Chapter One #2
This makes no sense. Glen Oil is fume-making, world-ruining petrol. Panther Prime is an innocent cranberry-flavored drink. How can it be too aggressive?
“The values it espouses.” He gestures to the marketing brochures on the table. “Drive. Elitism. Masculinity. The very slogan ‘Don’t Pause.’ Frankly, it seems a little dated.” He shrugs. “We just don’t think a joint initiative will be possible.”
No. No. This can’t be happening. He can’t be pulling out.
Everyone at the office will think it was my fault. They’ll think I cocked it up and I’m completely crap.
My heart is thumping. My face is hot. I can’t let this happen. But what do I say? I haven’t prepared anything. Paul said the promotion was all set up, and all I had to do was tell them we wanted to bring it forward to June.
“We’ll certainly discuss it again before we make a decision,” Doug’s saying. He gives me a brief smile. “And as I say, we would like to continue links with the Panther Corporation, so this has been a useful meeting, in any case….”
He’s pushing back his chair.
I can’t let this slip away! I have to try to win them around.
“Wait!” I hear myself say. “Just…wait a moment! I have a few points to make.”
There’s a can of Panther Prime sitting on the desk, and I grab it for inspiration. Playing for time, I stand up, walk to the center of the room, and raise the can high into the air where we can all see it. “Panther Prime is…a sports drink.”
I stop, and there’s a polite silence. My face is prickling. “It, um, it is very…”
Oh, God. What am I doing?
Come on, Emma. Think. Think Panther Prime…. Think Panther Cola…. Think…. Think….
Yes! Of course!
“Since the launch of Panther Cola in the late 1980s, Panther drinks have been a byword for energy, excitement, and excellence,” I say fluently.
Thank God. This is the standard marketing blurb for Panther Cola. I’ve typed it out so many times, I could recite it in my sleep.
“Panther drinks are a marketing phenomenon,” I continue.
“The Panther character is one of the most widely recognized in the world, while the classic slogan ‘Don’t Pause’ has made it into dictionaries.
We are offering Glen Oil an exclusive opportunity to strengthen its association with this premium, world-famous brand. ”
My confidence growing, I start to stride around the room, gesturing with the can.
“By buying a Panther health drink, the consumer is signaling that he will settle for nothing but the best.” I hit the can sharply with my other hand.
“He expects the best from his energy drink, he expects the best from his petrol, he expects the best from himself.”
I’m flying! I’m fantastic! If Paul could see me now, he’d give me a promotion on the spot!
I come over to the desk and look Doug Hamilton right in the eye. “When the Panther consumer opens that can, he is making a choice that tells the world who he is. I’m asking Glen Oil to make the same choice.”
As I finish speaking, I plant the can firmly in the middle of the desk, reach for the ring pull, and, with a cool smile, snap it back.
And a volcano erupts.
Fizzy cranberry-flavored drink explodes in a whoosh out of the can, drenching the papers and blotters in lurid red liquid…and—oh, no, please no—spattering all over Doug Hamilton’s shirt.
“Fuck!” I gasp. “I mean, I’m really sorry—”
“Jesus Christ,” says Doug Hamilton irritably, standing up and getting a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Does this stuff stain?”
“Er…” I grab the can helplessly. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll get a cloth,” says the other guy, and leaps to his feet.
The door closes behind him and there’s silence, apart from the sound of cranberry drink dripping slowly onto the floor.
I stare at Doug Hamilton, my face hot and blood throbbing through my ears.
“Please…” My voice is husky. “Don’t tell my boss.”
—
After all that, I screwed it up.
As I drag my heels across the concourse at Glasgow Airport, I feel completely dejected. Doug Hamilton was quite sweet in the end. He said he was sure the stain would come out, and promised he wouldn’t tell Paul what happened. But he didn’t change his mind about the deal.
My first big chance—and this is what happens. I feel like phoning the office and saying, “That’s it. I’m never coming back again, and by the way, it was me who jammed the photocopier that time.”
But I can’t. This is my third career in four years. It has to work. For my own self-worth. For my own self-esteem. And also because I owe my dad four thousand quid.
I’ve arrived at the airport with an hour to go, and have headed straight for the bar. “So what can I get you?” says the Australian bartender, and I look up at him in a daze.
“Erm…” My mind is blank. “Er, white wine. No, actually, a vodka and tonic. Thanks.”
As he moves away, I slump down again in my stool. An air hostess with fair hair in a French plait comes and sits down two bar stools away. She smiles at me, and I smile weakly in return.
