Perhaps I’m just hungry.
I had planned on sitting in that lovely coffee shop around the corner from Hergebruikt to grab a bite to eat, but time is ticking away, so I’d better grab some food on the train instead. At least then I can chew on something constructive, instead of my own fingers.
I purchase a large cheese pastry thing. This is quite tasty, but I find that I am only able to eat about half of it, thanks to the fact that the stress-snake is now coiled tightly around my stomach.
The rural scenery slowly gives way to the city as we approach Paris. The Eurostar will go straight through, so I don’t have to change trains, but at this rate of progress it might be quicker to get out and hire a cab. Or a bicycle. Or walk. Or shuffle along on my butt cheeks.
We eventually do get across and out of Paris, but we’re easily running an hour late by this time, and my contingency is rapidly disappearing into the ether. I still have to catch a taxi when I get to Brussels Midi station, so I hope to God there’s plenty of them sat outside waiting for customers. These are the kinds of things that don’t cross your mind when you think you’ve got plenty of time, but become acute when that time rapidly diminishes into nothing.
I am again forced to think about how my journey may have gone if I’d taken a plane – and I have to immediately stop that train of thought before it stresses me out even further.
You’d be there by now.
Shut up.
You would though, wouldn’t you?
Shut up. Shut up!
When we pull into Brussels Midi, I am a bundle of nerves. I now have less than thirty minutes to get across the city to the meeting. I had originally planned to have two hours. I’m still likely to get there on time, but I’m not going to be the cool, calm and collected operator I wanted to be. Instead I’m going to be exactly what I am – a woman who’s now been travelling for over five hours, has only eaten half a cheese pastry thing, has smelled more than her fair share of farts and sweat, and is only keeping her stress at bay through the medium of gin.
For the third time today, I leap off a train with my heart in my chest. My anxiety levels are way beyond what they should be. I do still have time to do this – I don’t need to panic so much. But when your stress levels are as high as mine are now, it’s quite hard to act rationally, take a deep breath and see a situation for what it really is. As far as my anxious brain is concerned, I have to rush, rush, rush – otherwise I will be late. I’ve turned into the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, only without the ability to look good in a waistcoat.
I must make the meeting. I cannot lose out again. Not after Helen Carmichael.
Nolan is depending on me.
And I must prove that it’s perfectly fine to take more environmentally friendly methods of transport. That I don’t need to take a plane.
I must.
The platform at Brussels Midi feels about seventeen miles long, but at least the ticket machines here are working fine.
Now it’s just a case of getting out of this building and flagging down one of the many taxis that are no doubt sat outside, just waiting to ferry me to my—
Where are all the fucking taxis?
They should be here! All lined up and ready to go!
But there’s no sign of any. Not one single black cab is in evidence as I walk frantically along the front of the station, my eyes darting about like a mayfly.
‘Excuse me?’ I say to a passing man in a long coat. ‘Do you know where I can get a taxi from?’ I wouldn’t normally accost someone like this on the street – especially not in a foreign country – but the stress-snake is now a boa constrictor.
‘Zer are no taxis,’ he tells me matter-of-factly.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Zey are on strike.’
‘On strike?!’
‘Oui. It is about ze Uber, I believe.’
‘Uber?’
‘Yes. Zey are unhappy wiz ze Uber people.’
‘Oh. Okay. Thank you.’
‘Pleasure,’ the man replies, and carries on his way.
No taxis.
No taxis to take me to my meeting.
I am fucked.
Royally, comprehensively fucked.
I have never used Uber, so I have no idea how to order one. This is a massive and glaring oversight on my part, but I live in a part of the world where Uber isn’t much of a thing yet, and I have that lovely hybrid Mercedes to use, so why would I need bloody Uber in the first place?
If you’d driven it all the way here, you’d probably be there by now.
Fuck off, brain! You’re not helping!
What the hell do I do now?
I’ll have to download the Uber app and use it.
There’s no way I have the time to try to negotiate the Brussels public transport system. I can barely use the one in my own country. Four years ago, I had a nightmare getting across Manchester on the bus. And that was somewhere I spoke the language.
