Read the book: «A Summer to Remember»
About the Author
Victoria Cooke grew up in the city of Manchester before crossing the Pennines in pursuit of her career in education. She now lives in Huddersfield with her husband and two young daughters. When she’s not at home writing by the fire with a cup of coffee in hand, she loves working out in the gym and travelling. Victoria has always had a passion for reading and writing, undertaking several writers’ courses before completing her first novel in 2016.
Why readers and authors love Victoria Cooke!
‘An unputdownable read’
Rachel Burton
‘A true love story’
Amazon Reviewer
‘I couldn’t put it down’
Jessica Bell
‘Delightful contemporary romance’
Amazon Reviewer
Also by Victoria Cooke:
The Secret to Falling in Love
The Holiday Cruise
Who Needs Men Anyway?
It Started with a Note
A Summer to Remember
VICTORIA COOKE
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Victoria Cooke 2019
Victoria Cooke asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008310264
Version: 2019-06-13
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Why readers and authors love Victoria Cooke!
Also by Victoria Cooke
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Extract
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
For my nanna, Lillian.
For your sense of humour, strength and determination.
xxx
Prologue
2010
The black and white chequered floor whizzes past. Like a psychedelic trip, it isn’t real. I know that I’m running. I can’t feel my limbs moving, just the vague sensation of the air resistance caused by the motion. I’m on autopilot, and the only thing tying me to the reality of where I am, is the pungent smell of disinfectant that’s been with me at every turn.
I stop abruptly, almost colliding with a person dressed head-to-toe in baggy green scrubs. My heart pounds in my chest. I look down at my hand, the knuckles white, still clutching my phone from when I got the call. It can only have been twenty minutes ago. It’s hard to tell because it feels like a lifetime has passed. The surgeon seems to understand that I can’t speak; his features are barely displaced, neutral, but there’s something lurking in his earthy eyes. Sympathy? ‘Mrs Butterfield?’ he asks. I nod, my mouth like Velcro, my brain too disengaged to speak.
‘Mrs Butterfield, I’m sorry. We did everything we could.’
Did?
You can’t have.
The blood pumping in my ears is deafening. Barbed wire is wrenched from the pit of my stomach, right up through my oesophagus. I’ve never felt pain like it. My legs give way, unable to bear the weight of the surgeon’s words and my knees crash to the floor.
I’m vaguely aware of a low, drawn-out wail. It’s me. The surgeon crouches down and looks me directly in the eyes. The warmth of his chestnut-brown gaze anchors me, and I’m able to gather tendrils of composure. I take a breath.
‘Mrs Butterfield, is there anyone we can call for you?’
I shake my head. I only have one person, and now he’s dead.
Chapter 1
2018
‘Eurgh.’ I slam the pearlescent invite down by the kettle. ‘Plus one,’ I say in a mocking tone. Coco cocks her head to the side like she’s trying to understand me, and I cup her fluffy face.
‘I know, I don’t get it either.’ My cat’s emerald eyes are still intent on me so, glad of an audience, I carry on.
‘Why Bridget has to assume I need someone by my side is beyond me. As if I’m not capable of going to a wedding without a plus one. It’s not nineteen blooming twenty. I don’t need a chaperone. Perhaps I’ll take you, Coco. That’ll teach her.’ I tickle her under her chin and she stretches out lazily. I’m only half joking.
As I pour my first coffee of the day, my phone rings. ‘Someone’s ears are burning,’ I say on answering.
‘Really?’ Bridget also ignores the need for pleasantries.
‘I got your wedding invite,’ I say dryly.
‘Well, don’t sound too enthusiastic about the happiest day of your best friend’s life,’ she retorts.
‘Aren’t we a bit old for best friends?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
I rub my temples with my thumb and forefinger. ‘I’m sorry, Bridge. I just, well … I’d specifically told you I didn’t need a plus one.’
