Realising that something’s gone horribly wrong, I pull out my memory stick – and the computer dies on its arse.
‘No,’ Jim Broadhurst mutters audibly. ‘And neither was that.’
Chapter 32
Have you ever had a nightmare that involves walking into a maths exam and realising that all your revision had been for French? Well, I’m living it. I have never been so badly prepared, ill-equipped and comprehensively flummoxed.
I’m probably getting all I deserve, though the thought that a three-thousand-pound-a-month contract is slipping through my fingers while I put on the most excruciating performance of my life is punishment enough.
‘I’ve done a lot of work for the professional services in the last year,’ I bluster, aware that my panic is horribly apparent. ‘One of my biggest clients was—’
‘You’ve already outlined your credentials, Miss Rogers,’ David Caro says impatiently. ‘We know what other businesses you’ve worked with. What we’re trying to get to grips with is how much you understand about this business. About our requirements.’
A sweat breaks out on my forehead as Dusty, who has been comprehensively told off several times, emits a particularly pathetic sob. Putting aside the fact that I’m relying on paper handouts, rather than my beautiful PowerPoint presentation, I haven’t done anything like the homework I should have on this company. All I know is the little Tom told me between stretches at running club – and it shows.
I try to summon some inspiration. Instead, all that springs to mind are a plethora of stock phrases; the ones I slag off other companies for relying on. ‘The point I’m trying to make is that . . . well, I’m hoping to highlight what I believe are . . . a whole host of . . . synergies . . . between your requirements and theirs, and—’
‘Synergies?’ scoffs Jim Broadhurst, rather less warmly than Harry Potter. ‘So what you’re advocating is an off-the-shelf approach? What you did for some random law firm would also do for us?’
‘Not at all!’ I splutter. I take a deep breath and try to regain my composure. ‘I’m simply saying that your consumer is a similar sort of beast to theirs.’
‘To a law firm?!’ Jim Broadhurst howls.
‘In the sense that . . .’ My voice trails off. ‘In the sense that . . .’
I suddenly realise that if I attempt to say another word, there is a very real chance I may cry.
‘I can see what Abby’s trying to say.’
The words float into the air like a cloud of fairy dust – the first positive response of the meeting. I look up, breathless with gratitude. Tom’s expression is stern and consummately professional, and he’s determined not to make eye-contact with me. ‘Our target consumer isn’t Joe Public,’ he continues. ‘We’re after a business-to-business model. So it would make sense to use elements that worked for other organisations, including the law firms mentioned. I think that’s what you’re trying to say, Abby . . . isn’t it?’
Finally he looks at me, his dark eyes giving nothing away.
‘Exactly!’ I reply, bursting to life as I realise that this is my Get Out of Jail Free card.
‘That doesn’t mean we wouldn’t need to spend time getting under the skin of Caro and Company – its ethos and aims, its key clients and ambitions,’ I continue, pulling myself together. ‘Not only now, but on an on-going basis. Your requirements won’t stay still; they’ll be fluid, changing over time. But that’s the beauty of web design – we can amend things while keeping the cost to a minimum.’
David Caro’s face softens slightly. Jim Broadhurst’s doesn’t. I know I’ve still got a lot of convincing to do.
‘Okay,’ he says, shuffling his papers. ‘Well, that’s the web-design element, but given the size of this contract, we’re looking for more than the website alone. What about the extras we specified on the tender document? You hardly touched on those in your submission.’
I can’t work out whether Jim Broadhurst has had an uncharacteristic attack of kindness or has simply forgotten about what I put in my submission. Because the fact is, I didn’t hardly touch on the extras. I didn’t touch on them at all.
‘As you say, I’d wanted to concentrate on the core issue of the website,’ I say, my mind whirring, ‘and use the opportunity of this meeting to expand on what River would do for you in terms of . . . the extras.’
I look up to see if they’re buying this. ‘Expand away, Miss Rogers!’ instructs David Caro.
