Chapter 28
28
‘What’s happened?’ Annabel asked, jumping from her seat, dropping a piece of sushi into its container.
Fiona marched straight by without a word, slamming her office door, only to reopen it and stick her head out.
‘That had better be a reusable tub,’ she fired and slammed the door again.
What got to her most was that she’d fallen for it so easily. That Rory had somehow turned her into the exact cliché she’d been furious at Stephen for becoming. Three days into the relationship and she had already been wondering what the next weekend might bring, even the weekend after that. She was nothing but a sad, spurned wife who’d jumped straight into bed with any man who’d show her a bit of attention, ignoring every warning sign possible. The thing was – and this was what really got to her – she hadn’t even seen the warning signs. Even now, she thought he genuinely enjoyed her company, among other things. And he probably did, just not enough to be faithful to her. Did he even genuinely care about Martha? At least the yoga teacher had. With a scream of frustration, she slammed her hand down on the desk.
Her mind flitted from Rory to the conference that evening. Professor Arkell wanted her to bring passion to the event. Well, if passion was what he wanted, passion was what he was about to get.
The feeling of nausea was genuine, no matter how much she tried to convince herself it was all in her head. The tightness in her throat, her stomach and every other part of her body was real. At first, she’d thought it was all to do with Rory. She assumed he was to blame for what she was experiencing. But as the room began to fill, a feeling of panic was added to the mix and she was forced to admit that he wasn’t the reason at all.
‘I thought you said it was going to be a small group of people?’
‘Well, it is normally,’ Professor Arkell replied. ‘I guess with all the coverage about Martha, a lot of companies thought they ought to make an appearance, to show their concern. Or at least to make it seem that way.’
She took a moment to scan the room again. He wasn’t joking when he said there would be some big names here. Catherine Laudel, the CEO of FIZD, the second largest soft-drink producer in the UK, was helping herself to a second glass of water from a tray. And she was fairly sure the Health Secretary was over by the door. She’d even spotted Stephen’s boss, John Orbiten, tucked away at the back of the room on his mobile. Perhaps he was on the phone to Stephen, she thought.
Three weeks ago, this would have been a networking dream. She would have worked the room from the moment she stepped inside. Not today. And no one was approaching her. Maybe it was the vibes she was giving out – terrified with a hint of I’ve- made-a-massive-mistake-please-get-me-out-of-here. Or maybe the rumours of her split with golden girl Octavia Lovett-Rose had reached them. Either way, she was thankful for the wide berth she was getting.
‘There are two brilliant speakers on first,’ Ben told her. ‘From the Sea Life Trust and Plastic Oceans. Then there’s a presentation by one of the big companies attending, of course.’ He paused and looked at the programme in his hand. ‘To be honest, I don’t know who he is. Must have been a late booking. It’ll all be a load of smoke and mirrors, anyway. Someone called John Orbiten.’
‘John Orbiten!’ She pulled the programme out of his hand. ‘Why’s he speaking?’
‘You know him?’
‘Yes. No. Sort of. He’s my husband’s boss. My ex-husband’s boss. Well not officially yet. He’s just been going through some—’ She clamped her mouth shut before any more drivel could emanate from it. ‘Sorry. Nerves,’ she said, as if it wasn’t obvious.
Ben smiled sympathetically.
‘I thought someone in your position would be used to speaking in front of large groups of people like this.’
‘Well you thought wrong. I’m very much a small group speaker, or in the background.’
It was true. The thing about her job was that it had never involved addressing crowds. She watched people doing it, like Dominic, for example. She’d organised several of his seminars over the years. And other large companies’. After Stephen had got his first big promotion, she’d listened as he’d spoken in front of all the senior managers and employees and had felt such a surge of pride for the man she’d married. At his confidence. His eloquence.
That wasn’t her forte. Not since secondary school, when she’d foolishly decided she was going to take part in the school production of Annie , had she been expected to perform in front of more than twenty people. And back then, she’d only had a single line.
‘So, after him, it’ll be you, and then two more speakers and then I’ll close the meeting,’ Ben was saying. ‘Remember, you’ve got a five-minute slot, but don’t worry if you finish sooner. Or go on a bit longer. It’s just a guideline. Most of these people will just be waiting to get to the bar, ply themselves with free drinks, and hobnob. They’ll probably have forgotten every single thing we’ve told them by the time they reach their cars, unfortunately,’ he finished, gloomily.
‘Wow, you make it sound so worthwhile.’
