Going Green

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Going Green Page 24

by Nick Spalding


  ‘Weareacompanythathastheskillsexperienceandtalent toprovideyouwithwhateverpublicrelationsyourequiregoingforwardandIcanguaranteethatwithusyouwillseebothyourbusinessandyourreputationgrowalreadywehaveseentheclientsonourbooksincreasetheirprofitmarginsandtheirstandinginourlocalcommunitiesgofromstrengthtostrengththankstotheuniquelyenviromentallyconsciousprthatwecanprovide—’

  ‘Please stop!’ Mr Pieters cries.

  I stare up at him. ‘But I’m not finished yet, and I have’ – I glance at the clock – ‘three seconds left. No, two seconds. No, one second. No – oh, damn it.’

  Silence descends. A horrible, awkward, terrified silence. The kind of silence that just wants to forget it was ever brought into existence. The kind of silence that will probably develop a serious drinking problem at some point, in a vain attempt to dull the pain and misery of its agonising life.

  I sniff a couple of times, before slowly gathering up my scattered papers and placing them back in my briefcase. I do this as the room of Hergebruikt’s finest watch me with aghast horror. They dare not speak. Possibly because my high-speed rant has just sucked most of the oxygen out of the room.

  With all the papers gathered back into the briefcase, I turn to the woman with my pastry in her lap and pick it up, placing it on top of my failed speech like a revered artefact placed upon a velvet cushion. I then close the briefcase slowly and look back up at the table of people, a bland expression on my face.

  ‘Thank you very much for seeing me,’ I say, mustering as much dignity in my voice as I can. ‘I hope you will consider Viridian PR for your public-relations needs.’

  I then pick up my briefcase, turn very, very slowly on the heel that isn’t broken, and hobble my way back out of the conference room, closing the doors behind me silently as I do so.

  I stayed the night in a nearby hotel.

  The minibar didn’t stand a chance.

  Chapter Eleven

  FOUR NORMAL LIGHTBULBS

  ‘You could do with a holiday.’

  I look into Nolan’s concerned eyes, and feel some (not much, but some) of the rage dribble out of me.

  ‘Yes. I probably could,’ I concede. ‘But I’m not going to get one. We’re just too busy.’

  ‘That’s my point. Everything is very . . . intense right now. It’s probably making us all a little crazy, and a bit of time away from it would be the best thing for us.’

  ‘Me, Nolan. You’re talking about me. I don’t see anyone else around here ranting at a bunch of terrified Europeans.’

  ‘You were trying your best.’

  ‘I was having an episode, Nolan. I’m self-aware enough to know that. A stress-induced episode, brought on by one of the single worst days of my adult life.’

  ‘Well, I thought you did very well to even get to the meeting before it was completely over. And . . . you know . . . you had a go.’

  ‘I threw a cheesy pastry at someone. If that’s what happens when I have a go, it’s probably best I don’t.’

  You can’t fault him for trying to make me feel better, but his words are falling on deaf ears. I made a right idiot of myself in Brussels, and there’s nothing anyone can do to make me feel better about it.

  I am embarrassed and angry. Embarrassed at myself for letting the trials and tribulations of that day turn me into some sort of raving, insane woman – and mad at the rest of the bloody world for allowing me to get into that state.

  It should not be that fucking difficult to get across such a small section of continent without having a nervous breakdown. Not without having to resort to something with wings, anyway.

  How the hell are we meant to fly less when the alternative is tight crowds, smelly farts, hairy arses, ballistic cheese pastries, strikes, delays, broken heels, broken elevators and broken trains?

  Not to mention broken minds, after having to negotiate that lot.

  I have been incandescent with rage at the unfairness of it all since I got back to the UK this afternoon – having had to endure another elongated journey back from Brussels, thanks to the fact that those signalling issues were still going on the next day. At least I had the luxury of not having an important appointment to keep, though. I could eat my falafel wrap (I’m never eating anything that combines pastry with cheese again in my life) in relative peace, and watch the world go by – very slowly – in the safe and secure knowledge that I was under no time constraint whatsoever.

