Chapter 4
4
ELENA
Elena and Rory walked out of the lift on the third floor. The marketing office was open plan. It was Wednesday 20 November, the day of a meeting she’d arranged with boss Derek, the director of marketing. Years ago, before starting her career off in HR, she’d had a Saturday job in the sixth form, thanks to her dad speaking to one of his friends. She’d worked in every department, including HR, but also production and marketing, and a passion and focus had grown for the latter. Her unusually broad experience had propelled her career forwards. Under Derek, Elena ran the marketing department at Bingley Biscuits, but this meeting was an example of how she sometimes stepped out of her strict remit, such as becoming involved in product development.
She’d had an idea on how to optimise the Bingley Biscuit brand during the current cost of living crisis. Rory had lived with her for a couple of weeks now. He was tidy, enjoyed cooking and always washed up, and didn’t interfere much with her usual routine. She’d put in overtime, researching her fresh concept after work, whereas Rory had been out at some sports club, or at his dad’s, and once met up with his mountain-biking mate, Izzy. The whole friend-with-benefits thing didn’t do it for Elena. She and her new housemate were just different that way, she told herself.
Today wasn’t a formal pitch to Derek – more of a casual chat. But it was crucial it went well. Her idea could be seen as compromising the Bingley Biscuit name and had been rejected in previous years. Derek might be very hesitant about pitching it to the board. He might not even hear her out – especially if Rory didn’t back her up. She’d told him about it a few days ago and suggested he join the meeting. Elena had never been afraid of fighting her corner, not when it came to a project she wholeheartedly believed in.
At eight forty-five in the morning, most of her colleagues were already on phones or typing away. The grey walls and flooring might have lacked appeal, along with the bland desks, printers and computers, were it not for the bright mosaic of prints of the colourful tubes of Bingley Biscuits on the walls. Their chocolate-coated oatie biscuits sold best, followed by the crumbly shortcake rings and cream vanilla sandwich fingers. These family recipes went back to the beginning of the twentieth century when the Bingley family had opened a home-baked goods shop on Oldham Street, in a part of Manchester city centre now known as the Northern Quarter. Business boomed and premises expanded during the postwar economic prosperity of the fifties. By the mid-sixties, the family had bought their first factory. It was a fiercely competitive market, but the brand had held its own over the years, and more than that – at least, until the pandemic.
Gary’s desk was nearest to the door. He was a well-built man with a ginger buzz cut and a goatee beard, about the same age as Elena, today wearing an Aztec print shirt. She and Rory stopped by his chair. Caz, fortyish, with a ladybird red bob and lips to match also came over. Gary sat, his fingers intermittently typing and dipping into a bag of Maltesers, acting as if the other three weren’t there, until Elena hummed the first line to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.
‘Never did like karaoke,’ muttered Gary.
‘You’ve been on at me for months to organise it!’ said Elena.
‘Yes, and it took until Rory asked you,’ he replied with an injured tone. ‘We really should be allowed to bring partners next time. My husband would have smashed it with his version of “La Bamba”.’
‘Don’t be such a sore loser. Last night was fun,’ she said and pushed his shoulder. Kind of. ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ had been Rory’s choice. He liked a challenge and she’d wanted to prove she was equally up for it. ‘Although I agree, it’s a shame your Diego couldn’t come. We must go out for dinner again soon. I haven’t seen him since before Christmas. I could listen to his Spanish accent all night long.’
‘I recommend it,’ said Gary, unable to stop himself smiling.
Caz sighed. ‘Competitive as I am, I’m not cross that we got booed off the stage. You two smashed it. Perhaps our choice was bad. Singing that classic “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now” was jinxing it.’
‘Watch out, Caz and I will thrash you at the next staff night out,’ said Gary, breezily. He’d paired Elena and Rory together for the karaoke, seeing as they were what he called house buddies now.
‘No chance,’ said Rory and helped himself to one of Gary’s Maltesers.
‘Amazed you sang so well, though, Elena, what with your main focus being on that guy in the Italian suit,’ said Gary. ‘Give us the low-down. ’
‘Nothing to report,’ she said airily. ‘Andy’s an accountant. Who knows where the evening might have gone if it wasn’t for Rory dragging me up on stage when things were getting cosy?’
Rory shrugged. ‘Sorry about that. Bad timing. But it was our turn. You should have got his number.’