My hands are visibly shaking as I pull out my mobile phone and spend about three hundred quid downloading the Uber app using my roaming charges.
A good five or so minutes go by while I put in all of my information and get the account verified.
Eventually I work out how to book the car – which is actually very easy once you get past the signing-up part of the process – and I order one to come pick me up as soon as possible.
This takes a further five minutes to arrive. I now have fifteen minutes to get to Hergebruikt. A quarter of an hour to do a journey that Uber tells me will take twenty minutes. I am most definitely going to be late for the start of the meeting.
Never mind! I’ll be on time for my pitch session! That’s all that matters!
When the Uber arrives, it’s being driven by a Belgian man who must be in his eighties. The app tells me his name is Alphonse. It does not tell me what actions I need to take when Alphonse suffers a heart attack, which he looks like he is about to do the entire time I’m in the car with him.
Alphonse is not the fastest driver in the world, but then the traffic doesn’t really allow him to drive that quickly anyway. This is possibly just as well, as I think if he had to go quicker than thirty miles an hour it would rupture his left ventricle.
Time ticks by . . . faster and faster. The minutes dwindle. The boa constrictor wraps itself around my neck.
And then, when we hit a massive load of roadworks about a mile away from the building I’m going to, it jumps down my throat and starts to snack on my vital organs.
The road ahead looks jam-packed with cars. None of them are moving. I can see two men in fluorescent vests arguing with one another over a set of traffic lights that are drunkenly leaning to one side.
‘I am zorry for zis,’ Alphonse says, coughing as he does so. ‘Traffic ’az been very bad today, and now ve ’ave zis.’ He’s gone red-faced. Whether this is with anger at the traffic conditions, or embarrassment about the transport infrastructure of his great nation, I do not know.
All I do know is that I’d better get out of this car and start running, before I’m too late to do my pitch, and before Alphonse keels over his dashboard.
‘Thanks! I’m going to go the rest of the way on foot!’ I tell my Uber driver, and leap out of the car before he has a chance to say anything. At least I’ve prepaid the fare. Poor old Alphonse won’t go without his heart medication this week.
So now I’m running again – this time along the streets of Brussels. I have my iPhone clasped in one sweaty hand, using it to negotiate my way around. It tells me I have half a mile more on this traffic-choked road, before I can turn off and go down the street Hergebruikt are on.
Excellent.
Nearly there.
So very nearly there.
But also, so very, very late now.
I run around the corner and see that lovely coffee shop just in front of me, that I will never see the inside of thanks to my awful journey here.
Never mind. Just keep running. We’re nearly the
re!
This is when the heel on my right shoe decides to snap.
No!
Oh God no! This can’t be happening!
But it is.
It’s all that leaping, you see. You can’t leap in a pair of high heels off trains and out of Uber cars without it taking a massive toll on your footwear. These shoes are meant for boardrooms, not cross-town sprints.
And I’m not sprinting any more. Now I’m falling. The broken heel has thrown me off my stride completely, and turned a headlong sprint that I had some sort of control over into a headlong stumble I have no control over whatsoever. My briefcase goes flying from my hand.
And I’m falling right towards that lovely coffee shop – or more precisely, a table and chairs set up outside of it.
And even more precisely, I’m falling at the young couple sat at the table, who are engaged in an animated and happy conversation about something very Belgian and interesting.
‘Waaaaah!’ I cry, as my forward momentum takes me straight at them, like a guided missile. Given that they are young and quick off the mark – probably because their brains haven’t been turned to sludge yet by the vagaries of the world around them – they have the presence of mind to whisk their coffee cups off the table before I slam into it.
I’m only prevented from flying right over the glass tabletop by my hips crashing painfully into its metal rim.
‘Ow! Fuck!’ I scream, as the pain jolts up and down my body. For the briefest of moments it looks like this disaster is going to turn into a catastrophe, as the table starts to tip forward, unbalanced by my weight. Thankfully, gravity reasserts itself before this can happen, and I topple back again, falling off the table as the reversed momentum sends me crashing to the pavement.