‘It’s just a formality, Sam. Don’t be so sensitive. I just wanted you to know the option is there if you did want to bring someone.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ I say, before feeling a little guilty. ‘It just seems so old-fashioned, like, the lil lady needs a gentleman to escort her.’ I put on my best ‘Southern Belle’ accent, and Bridget giggles.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It wasn’t meant to offend you.’
‘I did warn you,’ I scold. ‘Look, I’m not on the lookout for a man, nor am I resigned to being alone – I’m happy with it. People need to stop assuming I need someone. I got the bloody cat everyone thought I should get, okay!’
‘I know, I’m sorry. Everyone else will be coupled up, so I just thought if you wanted to bring a friend, then you could, that’s all.’
‘All of my friends will already be there.’ I’m aware of my exasperated tone so I soften it a little. ‘I was just telling Coco that she could be my plus one.’
‘You’d better bloody well not.’ Bridget’s stern tone amuses me. I sense that she wouldn’t put it past me.
‘Oh, now you’ve made her sad.’ Coco looks far from sad as she rubs her face on my balled-up fist. ‘I’ve seen some gorgeous cat dresses on eBay.’
‘Bring her and I’ll have you both escorted out,’ Bridget replies.
‘Then stop assuming I can’t be single and happy.’
‘Fine!’ she sighs. ‘But send me a picture of one of those cat dresses, it’s been a miserable week.’
I’m happy it’s time to drop the subject. It may seem like an overreaction, but Bridget knows as well as my other friends do that my frustrations are the result of a good seven years’ worth of do-gooders trying to set me up with brothers, colleagues, friends of friends, and even a sister at one point. I’m happy on my own. It’s like the saying goes, ‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.’ All I need are my memories and my cat.
‘How’s work?’ she asks.
I groan, wondering where to start. ‘I’m still working my backside off to make the US team. Seventh time lucky, hey?’ Every year five people from our offices are chosen to go to Boston for three months to work on a global marketing project with the American head office team. I’ve tried for seven years – yes, seven years – to make the cut. It’s become my obsession.
‘Oh Sam, this year has to be your year,’ she says sympathetically.
‘It’s like no matter how hard I try, someone else shines brighter. This year I’ve worked my backside off and if I’m not chosen, I might start looking somewhere else.’ It sounds like I’m being a drama queen, but I’ve given everything to Pink Apple Advertising and I’ve been pretty open about wanting to go to Boston. If they don’t choose me this year, I don’t think they ever will, and that Boston trip is the only real catalyst to a promotion.
‘Well, if they don’t pick you this time, they don’t deserve you.’ Bridget sounds distracted, like most people do when I talk about work.
I stifle a sigh. My friends will never understand how much it means to me. ‘The invites are gorgeous, by the way,’ I say, stroking the silver ribbon running down the thick, shimmery cream card with embossed dusky pink lettering. She was right when she said it will be the best day of her life.
2003
My breath catches in my throat. There he is, chewing the corner of his thumbnail nervously. He looks so vulnerable standing there in his navy suit and tie. When his eyes set upon mine, I can feel their warmth envelop me. His head tilts ever-so-slightly to the side and his watery eyes crinkle when he smiles. I glance down at my simple ivory dress, self-consciously smoothing out non-existent wrinkles. My mum had steamed the thing to death, fussing about invisible creases and generally adding to my overall nervousness.
The music starts, a piano instrumental of Canon in D, and butterflies beat venomously in my stomach when the expectant faces turn towards me. My mum is there, at the front with her new olive-coloured organza hat on. She’s clutching a tissue to her face.
‘Are you ready, pumpkin?’ my dad whispers in my ear. Normally, I’d tell him not to call me that, but today I’m too nervous to care.
I grip my dad’s arm tighter in mine, clutch my bouquet of white lilies with the other and take a deep breath before setting off. It’s a blur as we walk down the small aisle, past a handful of close friends and family, to where Kev is waiting. When I join him, he gives my hand a gentle squeeze and leans in close and breathes into my ear.
