Can you keep a secret_ - Sophie Kinsella [1]
OK. The real truth is, this is the first deal I've ever done, full stop. I've been at the Panther Corporation for eleven months as a marketing assistant, and until now all I've been allowed to do is type out copy, arrange meetings for other people, get the sandwiches and pick up my boss's dry-cleaning.
So this is kind of my big break. And I've got this secret little hope that if I do this well, maybe I'll get promoted. The ad for my job said 'possibility of promotion after a year', and on Monday I'm having my yearly appraisal meeting with my boss, Paul. I looked up 'Appraisals' in the staff induction book, and it said they are 'an ideal opportunity to discuss possibilities for career advancement'.
Career advancement! At the thought, I feel a familiar stab of longing in my chest. It would just show Dad I'm not a complete loser. And Mum. And Kerry. If I could go home and casually say, 'By the way, I've been promoted to Marketing Executive.'
Emma Corrigan, Marketing Executive.
Emma Corrigan, Senior Vice-President (Marketing.)
As long as everything goes well today. Paul said the deal was done and dusted and all I had to do was nod and shake their hands, and even I should be able to manage that. And so far, I reckon it's going really well.
OK, so I don't understand about 90 per cent of what they're saying. But then I didn't understand much of my GCSE French Oral either, and I still got a B.
'Rebranding … analysis … cost-effective …'
The man in the grey suit is still droning on about something or other. As casually as possible, I extend my hand and inch his business card towards me so I can read it.
Doug Hamilton. That's right. OK, I can remember this. Doug. Dug. Easy. I'll picture a shovel. Together with a ham. Which … which looks ill … and …
OK, forget this. I'll just write it down.
I write down 'rebranding' and 'Doug Hamilton' on my notepad and give an awkward little wriggle. God, my knickers really are uncomfortable. I mean, G-strings are never that comfortable at the best of times, in my opinion, but these are particularly bad. Which could be because they're two sizes too small.
Which could possibly be because Connor bought them for me, and told the lingerie assistant I weighed eight stone three. Whereupon she told him I must be size eight. Size eight!
(Frankly, I think she was just being mean. She must have known I was fibbing.)
So it's Christmas Eve, and we're exchanging presents, and I unwrap this pair of gorgeous pale pink silk knickers. Size eight. And I basically have two options.
A: Confess the truth: 'Actually these are too small, I'm more of a 12, and by the way, I don't really weigh eight stone three.' Or …
B: Shoe-horn myself into them.
Actually, it was fine. You could hardly see the red lines on my skin afterwards. And all it meant was that I had to quickly cut all the labels out of my clothes so Connor would never realize.
Since then, I've hardly ever worn this particular set of underwear, needless to say. But every so often I see them looking all nice and expensive in the drawer and think, Oh come on, they can't be that tight, and somehow squeeze into them. Which is what I did this morning. I even decided I must have lost weight, because they didn't feel too bad.
I am such a deluded moron.
'… unfortunately since rebranding … major rethink … feel we need to be considering alternative synergies …'
Up to now I've just been sitting and nodding, thinking this business meeting lark is really easy. But now Doug Hamilton's voice starts to impinge on my consciousness. What's he saying?
'… two products diverging … becoming incompatible …'
What was that about incompatible? What was that about a major rethink? I feel a jolt of alarm. Maybe this isn't just waffle. Maybe he's actually saying something. Quick, listen.
'We appreciate the functional and synergetic partnership