by Nora Valters
“That wasn’t in my diary,” Madeline says accusatorily.
“Oh, I, err, didn’t think you’d want to come.”
In truth, I don’t particularly want her there. They are a lovely client, but Madeline always tries to sell to them: a bigger PR retainer fee, a new website, some email marketing, or how about some eye-wateringly expensive billboard advertising? Although I know her presence signifies to clients that they are important – the MD has deigned to grace us with her presence! And it’s a universal truth that all clients like to feel important.
She raises an eyebrow at me.
I quickly say, “But you’re more than welcome to attend. We’ve had a great year. Some really strong coverage results.”
“Lorna,” she says to the receptionist, who also acts as a kind of PA to Madeline, “check my diary.”
Lorna dutifully clicks on her laptop behind the reception desk and looks up. “All clear until 2 p.m.”
“Great. I’ll be in momentarily.” Madeline heads into her office, which is behind the reception area, but keeps the door open.
I know this ploy. She likes to arrive to a meeting after everyone else is already there. To make a grand entrance. So she’ll listen out for the CozMoz team’s arrival and wait a minute or two and then come to the boardroom.
The client arrives at ten past ten, full of profuse apologies for their tardiness. I show them into the boardroom, where Imani waits, looking utterly bored. But she brightens up when Madeline makes her entrance.
Imani is always on her best behaviour in front of Madeline. Not because she wants to impress her professionally, but because Imani is best mates with Amelia, Madeline’s daughter, and Madeline is a kind of mother figure. And, I’ve observed over the past year, someone else for Imani to wrap around her finger to get her own way.
To my surprise, Imani does a great job of presenting her slides, clearly loving everyone’s attention squarely on her and enjoying the sound of her own voice. Perhaps public speaking is her thing. It took me a lot of practise to build up my confidence, but Imani’s a natural.
We take it in turns to speak while the client team chips in with questions now and then. Madeline sits back and silently observes, like a monarch presiding over their court in full swing.
I stand for emphasis and position myself next to the big screen, with all eyes on me. “This is one of the highlights of the year. The YouTube video by home influencer DecorDiva, who has four hundred and fifty thousand followers on Instagram. She used CozMoz Paints in shades Starry Night and Mercury Rising to decorate her kitchen. To date, the video has had forty thousand views.”
I smile brightly and nod at Imani to click on the slide on my laptop, where the video is embedded. As she does this, I say, “Dun, dun, dunnn!”
The clients smile and look on expectantly. They’ve seen this before, of course, but it’s always good to remind them of our best work.
The screen changes from the slide to an image that is not DecorDiva’s kitchen. It takes me a moment to realise what I’m looking at, but the accompanying noise flicks the switch in my head.
Hardcore porn is playing on the big screen in the boardroom. One woman, numerous men. The grunts, groans and “Fuck me, big boy!” encouragement echo off the walls.
I freeze, horrified. It’s as if my insides have turned to liquid and are trying to escape through my feet to get away from the embarrassment.
Imani laughs.
The lead client, a sweet-natured middle-aged man called Phil, says, “Crikey,” but in a tone that suggests he’d rather have shouted a swear word.
Phil’s younger assistant goes deathly pale and looks like she might vomit, and the older manager chuckles along with Imani.
Madeline slaps the table and yells, “Imani, turn it off!”
Imani snaps to attention, the jollity subsiding immediately, and presses pause on the video. For a moment, there’s a still close-up image that none of us wants to see before she manages to get it off the screen.
Although I’m cringing so hard that I want to fold into myself again and again until there’s nothing left of me, I recover my senses. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ve got no idea what just happened.”
Madeline glares at me but then takes control of the situation by making light of it. “Well, that woke us all up. A technical glitch. Imani, find the right video and play it. Quickly.” She smiles her warmest smile at the CozMoz team, who look stunned, like rabbits caught in headlights, but allow her to soothe them. Movement slowly comes back to their faces and bodies.