‘Of course,’ I gulp. It is the start of ten minutes of complete and utterly made-up, on-the-spot bollocks. There is no other way to describe it. My only hope is that I am probably better qualified to wing it than most: I did loads of this sort of thing in my previous job.
But therein lies the most frustrating element of this. If I’d only done my homework and spent more time on this pitch – if I’d done all the things I usually do, even for the hour and a half this morning I’d set aside before I managed to sleep in – I’d feel right at home today. At the end of the presentation, Jim Broadhurst sees me out.
‘Sincere thanks for this opportunity, Mr Potter,’ I say, then as he frowns: ‘Sorry, I mean Broadhurst.’
I think I want to die.
The only tactic now is to scurry to the door, holding my bag against my skirt, and slip out without making a fuss. I have my hand on the door knob, my bag still firmly held against the pongy patch on my skirt, when I realise it isn’t going to happen. Dusty, who clearly believes himself to have been a model of restraint throughout the entire meeting, decides enough is enough.
He bounds towards me like a sniffer dog who’s just found himself in a room with half the characters in Trainspotting. He dives on my legs, pinning me against the wall as my bag is cast aside and he proceeds to lick – no, devour – the hem of my skirt and every drop of its greasy debris.
By the time he is prised away, I am dripping with slobber and left to limp to the door as apologies ring in my ears. Frankly, they are of very little consolation.
Chapter 33
I don’t even want to go out for my birthday after the day I’ve had. But, unable to resist pressure from my colleagues, and keen for a distraction from my thoughts, I end up in a bar again. Drinking again. Oh, and ruining the diet again.
There’s a theme emerging, isn’t there?
By Saturday morning, having wantonly abandoned every Diet Busters regulation, I attempt to reinstate a mindset in which I can’t even look at a Galaxy Ripple without recoiling at its saturated-fat content. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work. I can’t look at a Galaxy Ripple without hoovering it into my mouth.
The weekend is a dietary disaster. I do no exercise: no Hula-Hooping, bum clenches or sit-ups, and absolutely no running. And I eat. And eat. And eat.
The confectionery is only the start. On Saturday I graduate to a Chinese takeaway, followed by a fry-up on Sunday morning. It’s almost as though, having had three drinks on Thursday night after the running club, and realising that the sky didn’t collapse, I declare carte blanche to carry on drinking, eating and making merry.
Only by Monday when I have to face Bernie at Diet Busters, merry is the last thing I feel. In fact, I feel a bit sick – a sensation I know isn’t just caused by the two sausage rolls, Kettle Chips and large blueberry muffin I had for lunch.
I stand in the queue for the weigh-in with an elevated sense of the feeling I’ve had all weekend: blind, desperate optimism. I know I’ve done everything wrong, but I’m still hoping that by some metabolic miracle, it’s had no effect.
‘How’ve we got on this week?’ chirps Bernie as I reach the front of the queue. She’s wearing a voluminous yellow dress and looks like the grotesque result of a scientific experiment on a canary.
‘Not bad,’ I say brazenly. ‘Though I had a bit of a challenge on Thursday. It was my birthday this week.’
Bernie looks unmoved.
‘Unfortunately, love, your metabolism doesn’t care whether it’s your birthday, Christmas or the eve of the Second Coming.
A calorie’s a calorie.’
‘Hmmm,’ I agree nervously, slipping off my shoes. ‘I did try to stick to the diet, but it’s very difficult when someone else is catering.’ Such as the Magic Tiger takeaway.
‘I hear you,’ she beams. ‘But the scales never lie.’
I take off my cardigan. Then my socks. Then my earrings, my necklace and my ring. I’m cursing the fact that I didn’t think of going commando, when Bernie gets impatient.
‘Hoo-ee, you’re not at a lapdance bar! Come on, up you get. There’s no escape.’
I’m glancing at the emergency exits, when the woman behind starts complaining. So I step on the scales with my eyes closed, waiting for Bernie to break it to me. Except she doesn’t say anything.
My eyes flutter open.
