Going Green

by Nick Spalding

  After having thoughtfully chewed it for a couple of seconds, I can cheerfully say that it tastes of absolutely nothing. Literally nothing. It’s quite the achievement. I might as well be chewing air. Crunchy air, it has to be said, as the crispy coating lives up to its name. However, that tastes of nothing either. This isn’t food. This is the negation of food. The repudiation of everything that food stands for. It is the anti-food. If I just ate this every day, I’d be dead of starvation in a week.

  How the hell are Viridian PR supposed to help promote this – as anything other than a drastic diet method, anyway?

  Tofu Crispies – Eat Yourself Dead!

  ‘Lovely!’ I exclaim, as I swallow the nothing down.

  ‘Excellent! Glad you liked it,’ Petal says. ‘We’ve been taste-testing it for a couple of weeks now, so I’m delighted to see it’s come out so well.’

  ‘Mmmmm,’ I agree, picking a bit of the crispy nothingness out of one of my molars. I notice that Mordred is looking at me with narrowed eyes. The hedge has gone from being angry to deeply suspicious. He clearly knows I’m faking it.

  Petal then whips off the last white cloth to reveal my third and final challenge. ‘This is our brand-new beetroot, spelt and lentil chilli,’ she proudly tells me as she does so.

  In the bowl is indeed something that resembles chilli. It’s a bit redder than I’m used to, but it doesn’t look half bad at all. It sadly doesn’t smell of much, so I’m expecting to now be required to eat runny nothing, after enjoying crispy nothing to its fullest.

  There’s a small spoon stuck in the chilli, which I pick up and use to scoop some of it. Without another thought, I pop it into my mouth and start to masticate once more, safe in the knowledge that this is vegan food and will therefore be about as potent as—

  MY FACE EXPLODES.

  Sorry to startle you like that. I simply have no choice in the matter.

  If crispy tofu is the negation of food, then this chilli is the unequivocal reinforcement of food as a concept. This is the most food I have ever had in my mouth. My entire being is instantly consumed by it. There is now only the vegan chilli and my poor, poor taste buds in this universe, locked in a dance of death.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ I splutter, sending chilli fragments splattering across my carefully prepared notes. While this looks embarrassing, it’s a good thing, because at least it means a majority of the chilli is no longer in my mouth, where it can continue to burn like the wrath of a thousand suns.

  ‘Hmmm . . . maybe your palate isn’t quite ready for that,’ opines Mordred from behind his big grey bush, as I choke to death on this evil concoction he’s created.

  This vegan wizard-man is not like kindly old Gandalf. He’s the other one – the one played by Christopher Lee. You know who I mean . . . had a big, dark tower and a penchant for monologuing.

  ‘Oh dear! Let me get you some tissue!’ Petal cries, and she reaches under the coffee table to produce a box of tissues.

  Tissues made of fucking hemp, it appears.

  Oh, my days.

  Still, what choice have I got?

  I snatch a wodge of the tissue from the box and spit the rest of the chilli into it. I’m afraid that this probably isn’t creating the best impression of my feelings about Veganthropy Foods, but right now I’m more concerned with my ability to taste food in the future. I don’t want everything to taste like Tofu Crispies until the day I die, thanks to the fact that my taste buds have permanently shrivelled.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I intone as I ball up the tissue. ‘I’m sure the chilli is lovely. It’s just a bit too spicy for me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ Petal reassures me. ‘Mordred was insistent on the level of chillies used . . . but I’m sure he now realises that we have to rein things in a bit.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ Mordred remarks, arms still folded.

  If we do end up working with Veganthropy Foods, I will make it my job in life to ensure that Mordred is not featured in any promotional work whatsoever. I’ve only been in the man’s company for an hour or so, and I want to go out and eat a raw steak just to spite him.

  . . . we’ll make sure Petal’s plastered over everything, though. Let’s face it, anyone who looks that much like Joanna Lumley will have no issues helping to sell the products. The Lumley is British brilliance distilled into one seemingly ageless celebrity. I’d buy anything from her. And so would you.

