A Dash of Reality

by Murray, Lee

  ‘Political do-gooders! Mucking around with people’s freedom,’ says Nandor.

  ‘It’s the same at Caro’s school,’ Janeen comments, ‘even PTA sausage sizzles are banned now.’

  ‘The government has no business interfering,’ Nandor says with vehemence.

  ‘There’ll be no more chocolate bars either,’ Janeen sighs. ‘I love those chocolate fundraisers! I hope they don’t ban the Christmas fruit cake sale. They’ll have to, won’t they, when the diet police find out how many squillions of calories there are in fruit cake? Still, they have to start somewhere, I suppose.’ Nudging me, Janeen points out a pudgy boy scarfing down a plate of chips.

  Our meals come and my garlicky mussels are delicious. The two men start talking about technological advances in the horticulture industry – basically of the most versatile small tractor (with attachments) as demonstrated at the last Agricultural Show at Mystery Creek. Meanwhile, I tell Janeen about this afternoon’s pants fiasco. She’s really sympathetic. She knows I hate to be humiliated in front of Cherry. And then, between us girls, I fill her in on the details of Winston’s announcement since I didn’t get a chance to tell her yesterday. Janeen is furious. She wants to go in there guns blazing and kick Winston’s sorry arse. That’s why I love her so much. She’s such a great friend. When I tell her about the threat to my apartment she insists that I’ll always have a home with her, that it’ll be like old times, and I can stay with her and Caro as long as I like. It’s sweet of her to offer, even though the thought of exchanging my elegant flat for her pull-out couch is gut-wrenching. The boys are still talking tractor attachments, so very quietly Janeen gives me the skinny on how she met Nandor.

  ‘He owns his own lifestyle block out on Oropi Road, about fourteen acres planted in organic crops,’ she says.

  I just nod because the mussel I’m eating is especially chewy.

  ‘He came in to the Craft Barn last Saturday and I thought he was so scrummy, I willed him over to my stall and he came straight over. Honestly, it was like karma or something.’ Saliva is building up in my mouth and I’m still chewing this mussel so I nod again with enthusiasm. ‘Anyway,’ she whispers, ‘he inspected my work – I had a lot of the children’s novelty hat line on display – and he said it was exceptional, a really high standard. Can you believe it, Mel? Ex-cep-tion-al.’

  I know her work is fabulous. But I can’t tell her because I still haven’t managed to break down this mussel. Chewing it has made my jaw ache, but the mussel is as big as ever. I can’t possibly swallow it. I nod vigorously and try not to gag. I don’t want Janeen to think I have any doubts about her talent. Thankfully, Janeen seems not to notice.

  ‘Then he asked if I have anyone working with me, and I said no, and then he asked if I could cope with a multiple order, and I said it depended on the complexity of the product.’ Her eyes widen. ‘It’s pouches, Mel. He wants several thousand fabric pouches as packaging for sunflower seeds or something. Isn’t that creative?’

  More nodding.

  She leans in covertly, one eyebrow raised and murmurs, ‘Mel, he’s going to pay me a great per item rate. I was going to discount it, but it didn’t even faze him. He accepted the first price I suggested. I hope he doesn’t think I’m taking advantage. What do you think?’

  This time, I shake my head. The mussel in my mouth has now grown to the size of a large potato. I can hardly close my lips. I’m in danger of erupting pre-masticated mussel everywhere. I have to do something in a hurry! I leap up, startling Janeen, and make a dash for the toilets.

  ‘Mel, you okay?’ Janeen calls behind me. I wave my hand at her and keep going. But there’s a queue in the toilets. What am I going to do? I hold back another gag, my cheeks feeling like they did after I blew up the balloons for Caro’s birthday party. I can’t wait for a toilet to come free. I dash back into the restaurant in a panic. I think I see someone I know, but I can’t think about that now because I have to find somewhere to spit this mussel. And fast! My gag reflex is on overtime. I can hardly breathe.

  Oh no! Sudden over-secretion of saliva. Help! My eyes meet Janeen’s. She’s registered my state of panic.

  ‘Ohmigod,’ she shrieks. ‘Mel’s choking!’

  Whoops!

  She leaps to her feet, knocking over a chair and spilling her Coke.

  ‘Outta my way!’ she roars. She grabs me, swings me about and performs a quick, sharp upward thrust under my ribs.

