by Anne Penketh
Shouts pierced the air when the figure with the dark moustache appeared, bringing up the rear on a tricycle.
“He’s gonna do it this time,” she heard her neighbour say. “Come on, Teddy!” The mascot, pedalling furiously, reached the others at the corner. The cheers grew as he began to overtake them, raising his fist. “Come on, Teddy!”
But suddenly there was chaos. Teddy toppled over as he cycled into the lead. Jefferson fell on top of him. Susan heard muttered disappointment in the box as a cry went out from the crowd. Then Teddy scrambled up and began hurling T-shirts into the audience, to delighted screams from children in Nats headgear, who jumped and shouted, “Over here, Teddy!”
Susan looked round the DeKripps box as they sat again. They must have expected Teddy to lose. “Hey, that was exciting,” she heard someone say. She turned round to see whether the woman from the Federal Drug Administration might share her awkwardness, but she was flirting with one of the staffers. She could hear her tinkling laughter from behind her.
A hush fell as the waiters brought more trays of hot dogs, nachos and buckets of chicken. Then the chatter resumed after a pause. Somehow they’d found the time to change seats, like a corporate musical chairs.
Someone at DeKripps had ensured that not a moment of precious networking time had been wasted.
The cheerful organ began again, prompting more calls of “Let’s Go Nats!” or “Let’s Go Zimmerman!” Once again, spectators stood in unison, this time for the seventh inning stretch. They stood up, stretched their arms and legs and sang “Take me out to the ball game!” at the top of their voices, prompted by words on the giant screen. What fun they all seemed to be having. She was relieved when she overheard someone remark there were only two more innings to go.
They left the stadium with a surge of pumped-up fans after the home team subjugated the New York Mets. Barney raised an imperious arm to hail her a cab, hardly pausing for breath to say goodbye as he continued a rapid fire exchange with a lobbyist in a red baseball cap.
Instead of taking the highway, the driver headed past the illuminated dome of Congress before cutting across the green swathe of the National Mall.
To her left was the gleaming white obelisk whose pointed summit was blinking red. The nation’s capital, in the stillness of a late summer evening, was a stunning sight. But she felt like the baseball: tossed coolly, mostly invisible.
As she shrank into the upholstery in the taxi air conditioning, she suppressed a shiver.
CHAPTER FIVE
A group of ten DeKripps executives was summoned to a strategy meeting in Barney’s office.
Susan had never seen him so agitated. He kicked the door closed with his foot as he strode to the end of the table and swung his jacket over the back of his seat. He rolled up his sleeves as though readying for a fist-fight.
“Do we have the hook-up with LA?” he said. It was barely 8 a.m. in Los Angeles.
“Hi, Barney. Luke here,” said the surf-bleached blonde on the video. Like 3D portraits of Dorian Grey, the company managers were getting younger every day.
“Let’s start from the beginning. Luke, what are those motherfuckers in California trying to do to us?”
“Well, Kramer and his team are publishing another book. It’ll likely add to the stink about HFCS. There’s a whole chapter about DeKripps.”
Susan knew all about Bill Kramer, the child obesity specialist who’d likened sugar to cocaine in front of every journalist who would listen.
Now, his ideas about High Fructose Corn Syrup seemed to be gaining traction with mainstream media, not just ‘the granola set’ as Frank called them. America’s obesity epidemic was visible to all, with one child in three overweight. The question is, who’s to blame? Frank had seen it coming, she realised, remembering their conversation in Cobham. It was only a matter of time before Kramer put all his bile into a blockbuster and hurled it at DeKripps.
“Let’s unpack this. Randy, what’s the legal position?” He barked at his legal counsel. “I mean, can we throw the book at Kramer?”
Randy cleared his throat, studying his bitten fingernails as he played for time. “I’d have to examine the chapter in detail,” he began.
“I want a report on my desk by tonight. What else can we do?”
