Page 86 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“One for the books, Henry. And you?”
“Nice and cosy home in front of the telly, thanks.”
I shoulder my office door open and step straight into a riot of colour. Today’s delivery is an extravagant explosion of daisies and sunflowers, blazing midsummer into December. Tucked among them is Teddy’s card:
Good morning, beautiful. Item #3—December Promise launch party, Wednesday, 7pm. Gavin will collect you. Buy something that makes you smile.
A Bond Street boutique gift card lies beneath. Generous, not billionaire obscene, but still the size of a mortgage payment. After a quick calendar check—one client meeting at two—I block out a guilt-free lunch break and tackle the email avalanche.
I spend the morning routing tasks Henry’s way and carving Marcus’s latest drafts into shape. Every stroke inches me closer to one of those offices down the corridor, with a brass nameplate on the door. Twelve years of crushed weekends and 2 a.m. billables and one stubborn glass ceiling. Next week, one signature on a contract—the final proof to all those doubters in Savile Row suits and to my dad back in Cluanie that I belong at the top.
To hell with anyone who thinks me partying with Teddy makes a blind bit of difference. Marcus makes no secret that the only all-nighters he pulls are in clubs, and he still brings in a fraction of what I earn for the firm. The ledger is what matters, and I make it sing. They don’t have to like my personal life; they just have to live with it.
At noon on the dot, I slip out; by one, I’m back with a black-boxed dress and a grin I can’t hide. Party here I come. I’m weighing up whether my strappy black patents or gold Jimmy Choos will look best with it, when with a tentative knock, Stephanie edges in.
“Miranda would like to see you, Rachel. Now, if you can.”
Of course she can see my calendar, but partners don’t check; they summon. I slide the dress box under my desk, smooth my jacket, and wonder what fire Miranda wants me to put out this time. For a split second I picture her “volunteering” me for a Wednesday client dinner that bulldozes the party—then ditch it. Miranda keeps the plum dinners for herself.
I walk down the corridor, where pricey contemporary art marks the border between partners and everyone else. I rap on the door, the sterile citrus smell of her office greeting me.
Miranda stands, coffee in hand, gazing out the window. Floor-to-ceiling glass commands a sweep of London: the Thames glinting like pewter, St Paul’s dome punching through the winter haze. I pause just long enough to imagine that view frommyfuture office before the sharp set of her face as she waves me toward a chair drags me back to the present. She pivots, lowers herself into the leather executive seat, and parks her coffee on a coaster with surgical precision. She removes her glasses and sets them beside a manila folder. From it she draws two tabloids,The Mirroron top, yesterday’sSunpeeking underneath. She unfolds them with courtroom care. My name, ringed in red pen, blares beneath a photo of Teddy and me.
“The partnership vote is in a week, Rachel. Until this...”—she tosses a newspaper at me—“you had my fullconfidence. Optics matter.”
“I don’t see the problem.” The knot of unease in my stomach tightens as I brace myself to argue. “Teddy isn’t just tabloid fodder—he’s a good man. Donates huge amounts to charity. Looks out for his family. How does my dating him hurt the firm?”
“Several clients are jittery, Rachel—old-money conservative.”
I shake my head, disbelief prickling. Miranda tucks one glossy strand behind her ear, voice dropping to silk.
“I’m offering perspective, not punishment. Marcus clinks glasses with Lord Ainsworth at Annabel’s and there’s not a flashbulb in sight; you kiss a rock drummer and the paps set up camp.” She straightens. “With the equity vote so close, I’m extending you a helping hand.”
Heat flares up my neck. I drag in one ragged breath. “I thought we’d come further than policing skirt lengths and by-lines.”
She snaps the folder shut, locking it away with a single clunk.
“Decide what you want most, Rachel.” She slips on her glasses, flips open her laptop. “And do it quietly.”
My grip slips twice on the brass doorknob. The lush carpeted floor deadens my footsteps; the bright abstract face on one canvas seems to mock me for my naivety as I walk away from Miranda’s ultimatum.
“Rachel, Townsend’s counsel couriered this over.” Esther stands by my office door, a thick envelope in her hand. Her eyes widen. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I manage a nod. “Could you grab me a coffee, please?”
“Sure,” she says, tucking the envelope into my hand, her fingers giving mine a little warm squeeze. “Not a problem.”
I slump at my desk, coffee cooling untouched, while Miranda’s words play over on a loop in my head. There’s little time to wallow.By two o’clock, when Esther ushers the client into my office, I’ve pushed back my shoulders and Rachel MacDonald, deal-closer, is back.Thisclient won’t give a damn what I do after hours.
Years of experience carry me on autopilot through three more hours of back-to-back calls and contract mark-ups. At five to six, I slam my laptop closed. Outside, winter rain lashes sideways. I juggle a brolly and the dress box, flailing my arm at every passing cab. A bus barrels through the flooded gutter, sending a bow wave across my Louboutins. I’m considering ringing Gavin—Teddy insisted I have his number in my phone—when a cabbie takes pity on me. I dive in and collapse, sodden and miserable.
At home, the quiet hits. Rainwater pools on the hallway tiles while the radiator ticks itself awake. In the kitchen, I slap reheated turkey and chestnut stuffing between two slices of bread, but each bite tastes of cardboard. From the dining table, the black dress box stares me down like a dare.
This is the fork in the road: the man who feels like oxygen, or the seat I’ve broken myself to reach. I’ve spent twelve years choosing the thing that moves me closer to my name on the door; how do I choose against it now? Miranda couldn’t be clearer: optics over outcomes. Choose clean lines, not chaotic joy. If I blink, they’ll file me as the one who couldn’t close—passed over today, pushed to the back of the queue tomorrow. A failed bid sticks. It shadows the next one.
I pour a glass of Malbec—the same label I handed Teddy last night—and it sits sour on my tongue. Slumped on my sofa, the little Christmas horse ornament he bought because it looked like Bodie glints from the tree; beneath it, Elodie’s Jellycat pony and unicorn wait in garish paper. They feel like a photograph of a future I might have to fold away.
Maybe I could put him on hold, I tell myself—pause the messy, tender thing until the vote’s done. But “pause” is a word laden with risk. People don’t wait politely; they replace, they forget, they build other plans. If I shelve Teddy for a brass nameplate, and I never get him back, that will be on me. The possibility weighs me down.
