by Molly Flatt
‘Hi. I’m Alex. I’m afraid we’re a little chaotic at the moment. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’ The man-boy didn’t move. Undeterred, Alex reached across and clasped one of his hands with her best authoritative-young-Founder-CEO grip. With something that could only be described as a growl, the man-boy jumped back, jerking his fingers out of hers.
‘You’re Dorothy Moore?’ he croaked.
Alex blinked. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Well, yes. Strictly, it’s my legal first name, but I haven’t gone by Dorothy for years. How did you . . . ? Oh yes, of course. The Flair piece.’ She rolled her eyes in a from-one-broadsheet-reader-to-another way. ‘Honestly, you’d have thought they’d broken WikiLeaks, they were so pleased to have uncloseted that little skeleton. Just imagine, Dorothy Moore! So old-fashioned! So pre-web! That’s exactly why, as soon as I was old enough to know better, I insisted that everyone I knew called me by my middle name, on pain of death.’
‘Death?’ He looked ever so slightly in pain himself. His brow was furrowed, his skin had a distinct blueish tint and his voice was hoarse, under the accent – Welsh, maybe Scots. That would keep the regions happy, Alex thought. She gave a self-deprecating laugh.
‘I was a dramatic eleven-year-old.’ She pulled out a couple of chairs. ‘Please. Have a seat.’
The man-boy took a step back, still eyeballing her shamelessly. After a few more seconds, fearing that her aching knees might buckle, Alex sat. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ She gestured to Jacob’s tray. ‘A pastry?’ He didn’t even give them a glance. Paleo, Alex thought, observing the tautness of his thighs through the rough fabric of his trousers. Just the type. Another few awkward seconds passed. ‘So.’ She reached for a coffee. ‘How do you know Ahmed?’
The man-boy looked at her hand wrapped around the Be Your Best Self mug. He looked at her chest. He looked at the interactive whiteboard, then at the frosted wall, then back at her face. Quietly he said, ‘Do you know who I am?’
Wow. Alex let her eyebrows inch towards her fringe. She almost admired his balls. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘My assistant didn’t quite catch your name.’
The man-boy raised his hand to his throat and grasped something tucked into his shirt. He licked his lips. His eyes were flint-grey and glittering. ‘Dorothy Moore,’ he said. ‘Do you know where I’m from?’
Alex added a touch of razor to the smile. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘Alex. And yes. We’re very grateful you found time to talk to us. Although I must admit, we don’t really care about that sort of thing around here. Beeb, bloggers, we like to treat everyone the same.’ She spread her hands. ‘Look—’ Nothing. ‘Sorry, your name?’
After another long minute of staring he said, slowly, as if he was testing her, ‘I am John Hanley. From the BBC.’
The name sounded vaguely familiar. Good on him. Although if he was already a name, he’d probably be offended if she asked whether he was digital or print. She’d have to wing it. ‘So, John’ – she just about resisted the urge to add ‘from the BBC’ – ‘why don’t you tell me more about the angle of your piece? Then I can make sure I give you exactly what your readers are looking for.’
‘Readers?’ He took another step back, fumbling at the thing round his neck. Noticing the indigo flash of an elaborate Celtic tattoo coiling out of his sleeve, Alex repressed a faint urge to laugh.
‘Okay, then, sorry – clients, consumers, whatever it is you call them nowadays. What I mean is, we both have targets here. So let’s figure out how we can make this a win-win, shall we?’
Nothing. Calculating how many hours she had left before she could take another Nurofen, Alex took a gulp of flat white. Was the silent glaring some kind of journo technique, designed to draw out deep, dark truths? If so, he was out of luck. Beeb or no Beeb, Dorothy Alexandra Moore was no longer easily intimidated. If some young gun was going to insist on subjecting her to his trademark master-and-commander schtick, she was going to counter it with candyfloss charm.
‘Did you want to focus on the holacratic business model?’ she asked brightly. ‘The proprietary tech? Our culture anti-manifesto? Or are you more interested in the creation-myth stuff? My own story, I mean?’
‘Your story!’ John Hanley literally choked on the word, lapsing into a coughing fit. When he had managed to catch his breath, he croaked, ‘Yes. Why don’t we discuss your story?’