‘You … are … beautiful.’
I feel his words.
Suddenly the room is ours and ours alone.
Chapter 2
2018
I smooth down the skirt of my Ted Baker dress as I walk into the church, smiling as I take in the beautiful flower displays. Bridget has chosen pageboys and flower girls instead of bridesmaids so that she didn’t have to choose between her closest friends or fork out for a bazillion extortionately priced dresses. To be honest, I was quite relieved when she told me. Being plucked, waxed and spray-tanned within an inch of my life didn’t really appeal, though I have shaved my legs for the occasion. I’ve worn this dress to three recent weddings because it fits my slender five-foot-five frame perfectly. It has a pencil skirt in shades of metallic pink and rose gold, with a plain white chiffon top. My make-up is minimal, and my dark hair hangs in loose waves which look like they dried that way after my morning surf but in actual fact took the hairdresser thirty minutes of wanding, teasing and praying to the hair gods for. I’ve never surfed in my life. I don’t go in the sea ever – too much uncertainty lurking under that strange foamy stuff which floats on the surface.
Viv, Sarah and their husbands are easy to spot as I make my way down the aisle. I slide into the spot they’ve saved for me next to Viv.
‘It could be you next,’ Viv gushes as I place my bag on the floor. Seriously, I’ve just sat down. It’s as if she doesn’t know better, except for the fact that she bloody well does. I’m about to say something about hell freezing over first but second guess myself. Can you say the word ‘hell’ in church? The last time I paid any attention to religion was the Harvest festival in 1996, and that was only because the vicar looked a little bit like Mark Owen. Am I about to be struck down by lightning? Maybe I should cross myself.
‘So, you didn’t bring anyone then?’ Sarah leans across to ask. She kind of purses her lips in a sympathetic way. I don’t reply, but seriously, it’s okay to go to a wedding alone. It’s like these people don’t even know me, despite the fact we’ve been friends since Bridget introduced us over seven years ago.
When I first met these women, I’d just moved to London. I couldn’t bear to stay in our village after losing Kev. I needed a clean slate. My old life had finished, and I needed something completely different. It was almost a year to the day I’d lost Kev when I bumped into Bridget in the foyer at work. And I mean literally bumped into her, knocking her espresso out of her hand so hard that it flew over her shoulder, luckily without spilling so much as a drop on her cream suit. She worked for a different company in the same building, and being new to London, I was hugely intimidated by her. She laughed off the faux pas and said I looked like I needed a stiff drink. We met up after work, I told her my story, and the rest is history.
Viv and Sarah are Bridget’s close friends, but soon became mine too. At first, they took pity on me, listened to my endless stories about Kev and offered sympathy whilst I revelled in my new friendship group. But before long, they started to talk about me ‘putting myself back out there’. I’ve been defending my singlehood ever since.
I give her a tight smile and nod. It’s the same old story. Sympathetic glances when people learn you’re single in your mid (okay, late) thirties, and the comments are always along the lines of ‘you’ll meet someone soon.’ In some ways, I feel sorry for them, thinking you need a man to make your life better. A man can’t make your life better. Only a soulmate can even come close to doing that, and I’d already found mine.
The organ starts to play. The dull sound of pressurised air being forced through the pipes reminds me of death. Why they play this instrument at weddings is beyond me. Everyone turns to catch the first glimpse of the bride. Bridget looks stunning in a simple silk gown with capped lace sleeves and a diamanté-encrusted waistband. Her blonde hair is in a neat chignon with some loose curls framing her face. She smiles at us as she walks past, her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes radiating happiness. I remember that feeling too, and I cherish it.
***
Thank god. I swipe a welcome Pimm’s on arrival at the hotel reception, and it goes down rather too easily. Churches are tinged with the memory of Kev’s funeral. Whilst the funeral itself is a blur, I’ve never felt comfortable in one since.