  If we could all just travel like that, then there’d be no need to pollute the atmosphere with all of those planes. The aviation industry probably only really exists because we all have to get everywhere as fast as possible. I doubt anyone actually likes doing it. Not if they’re being honest with themselves, anyway.

  And I have to be honest with myself as well – I’m allowing my new-found sense of urgency about the climate to turn me into a stressed-out, frustration-filled fool. The kind of person who others probably avoid at dinner parties.

  But I don’t know what to do about it. Everywhere I look I see nothing constructive being done. Everywhere I look I see people with their heads in the sand.

  Aaaargh!

  ‘I know. It’s frustrating,’ Nolan says, when I’ve told him all of this. ‘But there’s no point in letting it ruin your life. Anger won’t help.’

  ‘No? I think a bit more anger from enough people might just do the trick,’ I argue, not willing to just let the whole thing slide off me.

  ‘Well, you’ve got to try,’ Nolan tells me, ‘otherwise it’ll just drive you mad.’ He sits back in his chair. ‘Which is why I’m recommending you take a few days off. Not a whole week – you’re right, we don’t have the time for that – but Friday through Monday should do it. A nice long weekend . . . we can go somewhere pleasant. Unwind a bit.’

  ‘We?’ I say, blinking a couple of times.

  Nolan smiles a little shyly. ‘Yes. I’d like to come with you, if that’s . . . that’s okay?’

  ‘Okay?’ I say, suddenly feeling quite emotional. ‘I’d love it, Nolan.’ I pause, and take a deep breath. ‘But I thought . . . thought what with everything that’s happened . . . the stuff about how I pretended . . . and that whole thing with Robert Ainslie Blake . . .’

  Nolan takes my hand, squeezing it in a gentle and comforting manner. ‘It’s fine, Ellie. Honestly. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and none of that matters. Okay, you didn’t start off on the right foot with the job, but I know you’ve changed. The lengths you went through to get to that meeting without jumping on a plane prove that. You’re different now, from the way you were back then.’

  ‘I am! I really am!’

  ‘And I can’t really be upset with you just because you dated a man . . . a man like that.’ He grins. ‘I once went out with a girl who liked to fart on my head.’

  I can’t help but burst out laughing.

  Nolan chuckles too. ‘She did. She would wait until I was comfortable on the couch, and then she would stick her arse in my face and let rip.’ His brow furrows. ‘She was actually surprised when I ended the relationship, can you believe that?’

  I’m laughing so hard now, I think I’m going to start crying.

  ‘So, we’re . . . okay?’ I eventually say.

  Nolan nods. ‘Yeah. I really do like you a lot, Ellie . . . more than just like you, in fact. And nothing you’ve done in the past has changed that. It’s the Ellie Cooke of the present and the future I care about. Can we just forget about it all, move on, and go away for a few days together?’

  ‘Oh God, yes!’ I cry happily, and throw my arms around him, to give him the biggest hug possible.

  It’s fucking wonderful on every level.

  And he’s wonderful on every level, isn’t he?

  Robert Ainslie Blake was the biggest mistake of my entire love life, but Nolan Reece just might be the complete opposite of that.

  I finally feel like I can put the sorry business of both Robert and my dishonesty behind me, and move forward again, into a brighter future.

&nbs
p; . . . which starts with a great deal of Passionate Kissing by the Ficus (available soon on Kindle and in paperback).

  In fact, if I’m not very careful, and don’t get myself under control, there will be much more going on against the ficus than just passionate kissing, and I don’t think the poor thing needs to be subjected to that.

  I reluctantly pull myself away from Nolan, so we can both regain some sort of composure. After all, Young Adrian could walk in again at any moment.

  ‘That’s settled it then. We’re off on a break!’ Nolan says happily. ‘Nadia can hold the fort, and get in touch if anything really serious happens. I have no meetings booked in until Tuesday, and neither do you. It’s the perfect time to get away.’

  I have to admit, the idea of going off somewhere nice for a long weekend does appeal greatly. We could visit the Italian lakes, or maybe somewhere in the south of France—

  ‘Oh, fuck me,’ I say out loud, with mock despair.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘We’d have to fly,’ I say, feeling my heart sink.