  ‘Ugh!’ A lump of greyish mash is ejected into the fireplace. It sizzles and splatters briefly before bursting into flames. It’s a few minutes before the chair is righted and the spilled Coke replaced.

  ‘Wow, Janeen. You saved your friend’s life,’ says Nandor.

  ‘Janeen, you’re a star,’ Jack pronounces, his arm around my shoulders. ‘You saved my gorgeous girl from a tragedy. We can’t thank you enough, can we Mel?’

  ‘Er yes, thanks so much, Janeen. You were fabulous.’ I can hardly tell her I was only looking for somewhere to spit.

  Janeen leans in and hugs me. ‘Silly Mel,’ she says. ‘No need to thank me. It’s what friends do.’

  ‘Even so,’ says Jack.

  ‘Yeah,’ agrees Nandor.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Will sticky date pudding all round cover it?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ says Janeen.

  11

  I wake up to the sound of Jack departing, his cycle cleats clicking on my matai flooring. It’s Sunday and he’s left me a cup of tea and a Panadol. He’s also left yesterday’s jeans and t-shirt on the floor, not far from where my new scarlet diamante-encrusted Elle MacPherson bra was flung after being removed from my person in record time around midnight last night. But I can’t worry about that now because the coolest idea came to me in my sleep. No, not Ryan Reynolds, but it was still good. Taking the tea, I hop up, pad into the lounge and wrap myself in one of the white faux-fur throws on the sofa where I channel surf for the news.

  Grand Designs. PRESS.

  How I Met Your Mother. PRESS.

  A rerun of Casanova with the late Heath Ledger in the title role. It’s about half way through. Mmm. I burrow down in the fur to watch for a few minutes.

  No, I mustn’t be distracted, not even by gorgeous Heath. Resolute, I point the remote and press again. Aha, the news. An escaped prisoner is taken back into custody after falling through the ceiling of the house where he was hiding out. Teenage taggers leave a rude message on the wall of the St Helier’s police station. A married politician is caught on film in a Cuba Street strip bar…

  Here it is! Pencil to hand, I start jotting notes on a 2x2cm square of telephone notepaper, but it’s too quick so I use my own version of short-hand. When the article finishes and Karen Ropati has gone on to read the sports announcements, I turn the volume down and read back what I’ve written. Bum. I can’t read any of it. My handwriting is too squished up on this paper. Why would anyone make notepaper the size of a postage stamp? I’ll have to call Charlie. Luckily, even though it’s early, he seems cheery.

  ‘Mel. Hi. Beautiful morning. ’

  ‘Charlie, hi. Yes, lovely. Hey, you know that anti-obesity funding you were talking about yesterday? Where can I get more information about it?’

  ‘What do you want it for?’

  ‘Uhm…it’s…I’m helping Caro with a homework project,’ I lie. ‘So I’ll find the information...?’

  ‘It’s off a government website. I’ve got the address for it somewhere. It’ll be with Ben’s draft proposal.’

  ‘Can you get it for me?’

  Mel, it’s seven o’clock. I’m in my bed. It’s warm. What say I call you back later?’

  ‘Charlie. Please.’

  ‘Hey, keep your pants on, Mel,’ he chuckles.

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, Mel. Yesterday must’ve been a real bummer.’ More sniggering. Honestly, if it weren’t so important, I’d slam the phone down. Instead, I keep my voice even.

  ‘Charlie. The website.’


  ‘Okay. Okay. Don’t get your knickers in a twist…’ He gives me the address and I scribble it down. I hang up and abandoning the fur throw, I log on to the net. It takes a while to read all the information since government websites have a lot of obligatory waffle. I think I’ve grasped the essentials and although there are some government-type conditions, my idea has definite promise. Suddenly, I feel terrific. I think I’m on to something fabulous.

  Woohoo! I open Word and start preparing a proposal.

  12

  On Sunday afternoon I hand the draft proposal to Jack to read while I shower and change out of my pyjamas.

  ‘This is fantastic, Mel,’ says Jack, when I come back into the living room. He flicks through the pages from the back to the front of the document. ‘It’s a great idea: timely, market-focused and well-written.’ I stop towel-drying my hair.

  ‘Thanks.’ I grin.