‘S’all right, love – a malfunction with the scales.’
‘Thank God for that. I thought you’d been stunned into silence with the amount of weight I’d put on!’ I laugh.
She remains silent.
‘Bernie?’
‘This can’t be right,’ she mutters, shaking her head. ‘Hold on a minute.’
Bernie scuttles to the front of the other queue, where her colleague Shirley is at the helm. The two women return to my scales and start hitting buttons with a look of bewilderment, as if they’re at the dashboard of the Starship Enterprise. After several minutes of conferring in hushed tones, they turn to me with grave looks.
‘I’m not sure how to break this, love,’ says Bernie. She has the demeanour of an undertaker. ‘You’ve put on nearly three quarters of a stone. In a week.’
‘What?’ I say, affecting more shock than I feel.
‘You did stick to the diet, didn’t you?’ says Shirley, narrowing her eyes.
‘Meticulously. It’s the time of the month though,’ I add.
‘Honestly?’ says Bernie, dumbstruck. ‘You honestly stuck to the diet and this has happened?’ She’s almost tearful.
‘Hmmm,’ I nod.
‘I’ve been doing Diet Busters for nearly three years and I’ve never encountered this. I don’t know what to say.’ Which is a first, I can tell you.
I don’t stay for the meeting, not least because tonight’s chosen topic is ‘low-fat spreads’. I can’t believe Billy Connolly, Barack Obama and Winston Churchill together could come up with half an hour’s worth of material for that.
Outside, I realise I have two choices: I can slump in front of EastEnders, crack open a bottle of wine and never face Oliver again. Or I can squeeze into my running gear and do as they did in wartime: keep calm and carry on.
When I arrive at the sports centre, late, Oliver has clearly finished his talk as the three groups are spilling out of the door to prepare to warm up. I scan the group for him – torn between wanting to see him and not – when Jess and Tom emerge, chatting.
‘Blimey, what’s up?’ asks Jess. ‘Being twenty-nine isn’t that bad, is it?’
‘On the basis of what I’ve experienced so far, I enjoyed being twenty-eight more.’
She smirks. ‘Well, I’m sure it’s nothing an invigorating run won’t sort out.’
‘We’ll see, won’t we?’ I raise an eyebrow then look at Tom. ‘So . . . thanks for, you know. Helping me out the other day.’
‘No problem. I’m not sure it’ll have helped though.’
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Has someone else already won the contract?’
‘I’m not saying that. We’ve got a follow-up meeting tomorrow to discuss it and make our decision.’
Despite everything, I feel a surge of hope. It must show on my face.
‘I wouldn’t get too excited,’ he adds.
I frown. ‘Why?’
‘Well, you must admit that the presentation wasn’t as slick as it could have been.’
‘Slick?’ I repeat, with a pang of indignation. I know I was far from brilliant, but hearing this from Tom sends irritation – and shame – shooting through me. There’s only one way I know in which to handle it: on the defensive.
‘Well, if it’s style over substance you’re after, then fine. Besides, I think I covered the salient points.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Do you?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, with a hundred times more conviction than I feel. ‘Besides, I know my firm is the best one for the job. If you and your colleagues couldn’t see that, then you’re the ones who’ll be losing out.’
He looks at me in disbelief. ‘It’s common practice for the company pitching for the contract to prove they’re right for the job. It’s not up to us to make excuses for your mistakes.’
‘I wasn’t that bad!’ The reaction is instinctive, not because I disagree, but because I’m so stung by the comment.
‘All I’m saying is that the pitches from Freeman Brown and Vermont Hamilton were—’
‘Freeman Brown and Vermont Hamilton?’ These are two competitors I’d never have thought worthy of the shortlist for a three-grand-a-month contract. ‘You can’t seriously tell me that’s who I’m up against.’
‘Why not?’
‘Where do I start? The former are vastly over-priced; the latter have no experience in anything but the leisure market. More importantly, they’re both rubbish.’
