Going Green

by Nick Spalding

  Well . . . it’ll be nice for all the people still working here, anyway. I’ve managed to nearly run over the new boss, choke him to death with car fumes, and show him that I apparently couldn’t give two shits about plastic waste. I’m out on my arse, and there’s no point in trying to think anything different.

  Don’t be such a defeatist! my brain says, trying its hardest to rally the troops. Just get through the rest of this meeting without doing anything else stupid, and maybe we can think of a way to make up for the bad first impression.

  Yes, brain! I like your thinking.

  Thank you. Now say something nice about the logo. That’ll be a good start.

  ‘The serif font is great,’ I remark, nodding my head at the smartboard. ‘Feels quite timeless, but with a hint of the modern.’

  Nolan points an excited finger at me. ‘Exactly! That’s just what I was after. I told Andy the graphic designer that’s what I wanted, and he definitely came up trumps.’

  Oh, thank God for that. I’ve contributed something worthwhile at last.

  I might not be in Nolan Reece’s good books as yet, but at least I might have done something to start climbing out of the bad ones.

  The meeting carries on for a little while longer, with Nolan continuing to sell us on the concept of Viridian PR. It all sounds lovely and quite exciting, but there’s an ongoing tension in the room that can’t quite be broken by all of this apparent good news.

  The fact of the matter is that two of us will be losing our jobs very soon, and none of us knows who yet. It’s a little hard to get super enthused about a company you might be thrown out of in the very near future.

  Proceedings conclude with Nolan telling us he’s going to be sending us all an extensive email proposal, outlining everything in detail.

  ‘It will tell you everything you need to know,’ he says. ‘Everything I’ve probably missed out today, for definite.’ He pauses for a second before continuing. ‘Look, I know this has been difficult, and given how up in the air things are currently . . . I thought it might be nice for you all to have some time off. Starting now.’

  A pleased murmur goes up. Nobody minds when they get told they have a surprise couple of days off, do they?

  ‘You should all go home, read the Viridian PR proposals, and get back here on Monday, ready to start work with the new focus in your heads.’ His smile fades a little. ‘I’ll also be able to say more on who will unfortunately be leaving us. I’m so sorry to leave you hanging, but we just need a little more time on it.’

  ‘I’m sure they all understand,’ Peter says, reminding us that he’s still in the room. Our focus has been so lasered in on the man who will decide our futures that the man who used to no longer seems to matter. I find that very sad.

  My mood is as bleak as a winter moor as the meeting concludes, and we all troop back out on to the main office floor. The general atmosphere appears to be one of supreme ambivalence as we all gather in small groups to discuss what’s just happened. Everybody else feels pretty unsure about their future, but muggins here is convinced she’ll be looking for new gainful employment by this time next week, given the performance she’s put on today.

  I get the feeling the other Stratagem – sorry, Viridian PR – employees agree with me, as I’m being treated with a lot of sympathy, like the axe has already fallen. I guess I can’t blame them. If they think I’m a goner, then that at least improves their chances a bit.

  ‘I’m sure everything will turn out okay,’ Amisha remarks, ostensibly to the three other people standing with her, but I can tell she’s talking to me more than anyone else.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Joseph agrees. ‘Whoever has to leave, I’m sure they’ll find work elsewhere quickly. We’re a talented bunch here.’

  Okay, Joseph, you don’t have to look directly at me while you’re saying that, you know.

  ‘No doubt about it!’ Nadia adds, in a slightly hectic voice. ‘I’m sure it’ll all be fine, like Amisha says.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ I half-heartedly respond.

  Oh God, I do wish they’d stop looking at me like that. I feel like a dog that’s going to be put down.

  I can only take ten or so minutes of this before I decide it’s time to leave for the day. The others seem happy to hang around for a bit and continue to indulge in a combination of speculation and navel-gazing, but I’ve decided that I need to go home and climb into a bottle of wine.