‘I would have but he’d left by the time we’d finished.’ Andy had lovely eyes. Soft hands. A genuine smile. She imagined the comfort of skin touching skin, of kisses you could lose yourself in… Oh, how Elena longed for that physical comfort right now. But it wouldn’t be fair to get close to a man, not when her thirtieth birthday was just over a month away…
‘So, spill. What Christmas night out have you got in store for us colleagues, Swan, in December?’ asked Gary.
Elena tapped her nose and headed off to the other side of the office. Rory had been given the desk opposite hers, when he’d joined the company permanently. The top of hers was fairly tidy, with a pen pot, file rack and wire letter tray, and a stress ball in the shape of a sloth. Gary had bought it for her last Christmas, for the Secret Santa. He’d said it was ironic as Elena was the least lazy person in the office. Her top desk drawer, deep and wide, was messier, filled with an array of dog-eared paperbacks – and a spare Kindle, kept at work, to act as a back-up. Elena would rather run out of food than stories. All genres were in that drawer – historical and contemporary, by British and foreign authors. Her current read – or re-read – was Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen. Despite her party-loving image at the office, she strongly related to responsible, measured Elinor, who greatly contrasted her impulsive sister, Marianne. Closed versus open, safe versus risky… Elena knew which type she was, or, rather, what she’d forced herself to become.
‘I’m not sure Brandy and Snap appreciated our tuneful rendition when we got home.’ Rory put down his satchel and took off his damp trench coat.
‘Oh, home is it now? Don’t go getting any ideas. And I seem to recall it was only you singing.’ She made herself busy, taking off her coat, not wanting to give away that since he’d moved in, her place had felt like a real bolt hole in a way it hadn’t before. Even though they hadn’t spent much time together, just knowing that someone else shared her home reminded Elena of when she’d lived with her parents. She’d forgotten how reassuring it felt, how comforting, to hear someone else upstairs singing in the shower or boiling the kettle. She was very close to her mum and dad and had lived with them, happily, until starting at Bingley Biscuits four years ago, and pole-vaulting onto the property ladder with her current pad. The privacy and space were great, she’d told herself. Yet how quickly she’d grown used to Rory’s evening rendition of ‘Ocean Eyes’ that wafted through the spare room’s walls. Not to mention the conversations he had with Brandy and Snap – mostly telling them how clever they were, with their playing dead and camouflage skills, and reeling off statistics about their fellow species.
This last week, he’d even persuaded her to watch TV again a couple of times. They started a new Netflix thriller series. Her last boyfriend, from over a year ago now, loved watching thrillers too, but didn’t dissect them in the way Rory did, in the way Elena loved to, looking at the plot and characters analytically and trying to work out the ending. Not that it mattered. There were so many other things she’d… liked about Darren. She’d never said loved, not when it came to boyfriends; she wouldn’t let herself get that attached. In fact, she and Darren split up after ten months – the longest she’d dated anyone for years – because she couldn’t commit when he’d begun talking about the future. What would be the point, when hers was so uncertain ?
Elena leant against her desk. The firework. It had been a warning. It had to be.
With his unaffected dancing when she put music on, with his colourful clothes and spontaneous bursts of singing, Rory had turned out to be a good distraction from darker thoughts about the little girl who’d got lost in the wooded area of the common and made a deal with a strange woman.
Rory slid a folder of paperwork out of his bag. At least he’d taken the idea seriously. Their meeting was at nine but Derek was always early. They headed for his office, the only private space that wasn’t open plan. Elena knocked on the door. A friendly voice invited them in. Derek stood by the window, looking across at the industrial landscape. The factory was Sharston way, a thirty-minute drive from south Manchester, up to an hour during peak traffic. He turned around and ran a hand over his receding grey hairline. He wore a dark jumper and chinos, and glasses with a bold, dark blue frame. Derek was fair and transparent, the two things Elena valued most in a boss. He also passionately believed in enjoying Bingley Biscuits’ products. The chinos hugged his legs, like the jumper did his chest. A double chin lay against the top of the shirt collar. Gaining extra pounds went with the job. Elena had put on almost a stone since joining the company four years ago, thanks to the freebies and tasting sessions. Caz bemoaned her own weight gain and Gary obsessively went to the gym. Rory’s life was far too physical for the daily Bingley treats to make a difference. Elena didn’t mind the extra curves. They made her look even more like Mum.
