Piks waves a hand. ‘Oh, it’s no trouble. We’re keen on seeing as many designers as we can for this job.’
This makes me involuntarily grind my teeth again. I was rather hoping they wouldn’t have many people competing for the tender. Realising I probably have a lot more competition than just Zap Graphics is irritating.
‘Shall we go through to our touch zone, and see what you’ve got to offer us?’
‘OK,’ I say, slightly confused.
What on earth is a touch zone? I don’t think I want to go into something called a touch zone with a complete stranger wearing baggy multicoloured clothing. Things may happen. Strange things.
But Pikky has already started sashaying away from me, so I’d better follow – and hope nothing untoward happens to my touch zone in the coming few minutes.
Pikky leads me through a small office space full of brightly dressed individuals, all sitting behind brand-new iMacs. None of them appear to be doing any work whatsoever, but this doesn’t appear to trouble Pikky in the slightest.
One of them, a woman who would probably be stunningly beautiful if it weren’t for the blue hair and three inches of thick make-up, smiles at me as I walk past. There’s pity in that smile. Pity for the old man clutching his rucksack as he walks in fear through the valley of the shadow of the eyeliner.
I try to smile back, but the ongoing assault of colour from all angles has rather discombobulated my brain, and the smile looks more like a grimace of terror.
What the hell am I doing here?
These people aren’t going to want me to design their spring campaign for them. They all have computers far better than mine – and actually understand the people they’re trying to design fashion for. What possible input could I realistically have?
Run away! my thirty-six-year-old brain insists.
Yes! Do that! my thirty-six-year-old bowels agree.
I try my best to ignore them and scuttle off behind Pikky as he walks out of the office area and into a room that makes the rest of Fluidity’s offices look positively boring.
Every wall in here is covered in fabric. A thousand different samples of a thousand different materials, all stuck to the wall . . . and just waiting for someone to give them a poke.
‘Welcome to the touch zone,’ Pikky tells me as he walks over to where two other individuals are sitting on a gigantic sofa. The sofa is also a patchwork of materials, and therefore blends into the wall behind it like an upholstery chameleon.
Sitting on the long sofa is a woman wearing a see-through shower curtain. Sitting next to her is a cowboy.
Look, I’m sorry, but I’m not making this stuff up.
That is a shower curtain she’s wearing. I can see little plastic ducks on it. The ducks are multicoloured, so they’re very on-brand for Fluidity.
The cowboy . . . is a bloody cowboy. What more do you need?
The cowboy hat is white – if that helps – and the chaps are brown leather. The waistcoat is as black as the handlebar moustache. I’m pretty sure the moustache is fake, though, as the person beneath it looks about sixteen.
‘Andy Bellows, please meet my partners in fluidity, Winery Smalls and Tex.’
No, that’s not a typo you see there. I deliberately didn’t give Fluidity a capital letter when Pikky said it, because I just know he wasn’t referring to their company name, but a state of mind that they all share. There’s fluidity going on here, all right. Fluidity between bizarre and cheerfully insane.
‘Hello, Mr Bellows,’ Winery Smalls says, inclining her head. As she does this, the shower curtain rustles.
‘Hello,’ I reply, trying not to look at her skimpy underwear beneath the shower curtain.
‘Howdy,’ Tex drawls, tipping his cowboy hat slightly. The drawl is slightly ruined by the fact it’s in a broad Lancashire accent.
‘Yes . . . and to you,’ I tell him. ‘Howdy, indeed.’
I would like nothing more at this point than to ask why they are both dressed like that.
Is it a bet? I want to enquire.
Why is her name Winery Smalls? Is that her real name? And, if so, how much did her parents enjoy alcohol?
Why is he a cowboy? Is his real name Tex? Is the moustache actually fake? Is the Lancashire accent real?
I want answers to all of these questions, but it’s quite apparent I’m not going to get them, because Pikky, having made the introductions, doesn’t look like he intends to follow them up with any kind of explanation.
