Shortly before Christmas, Rachel and Greg had begun work on a suite of new marketing materials for a grocery box company – one of those firms that sold misshapen but 100% organic fruits and vegetables, delivered to your door for three times the price of the ones you could buy at your local Tesco.
As the agency’s star client-services man, Greg was hard-working, ambitious and brilliant at schmoozing the right people. His understanding of what copy about cauliflowers could reasonably be expected to communicate, however, seemed typically lacking in subtlety.
‘Greg … it’s a brassica,’ Rachel said, groping for a response that felt appropriate. ‘Cauliflower is a pretty bog-standard vegetable. It’s not a dark, exotic new perfume … It’s not a lovers’ weekend in Paris. I mean, it’s not evenkale. I was kind of going for the “like your mum used to make” angle. Cauliflower is what British people remember having with Sunday lunch when they were kids – or, if they’re really unlucky, with their school dinners.’
She made a face then, remembering the bland, overboiled florets that dissolved on contact with her Staffordshire primary school’s plastic knives and forks.
‘SEE?’ Greg cried, exultant. ‘THAT’S the kind of writing I know you can do.Dark! Exotic! Lovers!THOSE are the kinds of words that are going to inspire people—’
He was now yelling so exuberantly down the phone that the people crammed into the bus shelter could hear his every word.
‘Greg,’ Rachel said, interrupting his raptures, ‘my point is that I’m writing about groceries. The brief from the client was to make the copy informative, engaging and on-brand. They want it to resonate with people, but I’m pretty sure they’re not expectingFifty Shades of Grey.This content is about explaining the nutritional benefits of the produce and providing recipe inspiration. We don’t need to … turn anyone on.’
There was a muffled titter from somewhere to Rachel’s left.
Greg blathered on at volume eleven, bright and undeterred.
‘Ray, all I’m saying is I think we should look at it again before presenting it to the client. Okay? Maybe SEX IT UP just a little?’
A middle-aged woman on Rachel’s right snorted as Greg began to croon Rod Stewart’s ‘Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?’ down the phone.
Ugh, he was a nightmare.
Rachel looked at the bus information board again. The number 19 was still a minute away.
‘Fine,fine. We can talk about it first thing,’ she said, desperate to shut him up.
‘Great. Meet me at Java Jo’s at nine-ish. We’ll get coffee.’
Despite Greg’s unparalleled ability to irritate Rachel – and in part thanks to his obliviousness to this talent – she knew they made a good team. He managed to muster enthusiasm for every project they tackled, and it was often infectious – helpful when, as now, they were working with less-than-inspiring subject matter. Greg’s natural ebullience assured his popularity with both clients and colleagues, and somehow – despite the regular need for her to squash his more outlandish ideas – he and Rachel had become friends.
As several of her fellow travellers suppressed residual smirks, Rachel poked her head beyond the side of the bus shelter and peered down the road. The number 19 was approaching.
She got to her feet, gathered her handbag and laptop case, and glanced up at the bus as it slid into position beside the shelter.
Jessicawasthere, she saw, for the fourth time this week – though it was only now, as her throat tightened and she felt blood pounding in her ears, that Rachel realised she’d been counting.
Literally larger than life, a phenomenally gorgeous, perfectly lit Jessica – flawlessly filtered and Photoshopped – was staring down at Rachel from the side of the double-decker.
A goddess in a white silk camisole, Jessica wore a half-smile on her plush, pillowy lips – open just wide enough to show off her perfectly even, dazzlingly white teeth. One of her eyebrows was slightly raised, a suggestive forward-slash punctuating the smooth golden skin of her forehead.
Rachel’s eyes swept down the image, taking in the long dark hair that reached almost to Jessica’s tiny waist, and her ample – possibly augmented – bosom.
In Jessica’s French-manicured hand was a bottle, half-full of lurid orange liquid. Beneath her image sat the captionANGELJUICE: the detox drink for heavenly bodies. For a moment Rachel wondered what she was more offended by: the mere sight of Jessica or the fact that she was shilling for a weight-loss company. She rapidly decided it was the latter.
Although standing exposed to the rain – now falling faster in fat, icy drops – Rachel was suddenly sweating. She loosened the scarf around her neck and undid the top button of her coat.
Seconds after she’d scrambled on, the bus pulled away from the stop. Rachel lurched towards a vacant seat and collapsed into it, then rummaged for her phone again. She opened WhatsApp and typed a message to Anna.
Rachel: Are you and Will still pretending to do Dry January? Because I have a powerful urge to buy wine.
Seconds later, a message came back:
Anna:Nah. We cracked last night and had a gin. He’s coming to ours for dinner btw and I told him to bring Tom too. I’ll get them to bring some booze since we’re feeding them … AGAIN.
Rachel smiled and shoved the phone back in her bag.
This, at least, was something to look forward to: an evening with three of her favourite people, featuring Anna’s excellent cooking.
