Читать книгу A Summer to Remember - Victoria Cooke - Страница 13

The sky is the most intense blue I’ve ever seen. Shimmering light bounces off the windows of passing boats and hits the top of the water as I sit looking out across Boston Harbor. The horn of a departing ferry blasts. This place is insane, and I’ve only been here a few hours. I’m alone, outside a bar watching the boats come and go. The other four members of the team went straight to the company apartment we’re staying in, saying they wanted to go to bed, but they’ve all been here before. It’s my first visit, so I’m determined to take everything in and enjoy each second that I’m not in the office. I flick through the pictures I’ve taken on my phone since I arrived. There’s one of the Cheers bar. My dad used to watch the TV show religiously when I was a kid, and before I can talk myself out of it, I send the picture to him and my mum with a brief message.

Arrived safely

I feel guilty that I can’t write any more but hope they’ll see it as me reaching out.

Once I’ve finished my drink, I walk to the harbour wall and hold my phone up high to try and take a decent selfie to send to the girls. The sun is starting to sink close to the horizon, casting beautiful swaths of pink and orange across the sky which are reflected in the water. It’s no use; I’d need Inspector Gadget’s arms to be able to capture the beauty and not just a close-up mugshot of myself. As I stretch and twist, I notice a man a few feet away, staring out across the water. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, flashing my most charming smile. He turns to me with a look of disdain, as though I’d just insulted his dear granny’s baking or something. He doesn’t reply but he stands there, continuing to look at me with increased impatience.

‘I …’ His thunderous face causes me to falter. ‘I wondered if you wouldn’t mind taking a quick picture of me, please?’

His eyes flick over me then he turns back to the water. I pause, momentarily unsure of what to do next. I could walk on and pretend I’d not asked, but then I wouldn’t get the picture and I’m sure he probably just hadn’t heard me. Perhaps he thought I was talking on my phone or something.

‘Sorry, I was wondering if you’d mind taking a picture of me with the harbour in the background? It’s so beautiful.’

‘No,’ he says, turning away.

‘No?’ I blurt. I mean, he’s well within his rights to say no but it’s just a two-second snap and click. Why won’t he just do it? ‘No, you don’t mind?’ I ask, hoping some English charm works on him.

‘Yes, I mind, and no, I’m not taking the picture.’ His words are made harsher by his Boston twang.

He starts to walk away. I stand there embarrassed and dumbfounded for a moment, but his rudeness rubs at me like sandpaper in the seconds that pass and I can’t let it go. I call after him before I’ve taken time to think it through. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Go away!’ He doesn’t even turn to look at me.

‘No! I shan’t. Where I’m from, we don’t speak to people like that.’ That isn’t strictly true, you only have to be out of change when you’re passing a panhandler or caught standing on the left-hand side of an escalator at any tube station to encounter much worse in London. Perhaps I’m jet-lagged or something but I’m so flabbergasted by his attitude over something so small that I can’t let it go.

‘I don’t care.’ He makes a flappy shooing gesture with his hand.

Heat intensifies in my chest. I jog after him until I’m beside him, matching his pace. ‘There’s no need to be so rude. I’m a visitor to the States. Do you know how much money tourism brings in to your country each year?’ I really am clutching at straws, but I’m in such complete disbelief, it’s lucky I can construct a sentence at all. Why are my legs still moving?

‘Go away, lady.’ He continues to walk. I’m incensed.

‘What exactly is your problem?’ I prod his shoulder – I don’t mean to, it just sort of happens, but finally, he stops walking. He turns to face me, and I’m knocked sideways. I hadn’t noticed before because I was so taken aback by his attitude but he has the most compelling sapphire eyes I’ve ever seen and I’m not prepared for them when they bore into me.

‘It’s not really any of your business.’ He clenches his jaw and the muscles twitch beneath his skin. ‘And you won’t leave me alone.’ He runs his fingers through his brown hair, and I try to ignore the fact he’s incredibly attractive, because beauty comes from within, and there’s a gargoyle residing inside him.

‘I … I just wanted you to take a quick photo of me, I’m here alone and … Do you know what? You’re not a nice person.’

‘And do you know what? I don’t really care. I’m sure with your pretty doe-eyed routine you’re used to guys running around after you, but today, you picked the wrong guy.’

My eyes feel hot and damp. That hurt because he couldn’t be further from the truth. I take a breath to steady my voice. He will not see me cry. ‘You have no idea how wrong you are. I’m sorry I asked you.’ He shakes his head and walks off.

‘I hope you’re the only arsehole in Boston,’ I yell after him. He flips me the middle finger without so much as a backwards glance, and I’m left to simmer. I drag myself back to the idyllic photo spot, but the sun has dipped below the horizon and the sky has gone all murky grey. I’ve missed my chance, so instead, I key a message to the girls’ WhatsApp group telling them about my first encounter with a local. Despite the fact it’s midnight at home, they all reply within minutes.

Viv: Americans are just more direct than us. Don’t let him get to you hon xx

Sarah: Viv is right. You’re in Boston, baby! Enjoy xxx

Bridget: Get a lobster dinner and move on, my love xx

I smile. They’re right. I’m tired. Things will look better after a good night’s sleep.

***

The next morning, I hit the ground running. Yesterday’s arsehole is today’s motivation to be professional and great at my job. Oh, who am I kidding? Ninety-nine per cent of my confidence was bought from Hobbs in the form of the smart black skirt and burgundy blouse I’m currently wearing. For added oomph, I’m carrying my ‘special occasion only’ black Marc Jacobs handbag in an attempt to feel every bit the city girl.