  ‘But, is it worth the effort? You’ve been with Sportzgirl for years. They’ve been happy to exploit certain assets,’ his eyes skitter to my breasts, ‘but they’ve showed no interest in developing your true potential.’ As a teacher, Jack believes in developing potential. He’s always said my best talents are wasted at Sportzgirl.

  ‘Jack, this isn’t school.’ I twist my hair into a towel turban, and take a seat beside him on the sofa. ‘Companies aren’t required to identify and nurture employees’ talents. There’s no Education Review Office equivalent.’

  Jack flinches. ‘There are other companies, other jobs,’ he says. ‘You could take your idea elsewhere.’ He rolls the proposal in his hands.

  ‘Not without first getting a foot in the door,’ I say, while Jack drums his thigh with the rolled-up document. ‘And that could take ages.’

  ‘Haven’t they just shown you the door at Sportzgirl?’

  ‘Oh, ha ha. I still have a few weeks before my notice is up. Imagine if I could get this in front of Winston. There’s a chance I could save my job.’ Sighing, Jack stops drumming. He wipes a damp tendril off my cheek.

  ‘How exactly do you intend to get it front of Winston?’ he asks.

  That’s when I realise I’ll have to tackle Derek. My proposal needs a champion. Personally, I’d prefer to disembowel myself with a pencil than ask Derek, but my career and my apartment are at stake here. I consider how best to time my approach. I should seize the day. Strike while the iron is hot. So Monday would definitely be best, after his morning coffee break, so as to hit him at optimum blood caffeine levels.

  On Monday morning I emerge from my basement cubicle, take the lift to the senior offices and put my head around Derek’s door at 10:10am precisely.

  ‘Hi, Derek. Can you spare a moment?’

  ‘Melanie. A pleasure. Come to grovel for your job back?’ I move further into his workspace and close the door behind me.

  ‘No. Derek. I’ve had an idea to improve sales.’

  ‘Does it involve getting your job back?’

  ‘Yes...’

  ‘I thought so. Begging. Not very becoming, Melanie.’

  ‘Derek, please listen. I’m talking about national television coverage for Sportzgirl pushing a clean healthy image…’ Derek waves his hand dismissively.

  ‘…which will cost gazillions, Melanie. Quite frankly, you’re wasting your time. Winston won’t go for it.’ Determined not to let Derek scuttle me, I plough on.

  ‘Derek, wait! Please. I know how we can showcase Sportzgirl products on national television for a small investment over our current marketing budget. I’m talking about a sports reality show: six or maybe eight events, and each with prime-time coverage. Think how successful Dancing with the Stars was. This could be even bigger. Imagine the exposure for Sportzgirl: spin-off magazine articles, newspaper, radio, blogs, facebook buzz. And if we co-ordinate our billboard campaign so it coincides...’ Derek’s eyes glint.

  ‘What’s the catch?’

  ‘My job back?’

  ‘Not going to happen, Melanie.’

  ‘Fixed term. One year.’

  God, I hate begging, especially when it’s Derek. But I’m desperate here. In a month I’ll be an unemployed person. In two, I could be homeless. I need this.

  ‘Please, Derek. Here’s the proposal. It’s all in here. All I’m asking is that you take a look. Please.’ I’m wheedling. It’s pathetic.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to see out your employment with Sportzgirl doing the stockroom inventory.’ Right. That’s it. Two can play this game. I shrug as if in defeat, then give Derek the sweetest smile I can conjure.

  ‘You can’t blame me for trying, I guess.’ I lean up against the closed door and pick at an imaginary hangnail. ‘By the way, Derek, did you enjoy your meal in the Lone Star on Saturday night? Quite a crowd, wasn’t there? But perhaps you didn’t notice? You were deep in conversation with your charming dinner companion: Diana Morgan from Headhunters Executive Recruitment, if I recall correctly?’ I smile sweetly. Derek’s eyes narrow.

  ‘Leave it on my desk,’ he says softly.

  13

  Everyone in marketing has been called to the board room for a special departmental meeting. It’s been two weeks since I put my idea to Derek so I’m almost hopping with anticipation. I think this is it. I think Winston intends to announce my new marketing plan today. He and Derek have been unavailable for about a week now, either sequestered in confidential talks or on important teleconference calls, and then last Thursday the two of them took an unscheduled trip to Wellington. All very hush-hush, although the whole office has been talking about it. It was clear something was up. Of course, I had to pretend I was as ignorant as everyone else. Once, I waylaid Derek while returning from a detour to the stationery cupboard, but when I tried to question him he gave me the standard ‘No comment,’ which was off, given it was my idea in the first place. Still, it looks like it’s come to fruition and the big announcement is about to be made to staff. I’m so excited.

