Kitabı oku: «A Summer to Remember», sayfa 2
Chapter 4
The sky is the most intense blue I’ve ever seen. Shimmering light bounces off the windows of passing boats and hits the top of the water as I sit looking out across Boston Harbor. The horn of a departing ferry blasts. This place is insane, and I’ve only been here a few hours. I’m alone, outside a bar watching the boats come and go. The other four members of the team went straight to the company apartment we’re staying in, saying they wanted to go to bed, but they’ve all been here before. It’s my first visit, so I’m determined to take everything in and enjoy each second that I’m not in the office. I flick through the pictures I’ve taken on my phone since I arrived. There’s one of the Cheers bar. My dad used to watch the TV show religiously when I was a kid, and before I can talk myself out of it, I send the picture to him and my mum with a brief message.
Arrived safely
I feel guilty that I can’t write any more but hope they’ll see it as me reaching out.
Once I’ve finished my drink, I walk to the harbour wall and hold my phone up high to try and take a decent selfie to send to the girls. The sun is starting to sink close to the horizon, casting beautiful swaths of pink and orange across the sky which are reflected in the water. It’s no use; I’d need Inspector Gadget’s arms to be able to capture the beauty and not just a close-up mugshot of myself. As I stretch and twist, I notice a man a few feet away, staring out across the water. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, flashing my most charming smile. He turns to me with a look of disdain, as though I’d just insulted his dear granny’s baking or something. He doesn’t reply but he stands there, continuing to look at me with increased impatience.
‘I …’ His thunderous face causes me to falter. ‘I wondered if you wouldn’t mind taking a quick picture of me, please?’
His eyes flick over me then he turns back to the water. I pause, momentarily unsure of what to do next. I could walk on and pretend I’d not asked, but then I wouldn’t get the picture and I’m sure he probably just hadn’t heard me. Perhaps he thought I was talking on my phone or something.
‘Sorry, I was wondering if you’d mind taking a picture of me with the harbour in the background? It’s so beautiful.’
‘No,’ he says, turning away.
‘No?’ I blurt. I mean, he’s well within his rights to say no but it’s just a two-second snap and click. Why won’t he just do it? ‘No, you don’t mind?’ I ask, hoping some English charm works on him.
‘Yes, I mind, and no, I’m not taking the picture.’ His words are made harsher by his Boston twang.
He starts to walk away. I stand there embarrassed and dumbfounded for a moment, but his rudeness rubs at me like sandpaper in the seconds that pass and I can’t let it go. I call after him before I’ve taken time to think it through. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Go away!’ He doesn’t even turn to look at me.
‘No! I shan’t. Where I’m from, we don’t speak to people like that.’ That isn’t strictly true, you only have to be out of change when you’re passing a panhandler or caught standing on the left-hand side of an escalator at any tube station to encounter much worse in London. Perhaps I’m jet-lagged or something but I’m so flabbergasted by his attitude over something so small that I can’t let it go.
‘I don’t care.’ He makes a flappy shooing gesture with his hand.
Heat intensifies in my chest. I jog after him until I’m beside him, matching his pace. ‘There’s no need to be so rude. I’m a visitor to the States. Do you know how much money tourism brings in to your country each year?’ I really am clutching at straws, but I’m in such complete disbelief, it’s lucky I can construct a sentence at all. Why are my legs still moving?
‘Go away, lady.’ He continues to walk. I’m incensed.
‘What exactly is your problem?’ I prod his shoulder – I don’t mean to, it just sort of happens, but finally, he stops walking. He turns to face me, and I’m knocked sideways. I hadn’t noticed before because I was so taken aback by his attitude but he has the most compelling sapphire eyes I’ve ever seen and I’m not prepared for them when they bore into me.
‘It’s not really any of your business.’ He clenches his jaw and the muscles twitch beneath his skin. ‘And you won’t leave me alone.’ He runs his fingers through his brown hair, and I try to ignore the fact he’s incredibly attractive, because beauty comes from within, and there’s a gargoyle residing inside him.
‘I … I just wanted you to take a quick photo of me, I’m here alone and … Do you know what? You’re not a nice person.’
‘And do you know what? I don’t really care. I’m sure with your pretty doe-eyed routine you’re used to guys running around after you, but today, you picked the wrong guy.’
My eyes feel hot and damp. That hurt because he couldn’t be further from the truth. I take a breath to steady my voice. He will not see me cry. ‘You have no idea how wrong you are. I’m sorry I asked you.’ He shakes his head and walks off.