‘Slow down, Sam, it’s only noon,’ Sarah says, taking mouse-like sips from her own.
‘You do you, okay?’ I say, before realising I sound harsh. ‘Sorry. I love weddings and I love seeing my friends happy, but they do bring back memories.’
Sarah strokes my arm. ‘We get it, hon, but if you get sloshed and make a prized tit out of yourself, you’ll regret it.’
‘That happened one time,’ I say with an eye-roll.
‘Yes, and I forgave you because everything was still raw and because I wasn’t letting anything spoil my big day. You need to be here for Bridget today.’ Her eyes bore into me, but their intensity is broken by the waiter offering more Pimm’s. I decline and look pointedly at Sarah, who wears a smug expression.
Across the foyer of the hotel, Bridget and her new husband Alex are posing for photographs. The photographer is shepherding miniature humans into a line. It’s like a comedy sketch: just as he manages to get one end of the line straight, he loses a child from the other end. His face is starting to redden.
‘We should find our table,’ Viv says, moving us on.
The tables are not numbered or named like usual. Instead, we have to find ours by working out the punchline of a joke. ‘Well, Mrs Killjoy, you’ll never find your table,’ I whisper to Sarah, who gives me a tight smile and shakes her head. The joke for our table reads: ‘What happens when Iron Man takes off his suit?’ Viv and Sarah exchange confused glances.
‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘Seriously?’
They both shake their heads. I look to John and Mark, their husbands, who are wearing equally blank expressions.
‘He’s Stark naked! Tony Stark?’ I say, chuckling in response to a few groans. I remember Bridget running that one past me and I thought it was hilarious.
We find our table, and sure enough, the centre plaque reads ‘He’s Stark naked’. As we sit down we watch several bewildered guests wandering around in confusion.
‘Are you struggling?’ I say to an elderly gentleman hovering by our table.
‘Just a little.’
‘What’s your clue?’
‘RIP water.’ Puzzlement is etched into his brow. ‘It doesn’t even sound like a joke.’
I stifle a smirk. ‘You will be mist,’ I say, gesturing to the table to my right. I turn to the others. ‘I think this is more fun than the actual wedding.’
‘I’m just glad Bridget and Alex found one another, because they’re the only two people who get these jokes.’ Sarah takes the wine from the centre of the table and fills us up.
‘So, I’m allowed to drink now?’ I say sarcastically.
Sarah rolls her eyes. ‘I was just looking out for you.’
I’m about to retort when Viv’s husband, John, interrupts me.
‘So, Sam, no handsome prince on the horizon yet?’
‘Nope.’ I take a long sip of wine in place of a groan.
He tilts his head to the side. ‘You’ll meet someone soon.’ And there it is. I notice Viv giving him ‘a look’, which I’m grateful for. Maybe Bridget has had a word.
A loud gong interrupts the slightly awkward silence which ensues. ‘All rise, for the bride and groom.’
There’s a loud cheer and a round of applause as Bridget and Alex enter and take their seats at the top table. The happiness radiates from the pair of them and whilst I’m finding this whole day a little difficult, the smiles they wear are infectious. Not all romances are doomed and the love they have for one another is real, it only takes a quick glance in their direction to see that. They look beautiful together and the solid block of ice in my chest starts to thaw with the warmth that breaks through from just looking at them. I genuinely wish them a long lifetime of happiness.
Chapter 3
Pick up, pick up, pick up. I can’t contain my excitement and Bridget, who always answers her phone on the first ring, is taking an age to answer today.
‘Sam, hi.’ She sounds breathless when she does pick up.
‘Sorry, I haven’t interrupted anything, have I?’ It’s early evening and her honeymoon was weeks ago so I hope not, but they are still technically newlyweds (eurgh).
‘No, not at all. Just had to run downstairs to get my phone. What’s up?’
