No one knows except Clara. No one’s seen them. I’m always quick to change.
My pink wellies — well, the new ones that Ben gave me — sit next to the old ones.
Should I wear the old ones or the new ones?
If I wear the old ones, my feet get wet, and yet again, I’m going to be sitting in the office with cold feet and dirty toes.
If I wear the new ones, then I’m giving him some possession of me.
Or am I reading into it too much?
It’s a pair of pink wellies. A nice thought. Not a marriage proposal.
He’s thoughtful. I can see that.
I mean, this is a man who contacted my assistant to ask what kind of wine I liked when I invited him out for dinner. Dinner to say thank you for securing the funding. A dinner to say thank you for the pink wellies.
And he went that bit further.
I’m just not sure what’s best to do.
Last night felt like something. Today, with the flowers, knowing I’ll see him again, feels like more. And more is dangerous when your heart’s involved.
Clara watches every step. Not speaking, assessing. Like she does in board meetings when someone tries to push my buttons.Or when a client is rejected for a clinical trial I know they’re eligible for. She watches. She waits. Then acts exactly as I need her to.
To hell with it.
I’ll wear the new ones.
I hate having wet feet. Casually, I stroll over, pull off my slippers, and slide my feet into the new pink boots.
She doesn’t say anything, but her mouth twitches. I ignore it.
She asked if I wanted to throw the old pair out after Ben delivered the new ones.
I said no.
She asked why.
I said it didn’t matter. Just because something’s old and broken doesn’t mean it needs to be disposed of straight away. Sometimes, we need to breathe before making irreversible decisions.
As I walk over to the door to leave, Clara follows. She steps in my path, her hands on my shoulders.
“Antonia,” she says. “Whatever they say, don’t listen to them. I know you’ve found these past months hard.”
I nod. She’s right.
Being openly abused online and called names, when all I’ve tried to do in my life is make things fair for people who need medical treatment, has been hard to take.
“What they’re saying is not true.” She smiles, soft but sad. It’s the first time I realize how much this hurts her too. Opengate matters to both of us, more than we admit.
The protesters, the signs, the online comments, they never go away.
I can switch the computer off, ignore the tweets, turn off my phone, but they’re still there, hating me. Hating Opengate. Hating everything we stand for. Or what they believe we stand for.
“Antonia,” she says again.
My eyes, which have dropped to the floor, rise and meet my friend’s.
That’s the truth about Clara and me. We may not socialize together, but she’s been here since the beginning, since I started this place. My cheerleader and sounding board every step of the way. My rock. A rock I could talk to whenever things got bad. No judgment. Just strategy.
I mean, we wouldn’t talk about personal stuff. I couldn’t really tell you much about her home life. But she knows I’ve got her back, and I know she’s got mine.
And today is no different.
“You’ve got this,” she says. “Go out there, red lipstick and all, and show them who the CEO of this company is.”
She laughs out loud, her cheeks reddening. I laugh along with her, though I have no idea what she’s laughing at.
“And get your man while you’re at it.”