I haven’t totally fathomed the office politics of this place—it’s like trying to catch up on a TV soap opera mid-flow. But I do know that Rosa applied for Demeter’s job and didn’t get it. I also know that they had a massive row, just before I arrived. Rosa wanted to get on some big one-off special project that the mayor of London spearheaded. It was branding some new London athletics event, and he put together a team seconded from creative agencies all over London. The Evening Standard called it a showcase for London’s best and brightest. But Demeter wouldn’t let Rosa do it. She said she needed Rosa on her team 24/7, which was bullshit. Since then, Rosa has hated Demeter with a passion.
Flora’s theory is that Demeter’s so paranoid about being overtaken by her young staff that she won’t help anyone. If you even try to climb the ladder, she stamps on your fingers with her Miu Miu shoes. Apparently Rosa’s desperate to leave Cooper Clemmow now—but there’s not a lot out there in this market. So here poor Rosa stays, stuck with a boss she hates, basically loathing every moment of her work. You can see it in her hunched shoulders and frowning brow.
Mark also loathes Demeter, and I know the story there too. Demeter’s supposed to oversee the design team. Oversee, not do it all herself. But she can’t stop herself. Design is Demeter’s thing—design and packaging. She knows the names of more typefaces than you can imagine, and sometimes she interrupts a meeting just to show us all some packaging design that she thinks really works. Which is, you know, great. But it’s also a problem, because she’s always wading in.
So last year Cooper Clemmow refreshed the branding of a big moisturizer called Drench, and it was Demeter’s idea to go pale orange with white type. Well, it’s been this massive hit, and we’ve won all sorts of prizes. All good—except for Mark, who’s head of design. Apparently he’d already created this whole other design package. But Demeter came up with the orange idea, mocked it up herself, and flung it out there at a client meeting. And apparently Mark felt totally belittled.
The worst thing is, Demeter didn’t even notice that Mark was pissed off. She doesn’t pick up on things like that. She’s all high five, great work team, move on, next project. And then it was such a huge hit that Mark could hardly complain. I mean, in some ways, he’s lucky: He got a load of credit for that redesign. He can put it on his CV and everything. But still. He’s all bristly and has this sarcastic way of talking to Demeter which makes me wince.
The sad thing is, everyone else in the office knows Mark is really talented. Like, he’s just won the Stylesign Award for Innovation. (Apparently it’s some really prestigious thing.) But it’s as if Demeter doesn’t even realize what a great head of design she has.
Liz isn’t that happy here either, but she puts up with it. Flora, on the other hand, bitches about Demeter all the time, but I think that’s because she loves bitching. I’m not sure about the others.
As for me, I’m still the new girl. I’ve only been here seven months and I keep my head down and don’t venture my opinion too much. But I do have ambition; I do have ideas. I’m all about design too, especially typography—in fact, that’s what Demeter and I talked about in my interview.
Whenever a new project comes into the office, my brain fires up. I’ve put together so many bits of spec work in my spare time on my laptop. Logos, design concepts, strategy documents…I keep emailing them to Demeter, for feedback, and she keeps promising she will look at them, when she has a moment.
Everyone says you mustn’t chivvy Demeter or she flies off the handle. So I’m biding my time, like a surfer waiting for a wave. I’m pretty good at surfing, as it happens, and I know the wave will come. When the moment is right, I’ll get Demeter’s attention. She’ll look at my stuff, everything will click, and I’ll start riding my life. Not paddling, paddling, paddling, like I am right now.
I’m just picking up my next survey from the pile when Hannah, another of our designers, enters the office. There’s a general gasp and Flora turns to raise her eyebrows at me. Poor Hannah had to go home on Friday. She really wasn’t well. She’s had about five miscarriages over the last two years, and it’s left her a bit vulnerable, and occasionally she has a panic attack. It happened Friday, so Rosa told her to go home and have a rest. The truth is, Hannah works probably the hardest in the office. I’ve seen emails from her at 2:00 A.M. She deserves a bit of a break.
“Hannah!” Rosa exclaims. “Are you OK? Take it really easy today.”