  Most of the department is already here. I slip into a seat near the front next to Annalise. She frowns as I squirm about, impatient for Winston to begin. I flash her a wide grin. I can afford to be benevolent.

  Derek taps a glass for quiet. Our chief executive stands up and begins his presentation by hitching up his Armani trousers. I believe his belt is Gucci, but not much of it’s visible so I can’t confirm that. Winston pours himself a goblet of water and takes a long sip.

  Come on.

  He clears his throat. ‘Here at Sportzgirl,’ he intones, ‘we’re about to embark on an innovative approach to product marketing.’ He pauses for effect. This is it! I know it. ‘Over the next few months, Sportzgirl will produce a television reality show.’ There’s a collective intake of breath.

  Yes! Yes! Yes! I was right. Sportzgirl are running with my idea. I can hardly believe it. I’m going to be launched. This is my ticket to celebrity. I think I’ll faint from exhilaration.

  ‘You mean, like Dancing with the Stars?’ shouts someone at the back.

  ‘In a way. Except there won’t be any stars. Or any dancing.’ Winston’s joke receives a round of suitably obsequious laughter.

  ‘Racing Feat is the name of our running reality show.’ I thought that up. That cool name. ‘It’s a joint venture collaboration between New Zealand Television and Sportzgirl Inc.,’ Winston explains.

  I’m too jittery to listen.

  ‘For goodness sake, Melanie! Stop fidgeting,’ Annalise hisses at me.

  ‘The project takes advantage of government funding for initiatives which aim to improve awareness of obesity amongst ordinary grass-roots New Zealanders.’

  ‘A worthy cause.’

  ‘Yes, thank you Derek,’ Winston says curtly. ‘The show will not only provide regular television exposure for Sportzgirl’s collections for an entire season, but it will also generate a certain measure of spin-off publicity. Your job in marketing will be to ensure those spin-off opportunities are fully exploited.’ The level of background chatter rises. ‘If I could continue…’ Winston is stony-
faced. The buzz stops immediately. ‘At this stage, we intend to hold six events, with typical New Zealanders as competitors. The events will range from a 5km road run at the beginning of the series, culminating in a full marathon. The last show will be a gala benefit celebrating the winner and the contestants’ elected charities.’

  Craig, our photographer raises his hand.

  ‘Go ahead, Craig.’

  ‘Will our normal catalogue shoots continue?’

  ‘Good question. The answer is no. Sportzgirl’s entire marketing budget for the year will be diverted for this initiative, so there won’t be a catalogue.’

  ‘But we’ll require shots of the contestants in action,’ says Derek. ‘We’ll post these in the outlets, use them for media releases, for the website, on our facebook page, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Are there any other questions?’ Winston cuts in.

  ‘So about the media releases: what angle do you want us to take?’ This was from Kirsten, our publicity officer. Kirsten lives and breathes Sportzgirl. Even her hair is Sportzgirl orange, although the bottle it came out of probably said something like Idesia Berry or Edgy Autumn or Meteor Flash. If Kirsten were a rock star, she could call herself Orange.

  ‘You’ll work with Derek, Kirsten. I want a certain spin on the copy. As the main commercial sponsor, we’re entitled to our own contestant. The progress of the Sportzgirl competitor will influence the frequency and content of our announcements. We’ll need you to be on stand-by.’

  ‘So there’ll be overtime?’

  Winston raises his eyebrows. ‘No, there will not.’

  Beside me, Annalise pipes up. ‘Have you selected our contestant?’

  ‘Yes, and we’ll announce the name of that contestant in due course.’

  In my head a miniature rapper is doing hip hop. It’s me. It’s me. Oh yeah, oh yeah.

  With all due respect,’ says Annalise with Patsy-like casualness, ‘I’ll need to know who our competitor is. As senior stylist, I can hardly be expected to co-ordinate a suitable wardrobe without knowing who I’m dressing.’ I feel a sudden stab of respect for Annalise. That girl’s got balls.