Can You Keep a Secret?
Page 2
'Rebranding … analysis … cost-effective …'
The man in the grey suit is still droning on about something or other. As casually as possible, I extend my hand and inch his business card towards me so I can read it.
Doug Hamilton. That's right. OK, I can remember this. Doug. Dug. Easy. I'll picture a shovel. Together with a ham. Which … which looks ill … and …
OK, forget this. I'll just write it down.
I write down 'rebranding' and 'Doug Hamilton' on my notepad and give an awkward little wriggle. God, my knickers really are uncomfortable. I mean, G-strings are never that comfortable at the best of times, in my opinion, but these are particularly bad. Which could be because they're two sizes too small.
Which could possibly be because Connor bought them for me, and told the lingerie assistant I weighed eight stone three. Whereupon she told him I must be size eight. Size eight!
(Frankly, I think she was just being mean. She must have known I was fibbing.)
So it's Christmas Eve, and we're exchanging presents, and I unwrap this pair of gorgeous pale pink silk knickers. Size eight. And I basically have two options.
A: Confess the truth: 'Actually these are too small, I'm more of a 12, and by the way, I don't really weigh eight stone three.' Or …
B: Shoe-horn myself into them.
Actually, it was fine. You could hardly see the red lines on my skin afterwards. And all it meant was that I had to quickly cut all the labels out of my clothes so Connor would never realize.
Since then, I've hardly ever worn this particular set of underwear, needless to say. But every so often I see them looking all nice and expensive in the drawer and think, Oh come on, they can't be that tight, and somehow squeeze into them. Which is what I did this morning. I even decided I must have lost weight, because they didn't feel too bad.
I am such a deluded moron.
'… unfortunately since rebranding … major rethink … feel we need to be considering alternative synergies …'
Up to now I've just been sitting and nodding, thinking this business meeting lark is really easy. But now Doug Hamilton's voice starts to impinge on my consciousness. What's he saying?
'… two products diverging … becoming incompatible …'
What was that about incompatible? What was that about a major rethink? I feel a jolt of alarm. Maybe this isn't just waffle. Maybe he's actually saying something. Quick, listen.
'We appreciate the functional and synergetic partnership that Panther and Glen Oil have enjoyed in the past,' Doug Hamilton is saying. 'But you'll agree that clearly we're going in different directions.'
Different directions?
Is that what he's been talking about all this time?
My stomach gives an anxious lurch.
He can't be—
Is he trying to pull out of the deal?
'Excuse me, Doug,' I say, in my most relaxed voice. 'Obviously I was closely following what you were saying earlier.' I give a friendly, we're-all-professionals-together smile. 'But if you could just … um, recap the situation for all our benefits …'
In plain English, I beg silently.
Doug Hamilton and the other guy exchange glances.
'We're a little unhappy about your brand values,' says Doug Hamilton.
'My brand values?' I echo in panic.
'The brand values of the product,' he says, giving me an odd look. 'As I've been explaining, we here at Glen Oil are going through a rebranding process at the moment, and we see our new image very much as a caring petrol, as our new daffodil logo demonstrates. And we feel Panther Prime, with its emphasis on sport and competition, is simply too aggressive.'
'Aggressive?' I stare at him, bewildered. 'But … it's a fruit drink.'
This makes no sense. Glen Oil is fume-making, world-ruining petrol. Panther Prime is an innocent cranberry-flavoured drink. How can it be too aggressive?
'The values it espouses.' He gestures to the marketing brochures on the table. 'Drive. Elitism. Masculinity. The very slogan, "Don't Pause". Frankly, it seems a little dated.' He shrugs. 'We just don't think a joint initiative will be possible.'
No. No. This can't be happening. He can't be pulling out.
Everyone at the office will think it was my fault. They'll think I cocked it up and I'm completely crap.
My heart is thumping. My face is hot. I can't let this happen. But what do I say? I haven't prepared anything. Paul said it was all set up and all I had to do was shake their hands.
'We'll certainly discuss it again before we make a decision,' Doug's saying. He gives me a brief smile. 'And as I say, we would like to continue links with the Panther Corporation, so this has been a useful meeting in any case.'
He's pushing back his chair.