‘I did it! I’ve finally been selected to go to Boston.’ I actually dance a little as I say the words.
‘Oh my god, Sam, that’s great. You’ve wanted this for so long!’ She squeals so loudly I have to hold the phone away from my ear.
‘I know! Finally, my boss has seen that I’m capable of bigger things.’ God, for the first few years I didn’t think I’d get any further than just making coffee and shredding crappy marketing campaigns. But then I got more responsibility, working on my own campaigns for local businesses which went down really well and that led to being part of a team, working on some national campaigns but after that, I got wedged in a giant rut, which I’ve been trying to claw my way out of for the past two years.
‘Oh, Sam, congratulations. I’m so happy for you. When do you go?’
‘A week on Sunday.’ My insides squeeze with excitement.
‘That’s too soon! We need to throw you a going away party.’
‘It’s only three months. It doesn’t warrant a leaving party.’
‘Drinks then?’
If I’m honest, drinks in my honour does sound good. Aside from my wedding, I’m not sure it’s ever happened before. ‘Okay, drinks. Does Saturday night work?’
***
On my way into the bar, my phone begins to vibrate in my bag. Thinking it’s one of the girls ringing to say they’re running late, I stand to the side of the door and take it out. The name on the screen knocks the wind out of my sails.
Mum mobile
I watch the screen, willing it to stop. The red and green circles seem to brighten; accept or reject? The name grows bigger on the screen and the vibration becomes more intense.
Then it stops. I exhale and slump against the wall. Why would she ring? I’d sent my dad a birthday card about a week ago and I mentioned the job in Boston. It could be about that. But why would she ring? I stuff my phone back in my bag and head inside.
‘Congratulations,’ Viv says as the waitress places four mojitos on the table of our booth. ‘You finally made the US team!’
Excited butterflies flutter in my stomach. ‘I know, I’m hoping to make a good impression so I’ll be on future projects. Three months in Boston each summer – yes please!’
After my third cocktail, I turn to my friends. ‘So, which one of you is going to look after Coco while I’m away?’ I say, feeling a little tipsy.
There are some animated glances around the room, and I swear I see tumbleweed roll past.
‘Oh, come on. She’s adorable.’
‘It’s not that, it’s the fact you’re leaving tomorrow and haven’t found somewhere for her yet,’ Viv says.
‘Oh, come on. You lot convinced me to get a cat, I knew one of you would mind her.’
‘She’s the Devil incarnate,’ Sarah says, to murmurs of agreement.
‘You guys told me to get a pet, so she’s partly your responsibility.’ I put on a mocking voice. ‘Get a pet, Sam, so you never have to go home to an empty flat, Sam.’
Bridget rolls her eyes. ‘Okay, I’ll do it. But if she so much as unsheathes a claw in my general direction, she’s going straight to the cattery.’
‘Deal.’ I raise my glass. Coco will scratch the hell out of her furniture, but Bridget is far too soft to send her away.
‘Okay, now that awkwardness is over,’ Bridget says, ‘I’d like to say a few words.’
‘God, she’s drunk,’ Sarah stage-whispers, earning herself a sideways glance from Bridget, who has actually stood up in readiness for the moment.
‘Sam, I know we’ve given you a hard time about being single, but I want you to know that we’ve always just wanted the best for you. Getting married is what’s expected, but I’ve come to realise that you are stronger than us.’ Her voice wobbles a little, and she takes a sip of her cocktail in what I assume is an attempt to disguise it. ‘I guess I thought you were just saying you wanted to be single because it was easier than admitting you wanted a partner but couldn’t find one, but now I realise that you really are fine on your own. Look at what you’ve achieved. You’re going on a new adventure, and we know you’ll be fine. Sam, we love you so much.’ She raises her glass. ‘To Sam.’
‘To Sam,’ Viv and Sarah chorus.
