“We don’t know anything about cows,” says Flora bluntly. “Or the country.”
“Or almonds,” puts in Mark.
“OK, people.” Demeter takes charge in her usual way. She dumps the papers on the table and grabs a marker pen. “Thankfully, I know about the country, unlike all you poor urban creatures.”
“Really?” Flora looks taken aback, and I sit up. I’m looking at Demeter with a new eye. She knows about the country?
“Absolutely. I go to Babington House at least four times a year, so I do have an inside track on this.” She eyes us all as though daring us to disagree. “And the truth is, the country is very cool. It’s absolutely the new town.” Demeter scribbles out smelly and scary and begins writing. “These are our watchwords: Organic. Authentic. Artisan. Values. Honest. Mother Earth. The look we want is…” She considers for a moment. “Brown recycled paper. Organic hemp. Twine. Handmade. Rustic but fresh. And a story.” She holds up one of the brochures. “So we don’t just say, ‘This yogurt comes from a cow.’ ” She taps the photo. “We say, ‘This yogurt comes from an English Longhorn named Molly.’ We run a competition: ‘Bring your children to milk Molly.’ ”
I’m biting my lip. That cow in the photo isn’t an English Longhorn; it’s a Guernsey. But I’m not sure correcting Demeter on cow breeds in public is a very bright idea.
“That’s good!” says Rosa. “I didn’t realize you were so into the country, Demeter.”
“The name Demeter actually means ‘goddess of the harvest,’ ” Demeter replies, looking smug. “There’s a very rural, down-to-earth side to me. I mean, I always shop in farmers’ markets when I can.”
“Oh, I love farmers’ markets,” chimes in Flora. “Like those eggs you get in straw? So cute.”
“Exactly! Straw.” Demeter nods and writes down straw.
“OK, I can see this now,” says Mark, nodding and scribbling on his design pad. “All-natural. This yogurt isn’t mass-produced, it’s crafted.”
“Exactly. Crafted. Very good.” Demeter scribbles crafted on the board.
“So…” He pauses. “A wooden yogurt pot, maybe?”
“Oh my God!” exclaims Flora. “That is genius. Wooden yogurt pots! You could collect them and like…put stuff in them! Like pencils, makeup…”
“Very expensive,” says Demeter thoughtfully. “But if we turned this into an ultra-ultra high-end brand…” She taps the marker on her hand thoughtfully.
“Prestige pricing,” says Rosa, nodding.
I know about prestige pricing—it’s where you charge more money and consumers think, Ooh, that must be good, and buy a whole heap more.
“I think people would pay a lot of money for a wooden pot with artisan yogurt in it,” says Mark seriously. “And the name of the cow printed on the pot.”
“We’ll brainstorm names,” agrees Rosa. “The cow’s name is crucial. It’s everything, in fact.”
“Daisy,” suggests Flora.
“Not Daisy,” counters Liz firmly.
“Anything else?” Demeter addresses the table, and I raise a hand. I fought to get into this meeting; I have to contribute.
“You could talk about whether they look after their cows properly?” I volunteer. “I mean, they’re called ‘Contented Cow Yogurt,’ so they must be happy cows or whatever? And we could use this idea in the image?”
“Yes!” Demeter seizes on this. “Animal welfare, huge. Happy animals, huge.” She writes happy shiny cows on the board and underlines it. “Well done.” She gives me a nod, and I feel myself blossom. I contributed something in the meeting! OK, it was just a small something—but it’s a start.
—
After the meeting ends, I send a batch of survey results to Demeter. Then she sends back a message saying: Actually, could she have them all in a different format? Which on the one hand is a pain. But on the other hand means that at least I don’t sit there all morning doing nothing but getting nervous about my date-or-whatever-it-is. I’m occupied; I’m focused; I’m barely even thinking about lunchtime….
OK, full disclosure: This is a lie. I’m totally getting nervous. How could I not? This is Alex Astalis. He’s huge! As I now realize, having googled him for two solid hours last night.
I can’t believe I thought he was some random guy. I can’t believe I thought he might be an intern. This is the trouble with meeting people in real life: They don’t come with profiles attached. Or maybe it’s a good thing. If I’d known he was so important, I never would have messed around on stilts with him.