  ‘Fly where?’

  ‘To anywhere nice, Nolan. For our long weekend.’ I look slightly aghast at the prospect. ‘I can’t get on a train across Europe again, I just can’t. And everywhere else is too far away for just four days.’

  He looks at me for a moment, letting this sink in.

  He knows I’m right. To travel anywhere decent in such a short space of time, we’d have to fly. That’s the way it always was with Robert. He always used to make a point of saying how fast we could get to southern Italy for some sun. It seemed like not a week would go by when he wasn’t keen to jet off somewhere with wall-to-wall blue sky and cheap alcohol if it could be reached in less than three hours.

  You see? We all have to get everywhere quickly. We’re all the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, when you get right down to it, and we’re killing our planet because of it.

  No. No, Ellie. Just stop. You’re starting to sound like someone who climbs on top of a tall building dressed as Spider-Man and holding a banner proclaiming the world is dead.

  His face brightens. ‘Staycation.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ll do a staycation.’ He smiles. ‘We don’t need to go abroad for a nice time.’

  ‘We don’t?’

  ‘No! Of course not. Haven’t you ever done a staycation before?’

  ‘Yes, Nolan. I have. It involved a caravan.’ My face darkens. ‘Nothing good – and I do mean nothing – has ever come from anything that involved a caravan.’

  Nolan looks a little wistful. ‘I’ve never stayed in a caravan before.’

  ‘That probably explains why you seem so well adjusted.’ I roll my eyes. ‘I have stayed in a caravan before, Nolan – and let me tell you that they are where hope goes to die. They are despair on two wheels. They bring the rain, and the thunder. And the dog poo, Nolan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The dog poo. The only times I have ever rolled in dog poo were on caravanning holidays.’

  ‘Possibly just a coincidence?’

  ‘No, Nolan. That’s just what they want you to think. But with caravans come poo. And rain. And heartache. And distress.’

  ‘They’re very environmentally friendly.’

  ‘I don’t care if they bring endangered species back to life, Nolan. I am not spending four days in a caravan.’

  He pauses for a second, thinking. ‘Why don’t you just let me surprise you?’

  ‘Surprise me?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll find somewhere nice for us to go. Trust me, you’ll enjoy it.’

  My eyes narrow. ‘No caravans?’

  ‘No.’

  I give him a speculative look. ‘Alright. I trust you.’

  ‘Great!’

  I do trust him. I really do.

  I’m sure he’ll find us somewhere nice to stay. If you can run your own PR company successfully, finding a getaway for a long weekend should be a piece of cake.

  And a few days away would be very nice. As long as they don’t involve a caravan, I’ll be quite happy with whatever he comes up with. Just the chance to spend some time with him, now we’ve made up, will be quite, quite wonderful.

  ‘Welcome to the Cotswolds!’ Nolan says expansively, as we drive past a large sign that’s been partially obscured by a slightly out-of-control bush.

  I smile back, and relax into the passenger seat of his Tesla a little more. There’s something about passing a sign which says you have reached your destination that has a profound psychological effect on you. Especially when that destination promises a weekend of leisure and relaxation – two things I’ve almost forgotten existed.

  This really, really was a good idea. I’m glad Nolan thought of it.

  And I’m glad I left the organising to him as well, because he’s done a bang-up job. He found us a B&B in the charmingly named village of Withy-on-the-Wold. A B&B that purports to be eco-friendly, no less. It’s one of the first things you read in their Tripadvisor blurb.

  Withy Views is nestled right by a small but exquisitely picturesque river, and couldn’t look more quaint if you pumped it full of the early-nineteenth century and told Constable to paint it with wattle and daub.

  A few days here should help me unwind magnificently.

  Okay, the weather is being typically British again – it’s currently overcast, cold for the time of year, and spitting with rain – but as long as it’s cosy inside, I’ll be happy. If there’s any chance of a crackling fire in my near future, then that’d be marvellous.

  It had better have a big, comfy bed as well, because . . . well, you know.