‘Thank you.’ I look at each of them one by one. ‘I’m going to miss you, ladies,’ I say, suddenly overwhelmed by a stab of emotion. ‘I love you three.’ Friendships haven’t always come easy to me, so the emotion probably chokes me a little more than it would someone else.
‘Group hug!’ Sarah shouts, wrapping her arms around us all, and we collapse into fits of laughter.
Chapter 4
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.
Chapter 5
On Thursday, Patrick presents us with some rough visuals based on our discussions from the first few days. They’re exactly how I imagined they’d be. They look great, but they have gone with a young girl, aged about ten or eleven, with pigtailed hair and pink ribbons, riding a scooter. I get that a girl like that would love these shoes, but I just can’t see Rocks going for this. I look around the table and see nods of approval. Is it really just me that disagrees with this campaign? I can’t just sit back and watch them go down this rabbit-hole of failure.
I take a deep breath. ‘Okay, Patrick. I respect the work your team has put in here, it looks fantastic, but I still don’t think we’re pitching the brand to the right market.’
He looks at me with bemusement but gives a tired, one-handed gesture for me to continue.
‘I think we need to go older, we need diversity. We’re not selling JoJo Siwa bows here, or Strides to little girls. We’re selling a rappers’ brand to young people. This girl—’ I point to the poster mock-up ‘—will buy the shoes regardless. But boys won’t, teens won’t, and people who like the rappers won’t. We can come up with something different, fresh and powerful if we just think outside the box a little.’ I realise I’ve half risen from my seat with boldness and slide back down into it now I’m finished, my Erin Brockovich confidence draining away.
Patrick raises his eyebrows. ‘Thank you for your input, Sam. I appreciate that you’re new here, and you’re off your leash and it’s all very exciting and whatnot—’ did he just wave his arms around at me? ‘—but if you just pipe down a little and let those of us with experience nail this campaign down, we can all knock this ball out of the water and go home on time.’
Knock the ball out of the water? Does he mean ballpark? Or like a fish out of water? I don’t get it. I glance around the room for other signs of confusion but instead just see several disgruntled faces looking my way. The back of my neck starts to burn and the heat creeps around and up to my cheeks. With nothing left to offer, I nod.
‘Why don’t you go get us some coffees to see us through the morning, and when you’re back we can look at putting you to work with Tony and Dave?’
When I catch Tony’s eye, he gives me a sympathetic smile whilst Dave rolls his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking. Great.
When I leave the office that evening, Tony catches me up. ‘Fancy going for a drink tonight?’
‘Who with?’ I ask suspiciously. I can’t cope with seeing Patrick or Dave, or anyone else from the office for that matter.
‘Just me,’ Tony says with a smile.
‘In that case, yes. I could really do with a drink.’
We find a little bar a few blocks down from the office. It’s dingy inside but quiet aside from a few lone drinkers who look like they’ve been here a while.
‘What are you drinking?’ Tony asks as we take a seat at the bar.
‘Just a beer for me.’
While the bartender gets our drinks, I ask Tony about his wife. ‘Pregnant with number three, grumpy as hell. It’s one of the reasons I came away when I got the chance.’
‘What a catch you are,’ I say dryly. ‘Husband of the year right here, folks.’ I point at him and look animatedly around the bar. The other drinkers look to have fallen asleep.
‘She’s only in her first trimester so I won’t miss anything bar the first scan, and her mother is helping with the boys. I wanted to keep my hand in with the Boston office even though the timing isn’t great.’
‘Well, if she’s okay with it …’ I shrug.
Tony turns on his stool to face me. ‘You were brave standing up to Patrick today.’
‘Well, I don’t feel very brave. I feel very stupid.’
The bartender places two beers down and slides a paper receipt over to Tony. I snatch it before he has time to respond. ‘I’ll get these.’
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I don’t think you were stupid today. I think you were sticking up for your vision for the project, and that isn’t an easy thing to do.’