Anyway, time to go. I pull my hair behind my ears, then forward. Then back again. Argh, I don’t know. At least my bangs look OK. I hadn’t realized how high-maintenance bangs were before I got them. They’re so bloody needy. If I don’t smooth mine down with hair straighteners every day, they pop up all morning, like, Hi! We’re your bangs! We thought we’d spend all day at a forty-five-degree angle; that OK by you?
Anyway. It really is time to go.
I stand up so self-consciously that I’m sure everyone will turn from their screens and say, And where are you going? But of course they don’t. No one even notices as I leave.
The pop-up Christmas Cheer place is a bit of a walk from the office, and as I arrive I feel rosy-cheeked and out of breath. Apparently it “pops up” every December but no one knows quite how to describe it. It’s a kind of market-cum-café-cum-fairground, with a “gingerbread house” for children and mulled wine for grown-ups and carols blaring through a sound system.
I see Alex at once, standing by the mulled-wine stand. He’s wearing a slim-fit coat, a purple scarf, and a gray hipster cap and holding two plastic glasses of mulled wine. He grins as soon as he sees me and says, as though we’re mid-conversation, “You see, this is the problem. They have a merry-go-round but no one to go on it.” He gestures at the merry-go-round—and he’s right. There are only a couple of toddlers sitting on horses, both looking fairly terrified. “All the children are in school,” he adds. “Or they’ve gone home for lunch. I’ve been watching them disappear. Mulled wine?” He hands me a glass.
“Thanks!”
We clink the plastic and I feel a little exhilarated swoop inside. This is fun. Whatever “this” is. I mean, I can’t quite work out if it’s business or…not-business….Whatever. It’s fun.
“So. To work.” Alex drains his drink. “And the question is: Can we rebrand this?”
“What?” I echo, puzzled.
“This. This pop-up.”
“What, this?” I look round. “You mean the…fair? Market thing?”
“Exactly.” His eyes gleam. “It doesn’t even know what to call itself. But they want to roll out all over London. Cash in on seasonal cheer. And go large. Bigger venues. Advertising. Tie-ins.”
“Right. Wow.” I look around the stalls and fairy lights with new eyes. “Well, people do love Christmas. And people do love a pop-up.”
“But a pop-up what?” counters Alex. “Is it a gourmet-food destination or is it fun for the kiddies or a craft fair or what?” He brandishes his empty glass at me. “What do we think of the mulled wine?”
“Very good,” I say truthfully.
“Whereas the merry-go-round…” He wrinkles his nose. “A little tragic, no?”
“Maybe they need to focus on the food.” I nod. “Food is a huge deal. Do they need the other stuff?”
“Good question.” Alex starts toward the merry-go-round. “Let’s try it out.”
“What?”
“We can’t assess the merry-go-round unless we go on the merry-go-round,” he says gravely. “After you.” He gestures toward the horses, and I grin back.
“Well, OK!”
I clamber up onto a horse and fumble for my purse, but Alex holds up a hand.
“On me. Or, rather, on the company. This is essential research.” He climbs up onto the horse next to mine and pays the attendant, who is a grumpy-looking guy in a parka. “Now I expect we’ll have to wait for the hordes to join
us,” Alex observes, and I can’t help giggling. It’s us and the two toddlers—no one else is even nearby. “In your own time!” Alex cheerfully calls to the guy in the parka, who ignores us.
I can feel my bangs blowing about in the wind and curse them silently. Why can’t they stay put? This is quite bizarre, sitting on a wooden horse, at eye level with a guy who in theory is my boss but doesn’t feel like my boss. Demeter feels like my boss. Even Rosa feels a bit like my boss. But this guy feels like…My stomach squeezes with yearning before I can stop it.
He feels like fun. He feels like cleverness and irreverence and wit and charm, all packaged up in a long, lean frame. He feels like the man I’ve been waiting to meet ever since I moved to London, ever since I wanted to move to London.
I surreptitiously run my eyes over him and a fresh wave of longing overcomes me. That knowing flash in his eye. Those cheekbones. That smile.
