Chapter 5
SOPHIE
‘Hellooo.’
‘In here, Connie,’ I call out from the kitchen.
Today’s the morning of my pitch to Hargreaves.
We presented our concepts to the creative heads last week and, as I knew it would, mine blew them away.
Lorraine saw me out with an encouraging smile and whispered, ‘That was brilliant – well done.’ There were still three other creatives to present, but I took it as a good sign.
We got the news on Thursday. I was selected to pitch to the client – and so were Frannie and Drew. Three pitches this year instead of two, but Lorraine said they were all so high calibre, they wanted the client to have a third choice.
‘Hello, darling,’ says Connie, breezing into the kitchen. She looks like a million pounds – as usual – even though it’s barely 7.30 a.m.
‘Good morning, Coco,’ says Harlow, accepting a cheek kiss. ‘Are you taking me to school this morning?’
‘I am.’
‘I told you that fifteen minutes ago, Lo.’ I send her a stern look, but she deliberately avoids my eye.
‘All ready?’ asks Connie.
I shoot her a toothy smile – okay, it’s more of a grimace. ‘As I’ll ever be,’ I reply. ‘I get a little nervous before these things.’
‘You’ll be brilliant – you always are.’
This is generous considering all Connie knows about my job is what I tell her.
‘Coco’s right, Mummy. You will be brilliant.’
‘Thank you, Harlow,’ I reply. She’s less in the loop about what I do than Connie, but I appreciate the vote of confidence.
‘Right, I should head off,’ I say, reaching for my handbag.
‘Er, is that what you’re wearing?’ asks Connie.
I look down at my grey trousers and teal floral blouse, then back to Connie. ‘Yes. Why, what’s wrong with it?’
‘Nothing, it’s perfectly fine.’
‘Fine? I don’t want to look fine. I want to look professional – and confident,’ I add hastily.
Connie squints her eyes at me, her lips pursing.
‘I think you look nice, Mum.’
Now I’m starting to panic. I’ve had this outfit planned for days and in three minutes Connie has completely undermined my choice. I look at the clock. ‘Well, it’s too late to change now. I’ll miss the train.’
‘Or you can pop upstairs and put on that red shift dress you look so smart in, and I’ll drive you to the train station on the way to school.’ Connie nods at me encouragingly.
‘The red one – you’re sure?’ I ask.
‘Oh, I love that dress,’ says Harlow. ‘You look like Barbie when you wear that.’
‘Okay, I definitely don’t want to look like Barbie. I’ll just wear this.’
‘Not like Stereotypical Barbie, Mum,’ Harlow says, as if I am the dimmest mother in the world. ‘I mean President Barbie.’
I look over at Connie again, still conflicted. ‘Think of it as subliminal messaging,’ she says, waggling her eyebrows. ‘You walk in wearing bright red and they instantly connect you with Christmas.’
‘Hmm, maybe…’ I say, unconvinced – I’m still stuck on Harlow’s Barbie comment. ‘What do you think, Hobbes?’ I ask – only he’s too engrossed in licking the spot where his balls used to be to weigh in.
I look at Harlow and Connie again, then huff out a sigh. ‘Fine, I’ll go change.’
‘Yay!’ says Harlow, clapping her hands like she used to when she was little. A simple gesture, but enough to conjure a clear-as-day image of Daniel, who taught her that when she was one. My heartstrings ping at the memory, and I blink back tears.
‘Are you okay, Mum?’ asks Harlow.
I fake a smile. ‘All good. I’ll be two minutes.’
I race up the stairs, trying not to let the memory derail my morning. But that’s the thing about grief. It can raise its head out of nowhere and knock you sideways.
I locate the red dress in my wardrobe – still in its drycleaning wrapping from the last time I wore it, an occasion I can’t even remember – and change into it, contorting my body to zip it up, something Daniel always did for me.
I shake my head to dislodge the thought, then step in front of the mirror to appraise myself.
Well, I’ll be damned – Harlow and Connie were right.
I look good. The dress fits perfectly and my makeup suits the dress way more than my previous outfit.
I’ve gone for a soft, barely-there peach on my cheeks, have played up my brown eyes with gold shadow and lots of mascara, and I’m wearing confidence-boosting red lipstick – a perfect match for my dress.
