Also, little girls don’t have to go out and find new jobs, do they? The lucky little sods.
At 9.59 a.m., my mouth goes incredibly dry. This always tends to happen to me when I’m extremely nervous. As the clock strikes ten, I take a big swig of water from my Evian bottle, and go to join my colleagues as we troop into the conference room.
If you’ve ever watched an episode of The Walking Dead, you’ll recognise the short line of people that shamble their way in. Or possibly, a more accurate analogy would be a herd of particularly depressed cows going to slaughter.
I take a seat around the circular boardroom table with the other doomed cattle, and start to squeeze my half-empty bottle of water nervously. I can feel my heart jackhammering in my chest as the nerves ramp up.
As we all get about as settled as a group of people can be when they’re terrified, in walks Peter, looking equally nervous. He knows he has some horrible information to impart to us, and he’d quite clearly rather be anywhere else than here – up to and including inside a macerator, next to a pair of dirty Xmas knickers.
And then . . . somebody else walks in behind Peter. A man I have seen only once before.
He’s tall, quite thin, slightly awkward-looking, and wearing a dark-blue suit that’s probably a size too big for him. The thick mop of black hair on top of his head is unruly, and the expression on his face is one of expectant anxiety. He looks to be about my age – though there’s a youthful quality to his face that means he can probably pass for a lot younger in the right light. You might call him ‘unconventionally handsome’, if you were pressed to provide a description. There’s a touch of Adam Driver about his looks.
And it’s him.
The guy from the car park.
The one I nearly murdered with my malfunctioning Mercedes.
Oh, fucking hallelujah. This is going to be wonderful, isn’t it?
Peter gets to the head of the table, with the other man standing next to him, offering us all one of those smiles people tend to plaster over their face when they have to greet a room full of complete strangers.
It’s meant to convey warmth and friendliness, but rather comes across as someone who’s hoping that they’re not about to be assaulted.
‘Thanks for gathering here, folks,’ Peter begins. ‘I’m going to try to keep my part in this meeting as quick as possible, before I hand over to Nolan here.’ His eyes go wide. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, everybody, please say hello to Nolan Reece.’
‘Hi,’ Nolan Reece says, waving a hand at us and broadening that smile a bit.
‘Hi,’ we all parrot back at him, returning the wave. The confusion plastered across our faces must be quite something to behold.
‘So, this is how things are,’ Peter continues, holding out his hands. He takes a deep breath. ‘I have sold Stratagem PR, and will be stepping down immediately as its CEO.’
Gasps. Groans. Moans.
Make no mistake, Peter Rothman has been the best boss I’ve ever had. Kind, hard-working, honest and understanding.
‘Please . . . it’s okay. Honestly it is,’ he tells us. ‘This was the only way this was going to go. I simply couldn’t keep Stratagem running any more in the state it’s in.’
Well, that is a fair enough point, I suppose.
‘It’s right for me to leave, and start a new chapter in my life,’ he says.
Can’t disagree with that. And even as he speaks, I can see a transformation happening on the face of my (former) boss. It’s a cliché to say that someone has a weight lifted from their shoulders, but it genuinely looks like that’s what’s happening to Peter Rothman right now. He grows about two inches right in front of me.
‘But it’s also right that Stratagem continues,’ Peter carries on. ‘And the only way for me to guarantee that was to sell it to someone who can bring it back from the brink.’ He gestures towards the man standing next to him. ‘And that someone is Nolan here.’
Slowly, inexorably, a dozen pairs of eyes turn to regard the tall, skinny man, with a mixture of curiosity, doubt and probably a little fear.
Nobody likes the unknown, do they?
Nolan Reece does the smile-and-wave thing again. ‘Hello everyone, it’s very nice to meet you all,’ he says, and looks at Peter.
‘Er . . . Nolan here is the new owner of the company,’ my former boss tells us, before lapsing into an awkward silence.
