‘Is that so?’
I clear my throat. ‘I think Rocks are wanting something a little cooler. Perhaps something aimed at older teens too. I don’t think they’re going to see Strides as their main competitor.’
‘What’s your name, Beckham?’
My stomach is on a spin-cycle, but I manage to reply. ‘Er, Sam.’
‘Sam, with all due respect, this ain’t my first rodeo.’ He laughs at his own joke and glances around to rouse a few laughs from around the table. I want to say something, but after that encounter by the harbour the other day, I just can’t bring myself to. I hate to admit it, but I’m two days into my dream gig and I already want to go home.
Chapter 5
On Thursday, Patrick presents us with some rough visuals based on our discussions from the first few days. They’re exactly how I imagined they’d be. They look great, but they have gone with a young girl, aged about ten or eleven, with pigtailed hair and pink ribbons, riding a scooter. I get that a girl like that would love these shoes, but I just can’t see Rocks going for this. I look around the table and see nods of approval. Is it really just me that disagrees with this campaign? I can’t just sit back and watch them go down this rabbit-hole of failure.
I take a deep breath. ‘Okay, Patrick. I respect the work your team has put in here, it looks fantastic, but I still don’t think we’re pitching the brand to the right market.’
He looks at me with bemusement but gives a tired, one-handed gesture for me to continue.
‘I think we need to go older, we need diversity. We’re not selling JoJo Siwa bows here, or Strides to little girls. We’re selling a rappers’ brand to young people. This girl—’ I point to the poster mock-up ‘—will buy the shoes regardless. But boys won’t, teens won’t, and people who like the rappers won’t. We can come up with something different, fresh and powerful if we just think outside the box a little.’ I realise I’ve half risen from my seat with boldness and slide back down into it now I’m finished, my Erin Brockovich confidence draining away.
Patrick raises his eyebrows. ‘Thank you for your input, Sam. I appreciate that you’re new here, and you’re off your leash and it’s all very exciting and whatnot—’ did he just wave his arms around at me? ‘—but if you just pipe down a little and let those of us with experience nail this campaign down, we can all knock this ball out of the water and go home on time.’
Knock the ball out of the water? Does he mean ballpark? Or like a fish out of water? I don’t get it. I glance around the room for other signs of confusion but instead just see several disgruntled faces looking my way. The back of my neck starts to burn and the heat creeps around and up to my cheeks. With nothing left to offer, I nod.
‘Why don’t you go get us some coffees to see us through the morning, and when you’re back we can look at putting you to work with Tony and Dave?’
When I catch Tony’s eye, he gives me a sympathetic smile whilst Dave rolls his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking. Great.
When I leave the office that evening, Tony catches me up. ‘Fancy going for a drink tonight?’
‘Who with?’ I ask suspiciously. I can’t cope with seeing Patrick or Dave, or anyone else from the office for that matter.
‘Just me,’ Tony says with a smile.
‘In that case, yes. I could really do with a drink.’
We find a little bar a few blocks down from the office. It’s dingy inside but quiet aside from a few lone drinkers who look like they’ve been here a while.
‘What are you drinking?’ Tony asks as we take a seat at the bar.
‘Just a beer for me.’
While the bartender gets our drinks, I ask Tony about his wife. ‘Pregnant with number three, grumpy as hell. It’s one of the reasons I came away when I got the chance.’
‘What a catch you are,’ I say dryly. ‘Husband of the year right here, folks.’ I point at him and look animatedly around the bar. The other drinkers look to have fallen asleep.
‘She’s only in her first trimester so I won’t miss anything bar the first scan, and her mother is helping with the boys. I wanted to keep my hand in with the Boston office even though the timing isn’t great.’
‘Well, if she’s okay with it …’ I shrug.
Tony turns on his stool to face me. ‘You were brave standing up to Patrick today.’
‘Well, I don’t feel very brave. I feel very stupid.’
The bartender places two beers down and slides a paper receipt over to Tony. I snatch it before he has time to respond. ‘I’ll get these.’
