Читать книгу A Summer to Remember - Victoria Cooke - Страница 21

The following week is just as horrible as I’d imagined it would be. I’m sent for coffee on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, and not one of my English colleagues speaks up or offers to go on my behalf, though I did think I caught a very subtle flash of sympathy from Tony. This lunchtime, I was sent on a sandwich run while the men were actually fleshing out key components of the media campaign. It was almost the final straw. I was going to stand up for myself and say something – part of me is still reeling that I didn’t – but throwing away the seven years of hard work it took to get here seemed too big a trade-off. Harry was right: I’ve got my place, but I need to work on getting a better one. I’ll bide my time and be smart about it.

When I’m tucked away in my room away from the others, I call Bridget for a catch-up.

She answers on the third ring. ‘Hello, you.’

‘Hello,’ I say, exhaling loudly for effect.

‘Oh no. Are things still terrible?’

‘Yes! When I speak it’s like nobody at all has heard me. Honestly, I’m not exaggerating. It’s bizarre. There are moments where I sit there wondering if I’ve actually spoken at all, or if I just thought the words in my head. I honestly think I could strip naked in the centre of the boardroom and nobody would notice.’

‘Oh, honey. Please don’t strip naked in the boardroom. Have you spoken to any of the UK team about it?’

‘I tried to after the first couple of days. It just sounded so petty and whiney when I said it aloud. I asked Tony if he’d heard my idea today, and he just paused for a moment until I reminded him what it was, then he said, “Oh yeah, I think so” but that was it. Nobody is interested in what I have to say. It wouldn’t be so bad if they were interested enough to say, “Your ideas are rubbish”, but they don’t even do that. I might as well be invisible.’ My voice falters on the last word as emotion hits me from nowhere. Even my own body is choosing to ignore me. I’m not even emotional, I’m angry.

‘Oh, Sam,’ she says. ‘Keep at it, hon.’

‘I know. I’ve just never felt so small and insignificant before.’ Or at least not in a very long time. I suck up a lungful of air. ‘At least I’m in a wonderful place and I can go to the beach at the weekends.’

‘Definitely. How was Cape Cod?’

‘Amazing.’ I fill her in on my escapades and Harry and Barney and Ethan.

‘So, let me get this straight; Ethan is the arse from Boston? And he was there?’

‘Yes, and yes. What are the odds of that? He has now apologised, at least. He was having a bad day apparently.’

‘Well, we all have those but jeez. At least you can put it behind you now.’

‘Yes,’ I agree. Except I can’t. Not the incident as such, but Ethan. Over the past few days, I’ve caught myself randomly thinking of him. When I’m walking to the office, eating lunch, even brushing my teeth, for goodness’ sake, I see his face and hear his voice. He’s got under my skin and I don’t know why. I’ve encountered rude people before, but something about the dark look in his eyes that day, the tense muscles in his face, were different to how he was on Saturday night at the bar. Even when he was being all cocky in the bike place, the vacant, disengaged look I saw at the harbour was nowhere to be seen. I can’t shake the feeling that he was having more than just a bad day.

‘I’m going back to Provincetown at the weekend for a cookout – a barbecue, as far as I can tell – with Harry and Barney.’

‘Ooh, lovely. Don’t forget your real friends here in miserable and grey London, will you?’

I giggle. ‘As much as I love the sunshine and gorgeous beaches of Massachusetts, you can’t beat a bit of drizzle and a bitch-fest with you lot.’

‘My sentiments exactly. Anyway, I have to go. I need to be in bed before midnight at least one day this week.’

‘Oops. I’d forgotten about the time difference,’ I say, feeling bad for calling so late.

‘It’s fine, I’ll catch a few mid-morning zeds when I’m at my desk tomorrow.’

‘I hope you’re joking, I can never tell.’

‘Unfortunately, the truth is in the eyebags,’ she cackles.

‘Okay, give the others my love.’ We exchange goodbyes, and I hang up feeling a little lighter. Just one more day of work to survive before I’m back in my happy place.

***

The ferry journey to Provincetown passes pleasantly. It’s a great way to blow away the office cobwebs on a Friday afternoon. I shall definitely be making it a thing. I while away the time switching between reading and looking out across the ocean, watching the city fade away until it’s clouded by the rugged little islands that surround it and the deep blue of the water and sky all around.

I get a warm welcome back at the hotel as the lady on reception recognises me, and once I’ve dumped my bags, I head to the main street to find Barney and Harry, who are just packing away their body paints.