‘I hope you’re the only arsehole in Boston,’ I yell after him. He flips me the middle finger without so much as a backwards glance, and I’m left to simmer. I drag myself back to the idyllic photo spot, but the sun has dipped below the horizon and the sky has gone all murky grey. I’ve missed my chance, so instead, I key a message to the girls’ WhatsApp group telling them about my first encounter with a local. Despite the fact it’s midnight at home, they all reply within minutes.
Viv: Americans are just more direct than us. Don’t let him get to you hon xx
Sarah: Viv is right. You’re in Boston, baby! Enjoy xxx
Bridget: Get a lobster dinner and move on, my love xx
I smile. They’re right. I’m tired. Things will look better after a good night’s sleep.
***
The next morning, I hit the ground running. Yesterday’s arsehole is today’s motivation to be professional and great at my job. Oh, who am I kidding? Ninety-nine per cent of my confidence was bought from Hobbs in the form of the smart black skirt and burgundy blouse I’m currently wearing. For added oomph, I’m carrying my ‘special occasion only’ black Marc Jacobs handbag in an attempt to feel every bit the city girl.
As I negotiate the revolving door to the office, my insides are jelly. The receptionist takes me up to the boardroom where I’ll meet the team. Four of them are my English colleagues, who left the apartment earlier than me because they wanted to go to Starbucks, and I wasn’t ready. They, being mostly bald men, had considerably less hair to dry than I did.
As we approach the glass-walled boardroom, I glance at them all sat around the table. My inner fire dies a little when it registers that they’re all dressed casually. The receptionist is smart in her cropped hound’s-tooth pants and purple sweater, so it makes no sense, unless we’re kicking off with some practical hands-on work.
‘Hi,’ I say, feeling a little sick. ‘So, do you do casual Friday on a Monday here?’ I mean it as a joke to laugh off my blunder but soon realise that my British accent and power dressing probably made it sound like more of an underhand dig, a notion affirmed by a few raised eyebrows and a bit of uncomfortable throat clearing.
‘We always dress like this. Do you have a problem with that, ma’am?’ the man at the top of the table asks. I’m assuming he’s Patrick, the boss.
‘Er, no. No problem at all. I was j—’
‘Good,’ he says, before turning back to the rest of the table. I slip into a chair and take out my file. That wasn’t a great start, but I’m determined to make a good impression.
‘As I was saying before Victoria Beckham over here interrupted—’ he jabs his thumb in my direction, as if anyone was in any doubt, and heat rises up the back of my neck ‘—Rocks need an international campaign for their sneakers, so we really need to get our heads in the game. This isn’t a rebrand, this is a new brand so we have to get it just right.’
I glance at my watch and it’s only 8.55 a.m. My chest tightens. I can’t believe they started without me. How rude! I look around the table. Tony, Dave, Carl and Steve – my British colleagues – are all dressed down and look completely mortified by my intrusion. The other four men are the Americans; I’ve yet to learn names but they’re all equally unimpressed. But they started without me.
I keep my mouth shut for the rest of the day. Maybe it’s first day nerves or perhaps I’m still knocked by that awful man I met yesterday but I can’t seem to unravel the knot in my stomach. When the clock strikes five, I almost race out of the door. Tony catches me up. ‘Sorry, Sam, I thought you knew it was a casual office – I’d have said this morning if I saw you.’ He looks genuinely sorry.
‘It’s fine.’ I brush my hand through the air. ‘Nobody mentioned it, that’s all.’
‘It was in the itinerary email.’ He pulls out his phone and begins scrolling through.
‘Really, it’s fine.’ I don’t need him to prove it, I need him to drop it. I’m mortified enough as it is.
He looks up. ‘Here it is. “And remember, the Boston office is CW.” Casualwear.’
‘What? Give me that.’ I take the phone from his hand and read it for myself. ‘I had this email, but how was I supposed to know CW meant casualwear? I thought it was a direction, like “central west” or something.’
He furrows his brow. ‘I’m sorry. We all knew. At least you do now, and tomorrow is a new day. We’re going for beers; do you want to join us?’
‘No, thanks. I have some shopping to do.’
***
The next day, I turn up in my new casual office wear, courtesy of Abercrombie & Fitch: a bright-green logo-emblazoned T-shirt and a pair of stonewashed jeans that both smell amazing, like the shop. Fortunately, my parting gift when I left the office last night was a pair of Rocks trainers. We were all issued a pair to wear and try and connect with the brand. Mine have a purple and pink graffiti design down the sides and glittery silver laces. I feel like a twelve-year-old again, but at least today I’ll fit in. And they are bloomin’ comfy.