I can't let this slip away! I have to try to win them round. I have to try and shut the deal.
The man in the grey suit is still droning on about something or other. As casually as possible, I extend my hand and inch his business card towards me so I can read it.
Doug Hamilton. That's right. OK, I can remember this. Doug. Dug. Easy. I'll picture a shovel. Together with a ham. Which … which looks ill … and …
OK, forget this. I'll just write it down.
I write down 'rebranding' and 'Doug Hamilton' on my notepad and give an awkward little wriggle. God, my knickers really are uncomfortable. I mean, G-strings are never that comfortable at the best of times, in my opinion, but these are particularly bad. Which could be because they're two sizes too small.
Which could possibly be because Connor bought them for me, and told the lingerie assistant I weighed eight stone three. Whereupon she told him I must be size eight. Size eight!
(Frankly, I think she was just being mean. She must have known I was fibbing.)
So it's Christmas Eve, and we're exchanging presents, and I unwrap this pair of gorgeous pale pink silk knickers. Size eight. And I basically have two options.
A: Confess the truth: 'Actually these are too small, I'm more of a 12, and by the way, I don't really weigh eight stone three.' Or …
B: Shoe-horn myself into them.
Actually, it was fine. You could hardly see the red lines on my skin afterwards. And all it meant was that I had to quickly cut all the labels out of my clothes so Connor would never realize.
Since then, I've hardly ever worn this particular set of underwear, needless to say. But every so often I see them looking all nice and expensive in the drawer and think, Oh come on, they can't be that tight, and somehow squeeze into them. Which is what I did this morning. I even decided I must have lost weight, because they didn't feel too bad.
I am such a deluded moron.
'… unfortunately since rebranding … major rethink … feel we need to be considering alternative synergies …'
Up to now I've just been sitting and nodding, thinking this business meeting lark is really easy. But now Doug Hamilton's voice starts to impinge on my consciousness. What's he saying?
'… two products diverging … becoming incompatible …'
What was that about incompatible? What was that about a major rethink? I feel a jolt of alarm. Maybe this isn't just waffle. Maybe he's actually saying something. Quick, listen.
'We appreciate the functional and synergetic partnership that Panther and Glen Oil have enjoyed in the past,' Doug Hamilton is saying. 'But you'll agree that clearly we're going in different directions.'
Different directions?
Is that what he's been talking about all this time?
My stomach gives an anxious lurch.
He can't be—
Is he trying to pull out of the deal?
'Excuse me, Doug,' I say, in my most relaxed voice. 'Obviously I was closely following what you were saying earlier.' I give a friendly, we're-all-professionals-together smile. 'But if you could just … um, recap the situation for all our benefits …'
In plain English, I beg silently.
Doug Hamilton and the other guy exchange glances.
'We're a little unhappy about your brand values,' says Doug Hamilton.
'My brand values?' I echo in panic.
'The brand values of the product,' he says, giving me an odd look. 'As I've been explaining, we here at Glen Oil are going through a rebranding process at the moment, and we see our new image very much as a caring petrol, as our new daffodil logo demonstrates. And we feel Panther Prime, with its emphasis on sport and competition, is simply too aggressive.'
'Aggressive?' I stare at him, bewildered. 'But … it's a fruit drink.'
This makes no sense. Glen Oil is fume-making, world-ruining petrol. Panther Prime is an innocent cranberry-flavoured drink. How can it be too aggressive?
'The values it espouses.' He gestures to the marketing brochures on the table. 'Drive. Elitism. Masculinity. The very slogan, "Don't Pause". Frankly, it seems a little dated.' He shrugs. 'We just don't think a joint initiative will be possible.'
No. No. This can't be happening. He can't be pulling out.
Everyone at the office will think it was my fault. They'll think I cocked it up and I'm completely crap.
My heart is thumping. My face is hot. I can't let this happen. But what do I say? I haven't prepared anything. Paul said it was all set up and all I had to do was shake their hands.
'We'll certainly discuss it again before we make a decision,' Doug's saying. He gives me a brief smile. 'And as I say, we would like to continue links with the Panther Corporation, so this has been a useful meeting in any case.'
He's pushing back his chair.
I can't let this slip away! I have to try to win them round. I have to try and shut the deal.