“I’m fine,” says Hannah, slipping into her seat, avoiding everyone’s eye. “I’m fine.” She instantly opens up a document and starts work, sipping from a bottle of filtered tap water. (Cooper Clemmow launched the brand, so we all have these freebie neon bottles on our desks.)
“Hannah!” Demeter appears at the door of her office. “You’re back. Well done.”
“I’m fine,” says Hannah yet again. I can tell she doesn’t want any fuss made, but Demeter comes right over to her desk.
“Now, please don’t worry, Hannah,” she says in her ringing, authoritative tones. “No one thinks you’re a drama queen or anything like that. So don’t worry about it at all.”
She gives Hannah a friendly nod, then strides back into her office and shuts her door. The rest of us are watching, dumbstruck, and poor Hannah looks absolutely stricken. As soon as Demeter is back in her office, she turns to Rosa.
“Do you all think I’m a drama queen?” she gulps.
“No!” exclaims Rosa at once, and I can hear Liz muttering, “Bloody Demeter.”
“Listen, Hannah,” Rosa continues, heading to Hannah’s desk, crouching down, and looking her straight in the eye. “You’ve just been Demetered.”
“That’s right,” agrees Liz. “You’ve been Demetered.”
“It happens to us all. She’s an insensitive cow and she says stupid stuff and you just have to not listen, OK? You’ve done really well coming in today, and we all really appreciate the effort you’ve made. Don’t we?” She looks around and a spatter of applause breaks out, whereupon Hannah’s cheeks flush with pleasure.
“Fuck Demeter,” ends Rosa succinctly, and she heads back to her desk, amid even more applause.
From the corner of my eye, I can see Demeter glancing out of her glass-walled office, as though wondering what’s going on. And I almost feel sorry for her. She really has no idea.
For the next hour or so, everyone works peacefully. Demeter is on her conference call in her office, and I get through a stack of surveys and Rosa passes round a bottle of retro sweets. And I’m just wondering what time I’ll break for lunch when Demeter sticks her head out of her door again.
“I need…” Her eyes roam around the office and eventually land on me. “You. What are you doing right now?”
“Me?” I feel a jolt of surprise. “Nothing. I mean, I’m working. I mean—”
“Could you bear to come and help me out with something a bit”—she gives one of her Demeter pauses—“different?”
“Yes!” I say, trying not to sound flustered. “Sure! Of course!”
“In five minutes, OK?”
“Five minutes.” I nod. “Absolutely.”
I turn back to my work, but the words are blurring in front of my eyes. My head is spinning in excitement. Something a bit different. That could be anything. It could be a new client…a website…a revolutionary branding concept that Demeter wants to pioneer…Whatever it is, it’s my chance. This is my wave!
There’s a joyful swell in my chest. All those emails I’ve been sending her weren’t for nothing! She must have been looking at my ideas all along, and she thinks I’ve got potential and she’s been waiting for the most perfect, special project….
My hands are actually trembling as I get out my laptop, plus a few printouts in a portfolio that I keep in my drawer. There’s no harm in showing her my most recent work, is there? I reapply my lipstick and spray on some perfume. I need to look sharp and together. I need to nail this.
After exactly four and a half minutes, I push back
my chair, feeling self-conscious. Here we go. The wave’s cresting. My heart’s thudding, and everything around me feels a bit brighter than usual—but as I thread my way through all the desks to Demeter’s door, I try to appear nonchalant. Cool. Like, Yeah, Demeter and I are just having a one-to-one. We’re going to bounce some ideas around.
Oh my God, what if it’s something huge? I have a sudden image of Demeter and me staying late in the office; eating Chinese takeout; working on some amazing, groundbreaking project; perhaps I’d do a presentation….
I can tell Dad about this. Maybe I’ll call him tonight.
“Um, hi?” I tap at Demeter’s door and push it ajar.
“Cath!” she exclaims.
“Actually, it’s Cat,” I venture.
“Of course! Cat. Marvelous. Come in. Now, I hope you don’t mind me asking you this—”
“Of course not!” I say quickly. “Whatever it is, I’m up for it. Obviously my background’s design, but I’m really interested in corporate identity, strategy, digital opportunities…whatever….”