And there it was, Alex thought. The chip the size of a cliff that had been perching on John Hanley’s not-inconsiderable delts from the start. Mr Superior Snake-Hipped Hipster Hack Hanley, who probably considered himself some sort of shit-hot business reporter, had obviously been ordered to pen a fuzzy-wuzzy hottish-youngish-woman-in-overnight-success human-interest puff-piece. A piece his editor knew would drive thousands more clicks than a hard-hitting Tech City exposé.
Oh, but Alex would enjoy this.
She rebooted the smile and patted the chair beside her. After a moment, John Hanley stepped forward and sat, every inch of his carb-free body protesting, on the edge.
‘Well, John,’ Alex began, sliding seamlessly on-script, ‘to understand what happened, you’ll need a bit of context. Six months ago I was working as a marketing manager at a security software firm – you can probably find out where, but I’d rather you didn’t name them in the piece, if that’s okay? Anyway, I’d stumbled into the job after uni and stayed for almost a decade and, frankly, I’d turned into a zombie.’
‘A zombie?’
Alex snorted. ‘Okay, so I know it sounds dramatic, but when I bring up my memories of those years, that’s exactly what I feel. Hollow. I was going through the motions without really living and, frankly, I don’t think it’s all that rare. Anyway, one day in February—’
‘Tuesday the seventeenth of February? You’re talking about the seventeenth?’
At least he’d done his research. ‘Yes, that’s right. On the morning of the seventeenth, my boss, Mark, offered me a promotion. A big promotion. More responsibility, a greater workload, even a stake in the company. It was a surprise, and not necessarily a good one. So I asked him to let me sleep on it.’
She hesitated, considering telling him about her session with Chloe that night, the emotional breakthrough they’d made. It would be worth it, just to see his reaction to the words ‘holistic self-transformation coach’. But after a moment she took pity. Hanley was looking more and more ropy, his hollow cheeks sheened with sweat. The room seemed pleasantly cool to her, but then at this point she was probably metabolizing her own fat stores. Picking a flake off one of the croissants, she took her mobile out of her pocket and IM’d Gemma, asking her to crank up the air con. Then she looked back up into the young man’s flinty stare.
‘As it turned out, I only managed to sleep on it for a couple of hours. Come midnight, I found myself wide awake, my heart racing, my whole body prickling. It was as if some sort of inner floodgate had burst.’
‘Inner floodgate?’ Hanley fumbled again at his throat, and she finally caught sight of what he was grasping at: a hideous gap-year-style man-necklace, a carved pebble strung on a leather thong. Oh Lord. She noticed, too, that his fingers were shaking. Could he be an alcoholic? Were journalists that big a cliché?
‘Can I offer you some water?’
More silent staring. It’s a mixer, darling, Alex only-just didn’t say.
‘Okay, well,’ she ploughed on, ‘I’m not a psychologist, but it seems pretty obvious to me that the idea of staying trapped in the same old meaningless grind for another ten years somehow brought all my frustrations to a head. Now, there’s this interesting leadership development model. I don’t know if you know it, John. It says that for meaningful change to happen, you need a high volume of D multiplied by V multiplied by F. That’s dissatisfaction with your current situation, multiplied by your vision of the future, multiplied by your concrete first steps. And all of that must add up to a force greater than R, which symbolizes your resistance to change. I can only assume that my D, my dissatisfaction with my life
, had become such a tidal wave that it finally overwhelmed my R and set my V and F free. You see?’
John Hanley closed his eyes briefly. ‘Are you trying to tell me this is an equation you have developed? To alter your consciousness?’
‘No, no.’ Alex laughed. ‘I can’t take the credit. Gleicher’s Formula was created by organizational theorists decades ago. Look, are you sure you don’t want a drink?’
Hanley swiped at his forehead. The hand was shaking badly now, and there was a drop of sweat rolling down his hawkish nose. ‘Please. Just tell me. Tell me what you did.’
Christ, he must desperate to get out of the office and into the nearest dive bar. ‘Well, John,’ she said gently, ‘I spent the next few hours working out my vision of Eudo, down to the tiniest detail. Then I emailed Lenni – that’s Lenni with an i, Kauppinen, K-A-U-P-P-I-N-E-N, he’s Finnish – who used to be a housemate of a friend of mine. I’d seen from Facebook that Lenni had done well for himself over the years, sold his first start-up at uni, then founded an award-winning design agency. He was quite a big deal in Silicon Roundabout. So I asked if he could meet me in my lunch break. Now, well-being isn’t exactly Lenni’s natural interest area. I mean the closest he’s ever got to self-development is ordering a pair of personalized Nike iDs.’