Nolan stares at Peter for a moment, before realising that this is his time to speak. ‘Oh! Yes! Yes, I am!’ he says, clapping his hands together and looking back at us. ‘And I’m very happy to have bought it!’
I’m not sure he looks it. In fact, he looks like someone suffering from the same kind of buyer’s remorse I always get after my ASOS order has been delivered.
This, as you can imagine, I find extremely reassuring.
‘I’m happy to have bought it, because it gives me a chance to both secure the future of such a renowned and respected PR company . . .’
Hmmm. Not sure we’re all that renowned, to be honest, but I like his confidence in us.
‘ . . . and also because it gives me a chance to do something I’ve always wanted to do.’
Make your employees fight to the death for their jobs?
Nolan Reece seems to relax as he speaks. Now we’re past that awkward introduction stage, he’s warming to the crowd.
‘I’ve been in the marketing and PR game for most of my working life,’ he tells us, ‘and have done okay out of it.’
‘Nolan here was the man responsible for bringing Walker & Wright Pharmaceuticals back from the brink,’ Peter interjects.
I blink a couple of times. That is bloody impressive. Walker & Wright Pharmaceuticals nearly went under a few years ago, because its CEO was caught molesting a pig on camera, while high as a kite on some of the company’s own product.
Don’t laugh.
It was harrowing.
Walker & Wright quickly became Porker & Wright, to anyone born with a sense of humour. Said CEO went slightly bonkers in the aftermath, and made some decisions before he was forced out that further ruined the company’s reputation.
All seemed lost, but then a PR firm called Chantry Relations was hired to turn things around . . . and boy, did they. An aggressive campaign to change the company’s branding and reputation began in earnest, and now W2 Pharma is one of the most respected businesses of its type in the UK. Nobody even mentions the pig thing any more – except at parties.
Nolan Reece looks humble. ‘I did my part.’
‘Did your part?’ Peter exclaims. ‘You designed the whole damn campaign!’
‘Well, yes, I guess I did . . . and it was a very successful promotion for me.’
Yeah. I bet it was. Rumour has it that Chantry Relations built a performance-related bonus into its contract with the then-desperate Porker & Wright, which meant that when the pharma company’s fortunes turned around, they were blessed with a massive dump of cash.
If Nolan here was part of that, no wonder he has the money to buy Peter out.
Mind you . . . given the way things have been, we were probably worth about £3.64 and a packet of AA batteries.
‘Working for Chantry was great,’ Nolan tells us, ‘but I’ve always wanted to run my own PR company, so when the opportunity came up to buy Stratagem, I jumped at it. It’ll give me the chance to do what I’ve always wanted to.’
‘And what’s that?’ I blurt out, immediately going wide-eyed. It’s not like me to speak up in such circumstances, but I’m currently suffering an intolerable level of confusion, doubt and worry, and my social skills have apparently been deeply affected by it.
Nolan Reece and Peter Rothman both look at me in surprise. As does everyone else in the room. I shrink into my chair a little. How decidedly embarrassing.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ Nolan says, gently pointing a finger in my direction.
I elect for subterfuge. ‘No! No, I don’t think we’ve ever met.’
This is actually true, if
you think about it. Nearly running somebody down in a car park can’t really be classed as having ‘met’ them, can it?
Nolan nods a little uncertainly. I’m not sure he believes me. I certainly wouldn’t.
‘I’ve always wanted to run a PR company that emphasises working with environmentally friendly businesses,’ he tells us – or rather me. He’s still got a pleasant expression on his face, but the focus he’s now putting just on me is a little bit disconcerting. Those eyes are quite piercing, when their attention is solely on you. I would be blushing like mad, because he is a handsome chap, but the worry about what’s going to happen to Stratagem is keeping me very pale at the moment. With any luck, the two things might actually balance my complexion out, and I’ll look normal. ‘The environment and climate change are things I’m passionate about, and I’m at the stage in my career where I’d like to think I can help do something about them.’
He stops talking and gives me a smile.
Oh God. I think he wants me to reply.