‘So, Andy, we have a smart screen at the end of the room. You’ll find it underneath that large square of hessian,’ he tells me. ‘You’ll just need to Bluetooth it to your iPad and you should be ready to go, as we agreed.’
‘Oh . . . OK,’ I say, still unable to quite get my head around the shower curtain and cowboy hat.
‘Please feel free to run your hand across the wall on your way,’ Winery Smalls tells me. ‘The tactile sensation should calm your second soul.’
Second soul?
I’m not entirely sure I have a first one, and now this shower-curtain-clad woman is telling me I have a second one?
There’s a part of me that is starting to think this entire thing is either a massive wind-up, or a fever dream brought on by too much Candy Crush.
Turning slowly away from the three fashionistas, I do as I’m told and run my hand along the wall as I make my way to the hessian-covered smart screen at the end of the room.
‘Ooh,’ Winery Smalls says, almost orgasmically, as I reach the velour.
Nobody has felt this good about velour since 1978.
It certainly doesn’t feel particularly good to me as I drag my fingers across it, and I’m quite relieved when I hit sponge on the next panel.
I like sponge. I have three of them in my bathroom.
Giving it a final little poke, I move away from the tactile wall and lift the brown hessian to reveal a reassuringly boring smart television screen. It’s lovely to see something so solid, straight and black after all that eclectic colour.
‘Pull the hessian away, Andy,’ Pikky tells me. ‘It’s attached with Velcro.’
‘Velcro,’ Winery parrots, rolling her eyes with pleasure.
I do this, trying to ignore Winery’s small, ecstatic moan at the sound of Velcro strips pulling apart. These are some very strange people I’m dealing with here.
It takes me only a few seconds to link my iPad to the screen, and within moments I am ready to start my presentation.
‘Good morning,’ I say formally to the three people sitting with expectant looks on their faces. ‘I am very pleased to be here today, to pitch you my ideas for your newest campaign.’
‘Excellent!’ Pikky says, clapping his hands together.
‘Divine,’ Winery Smalls agrees.
‘Tarnation,’ Tex remarks.
I’m not sure he understands what that word actually means.
Nevertheless, I have to present to these people, so ignoring their idiosyncrasies is paramount if I’m to get through this. I can’t spend the next ten minutes worrying about why a young man from Lancashire feels the need to dress like a cowboy.
I launch into the presentation as best I can.
To begin with, it seems to be going well. My Google research about Fluidity appears to have paid dividends, as I get a lot of nods and smiles from my audience as I talk about what I think their vision for the company going forward should be, and how my graphic design sensibilities can work for them.
I then show the three of them some sample text images I think would be appropriate for the upcoming campaign’s wording. I’ve created some truly awful fonts for this. All jagged edges and overblown serifs that most people would reject instantly . . . but this lot seem to think are right up their street.
It’s actually going very well, until Winery Smalls drops a bombshell.
‘It’s so nice to see how different people can come up with the same idea,’ she says, interrupting me as I’m trying to explain how the eclectic font
s I’ve created will complement the badger-ravaged clothing they want to sell to poor, unsuspecting members of the Gen Z population.
‘Pardon me?’ I reply, a bit nonplussed.
She leans forward. ‘I just think it’s wonderful how the creative process works.’ Her hands go to her chest. ‘I’m in awe of it. That two people, entirely unrelated, can come up with graphics that look so similar. It really must mean Fluidity has a strong and clear message that you’ve both understood so well.’
‘Both? Similar?’ I say, now completely confused.
‘What Winery means,’ Pikky interjects, ‘is that the work you’re showing us is very similar to the designs Zap Graphics presented us with yesterday.’
My jaw muscles instantly tighten, and I can feel my teeth wanting to clench themselves together. ‘Is it?’
‘Yes!’ Winery crows happily. ‘Isn’t that a wonderful, majestic thing?’
‘Majestic,’ I repeat, barely able to get the word out.
‘It really is quite amazing,’ Pikky continues. ‘A real wonder how you can both provide such similar proposals without having worked together on it.’ Pikky’s eyebrow arches with the last few words, indicating that he doesn’t believe for a second that Zap Graphics and I haven’t colluded on this project.