  Day drinking is not a habit I want to get into, but I think – given today’s events – I can be forgiven.

  Back down in the car park, I hurry over to the Mercedes as fast as I can. I just want to get out of here for the day. Partially to get cosy with that bottle of Chardonnay, but also because I really do need to go and find my CV – wherever it’s lurking on my laptop – and start the annoying and stressful process of sprucing it up.

  The second I turn the ignition key, the car gives me an enormous clobberdy-bang. I’m a lot more worried about the implications of this now. It’s one thing to have a faulty car when you have a job that can pay for repairs, but being unemployed with a clobberdy-bang brings a whole new level of terror.

  I pull out of the car-parking space, my brain afire with dark and worrying thoughts.

  As I hit the exit, I am forced to slam on my brakes once again, as I see a car appear to my left. It’s a bloody Tesla – and those things are most definitely silent but deadly. They can creep up on you without you even knowing about it, thanks to their hushed battery-powered engines. I hate them with an absolute passion.

  Guess who’s driving it?

  Go on . . .

  It won’t be hard.

  Yes. That’s right.

  It’s Hugh Firmly Blittingstool. He’s come to bask in my misery.

  I jest, of course. The man driving the Tesla is Nolan Reece.

  He looks at me with alarm through his windscreen as he slams on his own brakes.

  So, that’s twice I’ve nearly managed to crash into him today. I’m doing so very, very well with my life.

  I offer another one of my patented ‘Ellie Cooke is sorry for being so Ellie Cooke today’ apology smiles, and hold up a hand to acknowledge my driving error.

  As if on cue, the Mercedes gives me a clobberdy-bang so huge and loud that it nearly shakes the fillings out of my teeth.

  The black cloud of toxic emissions that blanket the car immediately afterwards smells so bad that I know I’m going to have to drive the stupid car straight to the nearest garage, instead of going home to open that bottle of wine.

  Nolan Reece watches this happen from the confines of his ultra-clean, ultra-environmentally friendly car, with a look on his face that can only be described as ‘perplexed’.

  He should probably just jump out and hand me my P45 now. It’d save us all a great deal of time and effort.

  Instead, he gives me a stilted wave, and accelerates silently out of the car park, causing the black cloud to disperse as his car passes mine.

  The black cloud around my Mercedes, I should point out – not the one in my head.

  I sit there for a few moments, gathering myself.

  This could not have gone any worse if I’d just clubbed a baby seal to death in front of my new boss, and then set fire to his Tesla.

  I don’t see any way of pulling myself back from the brink here.

  . . . but I’m going to bloody well try, anyway. That fear of the unknown will make me.

  I will do anything to stay on at Viridian PR. Better the devil you know than the job interview you don’t.

  But first, it’s time to sort out the clobberdy-bang, while I still have the money to do so.

  That should make me feel a little better about myself.

  And once the clobberdy-bang in my car is fixed, maybe I can come up with a plan to fix the clobberdy-bang in my life.

  Yes.

  That’s the way to think about it. Be positive. Be hopeful. Be proactive. Be—

  CLOBBERDY-BANG.

  Oh, for the lo
ve of an environmentally conscious god . . .

  Chapter Two

  DYING TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE

  Okay, I have to think of a plan now – a good one.

  A way to keep my job at Viridian PR, and solve the second clobberdy-bang in my life.

  The first cost £750 to fix . . . which was as painful as you’d imagine. I was assured by the mechanic that it had something to do with my gearbox synchromesh. Given my knowledge of cars, he could have said it was down to my bogbox winkywonk and I would still have forked out the cash. Car repairs generally have to be taken on trust, which is why they can be so stressful to sort out.

  Still, at least I had a nice man to sort out the problem in the car for me. There’s no one who can sort out the problem that is my job.

  Nope. That task is solely down to me, and the only plan I can come up with to fix it is one I don’t feel comfortable with in the slightest.