He smiled. ‘Now, you’re sure you’re okay with us using the birthday-party photo? We don’t have to.’
‘Yes, we do,’ she said with certainty. ‘Without it, I’m just another crazy fanatic.’
At ten to six, people began to move towards their seats in the large auditorium. Fiona, under Ben’s guidance, took one on the front row. Four chairs down, John Orbiten took his place, and she suddenly became engrossed in her programme.
Despite doing her best to listen to what was being said before it was her turn, she passed most of the time going over in her mind what she had prepared and wiping sweaty hands on her skirt. Every now and then, something did catch her attention, usually something she’d come across in her Martha research binges. Nearly ten million carrier bags used globally per minute. More microplastic particles in the ocean than stars in the Milky Way. An estimated 1.1 million seabirds dying each year due to plastic. Countries claiming they were doing their bit for recycling by sending their rubbish to Asia, only for it to be piled up into small mountains on the coast of some previously unspoiled island. We are being lied to. We are lying to ourselves . That was what the activists said. Of course, big business held a different point of view. She’d read it all before, but that didn’t stop her blood boiling once again.
If what Professor Arkell said was true, then the people in the room who could make a difference would forget what she told them the minute she finished her speech. How was that even possible? How would they not go racing out and start stripping plastic from the shelves of their shops, vowing never to use it again?
Seeing John Orbiten take the stage to loud applause, she stifled a laugh, thinking of Holly’s comment about him and Stephen sharing a yogurt bath. At five feet four and bald, he was hardly the most attractive man in the room, but there was still something about him. Probably the allure of money and power.
‘What we have heard today is heart-breaking,’ he told the audience in his most sincere voice. ‘These images, which I’m sure we’ve all seen before, are understandably emotive. No one enjoys this happening to our planet. No person or business should be responsible. That’s why we, at Alton Foods, are taking steps to become the most environmentally conscious, mass-produced food retailer in the UK.’
More applause.
‘We, at Alton Foods, promise that, by 2050, half our packaging will be made from renewable materials.’
Even more applause.
Next to her, Professor Arkell snorted.
‘Renewable resources,’ he muttered to her. ‘Oldest marketing ploy in the book. It’s still plastic. Still screws up the ocean. Just means they put a green label on their tubs.’
‘And,’ John Orbiten continued, ‘we will commit to a nationwide buy-back scheme for a further 10 per cent of our products.’
Applause.
‘We at Alton Foods will lead the way when it comes to helping this planet, and we will support anyone who wishes to join us on the journey. This is our pledge, which we make in front of you all, today.’ He nodded his head, picked up his papers and left the podium to thunderous applause.
‘Smarmy git,’ Professor Arkell spat. ‘It’s the same bullshit every year. Set inadequate targets they have no intention of meeting. And, whatever we show them, whatever we say, they know they can pretty much ignore us. We’re in their pocket; they provide us with half our funding and without that, we couldn’t even exist.’
‘They do?’ Fiona was appalled.
‘They do. They provide us with money so that they can pretend they’re working with us. It’s why I have to be so bloody polite up there.’
A whirlwind of thoughts raced through her brain as John Orbiten received several slaps on the shoulder as he sat back down.
‘You might have to watch what you’re saying. But I don’t.’
Whether it was her turn or not, she didn’t care. Without waiting for the applause to die down, or to be introduced, she marched up onto the platform to the podium.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ She tapped the microphone, partly to make sure it was still on, partly to gain everyone’s attention. ‘You don’t know me, at least not in this capacity.’
She glanced around the room. A few people were frowning, as if there was something vaguely familiar about her.
‘My name is Fiona Reeves and, a couple of weeks ago, I would most likely have been found among you lot at the back of the room. You know the ones I’m talking about, in your suits and cocktail dresses, grabbing the free booze and canapés, arranging your next meeting or round of golf, only half listening because, let’s face it, you’re only here because it would be bad for businesses if you didn’t show up to at least one environmental conference a year.’
The room had gone suddenly quiet. At least she had their attention, that was for sure.
‘It’s tough for me to judge you,’ she said, changing her tone to one that was slightly less aggressive. ‘It is. Like I said, a few weeks ago, I would have been there with you. I would have thought how sad it was that all this was happening and hoped that someone would find an easy, scientific solution to fix it all, so that my newsfeed didn’t have to be swamped with pictures of dead animals. I like pictures of holidays. The occasional cat in a flowerpot. Not a bird with a razor stuck in its beak.
