Читать книгу Her Perfect Life: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a killer twist - Sam Hepburn, Sam Hepburn - Страница 10

Juliet needs this job. God, how she needs it. A fledgling brand with a sure fire future doesn’t come her way very often. But get this meeting right and the marketing contract for Shoesmith and Hayman’s artisan gin could turn her life around.

‘In the end, it all comes down to the botanicals.’ Don Shoesmith – bland and fortyish – gazes at the bottle in his hands as if it’s some kind of holy relic. ‘What the judges went for was our unique blend of natural flavourings.’

Juliet, who has spent the previous night mugging up on the terminology, nods knowledgably. Don’s on side, eager to sign her up and get back to sourcing his orris root and organic Sicilian lemons. It’s Matt Hayman, his partner, who’s not so sure. He’s rocking back in his chair, assessing her. He’s younger than Don, but not by much. Two middle-aged engineers in badly designed promotional sweatshirts, swept way out their depth by the rip tide success of their backyard distillery. Their ‘office’, a hastily assembled table and chairs at the end of Don’s garage, is proof of that – boxes of papers and cases of bottles vying for space among tins of paint, coiled extension leads and a dusty deflated paddling pool.

Juliet turns her head and aims unblinking eyes at Matt. He’s a worrier, so terrified about paying the mortgage now that he’s jacked in the nine to five he daren’t make a decision. She stokes up his insecurities. ‘There’s no point having a great product and winning awards if you don’t get the marketing right. When are they making the announcement?’

‘Friday.’

She sucks her breath. ‘Four days to create a social media campaign to capitalise on the publicity and get a strategy in place to keep up the momentum. It’s going to be tight. Do-able but tight.’

He’s visibly twitching, desperate for reassurance. Time to throw him a lifeline. ‘The first thing I’d have to do is fix your website. Sorry, but it’s sending out totally the wrong message.’ Brisk professional smile. ‘From now on everything associated with your brand has to be as crisp and distinctive as your product.’ Juliet taps her computer and brings up the home page she’s mocked up for them. ‘I could have this online for you by Wednesday night.’

Matt thumps forward on his chair and runs an eye across the screen, obviously impressed but still hesitant. What’s his problem?

‘My wife’s got a friend at one of the big agencies. She says they can offer us a complete PR and marketing package.’

So that’s it. Well fuck you Mrs Hayman. A sympathetic shake of her head. ‘We both know the big agencies are all about processes, systems and top-heavy teams. Fine for big corporate clients but totally wrong for a niche start-up like yours. What you need is the personal touch. Someone who’s always going to be available when you pick up the phone. Someone flexible who can move swiftly to deal with the tiny problems that crop up day to day leaving you,’ she flicks a finger at Matt’s peeking polo shirt collar, ‘to concentrate on the product. All for a fraction of the price the big boys charge.’

Matt knocks his knuckles against his chin, almost hooked. She pictures him relaying these lines to his pushy wife, asserting himself as the thrusting entrepreneur who knows what’s right for his business and his brand.

‘And with me you get a single vision developing the strategic and creative solutions as well as planning and executing the campaign.’

‘And you could handle all that?’

‘Absolutely.’ He’s nodding now, clinging to every word. ‘Obviously as I helped your business to grow I’d expand my team but it would always be me overseeing the decisions. Now, let me show you the thoughts I’ve had about product placement.’

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. ‘Excuse me.’ She pulls it out. Thumb poised to decline the call she glances at the ID.

Nononono. Not now.

A flare of resentment burns hot and bright, dipping to a flicker in the sudden rush of panic.

She looks at Matt. He’s twitching again. ‘Sorry.’ She presses the phone to her ear, rising on wobbly legs as the words Freya, climbing frame, fall, pulse to the frantic beat of her heart. ‘She got a nasty bump on the head,’ the school nurse is saying, ‘the ambulance is on its way.’

Face numb, fingers cold, she’s throwing her laptop into her bag, barely able to breathe. ‘My daughter … I have to go.’ She turns at the door and says desperately, ‘Could we pick this up tonight? Maybe on Skype? I promise … this won’t happen again.’

It’s a lost cause. The look of abandonment on Matt’s face and the bitter taste of defeat at the back of her throat tell her that.