She paused for the laugh.
‘Okay . . . so anyway, despite that, he saw the potential of Eudo right away. I’d thought through everything that sleepless night: competitors, target audience, USP. I knew I’d need to give Lenni a killer elevator pitch, so I told him that I saw Eudomonia – that’s ancient Greek for well-being, by the way, John, but then I’m sure you knew that already – I told him that I saw Eudo as a well-being hub. A transmedia community for content and conversation about being your best self. We would pull in the best UGC alongside expert features on everything from quantum physics to hair masks. We would create a boutique stable of like-minded partners. Set up a suite of forums. Do some disruptive on/offline influencer outreach. And then Lenni started talking about merch opportunities and immersive events, and by the time I remembered to look at the clock, half the afternoon had flown by. When I got back to the office, I was so sure that we had something real, I resigned on the spot.’
‘So you . . .’ Hanley was looking anguished. ‘You’re saying that you’ve invented a new technology?’
Sarcastic little cock. ‘Okay, look, I’d be the first to admit that what we’ve done isn’t exactly cutting-edge. But it’s a combination of the world’s most inspiring emergent people-focused tools, and I strongly believe that Eudomonia is far greater than its parts. Lenni and I, and the Eudo team, see ourselves as the curators, not the creators, in this space. The true creators are our Eudomos – that’s what the most passionate members of our community call themselves. The key, John, is to make them feel part of a movement greater than any individual. Eudomonia isn’t just a website, you see. It’s a fellowship. And finally I feel like I’m helping others. That I’m doing something worthwhile.’
It was only then, turning back from where she’d been gesturing at the shapes of her team beyond the glass, that Alex realized that Hanley’s eyes were squeezed shut. He appeared to be taking deep breaths, the tendons in his neck protruding, his nostrils pinched. There were dark, wet patches spreading out across his broad chest from his armpits, and the knuckles around the pebble at his throat were white.
She looked down at her phone. Should she text Ahmed? She was reluctant to admit that the opportunity he had set up with such alacrity was not going well. Scrolling through her contacts, she recalled that Mae’s older sister had once done some freelancing for the BBC.
Su, she tapped. Need ur help. I’m in an interview w a BBC journo John Hanley. He’s in a bit of a state. U ever hear anything about him? He have issues?
‘You know what you’re doing, don’t you?’ Hanley had opened his eyes and was speaking from between gritted teeth. ‘You know exactly why I’m here, and you’re playing with me, aren’t you, you’re pluuuhhhh––’ He lurched forward over the table, gulped from the spare coffee, then exploded in another coughing fit. Alex took the opportunity to jump up from her chair and wrench open the door to the pod.
‘WATER!’ she yelled.
Fifteen heads shot up from their screens. Lenni, damn him, was still nowhere to be seen. Jacob sprinted to the kitchen module and returned with a bottle of Fiji and two Pantone Warm Red 172 beakers, which he thrust into her hands.
The door whumphed shut behind him as Alex poured John Hanley some water. His hands shook as he took the cup. When he drank, the plastic banged against his teeth. He set the beaker down and swiped at his mouth with his sleeve. ‘Why?’ he hissed. ‘If you won’t tell me how, at least tell me why.’
Alex’s phone lit up: Ally! Hows things!! M says ur a total celeb now :) Yeah I met JH. Seemed an OK bloke. No issues that I know of but not current with all the goss. Didn’t know he had changed dept tho?! Sx
‘Look, I’ve tried to explain,’ Alex murmured, frowning at the screen in her lap. She opened the browser on her phone and typed John Hanley BBC into the search bar. ‘Maybe you’ve always been an achiever, John. Maybe you can’t empathize with what it feels like to fail.’
‘You think I don’t know about failure?’
About 480,000 results, the front page declared. At the top was a Wikipedia entry, followed by a LinkedIn page, a Twitter profile, a BBC bio, a list of news articles. ‘Then maybe you don’t know what it feels like to be desperate, John. Like, I don’t know, somewhere deep inside you just want to blow everything apart.’ She clicked on the bio.
‘Are you mocking me? You . . . you . . . Whatever you are?’
