Victoria Cooke - A Summer to Remember

As I negotiate the revolving door to the office, my insides are jelly. The receptionist takes me up to the boardroom where I’ll meet the team. Four of them are my English colleagues, who left the apartment earlier than me because they wanted to go to Starbucks, and I wasn’t ready. They, being mostly bald men, had considerably less hair to dry than I did.

As we approach the glass-walled boardroom, I glance at them all sat around the table. My inner fire dies a little when it registers that they’re all dressed casually. The receptionist is smart in her cropped hound’s-tooth pants and purple sweater, so it makes no sense, unless we’re kicking off with some practical hands-on work.

‘Hi,’ I say, feeling a little sick. ‘So, do you do casual Friday on a Monday here?’ I mean it as a joke to laugh off my blunder but soon realise that my British accent and power dressing probably made it sound like more of an underhand dig, a notion affirmed by a few raised eyebrows and a bit of uncomfortable throat clearing.

‘We always dress like this. Do you have a problem with that, ma’am?’ the man at the top of the table asks. I’m assuming he’s Patrick, the boss.

‘Er, no. No problem at all. I was j—’

‘Good,’ he says, before turning back to the rest of the table. I slip into a chair and take out my file. That wasn’t a great start, but I’m determined to make a good impression.

‘As I was saying before Victoria Beckham over here interrupted—’ he jabs his thumb in my direction, as if anyone was in any doubt, and heat rises up the back of my neck ‘—Rocks need an international campaign for their sneakers, so we really need to get our heads in the game. This isn’t a rebrand, this is a new brand so we have to get it just right.’

I glance at my watch and it’s only 8.55 a.m. My chest tightens. I can’t believe they started without me. How rude! I look around the table. Tony, Dave, Carl and Steve – my British colleagues – are all dressed down and look completely mortified by my intrusion. The other four men are the Americans; I’ve yet to learn names but they’re all equally unimpressed. But they started without me .

I keep my mouth shut for the rest of the day. Maybe it’s first day nerves or perhaps I’m still knocked by that awful man I met yesterday but I can’t seem to unravel the knot in my stomach. When the clock strikes five, I almost race out of the door. Tony catches me up. ‘Sorry, Sam, I thought you knew it was a casual office – I’d have said this morning if I saw you.’ He looks genuinely sorry.

‘It’s fine.’ I brush my hand through the air. ‘Nobody mentioned it, that’s all.’

‘It was in the itinerary email.’ He pulls out his phone and begins scrolling through.

‘Really, it’s fine.’ I don’t need him to prove it, I need him to drop it. I’m mortified enough as it is.

He looks up. ‘Here it is. “And remember, the Boston office is CW.” Casualwear.’

‘What? Give me that.’ I take the phone from his hand and read it for myself. ‘I had this email, but how was I supposed to know CW meant casualwear? I thought it was a direction, like “central west” or something.’

He furrows his brow. ‘I’m sorry. We all knew. At least you do now, and tomorrow is a new day. We’re going for beers; do you want to join us?’

‘No, thanks. I have some shopping to do.’

***

The next day, I turn up in my new casual office wear, courtesy of Abercrombie & Fitch: a bright-green logo-emblazoned T-shirt and a pair of stonewashed jeans that both smell amazing, like the shop. Fortunately, my parting gift when I left the office last night was a pair of Rocks trainers. We were all issued a pair to wear and try and connect with the brand. Mine have a purple and pink graffiti design down the sides and glittery silver laces. I feel like a twelve-year-old again, but at least today I’ll fit in. And they are bloomin’ comfy.

When I enter the boardroom, everyone is already sitting down drinking coffee. ‘Morning,’ I say with as much cheer as I can muster. I repeat Tony’s mantra: Today is a new day . There are a few sullen nods, but nobody calls me Victoria Beckham, so I assume I’m already making a better impression. No offence to Victoria, of course – I love her. It just didn’t take Uri Geller to read Patrick’s mind and determine the remark was intended to be derogatory.

I withhold anything that could be construed as over-zealous and recognise the need for measured, calm and quality input. It’s hard because I’m bursting with ideas, and nobody seems to be getting it; they basically just want to rip off the well-known and well-bejazzled little girls’ favourite Strides brand which I don’t think Rocks will go for. The owners are two rapping megastars who I’d never come across before, but I did my research and apparently they’re triple platinum and something of a big deal.

‘I think Rocks have more edge than that,’ I say as everyone discusses tweens wearing denim skirts with colourful, sparkly ribbons in their pigtailed hair.

Nobody listens. It’s the second, no, third most frustrating thing that’s happened since I arrived. I speak up and repeat myself and Patrick raises his eyes wearily.

‘Is that so?’

I clear my throat. ‘I think Rocks are wanting something a little cooler. Perhaps something aimed at older teens too. I don’t think they’re going to see Strides as their main competitor.’

‘What’s your name, Beckham?’

My stomach is on a spin-cycle, but I manage to reply. ‘Er, Sam.’

‘Sam, with all due respect, this ain’t my first rodeo.’ He laughs at his own joke and glances around to rouse a few laughs from around the table. I want to say something, but after that encounter by the harbour the other day, I just can’t bring myself to. I hate to admit it, but I’m two days into my dream gig and I already want to go home.

On Thursday, Patrick presents us with some rough visuals based on our discussions from the first few days. They’re exactly how I imagined they’d be. They look great, but they have gone with a young girl, aged about ten or eleven, with pigtailed hair and pink ribbons, riding a scooter. I get that a girl like that would love these shoes, but I just can’t see Rocks going for this. I look around the table and see nods of approval. Is it really just me that disagrees with this campaign? I can’t just sit back and watch them go down this rabbit-hole of failure.

I take a deep breath. ‘Okay, Patrick. I respect the work your team has put in here, it looks fantastic, but I still don’t think we’re pitching the brand to the right market.’

He looks at me with bemusement but gives a tired, one-handed gesture for me to continue.

‘I think we need to go older, we need diversity. We’re not selling JoJo Siwa bows here, or Strides to little girls. We’re selling a rappers’ brand to young people. This girl—’ I point to the poster mock-up ‘—will buy the shoes regardless. But boys won’t, teens won’t, and people who like the rappers won’t. We can come up with something different, fresh and powerful if we just think outside the box a little.’ I realise I’ve half risen from my seat with boldness and slide back down into it now I’m finished, my Erin Brockovich confidence draining away.

Patrick raises his eyebrows. ‘Thank you for your input, Sam. I appreciate that you’re new here, and you’re off your leash and it’s all very exciting and whatnot—’ did he just wave his arms around at me? ‘—but if you just pipe down a little and let those of us with experience nail this campaign down, we can all knock this ball out of the water and go home on time.’