Phil clears his throat and attempts a joke, “I don’t think that was one of our paints on the wall.”
We all force laughter just to push the moment along. I sit back down, my hands shaking and my cheeks on fire. Imani finally plays the right video, and DecorDiva’s voice describes how the satin-finish navy colour of Starry Night perfectly complements the metallic silver of Mercury Rising on her kitchen island.
But in my head, it can’t quite drown out the sex grunts that still ricochet there. I scan the others. They watch with fixed smiles and fixed interest, but it’s obvious that they can’t forget what they’ve just seen or heard either.
The video ends, and Imani clicks to the next slide. I’m meant to be talking through it. It’s the coverage figures for the year that Imani added in at the last minute. It’s the last slide of the presentation, and I swallow, attempting to quash the mortified flames that are still licking up my neck and raging across my cheekbones, but Madeline steps in.
She talks through the figures as if she were meant to all along and, being Madeline, nails it. Phil and his two assistants are impressed. And happy that the results are more than the previous year, although they spent less this year on fees and activities. They talk around me, but I’m still stuck in the hardcore porn moment and can’t seem to drag myself out of it.
How did that happen? I embedded that link in the presentation. It was correct. I know it was. I checked it twice.
I hear the word ‘contract’, and I jolt back into the present. Madeline is talking as if CozMoz Paints renewing with MBW for another year is a done deal. They’ve been with us for three years, and we do an incredible job for them, so it’s almost a dead cert that they’ll renew.
But Phil shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, Madeline. Lauren, Deb, and Imani have done a spectacular job, but I think we’ll be considering our options for next year.”
The younger assistant frowns at Phil, and the manager looks confused. It’s clear they weren’t expecting that announcement.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Phil. Can I ask why?” Madeline replies.
“We, er, we, um…” Phil squirms. He’s only just decided this, it’s obvious. “Various reasons,” he finally says.
Madeline graciously smiles at him and indicates for Imani to show CozMoz Paints out. We all shake hands, and when it’s just Madeline and me left in the boardroom, she gently closes the door and hisses, “What on earth was that, Lauren?”
I shake my head, thinking on my feet. “Maybe I accidentally copied the wrong link?” As soon as I say it though, I know it’s not true. Yes, I’m tired, stressed and grieving, but I don’t watch porn. How could I just find that link in the first place to copy?
Imani comes back into the room. “That was hilarious,” she announces before bursting into uncontrollable laughter.
“Enough, Imani,” Madeline chides. “This isn’t funny. We just lost a lucrative client.”
Imani bites her lip, to keep the laughter behind her teeth, but it’s still there in her eyes.
Madeline continues, as if she’s a headmistress admonishing naughty children, “I’m exceedingly disappointed. Mistakes happen. But don’t ever let that happen again. We’ll say no more about it.”
She strides out of the boardroom. Imani smirks at me and follows her.
As I unplug my laptop from the big screen, the question how did that happen? Plays over and over in my head. I was the last person t
o look at that presentation when Deb shared it with me last week. I added that link because Deb had forgotten to, and I checked it, and it played DecorDiva.
I walk back to my desk and sit, unlocking the screen on my laptop with the plan to check my emails, but I can’t focus.
I grab my phone and my handbag and head to the toilets to freshen up. As I’m in a cubicle, I hear someone else come in. I finish up and head to the sinks; a moment later the other person joins me. It’s Cleo.
“Hi,” I say.
“Are you okay? You’re as white as a ghost.”
“Just had a nightmare meeting.”
“Oh?”
I catch myself before I talk about the porn incident. Cleo is on her way out of MBW. This is her last week. The last thing I need is for this story to get out and bounce around the Manchester PR scene as hot gossip. Or even the news that CozMoz is unlikely to renew, that doesn’t look good on the agency, or on me.
“Yeah, didn’t quite go to plan,” I reply, but I’m obviously rattled as I stumble over my own feet on the way to the hand dryer.