The mum she’d nearly lost, a long time ago.
Derek indicated for them both to sit down and sat behind his desk – basic, white, the same as everyone else’s. It was the rest of the room that reflected his status, with the Nespresso coffee machine, filtered water and the row of industry awards on a shelf. On the wall hung a photograph of Derek standing next to King Charles, who’d visited six months before, on a tour of manufacturers who were reducing their carbon footprint. His Majesty had talked, at length, with CEO John Bingley about the company’s new study into the possibility of the electrification of their gas-fired industrial ovens. That was the Bingley Biscuits secret to success. It had embraced change throughout its hundred-year history, continually diversifying, experimenting, taking on board new social responsibilities, such as a reduction of palm oil in their products. Most importantly, it kept a finger on the pulse of what mattered to consumers.
‘What have you got for me? I’m intrigued.’ Derek rubbed his hands together, straight to business as usual. ‘It’s now in doubt as to whether our continued drop in profits is solely down to the energy crisis and global price increase of our basic ingredients.’
‘Is the Lipstick Effect finally waning?’ asked Elena.
Derek hesitated. ‘Yes, I believe so.’
The Lipstick Effect reflected how, in times of hardship, consumers spent money on small luxuries, like when sales of lipsticks increased after the 9/11 terrorist attacks. When the pandemic hit, Elena had only recently joined the company, but had tracked its performance for several months whilst she worked her notice at her previous place of employment. She’d pitched the idea of bringing out individual tubes of limited-edition luxury brands of their biscuits at her interview. This concept had already been discussed by the board, previous to Derek taking her on, but her impressive, evidence-based pitch had given them the push they’d needed to run with it. Customers couldn’t get enough of the Dulce de Leche cookies and double chocolate pecan shortbread fingers. They wanted comfort, they wanted an affordable treat. The rise in profits had landed Elena a big bonus in her first year. But Derek was right. Consumer behaviour was changing again, as the financial squeeze continued to tighten.
‘The time has come to backtrack on the luxury angle as a solution, Derek,’ she said. ‘I’d love to wave a magic wand and come up with a completely new approach, but all my research keeps throwing up the same conclusion that’s been discussed on and off. The company can’t delay any longer: a budget-friendly line is the only way forwards – with the right product. And if the board are prepared to hear me out, I’ve got one in mind.’
Derek folded his arms. ‘Really? Not this again.’ He sighed. ‘Well, there’s no point getting carried away just yet. Rory? What’s your take on all this?’
Elena held her breath.
‘Every saved penny counts at the moment,’ said Rory, ‘even on a packet of biscuits. Profits are down across the industry – our competitors are in the same position. It’s not just Bingley Biscuits. The Lipstick Effect has waned. These figures back that up.’ He took a sheet of paper out of his file and pushed it across the desk. ‘However, for many of the companies that have introduced cheaper lines, sales didn’t start well…’
Elena clenched her hands.
‘…but slowly that’s turning around.’ Rory pushed across another sheet. ‘It might just be the right time for Elena’s approach.’
Eyebrows in her hairline, she stared straight ahead, unable to remember the last time Rory had embraced a pitch of hers from the very beginning.
‘Oh. Right…’ Derek looked up from Rory’s numbers. ‘But you’re both familiar with the board’s stance. They’re worried about devaluing our quality name. That’s the reason this idea of bringing out a basic biscuit range hasn’t ever moved forwards.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry Elena, but I can’t see them going for it. Th ey’ve discussed it ad nauseam. I was hoping you’d come up with something completely innovative.’
‘Derek. You’re director of marketing. You know, as well as I do, it’s about how you sell it,’ said Elena, firmly. She put her hands on his desk and leant forwards. ‘We tell the public that Bingley Biscuits cares about their struggles, and that we are acting upon them; that affordability is our priority. What’s more, the phrasing we come up with can’t be mere words stuck on the side of a packet, either, or in a light-hearted jingle at the end of a TV advert. The concept has to come from the heart,’ said Elena, laying her palm against her chest. Once she’d decided to leave her last job at a confectionery company that no longer challenged her, Elena had quickly received several offers. But one of her reasons for joining Bingley Biscuits was their reputation for high ethical standards. ‘Consumers aren’t stupid. We’d need to avoid sneaky tactics like a blanket hike in the price of our whole range before bringing out a budget-friendly version that, in effect, is simply the price of what customers were already paying. We’ve seen that time and time again in some of the supermarkets, with other products.’