But that’s not true!
I don’t even know the guy’s bloody name!
The only way we’d have the same kind of work to show off is if one of us had copied the other, and I know for a fact that it wasn’t—
Oh, bloody hell.
Is that it? Has Zap Graphics somehow hacked into my computer and nicked my ideas?!
Yes! That’s it!
The bastard!
My stomach flips as the horror of it envelops me. I have been hacked and ripped off. No doubt about it!
‘Are you going to continue, Andy?’ Pikky says expectantly.
Oh, Christ. Now I have to finish this damn presentation? Knowing that some bastard – whose name I don’t even know – has stolen my work?
‘Yes, yes!’ Winery exclaims, bouncing up and down on the chair and making her shower curtain rustle loudly. ‘Please carry on! I’m so interested in your creative process!’
‘Y’all keep going, y’hear?’ Tex comments, sounding like someone who owns a whippet while looking like someone who owns a cattle ranch.
The world has gone mad.
‘Er . . .’ I say, looking down at my iPad.
I should continue.
Just because they’ve already seen Zap Graphics doesn’t mean his stuff is actually better than mine. I could still win this.
Focus on your goals, as Lucas La Forte would no doubt remind me, if he were here.
Christ, I wish he was here. Winery would probably go and lick his expensive suit, thus taking some of the attention off my shoulders.
‘Er . . . let me move on to what I want to do for the online placements you mentioned in your tender.’
‘Oh, excellent!’ Winery says, far too excited about this whole thing for my liking. ‘I bet that’ll be the same as the other Andy’s work as well!’
‘What?’ I spit, not able to help myself.
‘Why, don’t you know?’ Pikky says with a smile. ‘The man behind Zap Graphics is also an Andy. Andy Roan, I think his name was. Lovely chap. Very handsome. Very talented.’
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I’m dead in the water here.
I grind my teeth together, sending a sharp stabbing pain up through my right temple.
Just. Get. Through. It. And. Get. Out.
‘So, the online adverts then,’ I say from between gritted teeth. ‘Here’s what I think you should do.’
I flick my iPad screen to reveal the layout I’ve designed.
‘Oh yes! So similar again!’ Winery cries with happiness. ‘Magnificent!’
If I grind my teeth any more, I’m going to turn them to powder.
I don’t look at any of them, instead just concentrating on the two months of work that’s on the TV screen.
‘If you look, you can see that I’ve gone for an eclectic design that really shows just how vigrant and gold I think we can make the campaign.’
Pikky looks confused. ‘Gold? I don’t see any gold in there, Andy.’
‘Nope! No gold on that advert, Andy Number Two!’ Winery agrees.
I didn’t mean gold, though, I meant bold.
‘No, no . . . not gold . . . gold,’ I tell them.
Now Pikky’s look of confusion deepens. ‘There’s no gold in that design, Andy.’
‘Gold! Gold!’ I try to say, but the word isn’t coming out right. The stabbing pain shoots up into my right temple again, and my hand flies to my head to hold it.
‘Are you all right?’ Pikky asks.
‘’Es. I’m fine,’ I reply, lying through my teeth.
I have to lie through my teeth, because I can’t open my mouth.
‘Are you sure?’
‘’Es! No progrem at all!’
Oh, Christ on a bike, I can’t open my jaw! It’s locked tight!
What the hell is wrong with me?
‘Are you OK to continue?’ Pikky says, looking concerned.
Just. Get. Through. It. And. Get. Out.
‘’Es! I can carry on. I’m gerfectly vine!’
I’m clearly not perfectly fine. Far from it.
But, not wanting this crisis to turn into a disaster, I try to ignore the sharp stabs of pain that continue to pulse through my temple, and look back to the TV screen.
‘Der cloves you make are vigrant, gold, exciting and mogern. My gravic designs revlec’ dis.’
Jesus Christ. I sound like a ventriloquist trying to do a Jamaican accent – and failing miserably at it.