‘Especially when nobody shares that vision.’ I lean on the bar to look him properly in the eye. ‘Do you really think Rocks are going to go for the campaign as it stands?’
Tony shrugs. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Just because Rocks is owned by two rappers, doesn’t mean their target audience for these shoes have to reflect that. The Barbie doll was designed by a former missile engineer, but his target market wasn’t crazed despots.’
‘I thought it was invented by an American businesswoman?’
‘Ruth Handler invented Barbie using a doll that already existed. The one the engineer designed. Anyway, with regards to our current campaign, it’s what the majority believe will work and I’m happy to go along with it.’
‘So, you’re a yes man?’ Oh god. If I’d have just kept my mouth shut a bit longer, perhaps I wouldn’t be the office equivalent of a trolley dolly.
‘No, well, sort of. I’m talking about choosing your battles. I don’t know if the team got this campaign right, but I do know that the others believe they have. So, if Rocks love it, I share in that glory, and if Rocks hate it, we’re all in it together.’
‘How the hell did you make the team?’ I blurt the words out before I have time to smother them with tact.
Fortunately, he laughs. ‘Because I’m bloody good at design.’
‘But you agree with me?’ I press him.
‘I’m saying I don’t know, but you didn’t exactly have solid counter-ideas. Perhaps if you weren’t so vague, Patrick would listen.’
‘Or perhaps if I was a man? Maybe you could be my voice in future.’ I bat my eyelids acrimoniously before rolling my eyes at the ridiculousness of this truth.
‘I’m not saying that. C’mon, you pooh-poohed his idea without anything real to offer in return. I mean, look at the shoes.’ He sticks out his right foot and twists it from left to right. ‘They aren’t your usual teen-buy despite what two rappers think.’
I don’t believe for a second that Tony thinks this campaign will work. He’s always been so sharp and in tune with clients in the past and Pink Apple are renowned for thinking outside of the box – the current proposal is too easy. We don’t change our clients’ minds, we change their customers’ minds. ‘What ideas do you think would work?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. All my ideas have gone into the current proposal—’
‘That you hate?’ I interject.
‘Well come on, have you seen the state of the shoes?’ We both look down at our feet again, as if to clarify they haven’t miraculously morphed into something fabulous in the space of a few seconds.
‘True.’
‘But just because I hate it, doesn’t mean it won’t work.’
I drain the last of my beer and Tony orders two more.
‘Fair enough.’
‘I’ll get these,’ Tony says when the second round arrives.
‘Damn right you will. It’s your turn.’
When Tony pulls his wallet out, he glances at his phone and groans.
‘What is it?’
‘Carl, Dave and Steve have decided to join us.’
I can only stomach Tony. The conversation will spiral into a pit of misogynistic crap in no time. ‘Great. How long have I got to drink my beer before I need to leave?’
‘I missed their call so about—’
‘Alright, fella,’ Dave says, patting Tony on the back.
‘Here she is, black-sheep-Beckham,’ Steve says, winking at me like he’s made a hilarious in-joke.
‘You grab a great coffee, Sam, love,’ Carl says. I’m sure it’s all just banter and everything, but they’re already pissing me off, and it’s because I know I’m right about the campaign.
‘Yours was the one with the extra-special present?’ I wink back and Carl’s face pales. ‘Oh, come on, I’m joking.’ I wink again. ‘Or am I?’
The three men take the remaining stools along the bar, engulfing Tony and me. We talk about the campaign, and the main theme of the conversation seems to be that Patrick knows what he’s doing, and if we all nod along, we get out of the boardroom earlier. I don’t even protest. If Tony couldn’t see where I was coming from, they never will. We have a few more beers, and talk soon revolves around sport, ‘her indoors’ and some baseball game they’re going to.
‘I’m going to crash,’ I say.
‘Want me to walk you back?’ Tony asks.
I need some space and being around these guys is giving me a headache. ‘No, I’m fine. It isn’t far.’
The free sample has ended.