Now I’m rambling. Stop it, Katie.
Shit. I mean: Stop it, Cat. I’m Cat.
“Right,” says Demeter absently, typing the end of an email. She sends it off, then turns and eyes my laptop and portfolio with surprise. “What’s all that for?”
“Oh.” I color, and shift the portfolio awkwardly. “I just…I brought a few things…some ideas….”
“Well, put it down somewhere,” says Demeter without interest, and starts rootling in her desk drawer. “Now, I hate to ask you this, but I’m absolutely desperate. My diary is a nightmare and I’ve got these wretched awards this evening. I mean, I can get myself to a blow-dry bar, but my roots are a different matter, so…”
I’m not quite following what she’s saying—but the next minute she brandishes a box expectantly at me. It’s a Clairol box, and just for one heady white-hot moment, I think: We’re rebranding Clairol? I’m going to help REBRAND CLAIROL? Oh my God, this is MASSIVE—
Until reality hits. Demeter doesn’t look excited, like someone about to redesign an international brand. She looks bored and a bit impatient. And now her words are impinging properly on my brain: …my roots are a different matter….
I look more closely at the box. Clairol Nice ’n Easy Root Touch-Up. Dark Brown. Restores roots’ color in ten minutes!
“You want me to…”
“You’re such an angel.” Demeter flashes me one of her magical smiles. “This is my only window in the whole day. You don’t mind if I send some emails while you do it? You’d better put on some protective gloves. Oh, and don’t get any stuff on the carpet. Maybe find an old towel or something?”
—
Her roots. The special, perfect project is doing her roots.
I feel like the wave has dumped on me. I’m soaked, bedraggled, seaweed-strewn, a total loser. Let’s face it, she didn’t even come out of her office looking especially for me. Does she actually, properly know who I am?
As I head back out, wondering where on earth I’m going to find an old towel, Liz looks up from her screen with interest.
“What was that about?”
“Oh,” I say, and rub my nose, playing for time. I can’t bear to give away my disappointment. I feel so dumb. How could I have ever thought she’d ask me to rebrand Clairol? “She wants me to do her roots.” I try to sound casual.
“Do her roots?” echoes Liz. “What, dye them? Are you serious?”
“That’s outrageous!” chimes in Rosa. “That is not in your job description!”
Heads are popping up all round the office and I can feel a wave of general sympathy. Pity, even.
I shrug. “It’s OK.”
“This is worse than the corset dress,” says Liz significantly.
I’ve heard about the whole team once trying to zip Demeter into a corset dress that was too small but she wouldn’t admit it. (In the end they had to use a coat hanger and brute strength.) But clearly roots are a step down even from that.
“You can refuse, you know,” says Rosa, who is the most militant person in the office. But even she doesn’t sound convinced. The truth is, when you’re the most junior member of staff in a competitive industry like this, you basically do anything. She knows it and I know it.
“It’s no problem!” I say, as brightly as I can. “I’ve always thought I’d be a good hairdresser, actually. It’s my backup career.”
For that I earn a big office laugh, and Rosa offers me one of her super-expensive cookies from the baker on the corner. So it’s not all bad. And as I grab some paper towels from the ladies’, I decide: I’ll turn this into an opportunity. It’s not exactly the one-to-one meeting I was after, but it’s still a one-to-one, isn’t it? Maybe this can be my wave, after all.
—
But, oh God. Bleargh.
I now know hairdressing is not my backup career. Other people’s scalps are vile. Even Demeter’s.
As I start to paint on the gooey dye stuff, I’m trying to avert my gaze as much as possible. I don’t want to see her pale, scalpy skin or her little flecks of dandruff, or realize just how long it’s been since she last did her roots.
Which, actually, must be no time at all. There’s hardly any gray there: She’s clearly paranoid. Which makes sense. Demeter is super-aware of her age and how we’re all younger than her. But then, she totally overcompensates by knowing every Internet joke before anyone else, every bit of celeb gossip, every new band, and every…everything.