My stupid intervention has focused all of his attention on me, and now I have to respond.
‘That’s . . . that’s . . . nice?’ I say, squirming in my seat and going red in the face.
What else am I supposed to add? It is nice. Being environmentally friendly is very nice. I don’t know anyone who would think otherwise. I’d like to say something a bit more impressive than that, but Nolan Reece’s focus on me has left me more than a little discombobulated.
‘Yes, I guess it is,’ Nolan says, still examining me, a little like someone examines a particularly strange and alien-looking creature they’ve just discovered hiding in their garden pond. He’s still wondering whether he’s actually met me before or not – I can tell.
‘More than nice though, I hope!’ he continues, returning (thankfully) to address the whole crowd. ‘I want to run an ethical PR company that prides itself on its green credentials.’ He holds out his hands expansively. ‘And I want you all to be part of it!’ He stops himself. ‘Well . . . almost all of you. I’m afraid I don’t quite have the money to keep you all on. I’m so sorry about that.’
The cold hand of fear runs down my back.
We’re not all going to keep our jobs.
The mood in the room immediately turns dark.
Darker, I should say. I don’t think any of us were exactly turning somersaults about the company being bought out in the first place. But that pales alongside the knowledge that some of us might be heading out of the door.
Nolan immediately looks regretful, like he knows he probably should have broken that piece of news a little more carefully. ‘We’ll only have to let a couple of you go, though! Two or three at most. I’ll be having a close look at all of Stratagem’s finances, and coming to a decision after that. Rest assured that any of you we can’t keep on will have solid redundancy packages in place!’
That’s when Nolan looks right at me again, and my soul dies a little.
My hand also involuntarily squeezes the Evian bottle I’m holding, creating a loud, obnoxious scrunching noise and sending the remaining contents up and out, all over the conference table.
‘Eeeek!’ I squawk, and immediately start rubbing at it with my hand, as if my skin has suddenly turned sponge-like.
‘Can somebody get Ellie some tissues to mop that up?’ Peter asks, and my face flames even redder.
‘Ellie?’ Nolan Reece says.
Oh, great. Now he knows my name.
‘Yes . . . it’s Ellie,’ I reply, still frantically massaging water across the desk with my hand for some reason. I look like I’ve developed some kind of problem with my motor functions. ‘Ellie Cooke.’ I then hold out my hand, which is now dripping with water, for him to shake.
He does not do this.
Of course he does not do this. Why the hell would he?
Nadia leans forward and hands me a wad of tissue that someone has kindly spirited from somewhere, and I soak up the water with it.
So, now I have a mound of unsightly wet tissue parked in front of me, to go next to the crushed water bottle. This is not turning out to be a good meeting for me, is it?
Nolan looks at me closely again, as I turn my attention back to him. ‘Do you . . . do you drive a Mercedes?’ he asks, the realisation dawning in his eyes.
I am saved from having to respond when Terry stands up from his seat at the back of the room. ‘Mr Reece, when exactly will you be letting us know who’s getting the sack?’ he asks bluntly.
Thank you, Terry. Thank you for turning everyone’s attention away from Ellie Cooke and her wodge of used tissue, and single-use plastic. You are a godsend, sir.
‘It’s going to take me a few days to go through it . . . er . . . ?’
‘Terry.’
‘Terry. But I promise I won’t leave you all hanging for too long. I want us to get started on our new business portfolio as soon as possible. I already have many contacts I want to exploit, all of whom are committed to more environmentally friendly practices.’
‘What kind of practices?’ asks Amisha, our supremely talented social media manager. She won’t be going anywhere, I wouldn’t imagine. She’s far too good at her job to be let go.
The same goes for Amisha’s husband Joseph, our tech guy. The two of them come as a package, and if we lose one, we lose both.
‘You know the kind of thing,’ Nolan says to her. ‘Companies that try to be carbon-neutral, ones that promote healthier living – vegetarian foods, for instance. Places that trade in technologies and products that will help the planet.’
