Chapter One
Bring It On
Mina
Iswear some human beings are walking, talking, breathing migraine attack triggers.
I mean it. I hand-on-heart believe that if someone in a white coat researched it, they’d find that certain personality types and certain characteristics are guaranteed to induce migraine attacks, and the worst kind. The kind of migraine attacks that come on hard and fast, blurring my vision, stabbing a dagger into one side of my head, and leaving my stomach lurching with the need to empty itself.
And if some doctors were ever to research this, I would be able to point them to two people who should top their list of likely specimens to prove this theory.
One of these people, thesemen- because of course, they’re men - is my boss Garrett Hardcastle, a skinny, white Yorkshireman in his late forties who still believes that British indie music is going to make an imminent and stunning comeback. That’s the only reason I can believe he dresses the way he does with those ball-smuggling skinny jeans and one-size-too-small plaid shirts that cling unflatteringly to a beer belly I’m sure he can’t see in the mirror when he goes to check his spiky mullet that was no doubt ironic in a cool way in 2007, but now it just looks like his hairdresser forgets to cut the back of his hair. But I can’t blame his dated aesthetic for his migraine-inducing skills. No, that’s all down to his voice and the words that voice makes. His tone is more of a drone, like it’s an effort to breathe let alone use that air to form words, and what he says is rarely insightful or inspiring, which is unfortunate considering he’s the Executive Creative Director of HNO, the advertising agency I work at. The only time I ever see him partially animated is when he’s sunken three or more beers and snorted a line or two of cocaine at the after-work drinks that are only officially supposed to happen Friday evenings but are a near-nightly occurrence.
Some may think I’m being harsh, saying that a man who has a borderline coke addiction and has spent the last fifteen years listening to The Libertines on repeat could cause a migraine attack, but it makes a lot of sense to me. If the beautiful, delicious and life-affirming creations that are cheese and chocolate can cause migraine attacks, then why not a pot-bellied Liam Gallagher lookalike whose voice makes Ringo Starr’s sound invigorating.
The second human migraine-trigger in this room is much easier to grasp as such. Charlie Atkinson is loud, he’s camp, he’s smiley, he’s chatty and he wears very, very colourful clothes. I’m talking Blue Peter presenter-in-the-Seventies colourful. They are bright and rarely match, and with his blond hair and bright blue eyes he could easily be the token white man in a United Colors of Benneton advert. Furthermore, Charlie perpetually looks and smells like he literally just stepped out of the most refreshing shower, no matter the time of day. He’s all clean and fresh and annoying as fuck. This may not be offensive to others but the shower in my new flat currently doesn’t even have hot water so hell, yes, freshly-showered, sweet-smelling people with pores that are opened and clean are very triggering to me right now.
“The thing about this campaign, right…” Garrett drones on, “is that we missed our chance with them two years ago. Okay? We fucked it. Totally fucked it. Wasn’t my doing, of course,” he holds his hands up but it’s so slow it’s like they each weigh ten kilograms, which I know isn’t true because that retro 80s Casio watch with a calculator keyboard is no Rolex. “I wasn’t on the pitch. But I know about it.Everybodyknows about it. It’s a HNO Hall of Shame legend. This is why we have to get the fuckers next week.”
The fuckers he’s talking about are our new potential clients, Status Hotel & Venues, a luxury hotel brand famous for their period properties and design hotels. I assume we won’t be calling them “the fuckers” to their faces when we pitch to them next week.
Shit. Next week.
“Next week?” I ask to confirm it, but I know my voice betrays the panic and dismay I feel at the prospect of pulling a pitch together so quickly, on top of all the other work I already have. I press my lips together as if that will undo the question and the emotions it conveys. There’s a reason my nickname in the office is Moana – and no, it’s not pronounced like the Disney film - and while I don’t care, really I don’t, I do try to avoid feeding the beasts who call me that.
“Next week. Friday,” Garrett confirms, his voice low and dull. He picks up his phone and starts tapping and scrolling with a deep sigh. “The good news is our tissue meeting was a big success, they’ve already done the target audience research for us and that, plus the sales and brand goals that Jessica put together, are heading to your Inboxes right now.”
Right on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Should be totally doable,” Charlie says. After I offer the ceiling a quick eye roll, I glare at him. Clearly having a very different reaction, he leans forward in his chair, elbows on the table, and clasps his hands together as if watching Garrett scrolling on his phone is the most interesting thing in the world. “I’ve done it before, I can do it again.”
“When have you ever done it before?” I challenge Charlie.
“Remember that Herbal Essences pitch last summer? Wasn’t that done in less than a week?”
I can’t stop my top lip curling. “No. You had a month for that.”
“Really?” Charlie’s head tilts to the side, like a puppy who thinks he just heard the word “walkies”.
I nod as I recall exactly what Charlie is referring to. “Yes, you had a month, but you were away for three weeks of it, so it felt like only a week to you.”
“Oh, yes, my Greek-island-hopping adventure. That was a wonderful holiday.” Charlie’s eyes gloss over as he reminisces, and I grip my pen a little harder. I haven’t had a holiday in four years, but who’s counting?
Garrett looks up from his phone at this and eyes us both in turn. “Am I speaking Swahili or something?”
My spine straightens and I don’t miss how Garrett’s eyes linger on me a little longer. I wonder if it’s because he thinks he just said something racist or if he is asking me a serious question.
“Just because I’m brown, doesn’t mean I speak Swahili,” I say before muttering under my breath. “For fuck’s sake.”
“I think Garrett was being sarcastic.” Charlie leans towards me. “Although I agree he could have picked his words better.”
“Was what I just said racist?” Garrett raises his eyebrows and I see exactly what direction this is going in now. He’s going to play dumb. He’s going to put the burden on me to explain his faux pas rather than just acknowledging and apologising for it. Like every other time a microaggression slips out of someone’s mouth in this godforsaken place.
“Was what I said racist, Charlie?” he asks the other white man in the room because of course he does.
I wave my hands around and the noise of my silver bangles and bracelets chiming together fills the room. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s focus on the work we have to do and fast. Who’s going to be the Creative Team managing it? And who will be the project lead?” I ask, which is what I really want to know. I see Charlie lean forward a little more, I know he’s wondering exactly the same. If I’m made project lead, that will actually make this worth doing. I’ve only been waiting the last two years for it and the timing would be perfect considering the mess that is my personal life. Yes, being project lead would give me something good to focus on.
“You’ve got togetthe project first,” Garrett mumbles as he goes back to his phone. “And isn’t it obvious who will be the Creative Team?”