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I don’t think you were stupid today. I think you were sticking up for your vision for the project, and that isn’t an easy thing to do.’
‘Especially when nobody shares that vision.’ I lean on the bar to look him properly in the eye. ‘Do you really think Rocks are going to go for the campaign as it stands?’
Tony shrugs. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Just because Rocks is owned by two rappers, doesn’t mean their target audience for these shoes have to reflect that. The Barbie doll was designed by a former missile engineer, but his target market wasn’t crazed despots.’
‘I thought it was invented by an American businesswoman?’
‘Ruth Handler invented Barbie using a doll that already existed. The one the engineer designed. Anyway, with regards to our current campaign, it’s what the majority believe will work and I’m happy to go along with it.’
‘So, you’re a yes man?’ Oh god. If I’d have just kept my mouth shut a bit longer, perhaps I wouldn’t be the office equivalent of a trolley dolly.
‘No, well, sort of. I’m talking about choosing your battles. I don’t know if the team got this campaign right, but I do know that the others believe they have. So, if Rocks love it, I share in that glory, and if Rocks hate it, we’re all in it together.’
‘How the hell did you make the team?’ I blurt the words out before I have time to smother them with tact.
Fortunately, he laughs. ‘Because I’m bloody good at design.’
‘But you agree with me?’ I press him.
‘I’m saying I don’t know, but you didn’t exactly have solid counter-ideas. Perhaps if you weren’t so vague, Patrick would listen.’
‘Or perhaps if I was a man? Maybe you could be my voice in future.’ I bat my eyelids acrimoniously before rolling my eyes at the ridiculousness of this truth.
‘I’m not saying that. C’mon, you pooh-poohed his idea without anything real to offer in return. I mean, look at the shoes.’ He sticks out his right foot and twists it from left to right. ‘They aren’t your usual teen-buy despite what two rappers think.’
I don’t believe for a second that Tony thinks this campaign will work. He’s always been so sharp and in tune with clients in the past and Pink Apple are renowned for thinking outside of the box – the current proposal is too easy. We don’t change our clients’ minds, we change their customers’ minds. ‘What ideas do you think would work?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. All my ideas have gone into the current proposal—’
‘That you hate?’ I interject.
‘Well come on, have you seen the state of the shoes?’ We both look down at our feet again, as if to clarify they haven’t miraculously morphed into something fabulous in the space of a few seconds.
‘True.’
‘But just because I hate it, doesn’t mean it won’t work.’
I drain the last of my beer and Tony orders two more.
‘Fair enough.’
‘I’ll get these,’ Tony says when the second round arrives.
‘Damn right you will. It’s your turn.’
When Tony pulls his wallet out, he glances at his phone and groans.
‘What is it?’
‘Carl, Dave and Steve have decided to join us.’
I can only stomach Tony. The conversation will spiral into a pit of misogynistic crap in no time. ‘Great. How long have I got to drink my beer before I need to leave?�
��
‘I missed their call so about—’
‘Alright, fella,’ Dave says, patting Tony on the back.
‘Here she is, black-sheep-Beckham,’ Steve says, winking at me like he’s made a hilarious in-joke.
‘You grab a great coffee, Sam, love,’ Carl says. I’m sure it’s all just banter and everything, but they’re already pissing me off, and it’s because I know I’m right about the campaign.
‘Yours was the one with the extra-special present?’ I wink back and Carl’s face pales. ‘Oh, come on, I’m joking.’ I wink again. ‘Or am I?’
The three men take the remaining stools along the bar, engulfing Tony and me. We talk about the campaign, and the main theme of the conversation seems to be that Patrick knows what he’s doing, and if we all nod along, we get out of the boardroom earlier. I don’t even protest. If Tony couldn’t see where I was coming from, they never will. We have a few more beers, and talk soon revolves around sport, ‘her indoors’ and some baseball game they’re going to.
‘I’m going to crash,’ I say.
‘Want me to walk you back?’ Tony asks.
I need some space and being around these guys is giving me a headache. ‘No, I’m fine. It isn’t far.’