  I am fully prepared to have my wild spirits soothed – all in the comfort of a B&B that apparently does its bit for the environment.

  Lovely stuff.

  It takes about an hour for us to reach Withy Views, which I have no problem with, as the countryside we drive through is quite glorious.

  By the time we arrive at the B&B I have seen more hedgerows, trailing ivy and waving conifers than I can shake a stick of willow at. And all of it is gorgeous.

  How does anyone get anything done in the Cotswolds? If I lived here, I’d spend my entire time watching babbling brooks and fluttering butterflies. I’d be unemployed in weeks. Which would mean I wouldn’t be able to afford to live here any more, because the place is slightly more expensive than Elton John’s taste in menswear.

  ‘Here we are then,’ Nolan announces, as we pull off the B3241 on to a small unsealed road that leads down to Withy Views. The place looks even better in real life than it did in the picture, because real life brings with it the smell of flowers, and the sound of a happy, fast-flowing river.

  ‘Oh my,’ I say quite breathily, as I climb out of the car.

  ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Nolan says, as he gets our cases out of the boot.

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ I reply.

  ‘Hello! Hello!’ a voice calls to us from the porch of the large thatched cottage we’ve come to stay in.

  ‘Hello?’ Nolan replies.

  From the relative gloom appears a woman in her late sixties who could only ever be the owner of a B&B in the English countryside. She was probably born owning a B&B in the English countryside. And she obviously takes her sartorial cues from the Queen. There’s a lot of extremely sensible, hard-wearing fabric going on here, all dyed in earthy tones. If this woman doesn’t wear a headscarf when she’s out and about, I’d be amazed.

  ‘Good afternoon!’ she says in a matronly voice, as she approaches the Tesla.

  ‘Good afternoon to you too,’ Nolan says to her.

  ‘Hello,’ I add, resisting the urge to curtsey.

  ‘You are the Reeces, aren’t you?’

  My face goes a little red.

  ‘Er . . . yes,’ Nolan replies, avoiding my gaze. I could point out that we’re not actually married, but what harm does it do to maintain a pleasant little fiction, eh?

  ‘Good, good. Well, please do come o
n in. Here. Let me take that.’ The woman grabs my case from Nolan. I put my hands out to warn her that it’s very heavy – I couldn’t travel light if you put a gun to my head – but before I get the chance she’s already bustling back towards the cottage, carrying it like it’s full of polystyrene and feathers.

  ‘Follow me!’ she commands, and we fall immediately into line. You can’t say no to the Queen, can you?

  We go into the cottage, through a large entrance lobby, past several rooms and a staircase, and emerge into a large country kitchen with a massive oak table slap-bang in the centre of it.

  ‘I’ll show you the room presently,’ our host says, ‘but first a cup of tea and some proper introductions.’ She thrusts out a hand. ‘Irene McClapperty.’

  I blink a couple of times.

  Is that her name? I guess it must be, otherwise why would she have said it?

  But Irene McClapperty? This woman, who screams of an upper-middle-class upbringing where Daddy bought her at least two ponies, is called Irene McClapperty?

  I take her hand. ‘Ellie. Very pleased to meet you, Mrs . . . Mrs McClapperty.’

  ‘Oh, please, it’s Irene,’ she says, and shakes Nolan’s hand as well as he introduces himself. ‘Now for some tea!’

  Irene McClapperty (I may have to use her full name throughout here, just because it sounds so monumentally out of place . . . I need to bed it in properly) goes over to one of the enormous worktops that ring the entire kitchen, and pops the kettle on.

  ‘It’s a lovely place you have here,’ Nolan says, looking around the kitchen with an approving expression on his face.

  ‘Thank you! We do try to maintain a good home for our guests.’

  ‘It’s lovely you’re concerned with being environmentally friendly,’ I add, keen to ask her about it. It’s one of the main selling points of this trip for us, so it’s worth finding out a bit more before we go any further.

  ‘Oh . . . oh yes,’ Irene McClapperty responds as she pops a couple of teabags into a pot. ‘We are trying our best to be kinder to the creatures of God’s green earth.’

 

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