined to make it, all right. That very morning her new manager, Michelle Beckett, had taken her aside. ‘Nice work on the presentation to Fieldhouse Mews,’ she said. ‘Keep it up and I can see you making real waves here.’
Layla accepted the compliment, although making waves wasn’t usually her style. She much preferred the head down, hard work route. It was difficult for others to belittle her achievements when the results spoke for themselves.
Still, William Addington tried his best to take the shine off the moment. ‘It’s a good management ploy to side with the weak ones,’ he drawled as Layla headed back to her desk.
It was always the same with William. He had a talent for brushing off Layla’s success as a fluke or hinting that concessions were made because of her background. Ironic, given that William was only at the firm because his granddad was a Founding Partner. Not that Layla would dare say that out loud. There was almost an unwritten rule in the office – don’t acknowledge the fact that Mayweather & Halliwell never was and never would be an equal workplace.
It tried to be, of course. At least performatively. Pink cakes handed out on International Women’s Day, posters for mental health helplines in the bathrooms. Name the PR opportunity and Mayweather & Halliwell were on the bandwagon for it.
While the office cynics would do their best not to roll their eyes, others would say that hiring Michelle was an example of genuine progression. As the company’s first female Senior Partner, she was a symbol of the future. She had been at the front of every recent promotional photograph as proof of that.
But from what Layla could see, the only thing Michelle had done was stick to the Mayweather & Halliwell status quo. Career progression slowed for women who recently married (God forbid they might haveababysoon), late nights were not only encouraged but expected, and relatives of existing employees were inevitably fast-tracked for promotions.
As Layla’s jaw clenched, the sensible part of her brain kicked into life.Office politics don’t matter,it said.Focus on your career. You know the truth about your place here.
Sitting taller, Layla straightened her shoulders. The truth was her success was hers, fought for and well deserved. There had been no Daddy to gift it to her, no family connection, no shortcut. Hard work and talent got her to where she was, and she was damned proud of that.
Layla just hoped the early mornings and late nights would pay off soon. Jokes about sacrificing her youth for her career might have made Layla laugh once upon a time, but setting her alarm for 5 am every morning didn’t feel funny anymore. Especially when living in London meant using most of her salary on renting a room in an apartment the size of a shoebox.
With Layla momentarily distracted from her screen, her stomach took its chance to grab her attention. Cupping her hand to her rumbling abdomen, Layla fought to suppress the sounds within. Things had been so hectic earlier that she hadn’t had time for lunch. Now it was what, six-thirty?
Layla glanced at the corner of her screen.
7:53 pm.
Shit.
Whenever Layla’s mum saw her, an admittedly rare occasion – Layla’s brain made a note to guilt her aboutthatwhen she was trying to sleep later – she always commented that Layla needed to take better care of herself. Assessing her daughter, Joanna would grimace and say, ‘If you don’t start putting yourself first, you’re going to get sick.’
‘Mum’s right. I reckon we’ll start seeing a few stress-related grey hairs soon,’ Layla’s sister, Maya, would add. ‘Just as well I’m a bloody good hairdresser and can fix them for you.’
Layla knew they had a point. Long days at a desk made her sluggish and bloated. Her skin was dull and prone to breakouts. Even her dark hair seemed tired of being attached to her head. The strands were so lacklustre that no amount of serum or mousse gave them any semblance of vitality.
Another hunger pang tore through Layla, this one too intense to ignore. ‘I’m going to the vending machine. Anyone want anything?’
Sinead and Rashida shook their heads, not looking up from their laptops.
Layla stood, wincing as her knees groaned like rusty hinges. What did she expect? She’d barely left her desk all day, despite the wellness prompts HR sent around sporadically. Layla might only be twenty-nine, but some days her body creaked like she was eighty-nine.
Limping to the vending machine in the break room, Layla eyed the artificially lit, sugar-filled contents.
Skimming the names of brands she had come to know better than the names of her school friends’ children, Layla selected a can of Coke and a packet of crisps. The dinner of champions. The dinner of success. At least, that’s what she told herself as the nutrient-free meal landed with a thud.
