Girl on the Run (17 page)

‘Must be the drains again – we’ll have to get that checked out, Di,’ says the receptionist, turning to her neighbour. ‘Have you brought any equipment?’ she asks me.

‘My presentation’s on a memory stick.’

She nods uneasily. ‘Hmmm. That’ll be fine, I’m sure.’

‘Was I supposed to bring my own laptop? I was told you’d have one set up.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Sheila said that, did she? Born optimist, she is.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The presentation suite can be unpredictable, that’s all. Still, it’s gone okay for the two companies earlier. So, fingers crossed!’

She leads me across an open-plan room until we arrive at a door where I’m introduced to the company’s Chief Executive. David Caro is silver-haired and sharp-suited; the sort of bloke you suspect runs five miles every morning and drinks a lot of smoothies, despite being close to retirement.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he smiles, shaking my hand with a grip that could throttle a pterodactyl.

Then his expression changes, his nose twitching like that woman in
Bewitched
before she’d use a spell to do all her housework. He eyes me with a glimmer of suspicion, clearly trying to work out if the whiff of burned meat is coming from me. I smile brazenly and straighten my spine. He smiles back, temporarily convinced that it couldn’t possibly be
moi
.

‘Let me introduce you to my colleagues who’ll be on the panel today,’ continues David Caro. ‘The first is Jim Broadhurst, Head of Marketing.’

I shake the hand of a young, austere man with thinning hair and a look of Harry Potter, minus the glasses. ‘Pleased to meet you. And this is Dusty, my guide dog,’ he says.

I look down and focus on a pale-haired Labrador, only then realising that Jim Broadhurst is blind.

‘Oh, he’s lovely,’ I say, stooping to stroke the dog. As my hand is inches from Dusty’s head, however, I detect a subtle shift in his demeanour. The Labrador leaps at me excitedly, as if I’m the most thrilling thing to have happened to him all day.

Jim Broadhurst pulls him back, alarmed. ‘Goodness. Sorry about that,’ he says. ‘He’s very young – just trained. Still, he’s not normally like this.’

David Caro coughs, clearly wanting to get started. ‘I also thought it was a good idea to bring in one of our architects . . .’ I spin round. ‘This is—’

‘Tom Bronte,’ I finish for him, feeling uncharacteristically flustered. I didn’t know he was going to be here. While I’ve done hundreds of these presentations, doing it in front of someone I know socially makes me feel horribly self-conscious.

David looks perplexed.

‘Abby and I know each other,’ Tom explains. He looks unbelievably glamorous – like a Ralph Lauren model. Everything else in the room looks grey in comparison. I reposition my bag so it’s pressed firmly over the oily debris on my skirt and take a step away.

‘Yes, I think you said,’ says David Caro. ‘It was you who recommended River, wasn’t it?’

‘Not recommended exactly,’ Tom says quickly. ‘I’m not familiar with Abby’s work, though obviously, I’m sure she’ll be
very
competent.’

Thanks a bunch.
I’d have appreciated a rather more convincing endorsement.

I’m invited to take a seat as the others follow suit, settling down for my fifteen-minute presentation. At least, the humans settle down.

Dusty does quite the opposite. As he stands panting frantically next to his owner on the other side of the table, the agitation my presence appears to have provoked is immediately apparent. He whimpers and whines, twitches and tugs, as Jim Broadhurst shakes his head in bewilderment.

‘Before we begin,’ he says, attempting to ignore the fact that his dog looks as if he’s swallowed several tabs of Ecstasy, ‘can I clarify something on your submission that I assume is a mistake?’

I stiffen, but attempt to smile as I take out my memory stick. I’ve used that document as the basis for God knows how many proposals, and it’s as perfect as it gets. ‘Of course.’

‘It’s the cost you specified.’

Oh, here we go. We haven’t even started and he’s already trying to drive down my price.

‘You’ve stated here that you’d charge us a thousand pounds per month.’ He pulls Dusty back into a sit.

‘Yes.’

He stares in my direction as Dusty whines again. ‘But this is a
three
-thousand-pound-a-month contract. That’s what we specified in the tender document.’

I blink. Twice. And suddenly my throat feels as though a boa constrictor is practising abdominal exercises around it.

‘Three . . . thousand,’ I gurgle, desperately trying to sound as though this is not a surprise. That
of course
I knew this was a three-thousand-pound contract!
Of course
I’d read the tender document properly!
Of course
I knew I was pitching for a contract that wouldn’t so much boost my turnover but shove a rocket so far up its backside that by next Wednesday it’d be positively stratospheric.

I suddenly feel rather strange. And I’m not the only one. Dusty is looking increasingly demented, as if simply being in this room is a source of physical torment to him.

‘Three thousand,’ repeats Jim Broadhurst, ignoring the dog’s rabid whining. ‘I take it that’s what you meant?’

I look at Tom and he lowers his eyes.

I pull myself together. ‘Of course. Forgive me. That’s not a very good start, is it?’ I laugh lightly.

With my pulse charging like a herd of wildebeest, I plug my memory stick in the company’s laptop and wait for it to load. Instead, it makes a noise that starts softly and builds to a crescendo of creaks and clangs, the sort of sound you’d expect if Thomas the Tank Engine was being decapitated.

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.’

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.

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.