‘Fluiggigy’s style is gold and very grave, so I wanted to make sure—’
‘We are not very grave!’ Winery interrupts, looking displeased for the first time. ‘We are very happy here! All of us!’
‘No! Grave,’ I try to say. ‘’O know! Grave! As in a comgany dat’s gig, grave and gold! You’re a vigrant, new comgany dat’s really grave with what you design! Grave!’ As if to further clear up the confusion, I start to flex my muscles. That’s how you’d do ‘brave’ in charades, isn’t it?
‘Are you feeling all right?’ Pikky says, now with no small degree of fear in his voice.
And who can blame him? There’s a man in front of him trying to flex like Arnold Schwarzenegger, for no apparent reason.
‘’Es! I keeg delling you I’ge fine!’ I try to reply. The pain in my head is getting worse, and now the locked jaw is starting to throb too. ‘I gust need to get frew the res’ of dis prezentation. I ’ave a lot more for you to look at!’
‘Do you?’
‘’Es! I ’aven even got to der gest gart, yet!’
‘The guest gart?’ Pikky now looks positively terrified.
‘’Es! The gest gart! The artwork for your augum winner zelecshun!’
Pikky stands up. ‘I think it might be a good idea if we ended this here.’ He looks down at Winery. ‘I think Miss Smalls is getting a little perturbed.’
I look at Winery, and have to do a double take as I realise that she’s crying like a busted fountain. Her make-up is now smeared down her cheeks. How anyone can lurch between emotional states like that is beyond me.
‘I’ge sorry!’ I wail. ‘If I gan jus’ ’ave a vew migits, I can gum gack and figgig!’
Now I’m speaking in a completely different language. There’s every chance Winery Smalls thinks I’m trying to raise some evil spirit from the depths to come and eat her shower curtain.
‘Please stop!’ she wails, burying her head in Tex’s shoulder.
Tex, for his part, looks entirely bored to tears by proceedings. But then I guess if you’re a twenty-something Lancashire cowboy with a fake moustache, there’s probably very little in this world that can faze you.
Oh God . . . It’s all gone wrong! It’s all gone so horribly wrong!
My
stomach, which has been periodically making its presence felt all day with the occasional nervous flip, now rolls over like a tidal wave crashing on to the shoreline.
‘Oh Gesus!’ I remark in horror as I clutch my stomach.
Pikky walks towards me, arms outstretched. ‘Are you all right, Mr Bellows?’
I’ve become Mr Bellows now. Not Andy any more. It’s a sure sign I’m not getting anywhere near that contract.
‘’Es. ’Ike I said, I’ge agsoluley fine!’
Except the sudden need I have for the toilet.
Any toilet.
NOW.
‘’Air’s your toilet?’ I cry in desperation, through my still-locked jaw.
Pikky, showing a remarkable level of foresight and self-preservation, steps back a bit. ‘It’s across the office floor, over there,’ he tells me, pointing at the door that leads away from the touch zone.
It certainly is a touch zone, now.
People come in here to touch cloth all the time, and that’s definitely what I’m currently doing.
‘Dank you!’ I wail, and scuttle off as fast as I possibly can towards the toilet.
As I hurry past all of the Fluidity staff, holding on to my bottom for dear life, I feel tears of frustration and horror in my eyes. This meeting could not have gone any worse if I’d simply introduced myself, squatted down in front of every single Generation Zedder in here, and relieved myself all over their latest summer collection.
The toilets (unisex, just to add to the misery) are pretty much where Pikky promised, and there’s fortunately no one in them as I barrel through the door.
Gratefully, I just make it to the cubicle before the world falls out of my bottom. And when it does, it’s incredibly painful and extremely unpleasant.
For a few minutes I can’t think about anything other than the obvious destruction being wrought upon my backside. It’s horrific. My poor anus has never done anything to deserve this kind of treatment.
Quite why my bowels would feel the need to put it through such a trauma is beyond me. You’d think they’d want to work together to make life as easy as possible, but – as I’ve said before – my bowels are contrary bastards, and smooth cooperation with the other facets of my digestive system are not their priority.
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