‘Jesus Christ!’ I scream, as my backside hits the deck.
‘Est-ce que ça va?’ the young man exclaims with concern, reaching out a hand to help me up.
‘Fais attention! On dirait une folle! ’ the girl adds. She must be as worried for my welfare as her partner is.
‘I’m okay! I’m okay!’ I say, taking the young man’s hand and getting back to my feet. I’m not sure I am okay, you know. I have a ring of pain around my entire midriff that is going to need more than just a couple of painkillers to get rid of. ‘I’m so sorry!’ I tell them, dusting myself off.
‘Do you . . . do you need zome ’elp?’ the young man says. ‘You need . . . an ambulance?’
‘No, no! Don’t worry!’ I say, waving a hand. ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’
‘Sois prudent! Il se peut qu’elle essaye de nous voler.’
Oh, bless her. Look how concerned she is for me. These Belgians really are lovely people.
. . . and there’s a roomful of them waiting for me down the street!
I go over to where my briefcase has landed in the gutter and pick it up, wincing as I do. Not only have I bashed both my hips and my bottom, but my right ankle feels like it’s twisted as well, thanks to the broken heel.
But I can’t let that stop me.
‘Thank you! I must go! I have a meeting!’ I say to the couple, affecting an air of British politeness that my mind and body are in no fit state to keep up for any length of time.
‘Partez, pauvre folle! ’ the girl says.
‘You’re very kind!’ I tell her, before scuttling off down the street again, in a bent-legged, awkward hobble.
Nearly there . . . nearly there . . .
I know I’m late. I know it’s gone three o’clock. But I can still do it. I can still get the pitch across. I can still win the contract!
Hergebruikt’s offices are in a tall, gleaming glass building that sits a little incongruously among the more classic European architecture that surrounds it.
I hobble like a drunken pirate across the flagstone plaza in front of the building, and push my way through the revolving doors, emerging in a quiet, cool foyer, devoid of people other than a receptionist behind a long, black desk.
‘Hergebruikt!’ I bark at him as I stagger over.
‘Excusez-moi?’ he replies, a little taken aback.
‘Hergebruikt! What floor is Hergebruikt on?’
‘Oh . . . tenth floor, madame,’ he says, effortlessly switching into English.
‘Thank you! I mean, merci!’ I say, and make my way over to the row of elevators next to the desk.
‘Oh! I am sorry, madame! Ze elevators are not working!’ the receptionist tells me.
I freeze on the spot, and stare at him with the fury of a thousand blazing supernovas. ‘What did you say?’
He takes a step back. ‘Ze elevators are not working, I am afraid. Some zort of electrical problem.’
I’m fucking jinxed.
Truly, truly fucking jinxed.
‘Where are the stairs?’ I ask, between gritted teeth.
He points just beyond the row of elevator doors.
‘Thank you,’ I mutter, and move right along. I don’t trust myself to say anything else to this poor man. He doesn’t deserve me right now.
Grunting – actual proper grunting now, like a backfiring pig – I clatter through the door to the stairwell, and begin my long and painful climb.
‘Hergebruikt, Hergebruikt, Hergebruikt,’ I repeat over and over under my breath as I make my way up each flight of stairs.
Something may have broken inside my brain.
‘Gotta get the Hergebruikt . . . It’s the Hergebruikt or nothing!’
Yep, something’s definitely gone twang.
It was the out-of-order elevators that did it. That was the last straw.
‘Hergebruikt, hergebrokt, hergybricked,’ I ramble, as I reach the eighth floor on legs that are so shaky, it’s a wonder I can still stand.
My strange, incomprehensible mantra continues as I pull myself up towards the tenth floor. ‘Hergybergy, Hergobroko, Hergé’s Adventures of Tintin,’ I mumble, as I finally reach my destination.
Pull yourself together, you madwoman.
I take a deep and shuddering breath, before pulling open the door that leads to the tenth floor. Going through, I find myself in another foyer area that leads past all of those broken elevators, to the glass doors of Hergebruikt’s offices.
