“Stop it!” I say, clapping a hand over my mouth. “You’re not going to—”
But he’s already sending the flashing drone through the window, into the formal meeting room.
Just for a moment no one notices. Then a man in a navy suit looks up, followed by a gray-haired woman—and soon everyone’s pointing. On the screen, we can see their astonished faces up close, and I stifle a giggle. Two people are peering out of the open window down to street level, but no one has even looked in our direction.
“There,” says Alex. “They all looked stressed out. Now they’re distracted. We’re doing them a favor.”
“What if their meeting’s really important?” I object.
“Of course it’s not important. No meeting is important. Hey, look, a microphone function. We can listen to them.” He touches a button and suddenly we can hear the voices of the people in the room, coming through a speaker on the remote.
“Is it filming us?” a woman is asking in panicked tones.
“It’s Chinese.” A man is jabbing his finger at the drone. “Look at the writing. That’s Chinese.”
“Everyone cover your faces,” another woman says urgently. “Cover your faces.”
“It’s too late!” says a girl shrilly. “It’s seen our faces!”
“We shouldn’t cover our faces!” a man exclaims. “We should cover the minutes of the meeting!”
“They’re only draft minutes,” puts in a blond woman, looking anxious and putting both arms over her printed sheets.
A man in shirtsleeves has stood up on his chair and is trying to hit the drone with a rolled-up piece of paper.
“No, you don’t!” retorts Alex, and he presses an icon on the remote control. The next moment, the drone starts shooting spurts of water at the man, and I clap a hand over my mouth to muffle my laughter.
“Ah,” says Alex. “So that’s what that is. How about this one?” He presses another icon, and bubbles start streaming out of the drone.
“Argh!” The man jumps down off his chair as though under attack and starts batting at the bubbles. I’m laughing so hard, my nose has started to hurt. There are bubbles floating everywhere in the room, and people are shrinking away from them.
“OK,” says Alex. “I think we’ve tortured these good people enough.” From the side of the remote, he pulls out a tiny microphone on a wire. He holds it to his mouth, flips a switch, and makes a “quiet” gesture at me. “Attention,” he says in clipped tones, like a World War II RAF pilot. “I repeat, attention, attention.”
His voice rings out of the drone, and the effect on the people in the room is instantaneous. They all freeze as though in fright and stare up at the drone.
“Apologies for the inconvenience,” Alex announces, in the same clipped voice. “Normal service will be resumed shortly. God Save Our Gracious Queen…”
I don’t believe it. He’s singing the national anthem. “Stand up!” he suddenly barks into the microphone, and a couple of the people at the table half-rise to their feet before sitting back down again and looking embarrassed.
“Thank you,” Alex concludes. “Thank you so much.” Deftly, he flies the drone out of the room and swoops it down, out of view. The people in the room are all crowding to the window to see where it’s gone, pointing in different directions, and Alex pulls me out of sight, behind a low concrete wall. A few moments later the drone quietly descends behind us, all its lights off. It’s obvious that none of the people in the room has the faintest idea where it disappeared to, and after a minute or two they head back to the table. I meet Alex’s eye and shake my head.
“I can’t believe you did that.” A final giggle ripples through me.
“That made their day,” he says. “Now they all have a dinner-party anecdote.” He picks up the drone, places it between us, and surveys it. “So, what do we think?”
“Awesome,” I say.
“I agree.” He nods. “Awesome.” He drags over another box and cuts the tape. “Look at this! Special jumping boots with springs!”
“Oh my God!” I gape at them. “Is that safe?”
“And in here we have…” He prizes open another box. “Neon light-up tennis rackets. That’s hilarious.”
“This is going to be the best project,” I say with enthusiasm.
“Well, maybe.” He frowns. “Only it’s not that simple. We worked with Sidney Smith before. Didn’t go well. So we have to think carefully before we commit.” He taps his fingers distantly, then comes to. “They are great products, though, aren’t they?” His eyes flash as he pulls out the light-up tennis racket, presses a button, and watches it glow neon-yellow. “I think I’m in love with this.”
