“Piss off,” he’d said. “Wine is for ponces!”
I hadn’t bothered trying to speak to him again – I can take a hint. But I thought there might be some solidarity given the ordeal ahead, so I strolled over. He was scowling at a pile of strawberry punnets, his big red splodge of a nose looking like a refugee strawberry itself.
“Morning Bill!” I breezed. “Have you done the Store Walk before, then? Any tips?”
Bill turned to me, utter contempt across his blotchy face. “Yes I have. And no I haven’t. Not for a snotty, over-promoted little fucker like you.” He paused. “Heard you were out on the piss yesterday and didn’t see the call-up until last night. You’re going to get your fucking guts ripped out.” He looked pleased. A faint waft of body odour and old alcohol reached my nose.
“Thanks anyway,” I smiled. You smell of decline and failure, I thought. Maybe I’ll look and smell like you in a couple of decades, but thank God, not just yet. I made an insincere promise to myself to stop drinking by the age of forty.
Why had Sandra wanted me to learn the prices of Bill’s products? I fumbled for my phone. Her message had been sent yesterday at 14:55, over an hour before The Director’s email. How the hell did she know we were both on the Store Walk?
The low murmur suddenly ceased. I turned and there was The Director, striding towards us at speed, his little sneer playing across his lips. He had emerged from the back of the store, after observing everyone on the CCTV no doubt. Two assistant flunkies with large notebooks were a couple of paces behind him, putting on little spurts to keep up.
He passed straight by me and stopped at the front of the store, gazing out into the still-dark car park. Twin headlights lit up the concrete as a speeding car turned off the main road and approached the store. Someone was late. Nodding to the security guard, The Director turned back to the store and the assembled group. The guard turned the bunch of keys hanging from the lock and the catch clicked, immobilising the sliding doors. I glanced at my watch and saw the second hand flick past north. The car swung into the nearest free bay and the slam of its door was followed by the frenzied clicking of running heels. A mortified face appeared at the glass, eyes wide with horror. I recognised a dowdy woman from frozen desserts.
“I’m sorry,” she called to The Director’s back, her voice muffled through the glass. “My car wouldn’t start!” Then to the security guard, pleading, “Please open the door!”
The guard’s eyes dropped to the floor and he didn’t move.
“Morning ladies and gentlemen,” began The Director in his high, nasal whine. A slight pause, a little smirk. “We appear to have a new Buyer for Toilet Tissue and Moist Wipes!”
A restrained round of sick, nervous laughter.
The Director’s smirk disappeared and he raised his gaze to a point high on the opposite wall. “The Store Walk begins!” He launched forward, the thirty of us fanning out behind, senior store and Head Office management in front, buyers behind. He scanned the bays of fruit and vegetables, suddenly seizing a lemon. “Not ripe!”
Joanna, the head of citrus, pushed her way to the front of the group. “Turkish fruit sir, the Spanish season’s over early due to high demand and there’s poor weather in South Africa, so the crop’s short. The whole market’s affected sir.”
“And how have you turned this unfortunate situation to Gatesave’s advantage?”
“Er, we’ve negotiated a much lower price for the next two weeks, plus a big promotion once the new Mexican crop comes on stream – we’ll have the best price in the country next month.”
“Commercial impact?”
“We’ve forecast a ten percent sales decline but a margin improvement of four percentage points, so overall profit is in a good place, sir.”
“I look forward to seeing that market-beating promotion. Don’t let me down.” The flunkies scribbled furiously in their big notebooks. Next month’s lemon promotion would be scrutinised closely, that was for sure.
There were questions about imported strawberry pricing, the availability of fresh basil, why our rivals had a better yoghurt promotion, why sweet corn was only available in four-packs rather than two-packs. A persistent rattle from a milk fridge, an underlying smell of fish near the staff entrance, a sagging shelf in the Indian cooking-sauce aisle. All issues were spotted, interrogated and the person in charge humiliated or reprieved, depending on The Director’s whim.