‘Knocking off early?’ I say.

‘I need to go and see my meat guy for the cookout tomorrow.’

‘Your meat guy?’ I ask.

‘He means the butcher,’ Barney says. ‘Everyone has to be “a guy”.’

‘Oh, okay,’ I say, trying to sound upbeat at the discovery of my being at a loose end.

‘You should come,’ Barney says. ‘We’re going to cocktail afterwards.’ He does a little wiggly finger dance, whilst I amuse myself, imagining the Collins Dictionary entry for his new use of cocktail:

Cocktail (verb)

Kok-teyl

to sip mixed alcoholic drinks in the company of friends.

Unless to cocktail is like the US version of peacocking or something. I hope it isn’t. I hate drawing attention to myself, and besides, I don’t have my good shoes. ‘That sounds great. Are you sure you don’t mind me tagging along?’

‘We invited you. Of course not.’

I relax a little. ‘Okay, but this time, cocktails are on me.’

Harry winks. ‘I knew we liked you.’

***

‘So, have you climbed a rung of the ladder yet?’ Harry leans on the wooden table, sipping a blue cocktail which he says is called ‘The Harry’. It tastes like a Blue Lagoon to me, with perhaps a hint of something cherry-flavoured if I’m being optimistic. Barney has gone to back to their apartment to put the meat in the fridge and said he’ll catch us up.

I shake my head. ‘I almost gave a big Jerry-Maguire-cum-Erin-Brockovich speech, but I didn’t think it would get me anywhere.’

‘Good. It wouldn’t have. What you need to do is show, not tell.’ Harry’s tongue is blue. It’s hard to take serious advice from him when he looks like he’s eaten a Smurf.

‘How do I do that then?’

‘Well, you’ve said their campaign ideas are unoriginal and that you’ve tried telling them how to be different, yes?’

I nod. ‘The problem is, I’m dealing with an international company who’ve been running campaigns for some of the biggest global brands for years. What if I’m wrong? All my other projects have been for much smaller, local businesses in London.’

‘Are those things on your feet the trainers you’re marketing?’

‘Uhm, yes.’ I’d forgotten I was wearing them. As hideous as Rocks are on a woman of my age, they are bloody comfortable.

‘Okay, so I’m assuming your target market is tweens to teens?’ he says.

‘How did you guess?’ I say dryly. ‘They don’t seem to have the target audience in mind, though. They’ve gone too young with the pitch, and I think that kind of campaign will alienate the older kids. Young kids will want them anyway if the older ones are wearing them, so targeting them seems redundant.’

‘I agree with you, not that I know anything about the field of marketing, but I definitely think the image needs to be cool.’

‘I think they’re trying to go head to head with Strides, and to me that seems like a bit of a cop-out. They can piggyback off the brand strength of Strides and undercut the prices or throw in some tacky gimmick like a free keyring or something, but that won’t build the Rocks brand, which is I’m sure what the client will want.’

Harry nods. ‘Agreed.’

I sigh. ‘So, what are teens into? I could sell sand to a desert-dweller normally, but when it comes to kids, I’m not really au fait.’

‘Pop concerts, smartphones, skateboarding …’ Harry tails off.

‘They have a pigtailed girl holding a doll at the centre of their campaign idea. Rocks are going to hate it. I just don’t know how to get them to listen to me so we can actually work on something worthwhile.’

‘You can’t. But you can show them. Put a mood board together or something, and you can storm in there on Monday with something real to show them.’

Could I do that? Usually, we discuss our ideas first and then put the concepts down on paper, but I don’t want to bore Harry with that fact. I’m not sure how I’ll be perceived if I go rogue. Still, I can’t exactly sink any lower in any of their estimations and there’s no obvious Spice Girl Patrick could call me in that scenario, so what do I have to lose?

‘I’ll have a think,’ I say. ‘You’re good at this. Why on earth did Barney want advertising advice from me when he already has you?’

‘He doesn’t think I know what I’m talking about.’

‘Well, he’s wrong.’

‘It was Barney’s way of befriending you. I don’t like to massage his ego too much, but he is intuitive. He just has this knack for knowing when he meets a great person.’

Heat floods my cheeks. ‘Well, I’m glad you think so.’

‘You know, maybe tomorrow night I can help you out a little with your project.’