As I negotiate the revolving door to the office, my insides are jelly. The receptionist takes me up to the boardroom where I’ll meet the team. Four of them are my English colleagues, who left the apartment earlier than me because they wanted to go to Starbucks, and I wasn’t ready. They, being mostly bald men, had considerably less hair to dry than I did.

As we approach the glass-walled boardroom, I glance at them all sat around the table. My inner fire dies a little when it registers that they’re all dressed casually. The receptionist is smart in her cropped hound’s-tooth pants and purple sweater, so it makes no sense, unless we’re kicking off with some practical hands-on work.

‘Hi,’ I say, feeling a little sick. ‘So, do you do casual Friday on a Monday here?’ I mean it as a joke to laugh off my blunder but soon realise that my British accent and power dressing probably made it sound like more of an underhand dig, a notion affirmed by a few raised eyebrows and a bit of uncomfortable throat clearing.

‘We always dress like this. Do you have a problem with that, ma’am?’ the man at the top of the table asks. I’m assuming he’s Patrick, the boss.

‘Er, no. No problem at all. I was j—’

‘Good,’ he says, before turning back to the rest of the table. I slip into a chair and take out my file. That wasn’t a great start, but I’m determined to make a good impression.

‘As I was saying before Victoria Beckham over here interrupted—’ he jabs his thumb in my direction, as if anyone was in any doubt, and heat rises up the back of my neck ‘—Rocks need an international campaign for their sneakers, so we really need to get our heads in the game. This isn’t a rebrand, this is a new brand so we have to get it just right.’

I glance at my watch and it’s only 8.55 a.m. My chest tightens. I can’t believe they started without me. How rude! I look around the table. Tony, Dave, Carl and Steve – my British colleagues – are all dressed down and look completely mortified by my intrusion. The other four men are the Americans; I’ve yet to learn names but they’re all equally unimpressed. But they started without me.

I keep my mouth shut for the rest of the day. Maybe it’s first day nerves or perhaps I’m still knocked by that awful man I met yesterday but I can’t seem to unravel the knot in my stomach. When the clock strikes five, I almost race out of the door. Tony catches me up. ‘Sorry, Sam, I thought you knew it was a casual office – I’d have said this morning if I saw you.’ He looks genuinely sorry.

‘It’s fine.’ I brush my hand through the air. ‘Nobody mentioned it, that’s all.’

‘It was in the itinerary email.’ He pulls out his phone and begins scrolling through.

‘Really, it’s fine.’ I don’t need him to prove it, I need him to drop it. I’m mortified enough as it is.

He looks up. ‘Here it is. “And remember, the Boston office is CW.” Casualwear.’

‘What? Give me that.’ I take the phone from his hand and read it for myself. ‘I had this email, but how was I supposed to know CW meant casualwear? I thought it was a direction, like “central west” or something.’

He furrows his brow. ‘I’m sorry. We all knew. At least you do now, and tomorrow is a new day. We’re going for beers; do you want to join us?’

‘No, thanks. I have some shopping to do.’

***

The next day, I turn up in my new casual office wear, courtesy of Abercrombie & Fitch: a bright-green logo-emblazoned T-shirt and a pair of stonewashed jeans that both smell amazing, like the shop. Fortunately, my parting gift when I left the office last night was a pair of Rocks trainers. We were all issued a pair to wear and try and connect with the brand. Mine have a purple and pink graffiti design down the sides and glittery silver laces. I feel like a twelve-year-old again, but at least today I’ll fit in. And they are bloomin’ comfy.

When I enter the boardroom, everyone is already sitting down drinking coffee. ‘Morning,’ I say with as much cheer as I can muster. I repeat Tony’s mantra: Today is a new day. There are a few sullen nods, but nobody calls me Victoria Beckham, so I assume I’m already making a better impression. No offence to Victoria, of course – I love her. It just didn’t take Uri Geller to read Patrick’s mind and determine the remark was intended to be derogatory.

I withhold anything that could be construed as over-zealous and recognise the need for measured, calm and quality input. It’s hard because I’m bursting with ideas, and nobody seems to be getting it; they basically just want to rip off the well-known and well-bejazzled little girls’ favourite Strides brand which I don’t think Rocks will go for. The owners are two rapping megastars who I’d never come across before, but I did my research and apparently they’re triple platinum and something of a big deal.

‘I think Rocks have more edge than that,’ I say as everyone discusses tweens wearing denim skirts with colourful, sparkly ribbons in their pigtailed hair.

Nobody listens. It’s the second, no, third most frustrating thing that’s happened since I arrived. I speak up and repeat myself and Patrick raises his eyes wearily.

‘Is that so?’

I clear my throat. ‘I think Rocks are wanting something a little cooler. Perhaps something aimed at older teens too. I don’t think they’re going to see Strides as their main competitor.’

‘What’s your name, Beckham?’

My stomach is on a spin-cycle, but I manage to reply. ‘Er, Sam.’

‘Sam, with all due respect, this ain’t my first rodeo.’ He laughs at his own joke and glances around to rouse a few laughs from around the table. I want to say something, but after that encounter by the harbour the other day, I just can’t bring myself to. I hate to admit it, but I’m two days into my dream gig and I already want to go home.