“Sorry to hear that. Must’ve been awful. You look really shaken.”
I smile as she joins me awkwardly under the hand dryer, both attempting not to touch the other’s wet hands. Why have four cubicles, four sinks and only one hand dryer? Who knows.
I decide to change the subject. “So, your leaving drinks on Friday after work. Deb’s booked an area at Cuba Cuba. Should be fun. Madeline’s putting some money behind the bar so we can work our way through the drinks menu.”
I try a laugh, but it curdles in my chest and sounds all wrong. I’m still stuck in the boardroom, reliving the dun dun dunnn shocker.
“Yes, they do some great virgin cocktails there,” she says.
Dammit. Once again I’ve forgotten that Cleo doesn’t drink alcohol. Has never really drank, as far as I can tell. Although being sober doesn’t stop her from enjoying herself on nights out – which is probably why I always forget. Most of us need a bit of booze lubrication to loosen up when out with colleagues, but not Cleo. She’s often the life and soul of the party.
We both move to the mirror to check our appearance, and Cleo pulls out her lipstick. It’s almost right down to the nub, so she tucks her long hair behind her ears and leans in close to apply it carefully. I notice the big nick out of her left earlobe and the ugly scar that stretches right across it. I try not to look, but it must’ve been some nasty injury that caused it. Cleo has never mentioned it, and I’ve never asked.
She immediately untucks her hair to hide her left ear.
“So how’s your job hunting going?” I say to cover the fact that I was looking.
“Oh, just fine,” she replies brightly.
But she’s not asked me for any time off for interviews, and I haven’t had any requests for references, so I’m not sure it’s going all that well. But perhaps I’m not down as one of her references, and maybe she’s been going to interviews before or after work or in her lunch break. And I know her fiancé is wealthy, so there could be no need for her to rush to find another job, or possibly there’s no need for her to work at all.
She turns to me, and I notice her slightly run-down look from earlier has almost entirely transformed. She’s practically bursting with life, her eyes glowing and skin radiating joy. She continues, “In fact, I have some big news. I’ve just landed the most amazing new job.”
“Oh, wow! Good for you.” I smile, genuinely happy for her, but when she doesn’t offer any further details, my curiosity gets the better of me. “Whereabouts?”
“Oh, it’s confidential at the moment. They want to do a big announcement, you know. I start on Monday. I honestly cannot wait. It’s a massive step up from this place.”
I baulk slightly at that remark, and Cleo must notice because she adds in a rush, “Not that I didn’t have a great time here and learnt so much, but it was time to move on. I needed the push, and it was perfect timing because I wouldn’t have gone for this opportunity if I hadn’t been encouraged to hand my notice in.”
Oh gawd, I groan internally, I don’t really want to get into the nitty-gritty of Cleo’s exit all over again without the HR woman in attendance.
But she waves her hand and grins. “Honestly, it’s fine. Water under the bridge. I couldn’t be happier right now. Yes, it stung initially, but all turned out brilliantly for me in the end.”
“Glad to hear it,” I say as we leave the toilets and head back to our desks: Cleo on cloud nine, skipping ahead, me dragging my feet.
As I sit, Imani turns back to her desk after gossiping with Mikey. She glances at me with laughter still dancing in her eyes, and Mikey grins, and I know she’s just told him about the porn. I’ll need to send an email to the team minus Cleo to tell them to be discreet and not to mention it outside these four walls.
I open my laptop to do just that, and on my screen is the last slide of the presentation. My pulse quickens.
I wasn’t the last person to look at this presentation before the meeting.
Imani was sat in the boardroom for a good ten minutes on her own with my laptop and this presentation before we came in. Did she plant that link? Why would she do that?
But before I can ponder this more, Lorna, the receptionist, appears at my desk and tells me Madeline wants to see me in her office. Now.