Chapter 6
My second week in Boston is no better. By Wednesday I’m ready to book a flight home. When I get back to the apartment after a day of being practically invisible, I slump on the sofa to ponder my defeat. If nobody is going to pay attention to anything I say, what is the point of me being here? I may as well go back to London and be ignored to a slightly lesser extent there. At least I’d see my friends at the weekend.
Needing to vent, I dial Bridget.
‘Sam!’ she screams, so loud my ears ring.
‘Oh, Bridget.’ My voice is filled with desperation.
‘That’s not the tone of a happy camper. What’s up?’ Her voice vibrates.
‘Are you on the cross trainer?’
‘Yes,’ she puffs. ‘In the words of the great and mighty Elphaba, I want to have my arse defying gravity before I go on holiday.’
‘Can you get off? I can’t talk to you when you’re all breathy. It sounds like you’re having sex. And I don’t think those are quite the right words to the song.’
She giggles. ‘Okay, I’m losing the battle against my saggy arse anyway. So, tell me, what’s up?’
I decide to get straight to the point. ‘I don’t fit in and everyone here is horrible.’
‘Oh, Sam. It can’t be that bad. It’s just settling-in nerves. By next week you’ll be fine.’
I shake my head even though she can’t see me. ‘It’s different here. It’s so male-dominated. They don’t listen to a word I say and they even sent me out for doughnuts. Maybe it’s just the men here. They’re so arrogant, and the UK team seem to lap it up like it’s something to aspire to.’
‘Listen to me, Sam.’ Bridget adopts a stern tone. ‘You’ve waited so long for this opportunity, and you deserve to be there as much as any one of those men. Don’t you dare give up so soon.’
‘I know, you’re right but …’
‘There are no buts about it. You’re going to see the three months through, and you’re going to make yourself heard. Okay?’ I know she’ll have one hand on her hip and her eyebrows raised.
‘Okay.’ I sigh.
‘I know it’s hard.’ She softens her tone. ‘Why don’t you escape the apartment for the weekend and have some you time? You’re near the coast – pick a beach and stay a night or two in a hotel.’
Being near the coast hadn’t really registered with me. Apart from seeing Boston Harbor on my first day and that wasn’t exactly enjoyable. I’ve not thought about anything other than work since but there isn’t really anything to stop me. ‘Do you know, that’s actually a great idea.’
‘I know.’ She laughs.
We say our goodbyes and the idea of going away and having some ‘me’ time makes me feel lighter. Not having to see the four, okay three, buffoons (if I exonerate Tony for being half-alright) from work over the weekend is an added bonus too. When I first arrived, I saw an advertisement for ferries to Provincetown down at the harbour. I don’t really know anything about the place, but if there are enough people wanting to go to justify a big ferry, it must be alright. A quick Google search confirms that it’s perfect. A beachy little town at the tip of Cape Cod, renowned for its artists, tourism and for being a popular holiday spot for the LGBTQ community, which I’m hoping means there’s less room for the Carl, Dave and Steve community. It sounds like the perfect getaway.
I book the ferry for Friday evening.
Chapter 7
Boston looks stunning as we sail away from it. The sun glints off the skyscrapers, making the whole city twinkle. There’s no sign of the ugliness that lurks there, crawling the streets and seeping into the offices.
Ninety minutes later, we pull into the little harbour of Provincetown, framed by low-rise, wooden-cladded buildings and tree-lined hills beyond. Golden sandy beaches run either side of the pier, and the Pilgrim Monument stands tall and proud above everything else. Perhaps I should take a leaf out of its book and on Monday, march into the office tall and proud and demand to be acknowledged. Or something to that effect.
We disembark onto the pier. A small souvenir shop with a colourful wooden pirate outside catches my eye. Huh, just when I thought I’d escaped all the dreadful blokes of Boston. I drag my case down the pier, which throws me straight into the small yet busy heart of the town. The atmosphere is light and airy; people aren’t walking at fifty miles per hour and nobody is grimacing like in the city. My stomach dances a little with excitement. I already know coming here was a great decision.