I still have time.
I still have time.
I. Still. Have. Time.
Stumbling through the doors, I happen upon a smartly dressed woman in a charcoal suit, coming the other way. She is carrying a briefcase, and has a satisfied look on her face.
That’s me.
That’s me if I’d come by plane . . .
Fuck off!
No!
Fuck off!
I will not think that way! I still have time!
Hobbling down the hallway, I don’t even bother to stop and ask anyone where I’m going, such is my extreme state of painful distress. The only thing I care about is finding a room full of people having a meeting.
Any meeting. Don’t care what it’s about any more.
And lo and behold . . . there they are: a room full of dapper gentlemen and elegant women, all sat around a dark oak boardroom table. One man is standing at the head of the table, looking at his watch. That must be Hergebruikt.
Yes, yes! That is Hergebruikt! Captain Hergebruikt of the good ship Hergebruikt!
I must impress Hergebruikt! Hergebruikt is who I am here to see! He is the man! The man who will give me Hergebruikt!
I’ve totally lost it now.
My blood sugar is in the toilet, my hips are throbbing like mad, my ankle is swelling, and my brain has been utterly broken into small pieces by a day of travelling that I will have nightmares about until I die.
‘Hergebruikt!’ I actively say out loud as I reach the oak double doors leading to the boardroom.
I throw them open and let those within bask in my radiant glory.
‘Hergebruikt!’ I exclaim, as if it’s my own personal catchphrase that I scream aloud to the world whenever I enter a room.
The poor people of Hergebruikt r
egard me as you might regard a strange wild animal that has suddenly burst into your tent at three in the morning.
They look stunned at my appearance. And well they might. They’ve been waiting on a businesswoman who has made her way here today on public transport from the UK. But what they’ve got is a businesswoman who has clearly been through a war zone backwards, while being constantly attacked by an enraged gorilla.
‘Miss Cooke?’ the man I have identified as Mr Hergebruikt says to me.
‘Yes! That’s me, Mr Hergebruikt!’ I exclaim.
His brow furrows. ‘My name is Pieters.’
Of course his name isn’t Mr Hergebruikt. The word hergebruikt means ‘recycled’ in Dutch. His name would literally be Mr Recycled. That would be a level of nominative determinism that would put Kevin Flounder completely in the shade.
‘Sorry!’ I tell Mr Pieters. ‘Sorry I’m late! Do I still have time?’
‘It’s . . . it’s three thirty, Miss Cooke,’ he tells me. ‘The pitch meeting is over, I’m afraid. We must move on to other things.’
I stare up at a clock on the wall to my left-hand side.
He lies!
It’s not 3.30 p.m. yet!
It’s 3.29!
I still have time!
‘Please, please, just let me tell you all about Viridian PR,’ I entreat, as I hobble over to the boardroom table, slamming my briefcase down when I get there.
‘But we must move o—’
‘No!’
No, Mr Pieters Hergebruikt! It is not 3.30 yet! I have . . . I have . . .
Thirty-seven seconds!
Thirty-seven seconds to tell you all about Viridian PR! And that is all I need!
I wrench open the briefcase and yank out the top sheet, on which I’ve typed my opening speech. As I do, most of the other contents of the briefcase go flying – including what’s left of my Eurostar cheese pastry thing. This lands in the lap of one of the elegantly dressed Hergebruikt women, who pushes her chair away from the desk with an exclamation of horror.
I pay her no attention. I have thirty-seven seconds to go!
‘Viridianprisanewenvironmentallyconsciouspublic relationsfirmthathasalreadyestablisheditselfasamarketleaderinprovidingthehighestqualitypromotionandmarketingtosomeoftheuksmostexcitingenviromentallyconsciousfirms,’ I begin, at a speed and volume that should really make a straitjacket magically appear. The spittle flies from my lips as I rush through my prepared statement, rendering it completely incomprehensible to anyone other than a passing hummingbird.
Going Green Page 23