“I see we have a new range of fruit juices,” he declared, knowing full well the new juice buyer was present.
“Y-y-y-yes sir,” quivered the young lady in charge of fresh and ambient juice.
“How is it performing?”
“Er-er-early days, sir. We expect it to exceed expectations.”
“I expect it to exceed expectations too. But it is not, is it? Sales are disappointing.”
“Ah, er… Yes. I mean no, it has been a little disappointing… People just haven’t gone for the new pineapple and kumquat blend sir.”
“And how do you intend to turn this disappointing situation around?”
“Er… we just need to educate our customers that ours are the best juices on the market.”
I winced. Suggesting that our customers needed educating was not the kind of thing to float The Director’s boat.
His lips turned slightly crueller. “Maybe it is you who needs educating. Maybe you need some lessons in what our customers want and what they don’t want.” He turned to the store manager. “This young woman can work in your cold store for the next three months. That will help her learn what our customers like to buy and what they prefer to leave on the shelf.”
“I’ll arrange it right away sir.”
The poor buyer stared at the floor, her eyes filling with tears. It would be a rough few months. A two-hour commute each way, every day for three months, all for an eight-hour shift in a small, freezing room, lifting heavy boxes of fruit. Still, maybe ninety days freezing your tits off was a fair punishment for creating a kumquat juice.
“I’m still waiting to hear how we’re going to turn our juice range from zero to hero?”
The buyer continued to stare at the floor, sobbing. We wouldn’t be getting much out of her now. Maybe it was Madame Joubert’s recipe still coursing through my veins but I felt calmly confident and thought I’d pipe up.
“Healthy drinks sir. That’s what we need and that’s what is missing from the range.”
The Director’s head swivelled slowly, like a tank’s turret. When he was facing me he raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“Nobody wants rich, sugary drinks these days sir,” I continued. “They’re worried about calories and tooth decay. They want lower sugar juices.” It was so quiet you could have heard a spider wanking in the storeroom. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “We could create a healthier range of juices simply by diluting them with water. Then we could charge more because they’re healthier.”
The Director looked at me for a few seconds more. “It appears we have a marketing genius in the room.” Fuck. Was he being sarcastic? “Have you got that down?” he said over his shoulder. The flunkies nodded.
Victory!
The retinue moved on. I felt someone barge past me hard, deliberately knocking my shoulder. It was Bill. “Brown-nosing cunt,” he whispered savagely.
We arrived in the canned grocery aisle. “From where do we procure our canned chick peas?”
“Turkey sir,” trilled the Canned Pulses Buyer, a red-headed young graduate.
“And what margin do we make on canned chick peas?”
“Eighteen percent sir,” trilled the ginger infant. “We’re trying to improve it.”
“And what about the Turkish currency. What is happening to that?”
“Er… it’s going down?”
“Yes. It’s been going down for the past month. Is my canned vegetable buying department run by amateurs? Why have you not been chasing it down?”
“I will do sir.”
There was a
pause. “So why are you still here? I want a five percentage point margin improvement by tomorrow. I told you to chase the currency. So get after it.”
The red-headed youth started to walk uncertainly down the aisle, looking back at us.
“If you fail to catch it, don’t come back,” The Director called in his high voice. “You’re letting the currency get away!”
The boy broke into a run, his shiny shoes slipping and sliding on the tiles. He turned the corner of the aisle at speed and, as the security guard opened the door, he fled into the night.
We moved on again, The Director at the tip of an arrowhead formation as we flew down the aisles. “Why are we at that price on Williams Gentleman’s Relish? We are thirty percent more expensive than Merryfields!” There was no answer. To a flunkey, “I want the Head of Chutney in my office at midday.”
Suddenly, we were in the wine and spirits section. I elbowed my way forward through the scrum, tensed for the challenge.
“Why have we launched ten new Italian wines and only four French?”
An easy starter question. “The lira has depreciated faster than the franc sir,” I said. “As a result we have improved margins by half a percentage point.”