  I’m going to have to butter up Nolan Reece as much as possible . . . as fast as possible. I literally have days before my goose is cooked, so I need to do something big, obvious and impressive to get on his good side, and wipe away the appalling first impression I gave of myself.

  Now, I’m not going to lie. I did briefly think about trying to seduce him.

  I can do sexy perfectly okay, thank you so very much – provided I have enough time to organise things properly. The knicker and bra set Robert bought me from Vicky’s Secret is still in very good condition, and I’m pretty sure I can still get it on, if I only eat dust for a couple of weeks. And Nolan Reece is unconventionally handsome, as we’ve already noted. The consumption of dust could end up being entirely worth it.

  But I dismissed that idea almost as soon as it came into my head. First, what kind of message would I be sending to womanhood if I debased myself like that? Not a good one, that’s what.

  And second – for all I know, Nolan Reece is in a happy relationship with another woman . . . or he’s gay . . . or celibate . . . or he might have a knackered penis. I simply do not have the time to find any of these things out.

  And who wants to force themselves into a pair of pants that feel like they’re garrotting your undercarriage, and a bra that stops you breathing, if the target in question stays resolutely floppy throughout?

  Not this lady, I can tell you.

  With that line of attack firmly ruled out, I’m truly stumped. I just can’t think of another way of improving my situation.

  . . . actually, though, thinking about it, I do have a nice man who can help me with my second clobberdy-bang – my ever-so-reliable and sensible brother, Sean. He’s a problem solver. And he’s very good at it. I should know, he’s been helping me with mine for decades.

  ‘Hello, sis, what have you done now?’ are the first words out of my brother’s mouth when he answers my call.

  ‘Um, excuse me . . . why would you think I’ve done something?’

  ‘Because, Ellie, it’s half ten in the evening. You only ever call at this time of night when you’ve done something, have thought about the problem for as long as you can on your own, have arrived at no decent solution, and therefore decide to give me a call about it.’

  My brother is unwholesomely smart, as I’m sure you’ve probably noticed. He’s also bang on the money, 90 per cent of the time.

  It must be a nightmare for the kids in his class.

  ‘Well, okay. You’re right. But try not to be smug about it.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  I take a deep breath, and fill Sean in on all the gory details.

  I’ve been filling Sean in on all the gory details for the best part of my life. Out of the two of us, I’m always the one that creates the gory details, and he’s always the one that suggests ways to clean them up. That’s always been the dynamic of our relationship. I’ve been promising myself that I’ll do something about it at some point, but life always seems to get in the way, and I never get around to it.

  ‘Hmmm, tricky,’ he says, when I’ve finished weaving my sorry tale.

  ‘Any ideas?’

  Sean pauses for a moment.

  ‘Pot plants?’ he suggests.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘You say you need to impress your new environmentalist boss . . . how about some pot plants around the office?’ he says. ‘They’re green – in both senses of the word.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to cut it, Sean. Me waggling a rubber plant in Nolan’s general direction isn’t likely to do me that much good. I need something a little bigger, and more obvious, to get me on his good side.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know, sis. Maybe look him up on social media? Find out what he gets up to in his spare time? That might lead you to something.’

  ‘Facebook-stalk him, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah. I guess so. You’ll get to know him a bit better, if nothing else. That couldn’t hurt, could it?’

  ‘No . . . it couldn’t.’

  It’s a great idea, to be honest. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.

  Because it’s sensible, Ellie. And Sean is the one that does sensible. You do silly. Hence the ridiculous idea of seducing a man you’ve only met once.

  ‘Thanks, Sean, I’ll give it a go. And I’ll let you know how I get on.’

  ‘Okay, sis. If you could see your way clear to not letting me know at ten thirty at night, when I’m still in the middle of marking English essays, that’d be favourite.’

  ‘Agreed. Love you lots.’

  ‘You too.’

