Chapter 30
The results of the market research are in. As a result, I’m summoned to group headquarters on Monday, along with Angus and a handful of other senior Fable & Punk staff. It strikes me that the air of unease among some of us about the takeover has settled a little recently.
But this is generally accepted as the calm before the storm, and I can’t help feeling apprehensive the moment I step into reception.
Although this review will form the basis of the ‘synergies’ we keep hearing about, I remind myself that we already have a loyal customer base. You only have to spend half an hour in a branch or read our Google reviews to understand that.
Niles is seated on one side of a long table, flanked by several sharp-suited executives who collectively have the air of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
He stands, shakes a few hands, invites us all to sit.
The market research results are presented by a young woman called Morgan, with a pinched mouth and tongue-twister of a title – Assistant Head of Tactical Consumer Insights, Trends and Bollocks, or something along those lines.
I push the thought out of my head and lean forward keenly.
‘We used both quantitative and qualitative research for this study, but it’s the latter that proved most enlightening,’ she says, clicking onto her first slide. ‘There are clear conclusions on areas of improvement and some suggested directions in which to take the brand.’
Two focus groups were hired, consisting of twelve people in the ‘ABC1’ demographic – with managerial, clerical or professional occupations.
They were paid ￡70 each to spend an hour in a hired room in a Holiday Inn Express in Solihull, with unlimited tea, coffee and chocolate biscuits.
Their task? To robustly cogitate and deliberate on ‘brand awareness’ for the company.
The results start well, in the same way that the maiden voyage of the Titanic did.
An online questionnaire rates Fable & Punk highly on product quality, ease of purchase and customer service.
I catch a brief glimpse of Aurelie and can see the tension in her neck begin to release.
But as Morgan continues to outline what went down in Solihull that day, there is a shift in atmosphere.
‘The key issue we identified with this brand is a lack of clarity. A similar theme came up time and again. Are we a bag retailer? Do we sell mirrors or shoes? Does a consumer walk into this store expecting to find mugs, dresses or weird little salt and pepper shakers in the shape of toadstools?’ she says, scrunching up her nose in distaste.
I straighten my back defiantly.
‘We sell all of them,’ protests Oliver, with a bewildered air that garners a withering look from Angus.
But it seems that this is not an acceptable premise to the twelve good men and women in Solihull, who might as well have lined up and blown raspberries at us all.
‘Identity crisis. Doesn’t know what it is,’ was the solemn verdict of Janice, a forty-two-year-old chiropodist.
‘Looks like an explosion in a jumble sale,’ decided Derek, the sixty-one-year-old regional manager of a car showroom.
‘Went in for golf clubs once but they didn’t sell any. The assistant was nice though,’ says twenty-nine-year-old Jordan, estate agent specialising in Cypriot rental properties.
We listen to all this in stunned silence, waiting for Angus to leap to our defence.
‘Did anyone like anything?’ I pipe up, when it becomes apparent that he isn’t going to. It comes out sounding more confrontational than I’d intended, from the look on Morgan’s face.
‘The overwhelming message is that Fable & Punk has a major identity crisis,’ she replies. ‘The idea of selling “a bit of everything” is deeply problematic. It’s a nothing brand. It just doesn’t work.’
‘But this is such a small group,’ I argue, feeling my face flush.
‘The last market research we had was really positive. Glowing, actually,’ I add.
I decide not to mention that was at least six years ago.
‘And . . . I’m sorry to say this but how is Derek the Vauxhall Astra salesman more qualified than any of us, with decades of experience between us, to decide what’s right for this brand? ’
I wait for someone else to say something. Nobody does.
‘The fact that we don’t only sell one thing is a strength, not a weakness,’ I argue.
‘We’re for the woman who goes in to buy a sweater for her best friend’s birthday, but can’t resist picking up a trinket dish for her mother, a pair of shoes for herself and a cult recipe book for her boyfriend while she’s at it. ’
I catch sight of Niles, who, judging by the little lines above his nose, clearly does not relate.
I want to slump into my seat, or possibly into the floor. But now I’m in this hole, continuing to dig seems like the only option.
‘Look, I understand the need for changes,’ I continue.
‘But this all suggests that Fable & Punk is an absolute disaster of a brand. And it’s just not.
The products we sell are beautiful. People love them.
I love them. The whole sector has had a challenging time of it lately.
Not just us. The idea that the problem is our product, our brand, our whole ethos, it’s just not right.
It’s a red herring. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Being led up the garden path.’
My voice trails off as I realise I might have broken some kind of record for mixing metaphors.
But it’s not like I had time to prepare this impassioned speech.
It’s the best I can do. I turn to my colleagues for backing and, while there are a few murmurings of approval, nobody starts banging their fists on the table like I might have hoped.
Worse, a smile is now playing on Niles’s lips. It makes my cheeks inflame.
He finally breaks eye contact to look around the room.
‘This business,’ he says, in a deep, deliberate voice, ‘has been surviving. Not thriving. We’re going to turn that around.
I know there are some difficult messages here.
Some of you have been with the company a long time and may be .
. . resistant to change.’ He looks directly at me again.
‘But this is what it takes. This is what will secure this company’s future.
And I’d ask you all to treat these results with the respect that they deserve and embrace these developments fully and wholeheartedly. ’
I slink down an inch in my seat, suitably chastised.
I don’t get the train back with the others straight after the meeting.
Instead, I take the opportunity of being in London to meet up again with Ed’s mum, Terri, for a coffee.
We have a good chat about Frankie and she fills me in about that side of the family.
One of Ed’s sisters has a new job. The other is having trouble with her landlord.
She tells me she’s trying to get Ed’s dad to reduce his cholesterol after seeing something on TV.
It’s as lovely as always and I promise myself I won’t leave it this long again.
But the whole time, I can feel my mind wandering back to what happened with Sam in the shed two weeks ago. And what the hell Terri would think of me if she knew.
That night when I get home, I open the drawer in the hall table, where I shoved the book that Sam gave me, which I haven’t looked at since. I type his number into my phone and make at least five attempts to compose a text.
‘Hi Sam. Apologies that it’s taken until now for me to say thanks for the book, which was really thoughtful. However, what I said was true. I am seeing someone at the moment so what happened really shouldn’t have. Sorry. Must have been the excitement of actually getting a serve in.’
It is an unsatisfactory text, not least because it’s a reminder of what I did to poor Gavin, who I am feeling increasingly guilty about.
I took heart from a conversation I had with Kayla the other day about her latest experiences with online dating.
She saw two different people in one week and was clearly not losing any sleep whatsoever about it.
It is apparently essential in order to ‘widen the dating pool’.
She is unquestionably more qualified than me on this issue.
But I can’t help thinking that you don’t go round snogging men in sheds when you have something that could even vaguely be defined as a relationship with someone else.
That being the case, I have just effectively confessed to Sam that I am a cheat and that he was unknowingly complicit in my betrayal. Just writing it makes me feel thoroughly ashamed of myself and wonder if he’ll even text back. He replies in less than ten minutes.
‘No problem at all. Lucky guy. It goes without saying that I was not planning to broadcast what happened. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the book and I’ll see you around the club sometime. Keep practising those serves.’
The smiley face makes my mouth turn up involuntarily, before I scowl at my phone and throw it on the sofa.