That sounds promising. Before I can reply, Barney comes bounding over. ‘I’ve worked up a thirst.’ He presses the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically. Harry moves a blue cocktail over, and Barney takes a huge gulp.

***

The next day, the cookout starts at six, and Harry and Barney have refused my offer of help – despite getting all frazzled when discussing the planning – so I’ve decided to rent a car for the day and explore a little. They recommend a ‘car rental guy’ just off the main street. When I arrive, I see a few different types of cars on the small forecourt, but it’s the shiny red soft-top Jeep on the road outside that catches my eye.

I go inside and ring the bell on the counter as instructed by a little pink sticky note beside it. The small office smells of oil and rubber, and a sports car calendar hangs on the grubby wall behind the desk.

‘Hello there, what can I do you for?’ a cheerful older man asks as he comes in from a side room marked ‘Private’.

‘I’d like to rent a car for a few hours, please.’

‘Well, you’ve come to the right place.’ He laughs and then coughs with the dryness of it.

I choose one of the very cool Wrangler Jeeps and ask for the top off. I can’t wait to go beach-hopping. While we’re sorting out paperwork, the old man calls out ‘Son!’ to someone in the back and asks them to prepare the car. I get a little rush of excitement at the thought of driving down some beautiful American roads with my hair blowing in the wind like Thelma or Louise.

‘You—’ a male voice travels from the entrance behind me ‘—are all set.’

‘Fantast—’

‘You have got to be kidding me.’ As I turn, the recognition hits us both at the same time.

‘Is there a problem?’ The kindly man’s tone has become much more formal.

‘No!’ Ethan and I say in unison.

‘Good,’ says the older man, but his single, raised eyebrow suggests he’s humouring us. ‘Then Ethan can show you the controls,’ he says before heading into the private room.

‘Why are you everywhere?’ I whisper bitterly as we walk outside.

‘Why are you everywhere?’ he repeats childishly. ‘I thought you worked in Boston.’

‘You were in Boston when I first met you, so what does that matter?’

‘I was there for the day. You’re here all the time.’

‘It’s my second weekend here. That’s not all the time.’ I realise I’m pouting, but I keep it going because I’m committed to it now. ‘Anyway, I thought you were the bike guy, not the car hire guy.’

‘I am the bike guy. My father owns most of the rental places in Provincetown, and occasionally I move around when we’re short-staffed. Your turn – why are you here?’

‘Barney and Harry invited me to the beach later for the cookout, so I have today free to explore.’

Ethan groans. ‘So you’ll be there too?’

‘Yes, but apparently everyone from the town is invited, so I’m sure we can keep our distance.’

‘Good.’

‘Yes. Brilliant,’ I huff. ‘So, are you going to show me the controls so I can leave or what?’

He explains how it all works, which is pretty much how any car works, but I do listen carefully to how to put the hood on, just in case. I adjust the seat and get ready to drive off. ‘So, is there anywhere else I should avoid if I don’t want to see you?’

‘I wouldn’t rent a kayak,’ he says. ‘And I go over to Boston Harbor once a month to take our promotional fliers to the tourist information booth.’

‘Noted,’ I say.

‘Would you like any maps or anything?’ he asks.

‘Yes, please.’

‘Here you go.’ He hands me a thick pile of folded maps.

‘Why are you being so civil all of a sudden?’ I ask, taking them. It’s unnerving, like dealing with a Jekyll and Hyde.

‘It’s my job,’ he says dryly. ‘And I’d like you to try and find your way back before closing time.’

‘Oh.’ I should have known.

Once I’m on the open road, I forget all about Ethan and enjoy driving down the beachfront road. It’s not like the beachfront drives in the UK, all built up and busy with fried doughnut stalls and amusement arcades; it’s largely natural and unspoilt. There are some clapboard beach houses and small motels dotted around, but mostly it’s sand and grassy dunes stretching out into blue water and salty air. I find myself in North Truro, looking up at the tall white Highland Light lighthouse and park up. A few summer tourists have already begun to gather in a queue, and with nothing better to do, I join them.

I climb the winding steps of the red brick cylinder until I reach the top. It’s not as high as I imagined, but the view still reaches far across the grasslands and ocean. I walk around the large bulb in the centre, moving aside so that a couple can pass me. Then I rest my hands on the rusted sills and just gaze, enjoying the tranquillity of the moment.

The reality of where I am hits me, and I pinch myself discreetly, making sure the couple don’t see. I’m in one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen, and no amount of arrogant men will take that away from me.