  I put the phone down on my clever brother, feeling ever so much better. I don’t think I’ve ever put the phone down on my brother without feeling better – especially when he’s given me some decent advice.

  And I’m going to take the advice he’s given me this time, by doing a bit of constructive online investigating . . .

  I grab my laptop and spend a couple of hours on social media, stalking Nolan Reece like there’s no tomorrow.

  I’m not the biggest fan of Facebook or Instagram to be honest, but they are very useful ways to discover more about a person – and Nolan has recently been very active on both.

  And what he’s active about is the environment – as you’d expect.

  Consistently and constantly.

  What he told us in that meeting the other day really does seem to ring true. He is very environmentally conscious – to the exclusion of almost everything else.

  If I had decided to seduce him, I could have just dressed up like a vegan sausage, and showed him that my boobs are 100 per cent plastic-free.

  Nolan’s Facebook feed is full of memes and comments about the planet, the environment, climate change, and sustainability. He doesn’t appear to have that many friends or followers, but that means nothing in this day and age. Long gone are the days of people manically adding everyone they can to their friends list to appear popular. It almost seems like it’s more a badge of honour to keep your friends list small these days.

  It becomes more and more apparent as I continue the online stalking of my new boss that the only way I’m going to impress him is by persuading him that I am also an environmentally conscious person – despite the backfiring car and plastic-bottle squeezing. And I’m sure I’m not the only one in the office who thinks that way. Everyone will be wanting to prove their credentials. The question-and-answer session that I botched so magnificently proved that.

  If I’m going to stand out from the crowd, I’m going to have to do something BIG. Something noticeable. Something obvious.

  I have no idea what that might be, until I find a post on Nolan’s Facebook feed from a week ago that gives me the answer . . .

  Someone called Jill is asking Nolan if he’ll be attending the event on Saturday ‘at the shopping centre’, to which Nolan has replied that yes, he most definitely is.

  Aha!

  There’s nothing much more to go on than that in the actual post, but I then spend half an hour searching for environmental events in my local area, and discove
r that on Saturday, at Whitehaven Shopping Centre, an organisation called Warriors For The Planet will be staging a protest.

  That must be it, right?

  An environmental event ‘at the shopping centre’ on Saturday?

  That’s got to be it!

  It’s not an official event, of course. I doubt the owners of Whitehaven particularly want an environmental protest getting in the way of their consumerism, but there’s enough buzz about it online to suggest it’s going to be well attended by those of an environmentally conscious nature.

  And maybe, just maybe, if I can get down there . . . and just happen to bump into Nolan, I can show him just how green I truly am! After all, I’d have to be, if I attended an event like that, wouldn’t I?

  Yes.

  Yes, that’s it.

  I’ll go down to the protest, find Nolan, impress the shit out of him with my heartfelt love of our planet, and make him see that keeping me on at Viridian PR is absolutely the right thing to do!

  . . . stop looking at me like that.

  No. Stop it.

  I know it’s a deeply cynical move, but can you really blame me? This is my livelihood we’re talking about. And if keeping my job means pretending just a little bit, then so be it.

  And it’s either that or sling on the bloody Vicky’s Secret underwear for my new Adam Driver–ish boss – and I still have half a bag of Minstrels in the cupboard which I do not intend to waste!

  Not having a clue when the protest is meant to kick off, I figure I’d better get down to Whitehaven as early as possible. In my experience, public events tend to happen more in the mornings than the afternoons, so it’s probably a good bet that things will start not that long after I arrive.

  And if not, I can always get a Costa coffee and do some light shopping while I wait. There’s a roll neck from FatFace I’ve had my eye on for a couple of weeks now, and I definitely need some new tops for sleeping in too.

  Whitehaven Shopping Centre is a monument to Western consumption that sits just off the motorway, for maximum ease of access. Each and every one of the seventy or so stores is housed in massive, grey identikit buildings that are 100 per cent glass-fronted, and have about as much personality as a maths teacher’s wardrobe.