She looked up into his eyes then, and what she saw stopped her breath. It wasn’t only his expression – a white-hot roil of pain and anger and a whole searing mess of other things she couldn’t name. It was the way his gaze bored into her, like he was seeing her more deeply and clearly than anyone had bothered to in a long time. Most of all it was the way that she could see, reflected back at her, exactly what those flinty drill bits had mined. She could see him see what was inside her. She could see him see what wasn’t.
Could he really see it? That dangerous little crack between the Alex she used to be and the Alex she was now? The secret hollow at the heart of her wonderful transformation? Had this total stranger somehow spotted the void?
Whatever you are.
Then he shut his eyes again, and the spell broke. Alex looked blankly back down at her phone until the image on the screen suddenly slid into focus. Fuck. Oh, fuck. Certainly John Hanley worked for the BBC, and he did indeed appear to be one of the corporation’s fastest-rising stars. But he also happened to be a big bald black man, currently reporting from Brussels on a recently uncovered jihadist cell.
‘Would you excuse me for just a second?’
Calmly, Alex stood up and left the pod. She shut the door behind her and stood surveying the room for a moment. Then she walked over to Tim, who was hunched over a laptop beside the window.
‘Yo, boss. Whassup?’
‘That guy in the meeting room?’
‘Man from the Beeb?’
‘Yeah, well, it turns out he isn’t. From the Beeb, I mean. I was so frazzled this morning I didn’t even think to ask for ID. And, well, you know those bullshit merchants bringing the IP suit against us? I think he’s one of them. Also, I’m pretty sure he’s drunk. Or on drugs, or something. Can you get him out of here? Now?’
‘Yeah. No problem.’ Tim got up and wove between his colleagues’ erratically placed desks. Alex, who had never quite believed the rumour that Tim taught Mixed Martial Arts in his spare time, watched his narrow form disappear into the meeting pod, then reappear as a dark shape inside the door. After a few seconds the second dark shape, seated at the table, stood up. The two dark shapes remained like that for a moment, then the Tim-shape moved forward with one arm outstretched. There was a muffled yell, and the two dark blurs became one big dark blur that
started barrelling around inside the pod.
Fourteen heads shot up from their screens. From inside the pod, a strangled shout just about conveyed the words ‘LOCKIE, MATE’.
Lockie, their six-foot-four Czech data analyst, got up from his desk, lumbered over and went in.
Shortly after that, the meeting-pod door banged open, and Tim and Lockie emerged with Not John Hanley secured in a two-man headlock. As soon as he caught sight of Alex, Not John Hanley started shouting, flecks of spit flying from the corner of his mouth. ‘WHY DID YOU DO IT? WHY?’
‘It wasn’t personal,’ Alex said sternly. ‘I saw an opportunity and I worked incredibly hard, along with all these people right here. And I’m sorry if it didn’t work out for you guys, my friend, I really am. But this isn’t a zero-sum game.’
‘Jacob, mate,’ Tim said, dragging his prize towards the lift. ‘Get this douche’s bag?’
Jacob scurried into the room and retrieved the holdall. He took one brave step forward, then put the bag down on the floor and shoved it to Tim across the polished concrete.
‘DOROTHY MOORE!’ Not John Hanley yelled, his man-necklace swinging wildly back and forth. Tim grabbed the strap of the bag with one hand, while Lockie used his elbow to call the lift. ‘DOROTHY MOORE!’ Not John Hanley yelled again. The doors pinged open. Tim and Lockie hauled themselves, the bag and their prisoner inside. A final bellow rang out. ‘DOROTHY MOORE! TELL ME! WHY DID YOU KILL HIM?’
The doors slid shut.
For several minutes, in total silence, everyone in the room – Eudomonia people and protein-ball people – watched the blue digits on the panel above the lift turn from six to five to four to three to two to one to G. They were just starting to move when it changed back from G to one to two to three to four to five to six.
The doors slid open. Tim and Lockie walked out.
There was a sudden surge of movement and noise. The protein-ball people became very busy. Tim meandered over to where Alex was still standing, beneath one of the plastic trees. ‘Dude was stronger than he looked,’ he said. ‘Still, the dank stuff can do that to you. Or so I’ve heard.’ Lockie lumbered past them without a word. ‘Talking all that bullshit,’ Tim clicked his tongue. ‘Hallucinating like a motherfucker, no doubt. Hey, boss. You okay?’