Unrequited: A Cautionary Tale

by Miriam Edelson

Power, politics and passion are a potent combination. Not long ago, I learned just what a wallop they can deliver. I was thirty-five years old and married. I was working as a scribe, crafting editorials, messages and speeches for my charismatic boss, a man twenty years my senior. He was a well-known labour leader, highly respected on both sides of the bargaining table.

Image credit: Chris Kursikowski on Unsplash

I loved our work process. A brilliant autodidact, he loved nothing more than a vigorous debate. We would discuss the issue at hand, and then I would go away to craft his ideas – and a pinch of my own – into compelling prose. This was challenging and also very gratifying work through which I came into my own as a writer.

It was all very moving for me. This man’s politics were akin to those I’d been raised on. My father supported non-sectarian socialist causes. He believed in progress and in making a contribution toward a better world. My boss was not a father figure for me. Rather, I felt there was a familiarity in his life’s work that gave me comfort and a sense of purpose.

And so, I didn’t care much if other people picked up on the vibe between us. In fact, the vibe was mostly my own. No doubt he was touched by the attention of a younger woman, but truth be told, the depth of my feelings was unrequited. But his occasional attention was enough.

One evening, after a walk on the beach near where we were holding a staff retreat, we went to his cabin, where he served me a bowl of fresh raspberries. They were sweet and tart and delicious.  He joked that most staff would never see the likes of this gesture – the informality and care of it. I felt special in that moment.

Sometimes at these staff retreats, there would be a DJ, and everyone would get up to dance. On one occasion, I was dancing with my boss to a crooning Bryan Adams song, a slow dance, and I said to him, “I’m not a piece of wood, you know.” He looked at me in surprise, and then held me a little closer. It was a pleasure to be in his company.

This was not always the case. When I told him some months later that my husband and I were expecting a baby, he became upset with me. He refused to talk about it. I guessed this reaction was motivated by his realization I’d be gone from the job for a period of time. Clearly, my absence did not fit with his plans. Initially, I felt awful, as though I’d betrayed him.

And then one night I found myself driving home quite late, sometime after 3 am. The road was dark, all the streetlamps switched off. I pulled into our driveway and crept quietly into the house. When I reached the bedroom upstairs, my husband’s bedside light was on. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” he asked. I undressed silently and climbed into bed next to him.

I was five months pregnant and had spent most of the night in the company of my boss, the man I’d fantasized about for over a year. That night, he’d initiated our being together. We had met at his hotel so I could give him a copy of the editorial I’d written for him.

When he reached for me, I trembled with anticipation, so much so that he stopped kissing me to ask if I was all right. I responded that I was just very moved, and so we paused, holding one another in breath and surprise until the feeling passed. I don’t think he expected me to be so sensitive.

For me, this was the culmination of many months’ deep feeling and lust. Working closely together with him, sometimes travelling together to different locations, I’d often felt a tingling for him in my body that I could barely keep under wraps. Once in a while, he’d give me a chaste collegial hug, or I’d lean against him in the back seat of a taxi, but that was it. I don’t think he ever knew the true extent of the subtle electric fire that burned inside me for him.

In that strange way that power, politics and passion combine into a powerful aphrodisiac, I just wanted to be near him, to have some of his intelligence and confidence brush off on me. A few months passed, during which we met for a couple of trysts. Whatever this relationship was, it didn’t last.

Eventually, some five years later, my marriage came to an end. It had nothing to do with my dalliance. We had grown apart over time, and the split was mostly amicable. Our wonderful four-year-old daughter spent time in each of our homes. My boss moved on to another labour organization, and his successor did not feel I was a good fit for the job. Consequently, I was pushed out and later found meaningful work with another union.

I had learned my lesson when it came to mixing professional and personal pursuits. Besides, there was no one in the new setting who could compare to my former boss. I had grown in his shadow, in his brief embrace, and felt confident in my skills and my contribution to the cause.

My father would not have approved. I believe he would have thought I’d crossed some significant lines, that my conduct was risky and questionable. His assessment would have been right. I did take risks with my own well-being, professionally, and with my marriage. Might I have acted in some other fashion? Perhaps a safer one? Maybe. I never felt scared. I was exhilarated by the chase and not paying attention to outcomes. But I was fortunate to come through what could have been a disastrous situation with a stronger sense of self and few scars.

Years later, when my first book came out, I asked if he would introduce me at the book launch. He declined and said some hurtful things about what he might say about me. That I was a ‘good lay’. Hearing his tactless comments reminded me of the imbalance in our feelings for each other. I had been a convenient distraction, a salve to his blazing ego, but nothing more. I had never heard him speak so crudely. It was brutal and disrespectful. I felt quite hurt and then angry at him.

I ask myself now, some years later, was I truly in love with him? Certainly, I experienced a potent frisson of lust whenever he was near and fantasized that, given the chance, I’d drop out of my life and into his. Of course, this never happened.

So, what is it in a powerful man’s demeanour that makes a girl feel such passion? He was not a young man, yet still virile. A man of strong opinions but not macho in a typical sense. He could be a good listener to the people with whom he surrounded himself. A leader whom people admired and trusted. I was not the only one in his orbit to respond to his charm.

Image credit: kevin laminto on Unsplash

I think now that the admiration and trust were key to the feelings I carried for him. For a long time in our work together, he gave me impetus and space to grow. I appreciated that a great deal. Never did he make me feel ‘less than’ – at least not until I invited him to speak at my book launch. That was humiliating.

Still, he practiced the art of leadership with great skill and aplomb. One colleague suggested he had a strong feminine side, which gave him an intuitive bent that helped him work well with others. That may be, but he was always at the top of the heap, the beacon from whom folks would seek insight and strategic advice. I fell for the entire package.

Would I do it again? No, not a chance. Although I didn’t pay a huge personal or professional price for my conduct, it could easily have been very different. Workplace romance can be risky, and I was just lucky not to get burned. In my case, I learned a lot about myself, my craft as a writer, and I also developed a greater sense of self-confidence. I have no regrets. Sadly, that’s not often how such stories turn out.

There are ample negative tropes about men who exploit younger women through harassment and much worse. But truth be told, I was very fortunate to encounter a person of integrity and emerge relatively unscathed. Many other women have not been so fortunate, and I do not in any way excuse the behaviour of predatory men.

It just wasn’t my experience. My boss forced me to stretch intellectually. He was no saint, but a flawed human being like the rest of us. In a photo that circulated widely at his death, he is wearing a colourful tie with geometric shapes that I once had given him, discreetly. Discreetly because he was my boss. In the picture, he is vital and handsome, and it gives me pleasure to see my carefully chosen gift. And though his words on one significant occasion hurt me deeply, I remain grateful for the richness he brought to my life, and to this day, I miss his wise counsel.

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Miriam Edelson

Miriam Edelson is an independent researcher and writer/editor living in Toronto, Canada. She worked in the labour movement for thirty years specializing in communications and human rights.