Demeter is the most on-the-case, earliest adopter known to mankind. She has gadgets before anyone else. She has that must-have H&M designer item before anyone else. Other people camp outside all night to get it—Demeter just somehow has it.
Or take restaurants. She’s worked on some very big restaurant names in her time, so she has zillions of connections. As a result, she never goes to a restaurant except when it first opens. Or, even better, when it’s not open yet except to special, important people like her. Then as soon as the general public is allowed in, or it gets a good review in The Times, she goes off it and says, “Well, it used to be all right, till it was ruined,” and moves on to the next thing.
So she’s intimidating. She can’t be easily impressed. She always had a better weekend than anyone else; she always has a better holiday story than anyone else; if someone spots a celebrity in the street, she always went to school with them or has a godchild going out with their brother, or something.
But today I’m not going to be intimidated. I’m going to make intelligent conversation and then, when the time is right, I’ll make my strategic move. I just have to decide exactly what that strategic move should be—
“OK?” says Demeter, who is typing away at her monitor, totally ignoring me.
“Fine!” I say, dipping the brush again.
“If I have one piece of advice for you girls, it’s don’t go gray. Such a bore. Although”—she swivels briefly to face me—“your hair’s so mousy, you wouldn’t notice.”
“Oh,” I say, nonplussed. “Um…good?”
“How’s Hannah doing, by the way? Poor thing. I hope I reassured her before.” Demeter nods complacently and takes a sip of coffee, while I gape dumbly at the back of her head. That was an attempt to reassure Hannah?
“Well…” I don’t know what to say. “Yes. I think she’s all right.”
“Excellent!” Demeter resumes typing with even more energy, while I lecture myself silently. Come on, Katie.
I mean, come on, Cat. Cat.
Here I am. In Demeter’s office. Just her and me. It’s my chance.
I’ll show her the designs I’ve done for Wash-Blu, I decide in a rush. Only I won’t just plonk them on her desk, I’ll be more subtle. Make conversation first. Bond with her.
I glance for inspiration at Demeter’s massive pinboard. I’ve only been in this office a few times, but I always look at the pinboard to see what’s new. It’s like Demeter’s entire fabulous life, summed up in a
collage of images and souvenirs and even fabric swatches. There are printed-out designs for brands she’s created. Examples of unusual typefaces. Photos of ceramics and mid-century-modern furniture classics.
There are press cuttings and photos of her at events. There are pictures of her family skiing and sailing and standing on picturesque beaches, all in photogenic clothes. They couldn’t look more perfect. Her husband is apparently some super-brainy head of a think tank, and there he is in black tie, standing next to her on a red carpet somewhere. He’s holding her arm affectionately, looking appropriately gorgeous and intelligent. Demeter wouldn’t settle for anything less.
Should I ask about the children? No, too personal. As my eyes roam around, they take in all the piles of papers everywhere. This is yet another thing that drives Sarah mad: when Demeter asks her to print out emails. I often hear her muttering at her desk: “Read them on the fucking screen.”
On the shelf beside Demeter is a row of books on branding, marketing, and design. They’re mostly standard titles, but there’s one I haven’t read—an old paperback entitled Our Vision—and I look at it more closely.
“Is that book Our Vision good?” I ask.
“Brilliant,” replies Demeter, pausing briefly in her typing. “It’s a series of conversations between designers from the eighties. Very inspiring.”
“Could I maybe…borrow it?” I venture.
“Sure.” Demeter turns her head briefly, looking surprised. “Be my guest. Enjoy.”
As I take down the book, I notice a little box on the same shelf. It’s one of Demeter’s most famous triumphs, the Redfern Raisin box, with its dinky little red string handles. Everyone takes those string handles for granted now, but at the time, no one had ever thought of such a thing.
“I’ve always wondered about Redfern Raisins,” I say impulsively. “How did you get those string handles through? They must be expensive.”
“Oh, they’re expensive.” Demeter nods, still typing. “It was a nightmare persuading the client. But then it all worked out.”
My Not So Perfect Life Page 3