‘I’ve suspected this might happen for a while,’ he said, and Rachel marvelled that – even at a time like this – he couldn’t resist grandstanding. ‘I’m not supposed to be telling anyone, but I felt like I had to warn my friends ASAP – you know, to make sure you all come in on time looking professional and ready to slay. This isnotthe day to turn up zombified, stinking of stale booze and clutching a Pret bag full of pastries.’
While she’d had no intention of going to work wearing Eau de Red Wine, Rachel was grateful for Greg’s warning. She felt her annoyance with him soften as panic began to swirl in the pit of her stomach.
‘Why is all this such a big deal this morning?’ she asked, fearful she already knew the answer.
‘WOW, you areslow!’ Greg roared. ‘The new owners are coming into the office today! The announcement is going to be made, they’ll be introduced, and then they’re going to spend the day looking around – working out how our agency is going to mesh with theirs.’
‘Mesh?’
‘Yes,mesh! For God’s sake put me on speaker and start brushing your teeth or something. You don’t have time to waste.’
Obediently, Rachel switched her phone settings and smeared Colgate onto her battered toothbrush.
‘The headlines,’ Greg continued, ‘are that we’re being taken over by Mountaintop Media, based up in Manchester. Apparently they wanted to set up a London office, then decided that acquiring a smallish agency wholesale might make more sense than setting up from scratch. HOWEVER, we may lose some accounts if clients don’t like the look of the change. There may be things that Mountaintop can run from Manchester instead of from London, if they’re looking to cut costs …’
Again Greg stopped on a cliffhanger.
‘So you’re saying there might be job losses?’ Rachel spluttered, minty foam spattering the sink.
‘I’ll be amazed if there aren’t,’ he said. ‘Which is why weallneed to make a good impression from the word go. Now get your arse in the shower and get to the office AS SOON AS YOU CAN!’
‘Shit – yes. Thanks,’ Rachel said, and rang off.
Twenty-five minutes later Rachel had showered, thrown half a can of dry shampoo at her hair and pulled on a slouchy black minidress that ideally should have been ironed. She smeared moisturiser onto her face and resolved to apply some make-up on the Tube, then poured herself into a pair of thick grey tights that, though snug, at least helped to smooth her silhouette.
She longed to sink her feet into the flat cherry-red Doc Martens sitting beneath her bedroom bookcase. Instead, she squeezed them into a pair of chunky-heeled black leather boots she’d bought last winter but barely worn since because walking in them required too much concentration.
She knew they’d slow her progress towards the office but reasoned that her usual slightly studenty look might not be ideal for today. Relate/Create – R/C for short – was one of those arty workplaces where penchants for piercings, tattoos and quirky clothes had never been troubled by a corporate dress code. While Rachel had always enjoyed going to work in skinny jeans, slogan tops and vintage finds, she now wondered whether the takeover might condemn her to a life of plain black trousers, inoffensive V-necks and smart, sensible shoes.
Get some perspective, she told herself. After all, the dreariness of Rachel’s future work wardrobe was hardly the biggest problem she might face after today. More serious by far was the risk that redundancies would follow the takeover announcement; if the new mega-agency she was about to become part of found itself with too many copywriters on the payroll, she could end up unemployed.
Rachel suddenly felt nauseous and wasn’t sure whether to blame the thought of losing her job or the after-effects of too muchvino rosso.
Banging her bedroom door closed, she picked up her forest-green handbag from the kitchen, dropped her phone inside it and grabbed her laptop case. Doing her best not to panic about what awaited her at work, whether she’d make it there on time, or the very real prospect that she might break her neck in her too-high heels, she exited the flat and dashed in the direction of Finsbury Park station.
Relate/Create was housed in a glass-fronted office complex towards the top of St John Street, just south of Angel. Set back from the road behind a line of trees so tall they dwarfed its five storeys, the building’s many large windows and black metal beams looked strikingly modern amid rows of elegant, primarily Georgian townhouses.
The ground floor housed a bar, a cafe and a pizza parlour, while the upper levels were let to businesses of various types and sizes. R/C sat on the first floor, its ninety-eight employees occupying around half the available space.
Rachel passed through the entrance foyer and waved hello to Frank, the security guard currently sitting behind the front desk. She summoned a lift and, as its doors slid shut, examined her reflection in the mirror inside it.
Not too bad, considering she’d done her face on the train. Her pale cheeks were flushed from fast walking, and her wavy auburn hair – tied back in a ponytail – looked deliberately, rather than accidentally, dishevelled. Pure luck.
She wiped away a stray smudge of mascara with her fingertip and looked at the time: 8.57 a.m. She’d made it, but she was starving – not to mention woefully under-caffeinated.
As she entered R/C’s open-plan office, Rachel looked for Greg. He was in the far corner of the room, where the client services team was based, chatting to his boss, Karen. Eyeing him from her own desk over in editorial, Rachel eventually managed to catch his attention and let him know she’d arrived. Behind Karen’s back, Greg gave her a relieved thumbs up.
The atmosphere was thick with anticipation. Even if Greg hadn’t called her, and even in her fuzzy state, Rachel would have realised something was up. Florence, Toby and Isaac – the founders and owners of the agency – were in the main meeting room, visible through its glass wall and door. Seated at the large oval table inside, their heads and shoulders were visible to anyone who walked by. Toby, who was the agency’s managing director, seemed to be in full flow, and the people on the other side of the table – presumably the interlopers from Mountaintop Media – were nodding as he spoke.
Rachel could only see their backs, but all three of them looked male and were clad in suit jackets. This didn’t bode well, she decided, either for equal opportunities or office culture.
Neil from the tech team – a very clever, if occasionally stroppy, developer – gestured at Rachel from across a bank of desks as she made her way to the kitchen. He nodded his head towards the meeting room and mouthed, ‘What’s going on?’
Rachel made a face and shrugged like she had no idea. The last thing she wanted to do was get Greg into trouble.
Ducking into the kitchen, she placed an R/C-branded mug beneath the coffee machine spout and pressed the button for an Americano, to which she added a heaped teaspoon of sugar.
When she got back to her desk, her laptop had finished booting up. She settled down to check her emails and spotted that a whole-agency briefing had been scheduled for 9.15 a.m. ThankGodfor Greg and his gobbiness; without his warning she might well have come in late, even if he’d cancelled their cauliflower chat.