“Why are Findlay’s Stores cheaper than us on Hock? Our biggest selling wine!” There was a more dangerous tone to his voice now and I steeled myself.
“That was a special promotion in Findlay’s, sir. It finished two days ago. We will have our own, even more aggressive promotion starting tomorrow. I was with our supplier last week and gave them a very hard time, sir.”
I certainly did. The export manager for our German Hock producer was tall, blond, very much into leather and I made it a priority to visit her at the winery every quarter.
“Good. I expect to see our German market penetration figures improve next week.”
“I can assure you of that, sir.”
The Director moved on a few paces to the whisky section. He ran a slender forefinger down a large bottle of scotch. “McDonald’s Highland Blend. Who can tell me about this?”
“Ah yes, sir. One of our best sellers.” Bill Teddington had manoeuvred himself next to the main man.
“Ah, Bill. Any good promotions coming up?” The old bastard appeared to be well in with The Director.
“Something next month, nothing too deep, sir. A couple of pounds off. We’re looking after the margin, as usual.”
“Nothing going on in the marketplace to embarrass us then?”
“No sir. I’d know about it if there were.”
“No doubt. And this new, young buyer that’s just started at Merryfields? Might that make a difference to the market?”
Bill Teddington’s smile remained in place while the colour drained from his face. Then the smile faded too. “Er… new buyer?”
“Yes, the one who started yesterday. Following the sudden firing of the previous buyer.”
Teddington’s mouth made a couple of false starts, opening and closing like a goldfish’s. “Fired? Is he?”
The supermarket was completely silent once more. Something was happening. I didn’t quite know what, but if Bill Teddington’s sweaty, grey face was anything to go by, it was going to get interesting.
“Left under quite a cloud, I hear,” continued The Director. “Something to do with attempted collusion with a supplier. Inappropriate to gossip of course.”
“Yes,” croaked Teddington.
“The new buyer’s started with a bit of a bang, though.”
“Yes?” whispered Teddington. He looked hunted.
“So, any idea of the price of your biggest selling whisky in our main competitor’s stores?”
Bill Teddington didn’t have a clue, of course. But I did. I’d memorised all the prices a couple of hours ago. “They’ve put McDonald’s Highland Blend on a fifty-percent discount. Started yesterday,” I piped up.
The Director turned slowly towards me then back to Teddington. “Well Bill. Your junior colleague appears to know more about your products than you do. Our most ruthless competitor puts on the most aggressive whisky promotion in the past ten years, on our biggest seller, and you don’t know anything about it. How can this be?”
Bill Teddington didn’t answer. There was nothing to say except admit to gross incompetence or criminality. Thanks to the ruthless, gorgeous Sandra at Paris-Blois, only I knew that he’d been colluding with the buyer of Merryfields to stitch up the market. No wonder Bill always appeared effortlessly on top of everything. I wondered what he’d done to fall foul of Sandra. Perhaps he and his mate had been favouring another supplier. Or perhaps they had demanded too large a bribe.
“Why are you still here?” said The Director, very quietly.
The crowd of executives parted slightly and a corridor opened up. Teddington crept through it and out of Gatesave, never to return.
“We need a spirits buyer,” said The Director, turning to me once more, “which implies a promotion. I do enjoy being the bearer of good news!”
A vision appeared before me, of red-headed Scotch whisky saleswomen with flawless ivory skin, generous freckled breasts and peach-coloured nipples. I bowed my head solemnly.
“I accept the challenge, sir.”
2.5
The Minstrels of Wine
“Hart!” An unmistakable bark from the far side of the floor.
I turned in my seat, the office hubbub silenced, to see Jim Colt, Head of Margin, leaning from his office, head jutting forward and wild eyes staring like a psychotic meerkat. “Shit hello? Yes, you golden boy! My fucking office, now.”
“Oh dear, Felix, you haven’t cocked up already, have you?” smiled Joan, peering spitefully over her half-moon glasses.