And while I usually wear my dark-brown hair in a bun or a ponytail, this morning I took time to style it properly, and it cascades in lustrous waves down to the middle of my back. I shake my head, giving a little hair shimmy.
‘Actually, you do look like President Barbie. But in a good way,’ I tell myself.
I slip my heels back on and return to the kitchen, strutting in like a model on a catwalk.
‘Should I add a sash?’ I joke, gesturing across my body to demonstrate. ‘Or would that be too much?’
‘Wow, Mum, you look hot!’
‘Hot? I don’t want to look hot or fine or… Maybe I should ju—’
I turn to head back upstairs and Connie stops me with a hand on my arm. ‘No time for that,’ she says, steering me towards the door. ‘Besides, Harlow meant professional and powerful. Right, darling?’
‘Um, yes?’ Harlow replies with a scrunched nose.
‘Oh, god.’
‘Now, both of you in the car,’ Connie commands. ‘Time is of the essence!’
She whisks us out of the house like a sixty-something Mary Poppins.
An hour later, I’m in the bathroom at work, staring at myself in the mirror again.
‘Be like Hannah,’ I tell myself, stretching to my full height and raising my arms above my head in a V.
Hannah, as in Hannah Waddingham, up there amongst the most gorgeous and talented women on the planet.
Before she goes on stage or walks the red carpet, she makes herself as big as she possibly can, owning and embracing her power.
I’ve never tried this before and at first, I feel ridiculous.
But as I look myself in the eye and start to control my breath, I feel it – power.
I’m President Frigging Barbie. I’m clever and talented and my pitch is brilliant.
And according to my ten-year-old, I also look fantastic. I am going to smash it.
‘Showtime,’ I say to my reflection.
I leave the bathroom, swing by my desk to collect my laptop, then wait outside the conference room where Frannie is pitching to the executives from Hargreaves.
‘Good luck in there, Reid.’
Do not engage. Channel your inner Hannah and ignore him.
I glance behind me. Great, he’s lingering.
I give him a taut smile. ‘Thanks, Parker.’ As an afterthought, I add, ‘You too. When it’s your turn, I mean.’
He smirks and walks away cockily, which is how he does everything – with an annoying amount of swagger. How can he be so sure of himself all the bloody time?
Hannah, Hannah, Hannah, I remind myself.
You are President Barbie and you are going to win this account.
I cast a surreptitious look around the office to see if anyone’s looking.
The coast is clear, so I set down my laptop and adopt the power pose again – right as Frannie opens the door to the conference room.
Shit.
I try passing it off as a stretch, but from the look on Frannie’s face, I’ve failed miserably.
‘They’re ready for you,’ she says, her eyes telegraphing, Don’t be a weirdo.
‘Thanks.’
‘And good luck, Sophie.’
‘Oh, thanks – you too.’
You too? She’s already presented. I really need to get it together – immediately. I inhale deeply through my nose, then enter smiling.
Lorraine returns my smile, an instant remedy to the residual nerves, then introduces me to the execs from Hargreaves, including one I remember from last time.
‘When you’re ready, Sophie,’ says Lorraine.
I go to the end of the conference table and open my laptop, then connect it to the AV system and pick up the remote. The room darkens slightly and on the screen above our heads a girl appears, her tongue poking out as she looks up in contemplation. The caption reads: Amelia, aged 6.
‘Umm,’ she says, her gaze wandering before it lands on the camera, ‘I want Father Christmas to bring me a remote-control car that goes really, really fast, so I can beat my brother. He’s so annoying, ’specially when he wins at stuff,’ she adds, sending a ripple of laughter around the room.
The next child onscreen is a boy from Harlow’s class, Spencer – Amelia’s annoying older brother.
‘I want Father Christmas to bring me the LEGO Fortnite Battle Bus. It’s so cool. Properly goated. No cap.’
At the bottom of the screen under the caption, Spencer, aged 10, subtitles translate his slang-riddled lines, which sends laughter around the room.
This is going brilliantly!
And last up is my sweet girl, Harlow.
‘I would like Father Christmas to bring me…’ she begins slowly, her head angled.
I know what she says next, and I’ve watched it on repeat, inoculating myself against the powerful punch of her words.
‘…a cassette tape player, so I can play the tapes my dad made when he was my age. We’ve got a box full of them and I really want to listen to them, because he died when I was four.’