I don’t know how other people manage their careers, I really don’t.
Like my oldest friend, Lissy. She’s always known she wanted to be a lawyer—and now, ta-daah!
She’s a fraud barrister. But I left college with absolutely no clue.
My first job was in an estate agency, and I only went into it because I’ve always quite liked looking around houses, plus I met this woman with amazing red lacquered nails at a career fair who told me she made so much money, she’d be able to retire when she was forty.
But the minute I started, I hated it. I hated all the other trainee estate agents.
I hated saying things like “a lovely aspect.” And I hated the way if someone said they could afford three hundred thousand we were supposed to give them details of houses costing at least four hundred thousand, and then kind of look down our noses, like, “You only have three hundred thousand pounds? God, you complete loser.”
So after six months I announced I was changing careers and was going to be a photographer instead.
It was such a fantastic moment, like in a film or something.
My dad lent me the money for a photography course and camera, and I was going to launch this amazing new creative career, and it was going to be the start of my new life… .
Except it didn’t quite happen like that.
For a start, do you have any idea how much a photographer’s assistant gets paid?
Nothing. It’s nothing.
Which, you know, I wouldn’t have minded if anyone had actually offered me a photographer’s assistant’s job.
I heave a sigh and gaze at my doleful expression in the mirror behind the bar. As well as everything else, my hair’s gone all frizzy. So much for “Salon Serum—For That 24-Hour Professional Salon Look.”
At least I wasn’t the only one who didn’t get anywhere.
Out of the eight people in my course, one became instantly successful and now takes photos for Vogue, one became a wedding photographer, one had an affair with the tutor, one went traveling, one had a baby, one works at Snappy Snaps, and one is now at Morgan Stanley.
Meanwhile, I got more and more into debt, so I started temping and applying for jobs that actually paid money. And eventually, eleven months ago, I started as a marketing assistant at the Panther Corporation.
The barman places a vodka and tonic in front of me and gives me a quizzical look. “Cheer up!” he says. “It can’t be that bad!”
“Thanks,” I say gratefully, and take a sip. That feels a bit better.
I ought to call Paul and give him a report. But I just can’t face it. Anyway, he’s probably still out at his awards lunch. He won’t want me disturbing him on his mobile. It can wait until Monday.
I’m just taking a second sip of vodka when my mobile starts to ring. I feel a beat of nerves. If it’s the office, I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear.
But it’s not; it’s our home number flashing on the little screen.
I press “answer.” “Hi,” I say.
“Hiya!” comes Lissy’s voice. “Only me! So how did it go?”
Lissy is not only my oldest friend but my flatmate, too. She has tufty dark hair and an IQ of about 600 and is the sweetest person I know.
“It was a disaster,” I say miserably.
“It can’t have been that bad!”
“Lissy, I drenched the marketing director of Glen Oil in cranberry drink!”
Along the bar, I can see the air hostess hiding a smile, and I feel myself flush. Great. Now the whole world knows.
“Oh, dear.” I can almost feel Lissy trying to think of something positive to say. “Well, at least you got their attention!” she says at last. “At least they won’t forget you in a hurry.”
“I suppose,” I say morosely. “So, did I have any messages?”
“Oh! Erm, no. I mean, your dad did phone, but, um, you know, it wasn’t…” She trails off evasively.
“Lissy. What did he want?”
There’s a pause.
“Apparently your cousin’s won some industry award,” she says apologetically. “They’re going to be celebrating it on Saturday, as well as your mum’s birthday.”
“Oh. Great.”
I slump deeper in my chair. That’s all I need. My cousin Kerry triumphantly clutching some silver best-office-furnituresalesperson-in-the-whole-world-no-make-that-universe trophy.
“And Connor rang, too, to see how you got on,” adds Lissy quickly. “He was really sweet. He said he didn’t want to ring your mobile during your meeting, in case it disturbed you.”
“Really?”
For the first time today, I feel a lift in spirits.
Connor. My boyfriend. My lovely, thoughtful boyfriend.
“He’s such a sweetheart!” Lissy is saying. “He said he’s tied up in a big meeting all afternoon, but he’s canceled his squash game especially, so do you want to go out to supper tonight?”
“Oh,” I say, pleased. “Oh, well, that’ll be nice. Thanks, Lissy.”
I click off and take another sip of vodka, feeling much more cheerful.
My boyfriend.
It’s just like Julie Andrews said. When the dog bites, when the bee stings…I simply remember I have a boyfriend—and suddenly things don’t seem quite so completely shit.
Or however she put it.