A thousand pairs of eyes followed my walk across the vast trading floor to the Head of Margin’s corner office. Colt stood behind his enormous desk, scowling down at the piece of paper before him.
“Morning sir,” I started brightly.
“Shut it!”
“Right, sorry.”
Colt looked up, the look of hatred undimmed. “The door Hart. Shut the fucking door.”
“Right.” I slid the frosted glass panel home with a click.
“So, you’re to be promoted. Sounds like you had a good Store Walk. The Director likes you. Big fucking round of applause. Well done.” The Head of Margin gave three slow, loud claps. A master class in sarcasm.
But my spirits rose a little, I knew this was what passed for a good mood from the Head of Margin. If I’d displeased him, I’d have been well on my way to having a third arsehole torn by now.
His head moved forward a little and the cruel eyes narrowed. “Fuck only knows why The Director rates you. Because I fucking don’t. I think you’re an over-promoted fucking wet-nursed wonder.”
I stayed silent and looked as grave as I could.
“But… you have apparently been promoted. To Middle Wine and Spirits Buyer designate.” The Head of Margin wiggled his head and made little quotation marks with each hand as his lips lingered over ‘middle’. “But we have standards here at Gatesave, Hart. We don’t just promote precocious little arseholes like you for free. I’m not having you wanking round the world’s vineyards, racking up air miles and spreading venereal disease on the company budget, unless you can show you’ve got what it takes.”
He turned his back and inhaled deeply, studying the wall. It was covered with dozens of framed certificates boasting wins in various trade competitions. I tried to follow where he was looking. I spotted ‘Best Added Value Poultry Product’ in the Annual Protein Awards, illustrated by a plucked chicken sitting on a throne complete with jaunty crown resting where its head should have been. Next to it, a gilt frame highlighted a gold medal for innovation in the household care category for a Christmas rum-punch flavoured shower tile cleaner.
The Head of Margin let out a little sigh of recognition, “Ah, there it is.” His finger tapped against the glass of a grand-looking certificate, just above head height. I recognise
d the cod-heraldic detail immediately. Glasses of wine and classical instruments danced around the border, intertwined with leafy vines sporting bunches of grapes. In the centre, an old stringed instrument, some kind of lute, was crossed with a bottle of Champagne and surrounded by cavorting pan-like characters. ‘Certificate of Honour’ it began, in fancy red calligraphy. ‘To Gatesave Supermarkets, for their loyal support of the Worshipful Institute of the Minstrels of Wine’.
My heart sank. Surely he wasn’t expecting me to embark upon the feared Minstrel of Wine course? I had seen far too many shiny-faced young sommeliers throw themselves into the ordeal, only to emerge physically and mentally broken by the intensity of the coursework and the punishing pressure to succeed. And of course there was the terrifying final exam, a legendary all-night combined tasting and classical music recital in front of the thousand-strong chamber of the Worshipful Minstrels themselves.
The Head of Margin turned back to me, the smile replaced by his default look of contempt. “Gatesave don’t employ lightweights as buyers, Hart. Your promotion is provisional on you taking and passing the Minstrel of Wine exam.”
I nodded, miserably.
“Which I suspect, given that it’s very fucking tricky, you will royally cock up.”
“I’ll give it one hundred percent, sir.”
“That’s the spirit Hart.” The snarl was back. He leant over the table at me. “Because when you do fuck up, you’re back to assistant fucking arse-licker to the bag-in-box wine buyer. A role more suited to your miniscule fucking talents. Now fuck off.”
I made my way past the banks of desks and staring eyes and re-took my seat.
“Have they fired you yet, Felix?” asked Joan sweetly, her fingers dancing on the keyboard before her.
“No. The Head of Margin was just confirming my promotion and congratulating me.”
“Oh don’t be silly Felix. I think we both know that’s not true.”
Of course it wasn’t. Positivity, affirmation and respect were utterly foreign lands to the Head of Margin. Legend has it that his very first words, at his dear mother’s breast, were “That milk’s not fucking warm enough.”
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