‘Like renewable energy,’ Nadia pipes up from beside me.
‘Exactly!’ Nolan replies, looking pleased.
‘Electric-vehicle manufacturers,’ Terry adds.
‘Precisely!’ Nolan beams.
Oh, fabulous. This has become an inadvertent question-and-answer session, with everyone trying to impress the new boss with their environmental knowledge. I have to think of something to say!
This is going to be quite difficult as, I must confess, I am to environmentalism what Ann Widdecombe is to bikini modelling.
Think, Cooke! Think!
‘Recycling companies,’ Joseph mutters.
Damn! Why didn’t I think of that?
‘Sustainably produced clothing,’ Peter remarks.
Oh, sod off, Peter! You’re leaving! I could have had that one!
‘Spot on!’ Nolan replies, with a broad grin.
‘Getting rid of single-use plastic bottles,’ Sarky Marky says, from where he’s sat next to Terry.
Bloody hell. Sarky Marky never contributes anything constructive to the conversation. He always just takes the piss, or has a moan. That’s why we call him Sarky Marky. And yet, here he is, contributing something valuable. The pressure really is on to impress this guy, and remain employed by him.
‘Absolutely!’ Nolan says, clearly enjoying the to and fro. ‘Plastic bottles are an absolute blight on our society. They’re one of the single worst things in terms of environmental damage. Any business that is trying to replace them with a biodegradable equivalent should be top of our list.’
‘Along with people trying to stop all that paper waste!’ Nadia adds. ‘I read the other day that we waste billions of tonnes of paper a year. It kills so many of the trees!’
‘Yes, it does!’ Nolan is super animated now. ‘That’s why I want this company to do all it can to increase the profile of businesses trying to combat climate change! We need to get rid of things like plastic bottles and paper waste . . . and the people that cause it.’
Everyone in the room goes silent as they digest this.
They don’t look at my mound of tissues and crumpled-up Evian bottle all at once, but slowly, inexorably, all eyes are dragged down to them over a period of a few seconds – like asteroids pulled into the gravitational well of a large planet.
Nolan Reece looks particularly perturbed, as he stares down at my mess.
I also look down at it, and consider my n
ext move . . . to the job centre.
That’s probably where my next move is going to be, isn’t it?
I lean forward and gently pick up the wodge of sodden tissue, and the bottle. ‘I’ll just go and put these in the bin, shall I?’ I remark, in as calm a voice as possible, and stand up.
With all eyes upon me, I exit the conference room and walk over to where the nearest bin is, depositing the two offending items into it.
When I look back in, reassuringly things appear to have moved on, with Nolan and Peter now standing by the smartboard at the end of the conference room.
Is there any point in going back in?
Or should I just slope off and spend the rest of the day on Monster.com?
The thought of rewriting my CV and attending job interviews fills my head again, and I feel my legs go wobbly.
No. I can’t go through that!
Get back in there! It’s not too late!
Or is it?
Stratagem PR is apparently about to become a standard-bearer for all things environmental, according to its new Adam Driver–ish owner Nolan Reece. Do I have any place in a company like that?
After all, I drive a dreadfully polluting car, I order way too much fast fashion online, I can’t even be bothered to find a drink in a glass bottle at Boots, and I used to date a man who ran a property business that built on pretty much every available green space it could gobble up.
I’m the anti-Nolan.
But you can’t look for another job! It’s hell out there!
Yes, yes, I know!
Then forget all of that! Just get back in there and try, Ellie! For the love of God!
Alright, alright!
I do as I’m told, by scuttling back into the conference room and sitting in my seat just as Nolan unveils the new name and logo for our company.
‘Viridian PR,’ he tells us triumphantly, as the logo flicks up on to the smartboard. It’s a very nice logo. Simple, but elegant.
I quite like the name too.
Stratagem PR has always been a pain to both write and say. It’ll be nice to have something that trips off the tongue a little more easily.
Going Green Page 2