The no-frills hotel I’d booked is a pleasant surprise. I’d suspected they were over-egging the listing a little when they said all rooms had beach views as standard, but the double doors onto my balcony do, in actual fact, overlook a beautiful sandy beach. I dump my overnight bag on the floral bedspread and step outside, taking a deep breath of the deliciously salty air. This is what makes it all worthwhile.
The air is starting to cool, and my stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since lunchtime, so I take a quick shower and change into a fresh pair of jeans and a strappy vest top before heading back into the town. There’s a festival feel to the place which I hadn’t expected. Rainbow flags billow outside many of the buildings, and a cacophony of laughter spills from the numerous bars and restaurants. A man ambles past in a gorgeous sarong. He flashes me a smile and it gives me a warm buzz. I feel like I’ve found the home I never knew I wanted. My eye is caught by two men who are offering body painting by a beautiful church. One of the men, a dark-haired, rotund, cheerful-looking fellow in a crazy patterned linen shirt, beckons me over.
‘Come on over and choose a design.’ He gestures to a photo board of colourful tattoos in such an animated way it’s hard to refuse, even though I want to because I’m far too old for glittery body art. Though I’d estimate him to be about forty so perhaps I shouldn’t worry.
‘Oh, okay,’ I say, hopping into the chair.
I choose a sparkly butterfly that he starts to paint on my right shoulder blade. I’ve no idea how it will turn out, but I figure it will wash off, and he is just trying to earn a living.
‘So, how long have you been doing this for?’ I ask to relieve the relative awkwardness of a complete stranger touching me.
‘Oh my god, you’re English,’ he gushes. ‘Harry, listen to her. Go on, doll, say it again.’ He places both hands on my shoulders and forcibly turns me to face a slimmer, blond man in a pale blue short-sleeved shirt who seems distinctly less impressed.
‘I, er, I was just asking how long you’d been doing this for?’ I ask again. Somehow, the more I speak, the more I seem to sound like my surname should be Windsor.
‘Oh my god, your accent is just darling,’ Harry says before turning back to his client, a little curly-haired girl who makes me feel more rid
iculous.
‘Oh, thank you,’ I say, forcing a smile.
‘And yes, we’ve been here seven years. We came on vacation from New York and just fell in love with this place. Gave up our big careers to paint people each evening after lying on the beach all day,’ the cuddly one says, gesticulating with his paintbrush.
Wow, I can’t imagine just walking away from a career I’d worked hard for. ‘So, you escaped the rat race?’
‘We sure did. How about you? What do you do?’ he asks.
‘I’m still fighting my way through the rat race, but I enjoy it.’ It’s currently a bit of a fib of course, but he doesn’t need to know that.
‘So, are you here alone?’ He must be working closely because I can feel his warm breath on the bare skin of my back.
‘Yes. I’m in Boston with some colleagues working for a marketing company, but I needed to get away, so I came here for a weekend of R&R.’
‘I hear ya,’ he says. ‘Actually, I’d love to pick your brain a little, if you wouldn’t mind catching up when you’re free? We have a great trade here through summer but then autumn comes and we’re twiddling our thumbs. We could quite easily do Halloween face painting and things like that but need to reach a wider audience.’
I’m not one for meeting strange men but I’m getting a good vibe from this one, and besides, you don’t really hear of many horror stories involving body-paint-slash-glitter artists. ‘Of course, I’m here until Sunday so I could come back when you’re quieter.’
‘That would be wonderful.’ He rubs a tiny section of my shoulder blade with his finger. ‘You, my dear, are almost done.’ He proceeds to spray something cool over the top of the tattoo.
‘I’m finished,’ he sings, adding vibrato on the last syllable. ‘Here, take a look.’ He angles a mirror so I can catch a glimpse. I gasp. It’s beautifully done, in hues of pink, green, purple and blue. Strategically placed silver glitter adds emphasis to the wings, and shading underneath casts a shadow, making it look like it’s floating an inch above my skin.
A Summer to Remember Page 3