8
All of my team side-eye me at this demand from the boss delivered via Lorna, apart from the intern Tara, who has her headphones on and is diligently working on a task. It’s never good if Lorna is sent to fetch someone.
“Coming,” I reply and stand.
During the few steps from my desk to the reception area, Lorna makes polite, sweet chit-chat. This is a sign that Madeline is in a seriously bad mood, as Lorna feels the need to compensate for the reprimand she knows a summoned team member is about to receive. Lorna looks at me sympathetically as she sits back down behind reception.
I knock on the MD’s door and then push it open. Madeline beckons me in, but she’s typing something on her keyboard. The way she’s bashing the keys foretells trouble for me. She said that we wouldn’t speak again about the porn incident – and Madeline means it when she says something won’t be spoken of again – so I wonder what I’m doing here. I close the door behind me and wait.
She finishes typing, then turns her chair to face me. “Sit,” she commands.
I sit on her sofa. She clasps her hands together and just looks at me.
The scrutiny makes me squirm, and I blurt, “I’ve honestly no idea how the porn thing happened. I think maybe it was—”
But she flicks her hand to make me stop.
“Lauren, you are a very valued member of MBW. You’ve grown that PR department since you arrived four years ago, and clients love you. You excel in new business and have an enviable network of contacts both in Manchester and London and across the country. I’m always very impressed with how you deal with issues and lead your team.”
I swell at the praise. Compliments don’t usually come out of Madeline’s mouth apart from at annual performance reviews. And then they’re often couched in between ways to improve.
She pauses and I know a ‘but’ is coming.
“But this is unacceptable. I understand we all need to vent. And we all get frustrated with colleagues. But really, I thought you’d be above this.” She gestures at her laptop screen.
I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. The confusion must show on my face because Madeline tuts.
She continues, “You sent the bitchy email about me to me, Lauren.”
We’ve all done that – accidentally sent an email to the wrong person. My stomach lurches, but then I remember: I didn’t write any email about Madeline to send it to her.
“What email?” I ask.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. You don’t need to play dumb.”
“I didn’t write any email about you, and I didn’t send any email about you to you.”
She s
hakes her head in annoyance. “I’m looking at it right here.” She points to her screen.
“What does it say?” I ask, desperate to jump over her desk and look at this email I’m meant to have sent her.
She glowers at me. “I’m not going to read the damn thing out to you. You wrote it!” She recovers her temper and takes a deep breath. “Lauren, I understand that we don’t all get along with everyone. I’m not upset that you feel the need to rant about me and my behaviour – everyone has issues with their superiors – and I’m not going to ask to who you planned to send this to, whether someone in the agency or outside, but I’m exceedingly disappointed that you did it using your work email. Just as you made an error sending it to me, you could’ve sent it to a client or a journalist by mistake, and that is unacceptable. That could damage MBW’s reputation.”
My mouth falls open, and I gawp at her. Is Madeline making this imaginary email up? Why? Is it because we lost a client earlier today with the porn incident that she blames on me? Have I seriously fallen out of favour with her so dramatically that she’s now trying to discredit me?
It wouldn’t be the first time she’s used these kinds of underhand tactics. Once she takes a dislike to someone, then they’re out. She did something similar a year or so ago with a creative director who resigned suddenly after he got too big for his boots and called her ‘Mads’ – a nickname she loathes – and talked over her and criticised her ideas in an all-staff meeting.
Or is she trying to force me out so she doesn’t have to pay me the large pay rise I’ve been promised at the end of this year? She hates spending money on her staff, wanting the agency to look as profitable as possible to potential buyers. But I negotiated heavily at the end of last year and set high targets for the PR department that she agreed to, which I’ve now surpassed. And if we win the supermarket pitch from Friday – which I’m super confident we will – then I’ll have doubled my new business targets.
Madeline grows impatient with my silence and gestures to the door to dismiss me. “Please think before you do something like this again. And we’ll say no more about it.”