When I enter the boardroom, everyone is already sitting down drinking coffee. ‘Morning,’ I say with as much cheer as I can muster. I repeat Tony’s mantra: Today is a new day. There are a few sullen nods, but nobody calls me Victoria Beckham, so I assume I’m already making a better impression. No offence to Victoria, of course – I love her. It just didn’t take Uri Geller to read Patrick’s mind and determine the remark was intended to be derogatory.
I withhold anything that could be construed as over-zealous and recognise the need for measured, calm and quality input. It’s hard because I’m bursting with ideas, and nobody seems to be getting it; they basically just want to rip off the well-known and well-bejazzled little girls’ favourite Strides brand which I don’t think Rocks will go for. The owners are two rapping megastars who I’d never come across before, but I did my research and apparently they’re triple platinum and something of a big deal.
‘I think Rocks have more edge than that,’ I say as everyone discusses tweens wearing denim skirts with colourful, sparkly ribbons in their pigtailed hair.
Nobody listens. It’s the second, no, third most frustrating thing that’s happened since I arrived. I speak up and repeat myself and Patrick raises his eyes wearily.
‘Is that so?’
I clear my throat. ‘I think Rocks are wanting something a little cooler. Perhaps something aimed at older teens too. I don’t think they’re going to see Strides as their main competitor.’
‘What’s your name, Beckham?’
My stomach is on a spin-cycle, but I manage to reply. ‘Er, Sam.’
‘Sam, with all due respect, this ain’t my first rodeo.’ He laughs at his own joke and glances around to rouse a few laughs from around the table. I want to say something, but after that encounter by the harbour the other day, I just can’t bring myself to. I hate to admit it, but I’m two days into my dream gig and I already want to go home.
Chapter 5
On Thursday, Patrick presents us with some rough visuals based on our discussions from the first few days. They’re exactly how I imagined they’d be. They look great, but they have gone with a young girl, aged about ten or eleven, with pigtailed hair and pink ribbons, riding a scooter. I get that a girl like that would love these shoes, but I just can’t see Rocks going for this. I look around the table and see nods of approval. Is it really just me that disagrees with this campaign? I can’t just sit back and watch them go down this rabbit-hole of failure.
I take a deep breath. ‘Okay, Patrick. I respect the work your team has put in here, it looks fantastic, but I still don’t think we’re pitching the brand to the right market.’
He looks at me with bemusement but gives a tired, one-handed gesture for me to continue.
‘I think we need to go older, we need diversity. We’re not selling JoJo Siwa bows here, or Strides to little girls. We’re selling a rappers’ brand to young people. This girl—’ I point to the poster mock-up ‘—will buy the shoes regardless. But boys won’t, teens won’t, and people who like the rappers won’t. We can come up with something different, fresh and powerful if we just think outside the box a little.’ I realise I’ve half risen from my seat with boldness and slide back down into it now I’m finished, my Erin Brockovich confidence draining away.
Patrick raises his eyebrows. ‘Thank you for your input, Sam. I appreciate that you’re new here, and you’re off your leash and it’s all very exciting and whatnot—’ did he just wave his arms around at me? ‘—but if you just pipe down a little and let those of us with experience nail this campaign down, we can all knock this ball out of the water and go home on time.’
Knock the ball out of the water? Does he mean ballpark? Or like a fish out of water? I don’t get it. I glance around the room for other signs of confusion but instead just see several disgruntled faces looking my way. The back of my neck starts to burn and the heat creeps around and up to my cheeks. With nothing left to offer, I nod.
‘Why don’t you go get us some coffees to see us through the morning, and when you’re back we can look at putting you to work with Tony and Dave?’
When I catch Tony’s eye, he gives me a sympathetic smile whilst Dave rolls his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking. Great.
When I leave the office that evening, Tony catches me up. ‘Fancy going for a drink tonight?’
‘Who with?’ I ask suspiciously. I can’t cope with seeing Patrick or Dave, or anyone else from the office for that matter.
‘Just me,’ Tony says with a smile.
‘In that case, yes. I could really do with a drink.’
We find a little bar a few blocks down from the office. It’s dingy inside but quiet aside from a few lone drinkers who look like they’ve been here a while.
‘What are you drinking?’ Tony asks as we take a seat at the bar.
‘Just a beer for me.’
While the bartender gets our drinks, I ask Tony about his wife. ‘Pregnant with number three, grumpy as hell. It’s one of the reasons I came away when I got the chance.’
‘What a catch you are,’ I say dryly. ‘Husband of the year right here, folks.’ I point at him and look animatedly around the bar. The other drinkers look to have fallen asleep.