  Petal actually looks quite upset at her husband’s attitude. ‘We must get it to work for everyone, Mordred. Our food has to appeal to as many people as possible. You know it must!’

  This was the general thrust of their questions during the sensible part of the meeting. Petal and Mordred made it very clear to me that they want to sell their ready meals to as broad a cross section of the public as possible.

  Mordred gives her a dark look.

  Petal rolls her eyes in frustration. ‘We can’t just cater for the vegan market as it is,’ she carries on. ‘We have to convince other people to eat our foods as well. That’s why we’ve brought Ms Cooke in to help us.’

  ‘And help you, we most certainly can,’ I say, as smoothly as possible. ‘With our help, I’m sure we can broaden your customer base, and increase profits as much as possible.’

  Yes, yes. That’s just what business owners want to hear. Well done, Cooke. Very smooooth.

  Petal looks at me with barely concealed horror.

  Not so smooooth?

  ‘We’re not concerned with high profits at any cost, Ms Cooke,’ she tells me. ‘Our priority is to get people to eat food without animals in, to help save as many of their lives as possible.’

  Like the Alliumaris lepidoptera . . . I think to myself, and have to suppress a smile at the idea of giving up bacon just to keep the moth of my worst nightmares alive and healthy.

  That smile is immediately quashed when I look at Mordred, to see that there are tears in his eyes. The sudden anguish on his face is self-evident, and quite disturbing.

  An angry hedge I can tolerate. A suspicious hedge, I can deal with – without too much of an issue. But a distressed, tearful hedge is another thing entirely.

  This big, scary man with a beard the size of Coventry has suddenly become very vulnerable and small, right in front of my eyes. It’s quite the change of demeanour.

  Petal gently pats Mordred on one of his large knees. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ she tells him, before looking at me. ‘Mordred tends to get a little upset when we talk about such things. He used to work in an abattoir in his previous life, and has . . . seen things.’

  ‘Oh,’ I reply. There isn’t really much else I can say than that. The intensity of the change in the big, hairy man has struck me dumb for some reason.

  Instead, I wait for a moment, and then lean forward, pick up the bowl of crunchy tofu nothingness and offer it to Mordred. ‘Have a Tofu Crispy,’ I tell him. ‘It might help you feel a little better?’

  He gives me a look. For the first time that day, there’s gentleness in it.

  The look goes on for a few moments, before he slowly raises a hand and plucks out a Tofu Crispy, then offers me a small smile in return.

  Mordred’s attitude towards me thus far today probably doesn’t warrant such an act of kindness on my part, but the look of utter sadness in his eyes is impossible not to react to. What on earth has he witnessed? And do I really want to know?

  ‘Well, guys, I’m sure that Viridian PR can really help you with getting more customers to buy your products,’ I say, hoping to get back on track again, and move away from Mordred’s obvious discomfort. ‘You clearly feel strongly about it, and we do too.’

  ‘That’s good to hear . . . Ms Cooke,’ Mordred says in an almost friendly tone, which I’m going to take as something of a breakthrough. ‘You’re the only PR firm available to us that’s offering an ethical approach.’

  I dazzle him with my biggest and broadest smile. ‘We absolutely are!’

  Mordred smiles with me, but there’s still a darknes
s behind his eyes that’s going to stay with me for quite some time.

  I look at Petal again, because frankly it’s a little easier.

  ‘So, can I report back that you’d like to engage us as your public relations firm?’ I ask, getting straight to the point. I’ve done everything I can to persuade them that Viridian PR is right for them. I’ll just have to hope that gobbing hot chilli all over them hasn’t put them off.

  Petal and Mordred look at one another for a moment, apparently coming to a decision in that way that married couples can do – without a word passing between them. It’s something I’ve never had the chance to experience myself, but hope to one day.

  ‘I think so, yes,’ Petal agrees. ‘We’d still like to think over some of the specifics, but I’d definitely say you’ve done enough to get us on board.’

  A tension I didn’t know was there releases itself from my shoulders. Thank God for that. Having inadvertently set myself up as Nolan Reece’s number two, I do not want to fail at it. Especially not at this early stage.

