Chapter Eight #2
“You’re so right!” says Connor, thrilled. “In fact, I’m looking forward to discussing with you the latest research findings on Panther Sportswear. We’ve come up with some very fascinating results involving customer preferences on fabric thickness. You’ll be amazed!”
“I’m…sure I will,” says Jack. “I look forward to it.”
Connor gives me an excited grin. “You’ve already met Emma Corrigan from our marketing department?” he says.
“Yes, we’ve met.” Jack’s tone gives nothing away.
We travel for a few seconds in an awkward silence.
“How are we doing for time?” says Connor. He glances at his watch, and in horror I see Jack glance at it, too.
Oh, God.
…I gave him a really nice watch, but he insists on wearing this orange digital thing…
“Wait a minute!” says Jack, dawn breaking over his face. He peers at Connor as though seeing him for the first time. “Wait a minute. You’re Ken.”
Oh, no.
Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh—
“It’s Connor.” Connor looks puzzled. “Connor Martin—”
“I’m sorry!” Jack hits his head with his fist. “Connor. Of course. And you two”—he gestures to me—“are an item?”
Connor looks uncomfortable. “I can assure you, sir, that at work, our relationship is strictly professional. However. In a private context, Emma and I are…yes, having a personal relationship.”
“That’s wonderful!” says Jack encouragingly.
Connor looks as thrilled as a head prefect receiving a good-conduct badge. “In fact,” he adds proudly, “Emma and I have just decided to move in together.”
“Is that so?” Jack shoots me a look of genuine surprise. “That’s…great news. When did you make that decision?”
“Just a couple of days ago,” says Connor. “At the airport.”
“At the airport,” echoes Jack Harper after a short silence. “Very interesting.”
I can’t look at him. I’m staring desperately at the floor. Why can’t this bloody lift go quicker?
“Well…I’m sure you’ll be very happy together,” Jack Harper says to Connor. “You seem very compatible.”
“Oh, we are!” says Connor at once. “We both love jazz, for a start.”
“Is that so?” says Jack. “You know, I can’t think of anything nicer in the world than a shared love of jazz.”
He’s teasing me. This is unbearable.
“Really?” says Connor eagerly.
“Absolutely.” Jack nods. “I’d say jazz, and…Woody Allen films.”
“We love Woody Allen films!” says Connor in amazed delight. “Don’t we, Emma!”
“Yes,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Yes, we do.”
“Now, Connor, tell me,” says Jack in confidential tones. “Did you ever find Emma’s…”
If he says “G spot,” I will die. I will die. I will die.
“…presence here distracting? Because I can imagine I would!” Jack gives Connor a friendly smile, but Connor doesn’t smile back.
“As I said, sir,” he begins a little stiffly, “Emma and I operate on a strictly professional basis while at work. We would never dream of abusing the company’s time for our own…ends.” He flushes. “I mean…by ends, I don’t mean…I meant…”
“I’m glad to hear it,” says Jack.
God, why does Connor have to be such a…goody-goody?
The lift pings, and I feel relief drain over me. Thank God, at last I can escape—
“Looks like we’re all going to the same place,” says Jack Harper. “Connor, why don’t you lead the way?”
—
I can’t cope with this. I just can’t cope.
As I pour out cups of tea and coffee for members of the marketing department, I’m outwardly calm, smiling at everyone and even chatting.
But inside I’m all unsettled and confused.
I don’t want to admit it to myself, but seeing Connor through Jack Harper’s eyes has thrown me.
I love Connor. I didn’t mean any of what I said on the plane.
I love him. I run my eyes over his face, trying to reassure myself.
There’s no doubt about it. Connor is good-looking by any standards.
He glows with good health. His hair is shiny and his eyes are blue, and he’s got a gorgeous dimple when he smiles.
Jack Harper never seems to shave. His hair is all over the place. And there’s a hole in his jeans. But even so. It’s like he’s some kind of magnet. I’m sitting here, my attention firmly on the tea trolley—and yet, somehow I can’t keep my eyes off him.
It’s because of the plane, I keep telling myself. It’s just because we were in a traumatic situation together, and…and that’s why. No other reason.
“We need more lateral thinking, people,” Paul is saying. “The Panther Bar is simply not performing as it should. Connor, you have the latest research statistics?”
Connor stands up, and I feel a little flip of apprehension on his behalf. I can tell he’s really nervous from the way he keeps fiddling with his cuffs.
“That’s right, Paul.” He picks up a clipboard and clears his throat. “In our latest survey, one thousand teenagers were questioned on aspects of the Panther Bar. Unfortunately, the results were inconclusive.”
He presses his remote control. A graph appears on the screen behind him, and we all regard it obediently.
“Seventy-four percent of ten-to-fourteen-year-olds felt the texture could be more chewy,” says Connor earnestly. “However, sixty-seven percent of fifteen-to-eighteen-year-olds felt the texture could be more crunchy, while twenty-two percent felt it could be less crunchy.”
I glance over Artemis’s shoulder and see she’s written “Chewy/crunchy??” on her notepad.
Connor presses the remote control again, and another graph appears.
“Forty-six percent of ten-to-fourteen-year-olds felt the flavor was too tangy. However, thirty-three percent of fifteen-to-eighteen-year-olds felt it was not tangy enough, while…”
Oh, God. I know it’s Connor. And I love him and everything. But can’t he make this sound a bit more…interesting? And anyway, what’s the point of all these stupid percentages that don’t really mean anything? Those teenagers couldn’t give a shit. They probably all lied on their forms.
I glance over to see how Jack Harper is taking it, and he raises his eyebrows at me. Immediately I flush, feeling disloyal.
“Ninety percent of female teenagers would prefer the calorie content to be reduced,” Connor concludes. “But the same proportion would also like to see a thicker chocolate coating.” He gives a helpless shrug.
“They don’t know what the hell they want,” says someone.
“We polled a broad cross-section of teenagers,” says Connor, “including Caucasians, Afro-Caribbeans, Asians, and, er”—he peers at the paper—“Jedi knights. At least, that’s what they put.”
“Teenagers!” says Artemis, rolling her eyes.
“Briefly remind us of our target market, Connor,” says Paul with a frown.
“Our target market”—Connor consults another clipboard—“is aged ten to eighteen, in full- or part-time education. He/she drinks Panther Cola four times a week, eats burgers three times a week, visits the cinema twice a week, reads magazines and comics but not books, is most likely to agree with the lifestyle statement ‘It’s more important to be cool than rich.’… ” He looks up. “Shall I go on?”
“Does he/she eat toast for breakfast?” says somebody thoughtfully. “Or cereal?”
“I…I’m not sure,” says Connor, riffling through his pages. “We could do some more research…”
“I think we get the picture,” says Paul. “Does anyone have any thoughts on this?”