“So what’s happening with the products from Asia?” I ask. “The stilts and stuff?”
“Oh, those.” A frown crosses his face. “We’re not taking the project on. We don’t think it’ll work, teaming up with Sidney Smith.”
I feel a tweak of disappointment. I suppose I’d half-imagined working on the project with him. (OK, full disclosure: I’d totally imagined working on the project with him, maybe late into the night, maybe ending up in some passionate clinch on the shiny lacquer table in Park Lane.)
“So, head won over heart.”
“That’s right.”
“Shame,” I venture, and an odd, lopsided smile passes over Alex’s face.
“Heads. Hearts. Same old, same old.”
“Although actually,” I say after a moment’s thought, “maybe it was heart over head. Maybe you don’t want to work with Sidney Smith. So you’ve made out like it was a rational business decision but it was instinct all along.”
I don’t know what’s giving me the confidence to speak out so openly. Maybe it’s the fact we’re both sitting on fairground horses.
“You’re bright, aren’t you?” Alex gives me a sharp look. “I think you’re right. Truth is, we just don’t like those Sidney Smith guys.”
“There you go.”
“Is there a difference between heads and hearts, anyway?” Alex seems fascinated by the topic.
“People talk about ‘head over heart,’ ” I say, thinking aloud. “But they mean ‘one part of their head over another part of their head.’ It’s not really ‘head over heart,’ it’s ‘head over head.’ ”
“Or ‘heart over heart’?” Alex’s eyes glint at me.
There’s a strange little silence between us, and I wonder where on earth I can segue naturally from here. I’m not sure if it’s the way he’s looking at me or the way he said “heart” like that—but either way, my own heart’s feeling a bit fluttery right now.
Then Alex leans over, breaking the mood. “Hey. Your hair’s gone mad.”
Abruptly I forget all about the Asian products, heads, and hearts. My bloody, bloody bangs.
“It always does that,” I say flushing. “It’s awful.”
He laughs. “It’s not awful.”
“It is. I should never have got bangs cut, but—” I stop dead. I can’t exactly say, But I wanted to look like a different person.
“It’s just a bit…the breeze…” He leans over from his wooden horse toward mine. “May I?”
“Sure.” I swallow. “No problem.”
Now he’s gently tweaking my bangs. I’m fairly sure this is against company policy. Bosses aren’t supposed to adjust hair, are they?
His face is only inches away from mine now and my skin tingles under his gaze. His brown eyes are surveying my face in that frank, interested way he has. As they meet mine they seem to have a question in them. Or…do they?
Oh God, am I inventing all this? My thoughts are lurching wildly back and forth. I can feel a spark here, I really can. But can he? I mean, I only met this guy yesterday. Now I’m on what might be a date—feels like a date—except he’s my superior, and I don’t know for sure what’s going on….
Without warning, the merry-go-round starts up, and Alex, who’s still leaning toward me, falls half off his horse.
“Shit!” He grabs at my horse’s neck.
“Oh God!” I cry out. “Hold on!”
The horses are farther apart from each other than you’d think, and Alex is now suspended between the two, almost horizontally. He looks like some action hero between two cars. (Well, not exactly like an action hero, since this is a merry-go-round, and jingly music has started playing, and a little kid is pointing at him and yelling, “The man fell off his horsey!”)
His hands are gripping my horse’s neck, and I can’t help staring at them. He’s got bony fingers. Strong wrists. His sleeve has ridden up to reveal a tiny tattoo on one: an anchor. I wonder what that’s all about.
“I should have had horse-riding lessons first.” Alex is panting as he tries to right himself.
I nod, trying not to laugh. “Merry-go-round horses are pretty dangerous. I mean, you’re not even wearing a riding hat. It’s foolhardy.”
“Reckless,” he agrees.
“Oy! You!” The man in the parka has noticed Alex. “Stop mucking around!”
“OK!” With an almighty heave, Alex gets himself back in his saddle. The horses are swooping up and down as we spin around, and I grin madly at Alex.
“I take it back!” he shouts over the music. “This is great!”
“Yes!” I call back. “I love it!”
