4 The Calm Before the Storm
The Calm Before the Storm
U npopular opinion: monday is the best day of the week.
I know, I know. Most people prefer the rear end of the week, but not me.
Weekends are unpredictable. With no boss, deadlines or eight-hour shifts defining them, there are too many ways in which those two days can go.
I could meet a guy for dinner on Friday, fall in love over main course, seal the deal by dessert and take a spontaneous trip to Bali for the rest of the weekend.
Or I could binge-watch four seasons of Outlander , only to decide that the fifth is not worth my time.
On Fridays, I was always overcome with a sense of uncertainty – would I end up conquering the world or avoiding the shower for the next two days?
Unfortunately, that’s not quite how it went this week.
My boss, Pooja, was waiting for me by my cubicle when I reached the office.
She was wearing a white shirt with dramatic puffed sleeves and a grey pencil skirt.
She was tapping her white Gucci sandals on the wooden floor, which was never a good sign.
Even though she was well in her forties, Pooja Ghai didn’t look a year over thirty.
A lot of it had to do with what she wore and how she carried herself.
She took pride in being a power dresser.
To be fair, pretty much everyone in this office believed in the power of fashion – it kind of came with the territory of working in a men’s fashion and lifestyle website like TheManJournal.
And while I admired everyone who made the effort of colour-coding their outfits and blow-drying their hair so early in the morning, I simply couldn’t join the gang.
That being said, I couldn’t show up in jeans and a T-shirt either – I had no interest in being the office outcast. And so I chose an option that was both convenient, comfortable and cute enough to be considered mildly stylish – casual dresses with sneakers.
The fact that I looked younger than my twenty-seven years helped, and on most days, I was left to mind my own business, away from the office gossip and confrontations.
As I’d said before, today was not the usual Monday.
‘I’m going to need that presentation before lunch, Ananya,’ Pooja said, greeting me without a smile, tapping her crystal watch.
‘Oh, how come? The meeting is tomorrow, right?’ I asked, throwing my handbag on my chair.
I was referring to the weekly review meeting in which all the department heads got together to eat expensive snacks and blame each other for not meeting their individual targets.
Pooja, who headed the events department, considered those two hours a complete waste of her time.
Unlike the editorial, sales or social media teams, our team didn’t always have weekly updates.
Events, whether editorial or branded, took place months apart, and the build-up to each one was slow.
Pooja leaned on the cardboard wall as I entered my tiny six-by-six-foot workspace, her chest pressed against the edge.
‘They’re moving up the Tuesday meeting to the second half. Somebody from International is here,’ she said, looking me dead in the eye.
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘Some guy called David Miller. Apparently, he’s Michael’s right hand,’ she said.
Uh-oh. We both knew what that meant. Every time Michael Evans, the global editorial director of TMJ, sent someone for a visit, our asses were lit on fire.
And even though I’d already finished the PPT in question, it would crumble under the kind of scrutiny this meeting would carry.
I’d have to redo it, and I had less than four hours to get it done.
‘Oh, and make sure you include a slide or two about the new branded event ideas I asked you to work on,’ she said, pointing to my laptop as I plugged it in. ‘I want them to know we’re not just rehashing annual editorial events, but also introducing a line-up of big money days.’
I’m so screwed .
‘I would ask Ryan to help you, but he’s taken a sick leave,’ she said, referring to the only other person in the events team.
I nodded at her, trying to swallow the wave of panic rising in my throat before it made itself known to the outside world.
‘No problem.’
She left my side and made her way back to her office, strutting confidently in her heeled sandals.
I knew I should’ve said something to hint that I didn’t have any new event ideas – nothing that the international team would approve, anyway.
But I wasn’t ready to see what telling the truth would cost me.
Appraisals were two short months away, and I’d been here too long and had worked too hard to let something stupid like this ruin my chances at a promotion.
I had to get this done. There was no other way.
Trying to think of a completely new idea was too overwhelming, so I started with the easy bits.
I went through each of the fifteen slides, fact-checking, proofreading, adding stronger visuals and specific stats wherever necessary.
It took me around two hours to upgrade the presentation from a C+ to an A-.