‘But that’s beside the point. First of all, you need to know I’m not a doctor. I’m not a professor. I haven’t made any great strides in scientific research. I can’t tell you how many turtles have been killed by rubbish this year. But I can guarantee that when you saw that picture of the stomach contents of the whale that died in the Thames, you didn’t think for a second that it was actually your plastic bag that had killed the creature, did you? Your rubbish wouldn’t do that, would it?’
Already eyes were starting to roll. She looked down at Ben and nodded. A moment later, her presentation lit up the giant screen behind her. He handed up the remote to her.
‘Two weeks ago, I didn’t care about the environment. Well, I cared that my water was clean. That my air was breathable. That people didn’t use my rubbish bins, because I needed all the space I could get. But that was it. And I’m sure some of you can relate to that too. But then, something happened in London.’
The screen changed. Martha appeared. It was the first day, when she’d just been sighted in the Thames. Back then, she’d looked almost healthy although, given how she ended up, any look was healthy compared to that.
‘Now, I’ll admit, I was hooked pretty much straight away. She was a mother, you see. I’m a mother. She was away from her babies, and my baby had just left home to start university. It’s a tenuous link, maybe, but I felt as though we shared something, on a maternal level.
‘Then we all know what happened. She died. We saw how our plastic and rubbish killed her. Humans put this in the ocean, no one else. Now I’m fairly sure that lots of you switched off at that point, just like you’re switching off now, because you don’t want to hear it all again. But believe me, you haven’t heard what I’m going to tell you next. I promise you.’
She pointed the remote at the screen and triggered the next image.
‘This,’ she said, ‘is a picture of my son Joseph’s sixth birthday party.’
Given the size of the image, everyone, herself and Joseph included, was more than life size.
‘I was good at party planning. I still am actually, although one or two of my former clients aren’t so sure any more. Anyway, if you look closely at the top right-hand corner, you might notice something.’
She clicked the remote again and a red circle appeared around the balloon. Another click and it enlarged to fill the whole screen. She turned back to her audience. Most looked perplexed but, gradually, their expressions turned from confusion to realisation, as they whispered to those on either side of them. This was what she had been hoping for. By the time she moved to the next slide, they all knew what was coming.
‘This is a picture of the contents of Martha’s stomach,’ she said. ‘And there it is. My balloon. My wonderful little party accessory, a disposable trifle, there… lodged in the digestive tract of one of the most spectacular creatures on Earth, slowly starving her to death.’
Mouths were open. The buzz of the delegates had grown louder.
‘You see, you lot out there are lucky. You still live in the delightful bliss of wilful ignorance. You can believe that your recycling is actually being recycled. That your plastic is somehow different to all these other plastics you see floating around in documentaries that you switch away from. But I don’t have that luxury any more. I lost the right to it.
‘The thing is, I’m not any different to you. To those of you who continue to peddle this stuff. But I’m personally responsible for so much less than what you are doing, corporately. So much less. And I if I have to live with my burden, then you sure as hell should have to live with yours.’
She took the mic from its stand and moved to the edge of the stage.
‘The targets they’re talking about.’ She spoke now directly to the group of press, seated to one side. ‘They don’t mean a thing. They really don’t. 98 per cent of companies do not meet their sustainability targets. 98 per cent . That means, if a hundred of them were talking to us here today, impressing us with their ethical stance, only two of them would have any intention of actually sticking to their promises. Their vision for the future? What the hell does that mean, anyway? No, actually, we all know exactly what it means. Words like vision, targets, pledges, they’re just one more marketing ploy, to distract us from the fact that they didn’t honour the last one. Because… did you?’ Her gaze turned on John Orbiten, sat there in the front row. She held it just long enough to watch his jaw tighten, before looking from one person to the next.
‘How many of you out there actually did meet your last target? If you’re sincere about achieving something, stop telling us about it and start showing us what you’re actually doing . Stop giving speeches and start giving us action. Not this recyclable plastic nonsense, which is just marketing speak for you’ve found another method of trashing the decent things this planet has given us. Tell me the number of lives, animal and human, that have been improved by what you’re doing. Show us how you removed all the waste from Tanzania, by building a brand-new recycling plant. One that can actually cope with what we’ve dumped on it. Tell me how you’ve banned single-use items with your name on. Start proving you care, by showing that you’re willing to risk a year without your million or billion-pound profit margin, or any profit at all, for that matter because, for crying out loud, you can’t put a price on saving the planet and it’s more important than lining your pockets. How are your yachts going to float on an ocean full of plastic? Ask yourself that. Stop pontificating, get off your corporate arses, and do something!’