Going Green

by Nick Spalding

  You fucking bastard! You absolute fucking bas—

  What?

  ‘What?’ I splutter.

  ‘My number two.’ Nolan smiles. ‘You demonstrate a commitment to environmentalism that I greatly admire, and you’re obviously very engaged with the subject.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Yes. Clearly.’ He chuckles warmly. ‘I’ve never known anyone so keen to show me that they wear sustainable pants before.’

  This causes me to blush furiously.

  ‘Really?’

  I should probably be saying something more constructive, but Nolan’s announcement has discombobulated me to such a degree that I simply cannot put the words together.

  I thought I was coming in here to get fired, and instead I’ve been . . . promoted?

  ‘Absolutely!’ Nolan holds up his hands. ‘Now, I can’t pay you any more money as yet. Our finances won’t allow it, but I still want to officially make you my second-in-command here at Viridian PR, so that we can move forward on the right foot. Your remuneration package will of course increase once we have the cash flow from new clients.’ He beams. ‘That should give you enough incentive to help me get them, I would imagine.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Yeah . . .’

  Nope, still unable to string a sentence together. Maybe I should start communicating with him by banging my hand on the table. Once for yes, twice for no, thrice for ‘would you like to see my knickers again?’

  ‘We’ll pop out in a moment to officially announce your new status to the rest of the staff, but I obviously wanted to break the news to you in private first.’

  ‘Great,’ I say in a squeaky voice. ‘Super.’

  ‘So, you’ll accept then?’ Nolan asks me, eagerly.

  Oh Christ.

  Do I accept?

  Do I say yes to this?

  It sounds like an awful lot of responsibility, and a much bigger workload. I’m not sure I want that, if I’m being honest. I’m the type of person who just likes to get their work done and get out of the office at a reasonable time. That’s why I love being a publicist. Okay, you’re further down the pecking order, but at least you don’t have to work all the hours God sends. It’s better for your sense of well-being, I think.

  You know . . . work to live and not live to work . . .

  Find the right balance . . . that kind of thing.

  But here I am being offered a new job that will see an end to being able to stick to that philosophy.

  It appears that I have been far too clever by bloody half . . .

  In my desire to keep my job, I have inadvertently made a rod for my own back.

  Nolan Reece here thinks I’m his go-to girl for all things environmental, when the truth is I’ve been making it all up just to save my own hide! I’m not his go-to girl, even though I’d really like to be. I’m not really environmentally conscious in the slightest. I still drive that big polluting Mercedes. I still buy my clothes in Primark. I still use single-use plastic bottles, and I still once happily dated a man who would think nothing of levelling an entire deciduous forest to put up blocks of luxury flats.

  I’ve been lying through my teeth, and done such a convincing job of it that it’s got me a promotion I really don’t deserve at all!

  I have been hoisted by my own petard . . . whatever that actually means.

  But I can’t say no, can I? Not now. Not after all of this. It might expose my true colours!

  I’ve backed myself into a corner so expertly that you could give me a job as a forklift driver.

  Bloody hellfire.

  ‘Yes, Nolan. Of course I accept!’ I say, trying to sound as enthusiastic as he wants me to.

  If anything, my grip on the arms of the chair has got even firmer.

  ‘Excellent!’ Nolan replies, actually bouncing up and down on his seat. ‘I’m so pleased!’

  Yeah? I’m not so sure everyone else will be!

  All they’re going to see is Little Miss Pot Plant brown-nosing her way into a cushy promotion. Thank God none of them saw me in here with my pants out and my trousers down. Tongues would wag harder than an excited dog’s tail.

  But that’s it, isn’t it?

  I’m committed now. I’ve said yes to what amounts to a massive change of lifestyle, and I’m sorry to say that it terrifies me. Not least because my promotion is built on a tissue of lies that I cooked up just to avoid demotion to the ranks of the unemployed!

  As Nolan starts to fill me in on what he’s going to expect from me as his number two at Viridian PR, I can’t help but feel a certain amount of internal whiplash.