Barney now sat on a corner of the table, hunched into a pile of muscle like Rodin’s Thinker as all eyes fell on him.
He looked around the table and sat up.
“We do two things. We make a gesture to the consumer who will see that we are a responsible company with their interests at heart. We make an announcement. Get Kramer and those fuckers on the back foot.”
Susan caught Ellen’s gaze from across the table. What could he have in mind?
“Second, we find another bad guy. We know it ain’t sugar. The link between obesity and HFCS isn’t there. It is not proven. Sugar does not cause diabetes. Get me any expert and have them tell the world. The customer has a choice. If they want to buy a banana, they can buy a banana. But the fact is they would rather buy DeKripps cookies because they’re delicious. What is important here is that the consumer chooses what to buy. If they want to find out what they’re eating, we have taken the trouble to tell them on the pack. It’s on the pack!”
Susan had heard this speech so many times at DeKripps, and delivered it herself at focus groups and in arguments with her daughter, that she no longer needed convincing. But who was the other culprit Barney was about to finger?
As though answering her question, after pausing for breath, he punched the air. “It’s not the sugar, it’s the lack of fibre.”
He looked at them, expecting nods of approval.
“Look, DeKripps recommends a balanced and healthy diet. We know that. We’re going to put less sugar into our soft drinks. Then we’ll make the cans and bottles a tiny bit bigger. After that, we fund research. Fibre deficiency as a possible cause of obesity and diabetes. We’re the good guys!”
“What about bread?” Ellen asked. “If we’re taking the bull by the horns, we could reduce the added sugar in DeKripps loaves.”
Susan agreed with her: She too had never understood why her company added so much sugar to bread in America.
“Ellen,” Barney said, with a stare that said get with the programme, “today’s conversation is about soda and juice. I’ll be talking to Susie about whether we need a new name to go with the improved flavour, or whether ‘Angeljuice’ is as heavenly as it sounds to me. Give us our daily bread some other day. Let’s keep our powder dry.”
Ellen pretended not to notice that everyone’s gaze had fallen on her, and returned to her doodle.
“Barney,” Randy said, “you’re aware of the FDA warnings about misbranding.”
“Which one? You mean Nutrition Facts, evaporated cane juice in yoghurt? Of course. But number one, I would point out that letter was non-binding. Number two, I would point out again that we are talking about soda. And number three, our compliance people were onto that and we no longer list it on any of our lite products. Not like some of the competition, I might add. I think these assholes down the street are heading for a fall with their alleged no sugar added yoghurt. It’s got evaporated cane juice on the pack! Once again, folks, we do not want our soda guzzling customers to believe for a second that we’re concealing sugar.”
“Just checking,” Randy said. Like the rest of them, he was intimidated by Barney’s aggression. Ellen and Susan exchanged another surreptitious glance. They both knew the Food and Drug Administration monitored compliance by them and their competitors like a sniffer dog.
“Judy,” Barney snapped at his head of communications, who stopped scribbling and looked up. “Get me some talking points. We need a press release and some cameras.”
“Fine. But I’d suggest you call a journalist with an exclusive,” she said. “You could talk to Barbara Miles from the New York Scrutineer. It’s pointless asking her out to lunch, she won’t go. But she’ll drink a cocktail if we let her know
you want to take shots at Kramer. She’ll get to thrash out the issues. She loves a fight.”
“You’re right. That way we don’t have to get into a shouting match with any of these hairy vegetarian bloggers in their PJs. Get Miles on the phone. One more thing,” he told her. “We put together a fact sheet on myths and reality about the so-called danger of added sugars. Think about it. Questions?”
No one spoke. “Team, that’s it. We’ve got our ducks lined up in a row. Now go out there and make some money. We’re the good guys, remember. Oh, and Luke, see you next week in LA.”
The screen went dark and the little group filed out. Barney gave everyone a high five as they left. Susan was the last to reach the door.