I want to freeze-frame this moment in my mind. Whirling around on a merry-go-round, with a gorgeous, funny guy…at Christmas…I mean, all I need is for a few snowflakes to fall and the scene will be perfect.
“Rosa!” Alex suddenly calls to someone on the ground, and my scene splinters. Rosa? As in…Rosa? “We’re up here!” Alex waves his arms. “Gerard! Rosa!”
There’s Rosa, in her dark-green peacoat, staring up at us blankly. Beside her, a gray-haired guy I don’t recognize is tapping at his iPhone. As the merry-go-round comes to a halt, I feel my happy glow fade away. Right. So whatever this is, it’s not a date.
I mean, I never thought it was a date. I didn’t. I only ever thought it was date-ish.
Was it date-ish? Just for a few minutes?
We both slither down from our horses, with Rosa watching unsmilingly, and I suddenly feel stupid that we were up there in the first place. Alex heads straight to Rosa and the gray-haired man.
“Hi, there! Rosa, you know Cat.”
“Gerard,” says the man, and we shake hands.
“What are you doing here, Cat?” Rosa frowns. “I didn’t know you were on this project.”
“I brought her into the group,” says Alex easily. “Another pair of eyes. Where are the others?”
“On their way,” says Rosa. “And I really think, Alex, that this is all about specifics. I spoke to Dan Harrison today and he’s incredibly vague….” As she talks, she heads toward the market stalls. Alex seems absorbed in what she’s saying, and Gerard—whoever Gerard is—is sending a text.
As I trail along behind, I feel totally mixed up. So this was always a work thing. It was always a group thing. Am I all wrong about everything? Did I fabricate that spark between us? Am I a deluded loon, crushing on my boss?
But then, as we’re walking along, Alex turns and gives me a little wink. A little flash of camaraderie. You and me, he seems to say. And although I don’t react beyond smiling politely back, I clutch it to my heart like a hug. I didn’t invent that. That was something. I’m not sure what—but something.
—
I don’t stay at the pop-up for as long as the others, because Alex gets caught up in some long phone call from New York, during which Rosa makes it quite plain she thinks I should go back and carry on with the surveys.
“It was great that you gave your input, Cat,” she says briskly. “We love hearing from junior staff. I mean, it was very cool that Alex asked you
along. But you’ve really got to crack on with that research, yeah?”
And there’s something quite steely about her tone. So, without even saying goodbye to Alex, I head back. But I don’t feel dispirited—quite the opposite. When I reach the office, I run up the stairs and hum the merry-go-round tune as I make my way to my desk.
Flora looks up. “Hey, Cat. I was looking for you. So, listen, do you fancy going to Portobello on Saturday?”
“Wow!” I say in delight. “Definitely! I’d love to! Thanks!”
Don’t sound so overexcited, I chide myself. It’s only going to Portobello market. It’s no big deal. People do this all the time.
But the truth is, I don’t. Weekends can be a bit lonely for me, not that I’d ever admit it.
“Great!” Flora beams. “Well, come to my house first—we’re just round the corner—and then we’ll go Christmas shopping….”
As Flora babbles on, I sit at my desk, suffused with happiness. Life’s turning around! First of all, an interesting man is…well. What is he? He’s on the horizon. And now I’m going to Portobello with Flora, and I can post loads of cool stuff on Instagram…and it’ll be true. For once, for once, it’ll be true.
The next morning is a proper crisp winter’s sunny day. In fact, it’s so bright, I almost need sunglasses as I step out of the house. I pause on the doorstep to get some lip balm and see Alan at the front gate, engaged in some kind of argument with a stunning teenage girl as he unfolds his bike.
She has glowing latte-colored skin, bright blue-green eyes, super-short hair—almost shaved—and long teenage legs poking out of a school-uniform skirt. She’s holding a stack of flyers, and it’s these at which Alan seems to be directing his ire.
“Charities are all corrupt,” I hear him saying in disapproving tones. “I’m not doing it anymore. It’s all middle-management bollocks and tube ads. I’m not paying money for a tube ad. You want to help someone, help a real person.”
“I am a real person,” objects the teenage girl. “I’m called Sadiqua.”
“Well, I don’t know that, do I?” says Alan. “How do I know you’re not a con artist?”