  I’ve gone from being scared to death about having to find a new job, to being even more scared to death at the prospect of staying in this one – all in the space of a few seconds.

  What on earth am I going to do now?

  . . . apart from water the bloody pot plants again this afternoon, I mean. I doubt being Nolan’s second-in-command is going to stop me from having to do that.

  Curse me and my Machiavellian levels of stupidity!

  Chapter Four

  VEGANTHROPY FOR BEGINNERS

  There goes a joke:

  How do you know if someone’s a vegan?

  Don’t worry, they’ll fucking tell you.

  It’s not a joke I’ve ever had much truck with, to be frank. The intimation is that vegans are all self-righteous, pompous idiots, who can’t wait to pontificate at you about their healthy, animal-friendly lifestyles, while at the same time berating you for being a disgusting corpse-eater.

  That’s an image that is prevalent in the media, and across society in general. It has not, up until now, been my personal experience of them, though.

  Of the vegans I have met in my life, I have found most, if not all, of them to be perfectly ordinary human beings, who just happen not to eat or wear animal products.

  This is by and large how most people actually are – just getting on with their lives, having made choices for themselves that they have no huge desire to foist on to others.

  Of course, there are a small minority of vegans who aren’t as sensible as that – and do make it their job in life to annoy as many other people as possible, by lecturing them about the evils of eating animal products. But they are very few and far between, and are very much the exception, not the rule.

  This, of course, holds true for most facets of our day-to-day lives: most people are decent, sensible and pragmatic – it’s a small minority that are ruining it for the rest of us. See also: people in politics, the religious, nerds, and every third person on Twitter.

  So, in my personal experience, those who adopt veganism are perfectly fine, and I haven’t been annoyed or upset by any of them even once. I can even see the point they’re trying to make, some of the time. Like most people, I’ve thought about cutting down on my meat consumption – but it always occurs to me to do so right after I’ve done a big shop, or right after I’ve eaten a large pepperoni pizza.

  I’m going to have to meet with a couple of vegans when I take on my first big task as Viridian PR’s new Head of Client Relations. I’m hoping they’ll be ones I can successfully get along with.

  Nolan gave me that grandiose title last week, which is certainly a step up, and a change of direction from being a plain old publicist.

  The news of my promotion was met in much the way I feared. Most of the Viridian staff didn’t seem all that impressed. There was no actual outcry at my behaviour leading up to the promotion, but I wouldn’t say people were exactly effusive with their congratulations either.

  Those who did seem happy for me were the three staff members I generally feel the closest to: Nadia, Joseph and Amisha. They could have been faking it of course (always best to stay on the right side of someone higher up the pecking order than you), but I think I know them well enough by now to believe that they were being honest.

  ‘The pot plants definitely did the trick then,’ Amisha says in a wry voice, as I spritz the succulent on the windowsill c
lose to her desk.

  ‘I seriously didn’t think he’d bloody promote me, Mish,’ I reply, in a stage whisper.

  She actually laughs at this. ‘No. I never figured you for the managerial type!’

  ‘Exactly! But I did such a good job of coming across like one of his environmentalist friends that I’ve well and truly snookered myself!’

  ‘Yes. Yes, you have.’

  ‘You don’t have to look quite so amused, you know.’

  ‘Oh, but I do . . . boss. I really, really do.’

  ‘Aaaargh! Don’t call me that!’

  This sends her off into another gale of laughter, drawing the attention of those around us.

  ‘Shh!’ I demand, putting a finger to my lips.

  Amisha sobers up and flicks off a salute. ‘Sorry, ma’am!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I lament, spritzing water over the succulent again.

  Amisha suddenly looks a little concerned. ‘Have you . . . have you told Nolan about . . . about . . . you know?’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘Demonic Rab?’

  My eyes instantly flatten. Amisha is referring to my ex Robert Ainslie Blake. The man I met because Stratagem used to represent his property firm, R.A.B. Developments. The nickname Demonic Rab was an obvious choice, given how Robert dumped us as fast as you like when Pierre left Peter.