The improvement was apparent, but I knew it wouldn’t count for much without a unique event idea.
I opened my desk drawer, shuffling the pile of unstacked papers to look for the approved events line-up for the year.
It didn’t reveal anything new – just the same five editorial events TMJ had added to its calendar over the last three years.
I knew them by heart, of course. The Entertainment Gala, Fashion Forward, Sports Hour, Biz Kids and, our latest addition, The Influencer Awards.
I pinned the list on the board in front of me, next to a Polaroid of Vrinda and me.
Instinctively, I reached for my phone and dialled her number. I knew she was supposed to be helping her mother out at her bridal wear boutique down in Shahpur Jat, but I hoped she’d be able to talk.
She picked up on the fourth ring.
‘Hey, what’s up?’ she asked. Her voice was distant, like she’d put me on speaker. I could hear her rustling garments in the background.
‘I’m in dire need of inspiration,’ I said, my desperation seeping through the phone.
‘I wish I could help, dude. But I’m kind of in the middle of a whole thing.’
I played with the retractable ballpoint pen in my hand, clicking and unclicking as I listened to the faint sound of V shouting at someone on the other end.
‘You okay? What’s happening?’ I asked when she was done.
‘Don’t ask, babe. One of Mom’s friends’ daughters is getting married, and she wants us to do the wedding outfits,’ she said, then added, ‘like all of them … for the entire family.’
‘Wow,’ I said, ‘that’s a lot of outfits.’
‘Tell me about it. Mom is super stressed coz our designer Kritika is on leave for the whole week to attend her brother’s wedding,’ she said. I could almost hear her frowning through the phone.
‘So many weddings, that’s crazy,’ I said, looking up as an intern handed me my iced coffee.
Generally, I didn’t like ordering the interns around, especially for coffee runs, but I was running incredibly short on time today. A trip to the pantry was a waste of time, much like this phone call was turning out to be.
‘Seriously …’ she said, taking the phone off speaker, ‘it’s like weddings are all anybody cares about these days.’
I consoled her for a few seconds before hanging up, assuring her that we’d celebrate our long, unfair Mondays with a glass of wine later.
Now that I was back to square one, I began scribbling in my handmade notebook.
The trick, I knew, was to put myself in our consumers’ shoes.
What were the men of today interested in?
Our existing editorial events already covered everything, be it music, movies, sports, business or social media.
Plus, we had a series of car launches coming up for the branded section. So what was I missing?
I got a brain freeze as I took a large sip from my iced coffee, and something from the conversation with V came back to me.
Weddings are all anybody cares about.
Men, too, right?
‘Vrinda, you’re a genius,’ I said out loud as the coffee finally began doing its job, and I felt the engine of my brain coming to life.
Putting the ‘Best Man’ idea in the PPT was a risk, I was aware of that. So when Pooja rang me on my intercom and asked me to ‘bring my ass down to her office’, I knew I had fucked up.
As I walked past the line of cubicles to her glass cabin, I just prayed for her to be in a good mood. My boss had a reputation for being moody, and in the past, I’d gotten away with far worse and had been screamed at for way less.
She motioned for me to come inside when I knocked on her door, and I walked up to the chair in front of her desk, knowing better than to sit.
I waited for her to look at me, but her head was buried in her laptop.
She didn’t say anything for what felt like a few million years, and the silence was so absolute that I was afraid to swallow too loudly.
‘Okay, I’m going to need you to explain this wedding thing to me,’ she said, finally looking up.
I couldn’t tell if she was serious or just getting on my case. I tried to read her current expression. Her smooth, tanned skin was wrinkling in the space between her eyebrows, and her jaw was set tightly. She was either angry or stressed. Neither was good, but I hoped it was the latter.
‘Um,’ I said, aware that my brain was doing that thing it did in high-pressure situations, where it acted like it was completely clueless about what was going on.
My phone vibrated in my hand, reminding me that I could use the presentation I’d made to kick-start my thought process. I quickly opened my email and downloaded the attachment.
‘So the idea came to me because all the men I know who are my age or older are beginning to get married … or at least starting to think about it,’ I said.