“She loves you too,” he replies. “She’s less keen on Chloe and Mom.”
It’s rare for him to say anything negative about his mum. I can’t help but take his comment and run with it.
“Your mum and Chloe were quite alike in some ways.”
He wrinkles his nose and I worry I’ve overstepped, but after a moment he nods. “Yeah. I think that’s why they had a mutual respect for each other. At first, anyway. Toward the end, they couldn’t stand to be in the same room.”
“What actually went wrong, apart from planning the wedding? What were their biggest gripes?”
“Mostly my involvement in the family business. Chloe wanted her say; my mom had to have hers.” Chloe didn’t even work for the business; she was in finance. “I was stuck in the middle being pulled both ways. It was exhausting.”
“Kind of hard to hear your own voice if everyone else is shouting loudly around you.”
“Exactly.” He regards me warmly. “You’ve always understood.”
“Understood what?”
“My family. This dynamic. We’re so lucky to have you here.”
I blush at the tender look in his eyes. “I’d better not disappoint you then.”
That week Ishare with Jackson my initial thoughts on the rebranding for Eau de Sainte Églantine. The current packaging has been in use for the last twenty years and the label features a simple design with the product name front and center. It’s not dissimilar in style to Evian and Vittel, but Jackson and Albert aren’t trying to compete with the likes of them.
Jackson wants to target posh delis and upmarket restaurants in American cities, selling in smaller numbers but at a much higher price point. Albert has been keen to shift from plastic to glass for environmental reasons, and Jackson maintains they need glass to justify the significant price hike.
“Your new bottle should be so special that consumers will want to put it out on their tables.”
“Rather than pouring the water into glasses and dumping the bottle in the trash,” he says. “Agreed.”
In this way, customers will help to increase brand awareness among their peers.
“Remember how aghast I was that none of the agencies you’d approached had taken inspiration from the town’s art nouveau roots?” I ask as I open up my laptop.
He grins at me. “You were incensed.”
I laugh and nod. “Yeah, I was.” I show him the photographs Itook of the painting on the wall of the restaurant. “This isn’t technically from the era, but it’s done in the same style. I was wondering about re-creating something similar for the label.”
He leans in to get a closer look, and my mind fogs as I breathe in his aftershave. He’s clean-shaven and his jaw is so close that if I turned my head, I could brush it with my lips.
“It’s pretty,” he says thoughtfully.
I edge away a little. “The craziest thing is thatshe”—I point at the woman—“is Sainte Églantine.”
He gives me a sidelong look.
“This painting is a depiction of Sainte Églantine,” I repeat. “What if we put a picture of Sainte Églantine on the bottles of Eau de Sainte Églantine?”
“It’s a completely different look,” he murmurs, sitting back in his seat.
“Yes, but that could work in our favor. We can build a story around this, pull in the history of the town. Imagine this image etched onto a glass bottle.”
I can tell by his body language that he’s into the idea: his right foot is tapping. He gets twitchy when he’s excited.
“I can see it,” he says suddenly. “Blue bottle, white etching.”
“Yes!” I reply enthusiastically. “I’d want that on my dining table. I’d want it as a vase! I can picture it on Instagram: a blue glass bottle filled with bright yellow buttercups.”
“Can we find out who painted her or get permission to use her somehow?”