  ‘No,’ I say in a dark tone. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Are you . . . are you going to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It might not be such a great idea. Demonic was famous for chopping down every tree in sight, wasn’t he? You remember that newspaper article? The one we had to do all the counter-PR for?’

  I look aghast. ‘Yes, Mish . . . I wrote some of the bloody stuff, remember? When Kate needed the help?’

  ‘What was the headline they used again?’

  I moan, and pinch the bridge of my nose. ‘Property Tycoon in Nature Reserve Destruction Scandal,’ I say in a dead voice. That headline is seared on to my memory for all time.

  In fact, thinking about that entire campaign still makes me queasy. The effort we went to. The money we spent. The photo shoots we set up. Kate and I had Robert pose with two hedgehogs and a natterjack toad in one of them.

  Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a fucking natterjack toad to sit still?

  Robert actually suggested we should cable-tie it to the nearest tree branch at one point, which tells you all you need to know about the man, I suppose.

  Amisha sits back in her chair. ‘Ah, yes. I remember now,’ she says. ‘That was hell to fix, that was. Kate worked her socks off. No wonder she started drinking so much.’ Amisha appears to think for a moment. ‘Maybe don’t tell Nolan you were shagging Demonic Rab for six months, eh?’

  I give her a look. ‘No. Perhaps not.’

  ‘Not sure many environmental types would want to have sex with someone like him,’ she points out.

  The look gets a bit sharper. ‘No, I’m sure they wouldn’t.’

  I thoroughly and comprehensively regret my relationship with Robert Ainslie Blake. What can I say? He swept me off my feet in such a sickeningly clichéd fashion that it makes my head hurt to even think about it nowadays. He spent so much money on me, and flattered me so much on a regular basis, that it took me several months to work out how much of an arsehole he really was.

  He also did a ‘thing’ in bed that made my hair stand on end. You’ll put up with a lot when someone can do a thing that makes your hair stand on end, let me tell you.

  Amisha points at another one of my windowsill succulents. ‘That one looks a bit dry, boss,’ she tells me.

  I let out a groan of pure dismay, and angrily spray water over the damn thing.

  Putting the sorry events of my love life to one side for the moment, I still have a lot of other stuff to worry about. Namely – how I’m going to justify becoming the new Head of Client Relations.

  This starts with me getting some new and exciting business for the company. A task I dearly hope I’m up to.

  Hempawear have definitely come on board, thank God. I had a meeting with their CEO Kyle yesterday. He looked about twelve years old, and I kept mentally placing a skateboard under him. Nice boy, though. Very enthusiastic about making everything out of hemp.

  He offered me a hemp tea, which I declined. If the damn stuff gave me a prickly vagina, I’d hate to think what it would do to my internal workings.

  I came away from that meeting with a whole series of new promotional avenues for Viridian PR to explore, in order to increase Hempawear’s platform – and hopefully sales. It’s all enough to keep Amisha and the rest of the guys back in the office busy for the time being.

  The money Kyle the twelve-year-old is sending our way isn’t bad either, but it’s certainly not enough to keep the company afloat for more than a couple of weeks – hence why I’m back out again today, off to a meeting with a vegan food company that Nolan has been courting for quite a while.

  ‘This could be a big one, Ellie,’ he told me. ‘They’ve got the backing of a Ukrainian millionaire, and getting them on our books would be a massive boost. We need this account, so please make sure that you sell our services as best you can.’

  No pressure, then.

  Up until now, I’ve always been very much the second person in the room at meetings like this. Or perhaps even the third. I’ve been a lowly cog. A small piece of the puzzle. And I’ve been pretty happy as such.

  But this is the second meeting in two days where I am the main attraction. And I don’t even have anyone to back me up, as we don’t have the staff to send along with me. Hempawear was easy – Nolan had already done all the groundwork, I was just there to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. This time it’s different. This time it’s all on my shoulders.

  Gulp.

  I hope the people who own and run Veganthropy Foods are more like the vegans I’ve met than the ones I’ve only heard about on social media . . .