There’s a soft gasp from one of the women but I keep my eyes fixed on the screen for a moment before turning it off and brightening the lights.
‘My concept takes us back to a time of innocence and nostalgia when children personified the Christmas spirit,’ I say to the clients.
‘I propose that we make children – real children – the stars of the campaign with a series of straight-to-camera candid responses to the question, What do you want Father Christmas to bring you this year? The tagline is: From their mouths to Father Christmas’ ears…
Make your child’s Christmas wish come true. ’
One of the women sits up straighter, nodding and smiling, and I continue.
‘First off, we’ll put the call out on social media, asking families to record their children’s responses and submit the videos through a secure portal,’ I say, using carefully chosen wording to plant the seed that my pitch has already been selected.
‘We’ll incentivise participation by giving each child who’s chosen a generous Hargreaves gift card.
And once submissions close, we’ll select the videos that really speak to the heart of the campaign.
We can even group the videos – out of the mouths of babes, like Amelia and her remote-control car, heartfelt requests, like Harlow’s, and we can have a lot of fun with “kid speak”.
I mean, what are our children even saying these days? ’
Titters of knowing laughter fill the room, bolstering me further.
I am smashing this.
‘And the tagline – From their mouths to Father Christmas’ ears…’ I repeat. ‘It’s designed to maintain the illusion of Father Christmas while giving a sly wink to parents and families.’ I pause, giving that time to sink in, then say, ‘I’m happy to answer any questions you might have.’
‘I have one,’ says the woman who was nodding at me.
‘Sure.’
‘How do we ensure the quality of the videos? What if there’s a terrific response from a charismatic child, but the quality of the video is poor?’
‘Great question and we’ve accounted for that,’ I reply. ‘We’re planning to reshoot all the videos with local production teams, which will ensure quality and consistency, while maintaining a candid yet polished result.’
She nods at me, then writes something on her notepad.
‘And we’ve factored this into the budget, as you’ll see,’ adds Lorraine, indicating the printed proposals in front of the clients. She waits a moment to see if there are further questions, then says, ‘Thank you, Sophie,’ giving me a warm smile.
I shake hands with each of the Hargreaves execs, then leave, floating to my desk on a cloud. It doesn’t matter how many times I practised in front of the mirror, or in the car, or in the shower… There is nothing quite like the adrenaline hit of pitching to the client.
Hang on – Drew wasn’t waiting outside the conference room, I realise with a start.
He’s not exactly a stickler for punctuality, but not a good look to be late for your pitch.
Then again, why do I care? He’s my stiffest competition. Stiffest… Oh, god, that dream I had last night. I completely forgot.
I was making a cup of tea at work, my back to the door…
‘Why are we always fighting, Reid?’ Drew asked, his voice a low rumble.
I sensed him moving closer, then his hands rested lightly on my shoulders, sliding down my arms until our hands were palm to palm, making my breath catch. His erection pressed into me as his fingers laced with mine and his lips found the nape of my neck, tracing my hairline.
‘Sophie!’
I jolt back to reality to find Jane looking down at me, wearing an odd expression.
‘Hi, sorry.’
‘Are you all right? You were away with the fairies and you’re all flushed.’ She wiggles her fingers in front of my face.
‘Ah, yeah, yeah, I’m good – must be the high from pitching.’
‘So, you’re definitely not coming down with something?’ she asks, eyeing me warily and leaning back – way back.
‘I’m not sick.’
‘Better not be. I’m seeing Mum and Dad at the weekend – can’t show up with a lurgy.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Good. Now tell me about the pitch. How’d it go?’
I grin. ‘Really well. I could tell they loved the concept, and I got the laughs I wanted.’
‘That subtitles idea,’ she says, ‘chef’s kiss. Parents are going to love it.’
‘Why, thank you,’ I say, feigning modesty.
I’ll admit, that aspect of the campaign is genius. It came to me a few weeks ago when Harlow was telling me about her day, and I didn’t understand half of what she was saying.
‘So how long till we find out?’ Jane asks.
‘Lorraine said by close of business on Friday.’
‘Brilliant. We’ll have time for a celebratory drink before I’m exiled to the Cotswolds.’
‘I won’t tell your mum you said that.’
Jane chuckles, then pushes off the desk and leaves.
Note to self: Do not relive your sex dreams at work. Especially when the subject of the sex dreams works six cubicles over.