“So it’s heart over head.” I can’t help smiling at his enthusiasm.
“Exactly. Bloody heads and hearts, never match up, do they?”
He starts wandering around the roof, tossing the racket up and down. Surreptitiously I glance at my watch. Shit. I’ve been here nearly twenty-five minutes and I’m so cold I can’t feel my hands.
“Actually, I ought to go,” I say awkwardly. “I’ve got loads of work—”
“Of course. I’ve kept you. Apologies. I’ll stay up here a few more minutes, check out the rest of these boxes.” He shoots me that dazzling white smile again. “I’m so sorry, I’m an idiot—I can’t remember your name. Mine’s Alex.”
“I’m Katie—” I stop. “Cat,” I correct myself with a flush.
“Right.” He looks a bit puzzled. “Well, nice to hang out with you, Katie-Cat. Thanks for your help.”
“Sorry, it’s Cat,” I say, in an agony of embarrassment. “Just Cat.”
“Got it. See you around, Just Cat. Say hi to Demeter.”
“OK. I will. See you.” And I’m about to head toward the door back into the stair shaft, when I hesitate. This guy’s so easy to talk to, and I’m longing to pick someone’s brains….
“You said you’d done a bit of everything,” I say in a rush. “So…have you ever worked with Demeter? Has she ever been your boss?”
Alex stills the racket and gives me a long, interested look.
“Yes,” he says. “She has, as it happens.”
“Only I’m trying to show her my ideas, and she won’t ever focus on them, and…”
“Ideas?”
“Just some speculative stuff. Mock-ups. Rough concepts,” I explain, feeling a bit embarrassed. “You know, stuff I’ve done in my spare time, whatever…”
“Right. Yes. I get it.” He thinks for a minute. “My advice is: Don’t show Demeter random ideas at random times. Pitch her exactly the right idea, exactly when she needs it. When you’re brainstorming at a meeting, speak up. Make your voice heard.”
“But…” My cheeks flame. “I don’t get to go to those meetings. I’m too junior.”
“Ah.” He gives me a kind look. “Then get yourself into one.”
“I can’t! Demeter will never let me—”
“Of course she will!” He laughs. “If there’s one thing Demeter’s good at, it’s championing junior members of her team and bringing them on.”
Is he nuts? I have a sudden image of Demeter stamping on Rosa’s fingers with her Miu Miu shoes. But I won’t contradict him when he’s helping me.
“Just ask,” he reiterates—and his confidence is infectious.
“OK.” I nod. “I will. Thanks!”
“No problem. See you, Cat. Or Katie. I think Katie suits you better,” he adds, tossing the racket into the air again. “For what it’s worth.”
I don’t know what to say to that—so I give a kind of awkward nod and push my way into the stair shaft. I’m late enough as it is.
—
By the time I get back to Demeter’s office, she’s rinsed out the hair dye and is typing furiously at her computer.
“Sorry, I got delayed,” I say at her office door. “I’ll just get my laptop….”
She nods absently. “OK.”
I creep in, grab my laptop and p
rintouts—then pause. Here goes.
“Demeter, can I come to the group meeting tomorrow?” I say, as forcefully as I can manage. “I think it would help my development. I’ll make up my work,” I add quickly. “I’ll only stay for an hour or whatever.”
Demeter lifts her head and surveys me for a nanosecond, then nods. “Fine.” She resumes typing. “Good idea.”
I stand there in stupefaction, wondering what I’ve missed. Good idea? Just like that? Good idea?
“Is there anything else?” She raises her head, and now she’s frowning faintly.
“No.” I come to. “I mean…thanks! Oh, and I got rid of that…Alex guy,” I add, feeling a faint flush come to my cheek. “At least, I don’t mean got rid of him. I didn’t throw him off the roof!” I give a high-pitched laugh, which makes me instantly wince and turn it into a fake-sounding cough.
(Note to self: Do not laugh in the vicinity of Demeter. Demeter never laughs. Can Demeter laugh? )
“Yes, I gathered,” says Demeter. “Thanks.” And now her expression so clearly says, Go away please, random junior person, that I back quickly out of her office before she can change her mind about the meeting. Or indeed about hiring me in the first place.