  Their names don’t inspire much confidence, if I’m being honest. There’s a chance that Petal and Mordred O’Hare are going to be down-to-earth, normal businesspeople. There’s also ‘a chance’ I can throw on a swimsuit, stick my bum out and be mistaken for Kendall Jenner.

  There’s every possibility that Petal and Mordred are card-carrying members of Worriors For The Plonet, and have Bandy on speed dial.

  Speaking of whom – Nolan wants me to meet with them as well, at some point. He’s sure I’ll have no trouble getting them to work with us, given that I am of course one of Padlo’s bunch and a great friend to them all.

  Sigh.

  One problem at a time, I guess.

  Veganthropy Foods is based on a small industrial estate a good hour’s drive from the office, quite far out into the sticks. As I make my way along the gravel driveway leading to the collection of four standalone units, I see one field off to my left covered in solar panels. I’m not surprised by this in the slightest, given who I’ve come to see.

  Veganthropy Foods is housed in the largest of the industrial units, slap bang in the centre of the estate. I can see a couple of delivery trucks parked outside it. Both are electric.

  These people aren’t doing this by halves, it seems. It’s really quite impressive.

  I am instantly ashamed of my Mercedes. Nolan is trying to secure us a Toyota Prius to use as a company car, but until then I’m stuck with my gas-guzzling German monstrosity. The clobberdy-bang may have been finally fixed, but it’s still not exactly an advert for clean, green driving technology.

  I park the damn thing way off to the right, with the Veganthropy delivery trucks hopefully blocking it from view.

  Today, I have elected to dress down in a pair of black jeans and a blue sweater. I figured that was probably best for people called Petal and Mordred. I doubt they’re ones for smart suits. I’m also wearing a pair of my most practical boots, which is just as well, as the gravel underfoot is dirty, wet and not a little uneven.

&nbs
p; My nose is assailed by the fresh smell of cow manure as I walk around the delivery trucks, telling me in no uncertain terms – if I didn’t know it already from all the B roads – that I am in the country.

  There’s no sign of the O’Hares as I make my way to the plain white uPVC door at the front of the unit. Above it is a small sign that says ‘Veganthropy Foods’, but it’s not at all ostentatious. Why would it be? It’s not like this place is open to the public. They’d probably have a hard time finding it, even if it was.

  There’s a doorbell on the left side that I dutifully press, and I wait for an answer.

  When none is forthcoming, I ring the bell again.

  We agreed I’d be on site at 10.30 a.m., and it’s now 10.35, so I’m sure it won’t be long until someone answers the d—

  I have to jump out of the way as the uPVC door springs outwards and bangs against the wall. Standing in the doorway is a wizard.

  OF COURSE HE’S A WIZARD. HIS NAME IS MORDRED.

  ‘Good morning!’ I say cheerfully to the middle-aged man in front of me, who is six foot five and owns the greatest beard I have ever laid eyes on.

  It is a beard of consequence. A beard of enormity. A beard of such overwhelming beardness that I’m surprised there aren’t other, smaller beards currently circling in its gravitational influence.

  The hair is not far behind in its significance. It too is vast, flyaway, and writhes like the tentacles of Medusa in the country breeze.

  Both are the greyest of greys. Both are magnificent.

  Inexplicably, Mordred is not wearing a wizard’s hat. That would probably be taking things a tad too far. Instead he’s got a black top hat on, which is far more sensible and down to earth and normal and who am I kidding, I’m talking to Gandalf’s operatic twin brother.

  Mordred looks me up and down for a second before replying to my greeting.

  ‘Leeks!’ he snaps at me. ‘What do you think about them?’

  Well, this is unexpected.

  In the folder I’m currently carrying under one arm, I have a long list of information about Veganthropy Foods, and a cheat sheet of answers to questions I thought I might be asked about Viridian PR today, which I hastily put together last night at home. In it, I talk at length about the services the company can provide, the pricing structures we use, and the businesses we have worked with in the past as Stratagem.