‘She’s only in her first trimester so I won’t miss anything bar the first scan, and her mother is helping with the boys. I wanted to keep my hand in with the Boston office even though the timing isn’t great.’
‘Well, if she’s okay with it …’ I shrug.
Tony turns on his stool to face me. ‘You were brave standing up to Patrick today.’
‘Well, I don’t feel very brave. I feel very stupid.’
The bartender places two beers down and slides a paper receipt over to Tony. I snatch it before he has time to respond. ‘I’ll get these.’
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I don’t think you were stupid today. I think you were sticking up for your vision for the project, and that isn’t an easy thing to do.’
‘Especially when nobody shares that vision.’ I lean on the bar to look him properly in the eye. ‘Do you really think Rocks are going to go for the campaign as it stands?’
Tony shrugs. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Just because Rocks is owned by two rappers, doesn’t mean their target audience for these shoes have to reflect that. The Barbie doll was designed by a former missile engineer, but his target market wasn’t crazed despots.’
‘I thought it was invented by an American businesswoman?’
‘Ruth Handler invented Barbie using a doll that already existed. The one the engineer designed. Anyway, with regards to our current campaign, it’s what the majority believe will work and I’m happy to go along with it.’
‘So, you’re a yes man?’ Oh god. If I’d have just kept my mouth shut a bit longer, perhaps I wouldn’t be the office equivalent of a trolley dolly.
‘No, well, sort of. I’m talking about choosing your battles. I don’t know if the team got this campaign right, but I do know that the others believe they have. So, if Rocks love it, I share in that glory, and if Rocks hate it, we’re all in it together.’
‘How the hell did you make the team?’ I blurt the words out before I have time to smother them with tact.
Fortunately, he laughs. ‘Because I’m bloody good at design.’
‘But you agree with me?’ I press him.
‘I’m saying I don’t know, but you didn’t exactly have solid counter-ideas. Perhaps if you weren’t so vague, Patrick would listen.’
‘Or perhaps if I was a man? Maybe you could be my voice in future.’ I bat my eyelids acrimoniously before rolling my eyes at the ridiculousness of this truth.
‘I’m not saying that. C’mon, you pooh-poohed his idea without anything real to offer in return. I mean, look at the shoes.’ He sticks out his right foot and twists it from left to right. ‘They aren’t your usual teen-buy despite what two rappers think.’
I don’t believe for a second that Tony thinks this campaign will work. He’s always been so sharp and in tune with clients in the past and Pink Apple are renowned for thinking outside of the box – the current proposal is too easy. We don’t change our clients’ minds, we change their customers’ minds. ‘What ideas do you think would work?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. All my ideas have gone into the current proposal—’
‘That you hate?’ I interject.
‘Well come on, have you seen the state of the shoes?’ We both look down at our feet again, as if to clarify they haven’t miraculously morphed into something fabulous in the space of a few seconds.
‘True.’
‘But just because I hate it, doesn’t mean it won’t work.’
I drain the last of my beer and Tony orders two more.
‘Fair enough.’
‘I’ll get these,’ Tony says when the second round arrives.
‘Damn right you will. It’s your turn.’
When Tony pulls his wallet out, he glances at his phone and groans.
‘What is it?’
‘Carl, Dave and Steve have decided to join us.’
I can only stomach Tony. The conversation will spiral into a pit of misogynistic crap in no time. ‘Great. How long have I got to drink my beer before I need to leave?’
‘I missed their call so about—’
‘Alright, fella,’ Dave says, patting Tony on the back.
‘Here she is, black-sheep-Beckham,’ Steve says, winking at me like he’s made a hilarious in-joke.
‘You grab a great coffee, Sam, love,’ Carl says. I’m sure it’s all just banter and everything, but they’re already pissing me off, and it’s because I know I’m right about the campaign.
‘Yours was the one with the extra-special present?’ I wink back and Carl’s face pales. ‘Oh, come on, I’m joking.’ I wink again. ‘Or am I?’
The three men take the remaining stools along the bar, engulfing Tony and me. We talk about the campaign, and the main theme of the conversation seems to be that Patrick knows what he’s doing, and if we all nod along, we get out of the boardroom earlier. I don’t even protest. If Tony couldn’t see where I was coming from, they never will. We have a few more beers, and talk soon revolves around sport, ‘her indoors’ and some baseball game they’re going to.
‘I’m going to crash,’ I say.
‘Want me to walk you back?’ Tony asks.
I need some space and being around these guys is giving me a headache. ‘No, I’m fine. It isn’t far.’