As I make my way back to my desk, I want to whoop. I’m in! I’m on a wave! I don’t mind doing a million surveys if I can start feeling that I’m getting somewhere.
I click on my emails—not that they’re ever very exciting—and blink in surprise. There’s a new one with the subject heading Hi from Alex.
Hi, great to meet you. Are you free tomorrow lunchtime? Want to meet again to talk branding/meaning of life/whatever?
Alex
A glow spreads over me. This day just gets better and better.
Sure! Would love to. Where? BTW, Demeter said yes re meeting!
Cat
I send off the email—and a moment later a reply arrives.
Well done you! Quick work!
Let’s meet at that Pop-up Christmas Cheer thing at Turnham Green. Say 1:00 P.M. and get a bite to eat?
Alex
A bite to eat. Get a bite to eat.
As I read the words over and over, my mind is skittering around in a cautious, hopeful way. A bite to eat. That means…
OK, it doesn’t mean anything exactly, but…
He could have said, I’ll book Old Kent Road. (All the meeting rooms at Cooper Clemmow are named after London Monopoly squares, because Monopoly was the first brand Adrian ever worked on.) That would have been the normal thing. But he’s suggested a bite to eat. So this is kind of a date. At least, it’s date-ish. It’s a date-like thing.
He’s asked me out! A really cool, good-looking guy has asked me out!
My heart surges with joy. I’m remembering his sharp eyes, his restless bony hands, his infectious laugh. His dazzling smile. His thrusting hair, disheveled by the breeze on the roof. I really like him, I admit to myself. And he must like me, or why else did he email me so quickly?
Except…
My joyous train of thought stops. What if he’s invited lots of other people too? I suddenly picture them, all sprawling round a table with drinks and laughter and in-jokes.
Well, I won’t know till I turn up, will I?
“What’s up?” asks Flora as she comes by with her mug of tea, and I realize there’s a massive, foolish beam on my face.
“Nothing,” I say at once. I like Flora, but she’s the last person I’m sharing this little nugget with. She’d tell everyone and tease me and it would all somehow get spoiled. “Hey, I’m coming to the group meeting tomorrow,” I say instead. “Demeter said I could. It’ll be really interesting.”
“Cool!” Flora glances at my desk. “How’s that awful inputting going? I still can’t believe Demeter asked you to do it. She’s such a cow.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” Nothing can dent my joy right now, not even a boxful of surveys.
“Well, see you,” says Flora. And she’s two steps away when I add, as casually as I can, “Oh, I met this guy called Alex just now, and I couldn’t work out what he does. Do you know him?”
“Alex?” She turns to me with narrowed brows. “Alex Astalis?”
I didn’t even look at his surname on the email, I realize.
“Maybe. He’s tall, dark hair….”
“Alex Astalis.” She gives a sudden snort of laughter. “You met Alex Astalis and you ‘couldn’t work out what he does’? Try, ‘He’s a partner.’ ”
“He— What?” I’m gobsmacked.
“Alex Astalis?” she repeats, as though to prompt my memory. “You know.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” I say defensively. “No one’s mentioned him.”
“Oh. Well, he’s been working abroad, so I suppose—” She gives me a closer look. “But you must have heard of the name Astalis.”
“As in…” I hesitate.
“Yup. Aaron Astalis is his father.”
“I see.” I’m in slight shock here. Because “Astalis” is one of those names like “Hoover” or “Biro.” It means something. It means: one of the most powerful advertising agencies in the world. In particular, “Aaron Astalis” means: supremely rich guy who changed the face of advertising in the 1980s and last year dated that supermodel. “Wow,” I say feebly. “What was her name again?”
“Olenka.”
“That’s right.”
I love that Flora instantly knew I was talking about the supermodel.
“So Alex is his son and our boss. Well, one of them. He’s, like, Adrian’s level.”