Derek paced the room, juggling a stress ball between his hands, his questions becoming louder and quicker, Rory pulling out more sheets from his folder, with graphs and numbers, with the stats from marketing surveys, showing how slowly customers were becoming loyal to competitors’ more affordable brands.
Elena’s mouth fell open. Rory really had got behind her.
Thirty minutes later, Derek collapsed into his chair. ‘The stats are all there. Good work, both of you. It’s convincing. Other companies are turning over a bigger profit with cheap lines. But at what cost to their reputation, in the long run? We don’t want to alienate customers who see one of our biscuits as a superior product.’ He reached forward to a tube on his desk and offered it to the other two, before tugging out a vanilla sandwich finger. The three of them sat eating. ‘Okay. I’ll pitch the idea of a cheaper line to the board again.’
Yes! Elena wanted to punch the air.
‘You have a chat with the team,’ he continued. ‘Get their brains ticking. I’ll schedule a meeting for the whole department on Friday. This pitch will need to be rock solid, and that requires teamwork. In the meantime, there’s no harm in you working on your product idea, Elena. I hope it’s a strong one that will at least spark the board’s confidence in taking this direction, even if product development, ultimately, have to reject it.’
Beaming, Elena reached for Derek’s tube of vanilla sandwich fingers and looked mischievously at him, and he rolled his eyes in an affectionate manner. She got up and closed Derek’s door behind them. A notification flashed on her phone – a text from Gary.
Your meeting’s going on a bit! I’m making coffee for everyone.
‘Thanks for backing my idea,’ she said to Rory and passed him a biscuit.
‘Just backing the stats,’ he said.
Of course.
Marketers were often expected to come up with miracles, something fresh and sexy, but now and again, the answer was about going back to basics; it was about simple policies with no clever, underlying agenda, and right now that meant giving customers a genuine opportunity to save money.
They strode in the direction of Caz’s desk. She and Rory were senior members of the team, underneath Elena.
A crash came from the small staff kitchen followed by a swear word. Elena hurried to see if Gary was all right. A stream of coffee flowed across the floor, out of the kitchen’s door. Unaware, she stepped in it and jerked backwards before slipping, falling, falling, her face lifting to the tiled ceiling. Her phone went flying.
No!
What if she landed smack bang on the back of her head, on the hard floor? Like that soap actor who died in a random accident on an ice rink, because a bleed in his brain was missed. Having lost control of her balance completely, Elena let out a yelp and closed her eyes.
Please, let it be over quickly.
But… wait… What? Strong arms caught Elena and pulled her up.
‘Nothing to see here, folks,’ said Rory as people got up to look. He picked up her phone, took Elena by the hand and led her through the office doors. Hardly able to breathe, she rubbed her back.
‘Reckoned you might want some privacy to, you know, nurse that injured pride and…’
‘Right… thanks,’ she said, and her voice hitched.
His brow wrinkled. ‘Elena? What’s the matter?’
Elena’s breathing heaved, her hands sweaty, tingled, and a sense of foreboding consumed her. No. She was being silly. The universe, some dark force, wasn’t out to get her. This silly trip-up wasn’t a warning, nor was the firework.
‘You can tell me,’ he said in a gentle voice she hadn’t heard from him before. Rory stepped forwards and brushed a flyaway lock of her normally military-neat blonde hair out of her face. Under any other circumstances she would have been taken aback by such a tender gesture.
She forced her lips to upturn and took back her phone. ‘Come on. Let’s help clean up that mess. I’ve pulled my back a bit, that’s all. It’ll be fine.’ Elena gritted her teeth and went to go. But he caught her hand again and looked her straight in the face. Tears welled up and Elena suppressed a sob. She practically ran back into the office and headed for the toilets. She stood in front of the mirror, wiped her eyes, breathed in deeply. Okay. Armour restored. Her chin trembled.
Keeping that childhood promise a secret for such a long time, bearing the burden… It had been so very hard. But that had been the price for saving a life. A price ten-year-old Elena had been willing to pay.