“Good job, Barney,” she said.
“There’s another thing,” he said, lowering his voice. “I wasn’t going to say so publicly. We are going to shut that motherfucker down. Kramer needs to go to school. I’m going to have people eating his trash. Remember Yudkin?”
Susan nodded. The late John Yudkin was a British medical scholar whose warnings had been rubbished by the sugar industry in the 1970s.
“Kramer ain’t seen nothing yet. He’ll wish he was Yudkin.”
He leaned against the table and took a breath.
“I mean, what are we supposed to do? Stick of celery in every box of cereal? Slap on a warning? Consult a doctor if your erection lasts more than four hours?”
Susan looked at her feet.
“The bottom line,” he said, “is that people are responsible for what they put in their mouths, right? Goddamned nanny state.”
He grabbed his jacket and strode out.
CHAPTER SIX
The first anniversary of Serge’s death drifted into Susan’s mind like a waking dream. Her thoughts strayed constantly across the ocean, into their home, into the bedroom as they lay together, or the kitchen as they cooked, a silhouette world of still-sharp memories.
Although she struggled to concentrate, she sensed Barney was pleased with the new product development. It was so sensitive that it was referred to only as Project Candy by the few in the know.
“What we’re looking at is a new ingredient with a totally new flavour,” Barney said.
“I’m a marketer, not one of your R and D scientists,” she said. “Get me the ingredient and I’ll promote it for you.”
“We’re on it, I assure you. And, you can bet your last cent that the scientists at Chewers are praying to the food gods at this very moment. By the way,” he placed his tanned forefinger against his lips. “The guys in compliance don’t need to know about this. And the same goes for regulatory affairs.”
DeKripps, like all the multinationals, had entire departments devoted to feeding the ravenous appetite of the Food and Drug Administration to ensure everything was above board.
“The best thing we can do is target higher incomes.”
“I thought we like caretakers?” He sounded doubtful. DeKripps had built its fortune on the mass market.
“And car mechanics. Yes, of course. It would be a departure. And I’m advising that DeKripps keep a low profile for now. One product can contaminate another. But we can still move upmarket.”
Later that day, Ellen asked her for a favour. “I’ve a consumer research evening tonight. Daiquiris and demographics. Would you stand in for me? It might take your mind off things.”
She explained that a friend did contract work for a cosmetics company, and Susan had often gone to similar evenings in London.
It was usually fun, with decent nibbles and sometimes a token payment.
“My friend lives in Chevy Chase, though. I hope you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine. But who am I supposed to be?”
“It doesn’t matter. You could be a housewife if you like. Tiffany is testing a new foundation for people with freckles, so I figured it might interest you.”
As night fell, Susan pushed through the hordes of Caps fans in red wigs spilling out of her local Metro. Ice hockey season had arrived, the supporters congregating at the Green Turtle bar before surging into the stadium next door.
She rode the Metro to Friendship Heights where she hailed a cab in the rain, waiting beside a little pile of discarded umbrellas. Extreme weather was one of the features of Washington life, particularly the mortaring downpours with gusting winds that turned umbrellas inside out. Occasionally the city would be flicked by the tail of a hurricane as it exhausted itself barrelling up the east coast. The violence reminded her of the Great Storm that uprooted so many of the ancient trees at Sussex, strewing them across the university campus.
The taxi took her up a driveway and delivered her to the door of a white clapboard house where the porch light was swinging dangerously.
Tiffany opened the door, haloed in light, straight from the pages of the Washington Gazette Style section, blue Jackie cardigan over pinched-in dress, shoulder length blonde hair tidy and sleek, the discreet self-confidence of understated wealth.
“You must be Ellen’s friend. I hope you’re not too wet.”
Five or six young women were draped decoratively on the floral armchairs and a sofa arranged in a semi-circle around a marble fireplace. The first thing Susan noticed was that they all had freckles, from tasteful sprinklings about the nose to a neck-and-shoulder shower or the full Monty like herself.