  Petal reads my reaction extremely well. ‘You can relax a bit now, Ms Cooke,’ she says, and chuckles.

  I slump back into the chesterfield a bit. ‘Thanks,’ I reply, and take a deep breath.

  ‘We know what it’s like when a company is new,’ she tells me. ‘The pressure that’s on to persuade people to work with you can be very stressful.’

  I pull absently at one earlobe. ‘It’s a . . . a difficult time,’ I confess to her, which is the absolute truth. She’s not wrong about feeling the pressure. I’ve never been under so much in my life. It’s a wonder I don’t squash like a butternut.

  ‘It gets easier,’ Mordred rumbles. ‘When you know you’re doing the right thing, it always does.’

  I nod my head.

  I do hope he’s right. I truly do.

  And I equally hope I am doing the right thing. That’s something I’m still not sure about right now.

  What I do know is that I’ve come through this meeting with my reputation intact – if not my taste buds. I can go back to Nolan and report that I’ve successfully got Veganthropy Foods to come on board.

  The rest of my morning with Petal and Mordred O’Hare largely consists of more jasmine tea and some admin stuff that is as boring to talk about as it is to detail after the fact.

  I leave the Veganthropy Foods industrial unit just as Mordred returns to his leek-based argument with Montrose the chef, having said a short but warm goodbye to me just outside the door to their small office.

  ‘He likes you,’ Petal confides as she escorts me back to the main door of the unit.

  ‘Really?’ I reply.

  ‘Yes,’ she says emphatically. ‘Mordred is . . . not an easy man, sometimes. He keeps barriers up far more than he needs to. You were very kind when he got upset. I think that helped.’

  ‘No problem,’ I say as we reach the main door, which Petal opens for me. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you both, and I look forward to working with you in the future.’

  ‘As do I,’ Petal tells me, before taking a deep breath of cool country air. ‘All of this is very important to us, and we’re happy to be working with people who feel the same way.’

  ‘Excellent!’ I say, and shake her hand, before walking back over to my Mercedes, which is now unfortunately in plain sight, given the fact that the delivery trucks have vanished.

  I do my very hardest not to meet Petal’s eye as I drive the stupid thing out of the courtyard. The car is a reminder that I am not, in fact, all that environmentally conscious. It’s just an act I’ve been putting on for my job.

  For the first time I feel a small sliver of shame about this.

  Up until now, all of my efforts have been purely directed at keeping and maintaining my pay packet, and it’s felt like a noble and just cause to me. But there’s something about the meeting that I’ve just had with the owners of Veganthropy Foods that has shifted my thinking.

  I can’t quite put my finger on it, but as I wonder about the whole thing on the drive back to Viridian PR’s offices, I keep returning to that look of anguish in Mordred O’Hare’s eyes.

  He is clearly as dedicated to his work as I am to mine – you can tell that from how emotional he got. But it feels like there’s a very large difference between the two of us. Something fundamental that ties itself to that inexplicable sliver of shame I’m suddenly feeling . . .

  No.

  Don’t do that, Ellie.

  Today has been a good day. You’re not going to sabotage it by thinking too much. You’re going to go back, report your success to Nolan, and take this day as a win.

  Because that’s what’s important here – earning your right to stay in the role Nolan has put you in. You are the Head of Client Relations, and doing a good job is all that matters.

  I am happy.

  I am pleased.

  . . . so why can’t I get Mordred’s sad expression out of my head?

  Chapter Five

  CYCLEPATHIC TENDENCIES

  ‘It’s a bicycle.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’

  ‘It’s made of bamboo.’

  ‘Yes, I can also see that.’

  ‘Bits of it, anyway.’

  ‘Not the wheels.’

  ‘No. Definitely not the wheels.’

  ‘And this is a product you think we should be promoting, do you?’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  I study the excited look on Young Adrian’s face with no small degree of trepidation.

