The Payoff

I could only think about the importance of my response and whether it would bear scrutiny when people found out the truth. But then again, what was the truth and how would anyone find out? There had only been three people in that room and one of them had just handed me a cheque for $20,000...

To begin with, the team’s morning meetings had been a fresh change with plenty to learn. I could usually avoid being asked impromptu questions by being the meeting’s transcriber and noting any points of relevance ready for circulation to the team afterwards. It had been my supervisor’s idea; then again, he probably believes that a woman ought to be a secretary rather than a lawyer. Recently, however, the meetings had become as stale as the aroma of the untouched coffee from the corner of the room. My notes had stopped being circulated and I had taken to commenting only on the points which interested me, intended for my eyes only.

This morning’s meeting had deviated from the usual order. Firstly, there had been a new face in the room and, although he had been sat next to me, I hadn’t listened to his name. My supervisor, who has a unique combination of charisma and congeniality which he reserves for male colleagues or clients, had described him as “a bright, young man with excellent prospects”. High praise was always heaped upon male lawyers in the team, especially the new ones, along with various invitations to dinners and drinks events, even when they hadn’t yet proven themselves. I have worked for the firm for five years, well before these morning meetings became a habit, but I’m quite sure he wouldn’t have introduced me with such endearment. He can’t even be bothered to pronounce my name correctly.

Second, following this glowing introduction, my supervisor had asked me a question which caught me completely off guard. I had been drafting an ill-advised and colourful description of him in my notebook and my mangled response brought an awkward end to the meeting.

Less than fifteen minutes later, I was approaching the meeting room for the second time, my haste betraying the paranoia I was trying to conceal. Not knowing the answer to that final question seemed the most plausible explanation for my uncharacteristic forgetfulness. But whatever the reason, I knew I had to retrieve my notebook.

I noticed two figures through the glass, and I wanted to say “Please excuse me” to forgive my intrusion. But as I drew closer, I could see that it was my supervisor and the new recruit, so I thought that perhaps a more informal “Don’t stop on my account!” would appear more cordial. Then again, would it really matter?

I opened the door and, somewhere between the words ‘please’ and ‘stop’, their conversation halted abruptly, although it could just as easily have been at my sudden appearance in the doorway. Why didn’t I knock first? The younger of the two appeared to fumble, both for his jacket and an excuse. His widened eyes scanned my face, perhaps for a reaction. My supervisor mumbled inaudibly to him as he hurried out of the room. Did he look up at me? Warning me as he left? There was no doubt in my mind that he had been reading over my shoulder during our earlier meeting and had used my misguided scribble to curry favour with his new boss.

My supervisor remained. It didn’t take long for him to compose himself. “Perfect timing as usual, Elena.” Was that his usual mispronunciation? “But weren’t we due to sit down together this afternoon to discuss your billing figures?” Had I even accepted his meeting request? “No time like the present,” he continued. I wasn’t expecting that. As I searched for a response, I felt the familiar sensation return from that morning’s meeting. The burning rush of adrenalin. My heart pounding in my ears. The palpable loss of the solace of forethought. Would it be better to stay silent or would that appear rude?

Either my face or my silence gave something away, as he quickly moved on. “No, no. That would be an ambush, I understand. Let’s speak later as planned.”

“Oh, and don’t forget your notebook,” he called as he left the room. Was he smiling? Whatever had or hadn’t just happened left an indelible question-mark. I don’t remember moving towards the table. My heart was still pounding in my head. Had my supervisor opened my notebook? Had he read what I had written during my lapse of judgment in that morning’s meeting. As I picked up my notebook, I was distracted by a scuff on the side of my left patent leather shoe. Knowing my supervisor’s penchant for small details, I returned to my desk thinking about how it could be fixed it before our next meeting.

I spent the next few hours replaying the scenario in my head several times. Had I projected my own awkward entry onto the events that followed? What had I actually said? Even without the excitement of the morning’s events to preoccupy me, I was apprehensive about that next meeting. I couldn’t stop myself repeating the episode, but each time the story was different. I realised there was not enough time to process it all.

It didn’t take long for my suspicions to become fear as I convinced myself that I would be fired because of that little notebook.

I’ve worked for the firm long enough to know that if they want to get rid of you, they will. Fortunately, for anything other than continued poor performance they give you a decent pay-out. Being both female and part of my supervisor’s team, I had had to maintain an impeccable record. I couldn’t rely on the ‘old boys club’ to retain my seat at the table.

Accepting what was to come, I approached my supervisor’s office. This time I knocked and, as I was wondering whether there was any positive way to spin the words ‘misogynistic prick', a voice cut through:

“Ah, Elena.” There it was again. This time I just smiled nervously.

“Come on in,” he said in a jovial tone that I wasn’t prepared for. “You know the drill with these sorts of things, I’ve asked Richard to sit in with us.” Was this his third or fourth ambush of the day? I nodded at Richard.

Whilst I was sure that someone had told me it was company policy for a member of the human resources team be present at all performance-based discussions, I was less sure that Richard worked for Human Resources. Why had my supervisor waited until now and why involve Human Resources? Did he want to draw out my anguish to ensure maximum penance? As the meeting progressed, I maintained my smile. I had learned the melodic intervals of my supervisor’s voice enough to sense when to nod, giving the impression that I was listening.

I was sure that a decision would already have been made, but I had still rehearsed my answers to the anticipated technical and analysis questions. That was my usual routine. Would my competency even matter in the context of what might have taken place? My mind snapped sharply back to the meeting room earlier and a flood of unanswered questions: If my supervisor really had seen the notebook, wouldn’t he have been expecting me to come back for it? If he had, then why all the fumbling and hushed voices? Why turn the conversation in the direction of my billing? Had it all been a tactic? A distraction?

None of this explained his current, pleasant tone. He was continuing in his usual, casual style. It was almost complimentary. Was this the fourth time he mentioned my ability to ‘see the bigger picture’? Suddenly, that special attention and praise he reserved for the younger, male lawyers came into focus.

Is he gay, I wondered. He was obviously blissfully unaware of my dawning realisation. He had spent his entire career covering this up, but I felt no pity for him. It didn’t excuse his blatant misogyny nor how sinister the morning’s events might truly have been in light of it.

Looking back, I wasn’t even sure that my supervisor had composed himself at all. His charm had all too often helped him in challenging situations with clients: people rarely like to ask difficult questions of someone who presents themselves as affable and genuine. It all came so effortlessly to him.

Almost immediately, the gravity of the situation pulled me back into the room. I noticed both men had leaned back in their chairs. Although had Richard moved at all? I needed to pay more attention. I saw the cheque which had been placed on the desk in front of me. Although I could clearly make out my full name, correctly spelled, now the explanation seemed to be more for Richard’s benefit:

“...both the department and the firm wish to recognise the contribution which you have made to the team...”

Hard work was traditionally rewarded here, so he could easily justify a bonus of $20,000, even at the most junior level. But in that moment, any difficult questions about discretionary bonuses mattered little to me as I was reminded of two things.

Firstly, the young man’s furtive eyes as he left the room. I had taken his upward glance as a stark forewarning, but it could equally have been an expression of relief at my sudden appearance. It was a look which I now realised I had seen many times before.

Second was my supervisor’s words. Hadn’t it been: “Perfect timing as usual...”?

My own little ambush of sorts. On the day of this meeting too. And all because of that notebook.

Picking up the cheque, I knew that I owed these men nothing. The room had fallen noticeably silent and I was aware that there was an expectation for me to speak.

“Thank you.” I said, smiling as I folded the cheque and tucked it between the pages of my little black notebook.