“I guess we’re all here for the same reason,” she said.
She headed for the only empty seat and introduced herself to her neighbour, another ginger-haired woman with a bob whose name was Linda.
“This could be a big night.”
“You mean for the magic cream?”
“I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment,” Linda said, reaching for the first unmarked jar of foundation.
“Me too.”
Linda and Susan rubbed a sample on the backs of their hands, which they held out to examine. Then they smeared more onto their cheeks. They had to score each cream on appearance, texture, skin-feel, and finally freckle concealment. Each sheet of score paper had room for comments.
“Something tells me we’ll have to wait a little longer,” said Susan, as she held up a small mirror to her face with a squint. “But then, it’s all about packaging.”
“How disappointing. What line are you in?”
“Marketing. Sorry.”
She picked up another jar and went through the motions. Linda had fallen silent. Surely nobody believed that one of these creams could really cover freckles? The other women were doing the tests with gusto, smearing the stuff over their arms and necks, anywhere the dark flecks lurked. Tiffany was providing wipes as required, checking with her waiter that everyone had a drink and a mini Red Velvet cupcake.
After a while, Susan wandered off to find the loo. As she crept upstairs, she could feel that invisible hand stretching out to shove her head back underwater again. She pushed open a door into the biggest bathroom she had ever seen, sat down heavily on a side of the free-standing bath, gripped the sides and waited to be overcome.
She began to weep. She stood up and looked at her trembling face in the mirror. It was shiny from tears, makeup and wipes, and distorted by her sobbing. As she paused for a deep breath before letting out another sob, she heard footsteps coming along the corridor, followed by a gentle knock.
“Susie, are you OK?” It was Tiffany. She must have been missed downstairs.
“Coming.”
She grabbed a towel to wipe her face, unlocked the door and came out, blinking at Tiffany.
“I just can’t do this tonight. I’m not in the mood. Maybe too many people. I don’t go out much these days. I don’t know if Ellen told you about how I lost my husband. It’s the anniversary of his death coming up. I thought it’d take my mind off things, but I feel so lonely. And just now I was obsessing about my freckles. It’s stupid, isn’t it? I never know what’s going to set me off.”
“You’ve had a terrible shock,” Tiffany said. “It’ll take time to get over it. Have you
considered a widows’ group?”
Susan was sure she meant well. But she wasn’t ready for the American way of grief, sharing her bereavement with strangers. She’d already said too much. “I’m not sure it’s for me,” she said. “But thanks. I’m sorry to be such a wet blanket. I’d better get going.”
Grabbing her raincoat, she turned down Tiffany’s offer to call a cab, and allowed the waiter to open the front door. The downpour was now a steady drizzle.
Turning to wave while walking down the drive beside a gentle rivulet of rain, and even as fresh drops mingled with her tears, she thought: These people are the ideal target group for Project Candy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She’d been in Washington for about three months before she was able to assure herself of Barney’s trust. He invited her one morning to accompany him to a meeting with one of the two Senators from Kansas, a Corn Belt state and home to DeKripps headquarters.
“Wanna walk?”
It was a twenty minute hike from DeKripps to Capitol Hill, less at the speed with which Barney powered along Pennsylvania Avenue. She practically had to run to keep up.
“Just leave it to me, Susie,” he instructed as they marched along. Was this his way of shutting her up or just casual sexism? “We’ll only have 15 minutes with the Senator, so I’ll brief him on how we’re staying ahead of the competition.”
Susan had noticed that for Barney, everything came down to competition, and he was determined to win.
“What sports did you play at college?” she asked.
“Football.” She could imagine him helmeted and shoulders padded as he elbowed and pummelled his way to the touchline. He emptied his pockets onto the security belt at the entrance to the Russell building, where two Capitol police officers stood chatting. Susan picked up her handbag at the other side and headed for the lift.