  Young Adrian is – as the name implies – a very youthful member of the Viridian PR team. The most youthful member, in fact. He is also a rather timid chap, who has a tendency to fade into the background, which is probably why he hasn’t warranted a mention before now.

  Young Adrian is the type of person who sadly doesn’t warrant a mention 99 per cent of the time. This is not an insult – he’s a perfectly decent, nice individual. It’s just that he’s also the type of guy who blends expertly into the background, like a particularly well trained ninja. If Young Adrian was a character in a novel, he most certainly would only ever be one of the bit players, and probably wouldn’t even get mentioned until at least chapter five.

  There was zero chance of Young Adrian losing his job in the Stratagem-to-Viridian changeover, simply because nobody would have remembered he was there. He basically has a job for life here, as long as he continues the way he’s going.

  It really is like some kind of superpower.

  Colour me deeply surprised then, when Young Adrian approached my desk this morning, all excited and wanting to talk to me about a potential new client.

  Young Adrian does not talk about potential new clients. Young Adrian does the photocopying and gets the sandwiches. He also now helps water the potted plants – as what’s the point in being the second-in-command if you can’t delegate a few responsibilities, eh?

  ‘So, the bike is electric?’ I ask Young Adrian, trying to get as much information before deciding on whether to take it to Nolan or not.

  ‘Yep!’

  ‘And the guy has built several prototypes?’

  ‘He has!’

  ‘And he’s your uncle?’

  ‘He is!’

  ‘And he’s funded the whole thing himself so far?’

  ‘He has!’

  ‘Which begs the question, Adrian . . . why aren’t you working for him, instead of here?’

  Adrian shakes his head. ‘I’m not good with practical stuff, Ellie. Uncle Kev is the engineer in the family. The rest of us are better suited to desk jobs.’ His face scrunches up. ‘Besides, Uncle Kev isn’t the type to work well with others. Not when he’s designing, anyway.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The bike’s his best idea yet, though. And he’s very talented at what he does. I just thought it was worth bringing it to you, as we’re all about the environmentalism these days.’

  ‘That we are, Adrian. That we are.’

  I must admit, it does have p
otential.

  Not that much of a money-spinner, I hasten to add. We’re not likely to squeeze much profit out of a one-man operation. But Nolan and I were having a conversation a few days ago that was directly relevant to a project like this.

  ‘We need to champion good ideas,’ he said to me, over a coffee (brought to us by Young Adrian). ‘Fresh thinking, I mean. An entrepreneurial spirit . . . that kind of stuff.’

  ‘Reputation-enhancers, you mean?’ I replied, not realising for one second that the person who had just brought me my coffee would be putting just such a potential reputation-enhancer in my lap a mere week later.

  ‘Exactly! Viridian PR should be seen not just as a PR firm for established business, but for new concepts,’ Nolan continued. ‘We need to get in on the ground floor of environmentally focused companies, and help nurture them going forward.’

  ‘A bit risky,’ I cautioned. ‘You could spend a lot of time on something without much of a reward at the end.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not suggesting we throw all our resources into those kinds of avenues. Make them side projects . . . when we have the time to do them,’ he suggested, as he sipped his Young Adrian–provided coffee. ‘Just a thought.’

  And here – via the joys of extreme serendipity – is just such a potential side project for Viridian PR, by way of Young Adrian.

  Ah, what can it hurt to run it by Nolan, eh?

  ‘Come on then,’ I tell Young Adrian. ‘Let’s go and have a chat with the boss, and see if he likes the idea.’

  Nolan more than liked the idea. He absolutely loved it. I have to confess I felt a little dubious about supporting a product knocked up by one man in his shed (albeit a very hi-tech shed), but Nolan had no such reservations.

  He immediately got on the phone to Young Adrian’s Uncle Kev to arrange a meeting. Nolan is nothing if not proactive when his interest has been piqued – I’ve learned that about him.

  He can come across as a little lackadaisical sometimes (the frequent absences from the office are a prime example of this), but when he gets the bit between his teeth he doesn’t like to hang around. There’s also a boyish enthusiasm about him when he’s excited about a project that’s hard not to get caught up in.