This rant may be delivered with a force that could blow-dry Cheryl Cole’s hair extensions, but what I’m saying is true.
And the thought that I’ve probably lost out on a contract to two companies I’d normally beat with my hands tied behind my back, makes my blood boil. So, despite Tom’s doom-mongering, I can’t help hoping that his colleagues might work that out.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but that didn’t come across,’ he says.
I decide to take the moral high ground. ‘Fine. Thanks a lot, Tom.’
As I head over to my running group, I look up and see Oliver by the railings, looking straight at me. My heart flik-flaks, my face burning with shame from the memory of my confession. When I glance up again, he’s still looking at me. Not only that, but he holds up his hand and waves.
I smile, waving back as I am overwhelmed with longing, and delirious with hope about what this could mean. This is far bolder than the Oliver I met back in July and it must mean something – even if he hasn’t done anything as decisive as ask me on a date yet. I join the rest of the group and try to focus on my run, convinced that the boost from Oliver’s attention will send me flying round.
While this is fine in theory, my body has other ideas. It decides that it simply can’t be fed nothing but pasties, chocolate and takeaways all weekend and run like the wind.
So instead I run like I’ve got wind. Painfully, excruciatingly and very . . . very . . . slowly.
Chapter 34
There are four words my dad always says before anything else.
‘How is your mother?’ He catches my eye briefly, before looking away.
‘Same as ever.’ I kiss him on the cheek. ‘She’s fine. More importantly, how are you?’
The more importantly is a slip of the tongue as he despises any hint that I worry about him. Mum can look after herself, but Dad’s another kettle of fish altogether. People might think it strange for me to say that about a man who used to make a living on battlegrounds, even if it is more than fifteen years since he left the Army.
I don’t want to overstate it. He’s capable by most standards, making a comfortable living and renting a smart (albeit poky) flat in a respectable part of the city. But something’s missing. And unfortunately, he’s unlikely to ever get that something back.
‘Oh, I’m fantastic, love,’ he replies. ‘Tea?’
‘Go on. Nice and weak though, please. Last time you brewed up I could feel it staining my liver for a week afterwards.’
Dad enters the tiny kitchen at the back of his photographic studio as I wander round, gazing at the work he’s done since I was last here. He’s been busy.
When Dad left the armed forces, he got a job as a security guard while putting himself through a photography course at night sch
ool. He always knew he wanted it to be more than a hobby, but it took a long time before it was anything other than that, despite his talent.
The images Dad loves creating are of real people in real situations: expressive faces of fishermen, chorus girls, farm labourers – and hundreds of others. Sadly, while these photos are his most beautiful work, they don’t pay. Not a sausage.
That honour goes instead to his commercial jobs – the portraits of businessmen and women for use in company brochures and websites. Not that he turns his nose up at those, far from it. Dad has an ability to capture people at their most human – pinstriped or not – hence the unusually animated corporate photos I’m looking at now.
‘There. Nice and weak,’ he says, handing me what looks like a cup of Bisto.
His smiling face is as handsome as it was when I was a little girl, albeit significantly more lined, something I know can be attributed more to his emotional life than battle scars.
‘Yum,’ I say ironically, taking a sip.
He stifles a smile. ‘Nobody used to complain when I made it like that in the Army.’
‘Given the standard of catering you tell me you were subjected to, I don’t think that’s saying much.’
He laughs, puts down his cup and continues setting up a tripod, his big, broad hands struggling with the twiddlier bits. ‘How’s your fundraising coming along?’
‘Pretty good – now,’ I say. ‘We’re getting interest all the time. It’s hard work though. And I’m kind of running out of ideas other than emailing contacts with my begging bowl.’
‘Didn’t you say you were putting on an event?’
I nod. ‘Priya and Heidi have started organising a black-tie do. Are you coming?’
‘Well, it’s not really my scene, Abby,’ he says. This, I know, is an understatement. Dad always despised going to these things with Mum – he’s a lot more low-key than her. ‘Unless you really want me there. Is your mum going?’
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