I pick up my bottle of water and take a swig, trying to stay calm. But inside I feel like squealing, Whooooo! Has this actually happened? Am I really going out to lunch with a cool, good-looking guy who’s also the boss? I feel surreal. It’s as if Life has come along and looked at my boxes of surveys and said, Oh, my mistake. Didn’t mean to land you with all that shit: Here’s a consolation prize.
“But he’s so young.” I blurt out the words before I can stop them.
“Oh, that.” Flora nods, almost disparagingly. “Well, you know. He’s some genius type. Never even bothered with university. He worked for Demeter years ago at JPH, when he was, like, twenty. But after about five minutes he went and set up on his own. You know he created Whenty? The logo, everything.”
“Really?” My jaw sags slightly. Whenty is that credit card that came out of nowhere and dominated the market. It’s renowned as one of the most successful brand launches ever. It gets used in marketing lectures and everything.
“Then Adrian got him to join Cooper Clemmow. But he goes off abroad a lot. He’s quite…you know.” She wrinkles her nose derisively. “One of those.”
“One of what?”
“Thinks he’s cleverer than everyone else, so, you know, why bother about other people?”
“Oh,” I say in surprise. That doesn’t sound like the Alex I met.
“He came to a drinks party at my parents’ house once,” Flora says in the same tone. “He hardly even talked to me.”
“Oh.” I try to look outraged on her behalf. “That’s…dreadful!”
“He ended up talking to some old man all night. About astrophysics or something.” She wrinkles her nose again.
“Awful!” I say hastily.
“Why do you want to know about him, anyway?” Flora’s eyes focus on me with more interest.
“No reason!” I say hastily. “Didn’t know who he was. That’s all.”
Nothing can crush my mood as I head home that evening. Not even the rain, which began halfway through the afternoon and has got steadily heavier. Not even a bus driving through a puddle and drenching me. Not even a gang of boys sniggering at me as I wring out my skirt.
As I open the door to my flat, I’m practically singing to myself. I’m going on a date! I’m going to the group meeting! It’s all good—
“Ow!” I come to as my shin barks against something. There’s a row of brown cardboard boxes lining one side of our hall. I can bar
ely squeeze past them. It looks like an Amazon warehouse. What is all this? I lean down, read a label addressed to Alan Rossiter, and heave a sigh. Typical.
Alan is one of my flatmates. He’s a website designer/fitness vlogger, and he’s always telling me “fascinating” facts I don’t want to know about muscle definition and bone density and once even bowel function. I mean, urkk.
“Alan!” I rap on his door. “What’s all this in the hall?”
A moment later Alan’s door swings open and he gazes down at me. (He’s quite tall, Alan. But he also has a very big head, so somehow he doesn’t look very tall. He actually looks weird.) He’s wearing a black singlet and shorts and has an earpiece in, which will be some inspirational app like Master Your Body, Master the World, which he once tried to get me into.
“What?” he says blankly.
“These boxes!” I gesture at the crammed hall. “Are they yours? This is a fire hazard!”
“It’s my way,” he says, and I peer back, confused. His way? His way is to fill our flat with boxes?
“What do you mean, your way?”
“My way.” He reaches into an open box and thrusts a plastic pouch at me, which has ORGANIC WHEY: VANILLA printed on it.
“Oh, whey. Right.” I squint at the cardboard boxes. “But why do you need so much of it?”
“Business model. Gotta buy in bulk. Profit margins. It’s a fierce business.” He pounds a fist into his hand, and I flinch. Alan has this aggressive way of talking which I think he reckons is “motivational.” I sometimes hear him exclaiming to himself while he’s doing weights, saying, “Fucking do it, Alan. Fucking do it, you knobhead.”
I mean, really? Knobhead? Is that motivational?
“What business?” I inquire. “You’re a web designer.”
“And whey distributor. It’s my sideline right now, but it’s going to be big.”
It’s going to be big. How many times have I heard my dad say that? His cider business was going to be big, for about six months. Then there were the hand-carved walking sticks—but they took so long to make, he was never going to turn a profit. Then he was going to make a fortune from selling a job lot of some new kind of mousetrap, which he’d got cheap off his friend Dave Yarnett. (They were gross. I’ll take cider over mousetraps anytime.)