Perhaps there’s a role for a product that fulfils two roles at the same time?’
‘An edible cat litter?’
‘Something like that yes.’
‘I haven’t heard of such a thing and I can see a few barriers but it’s worth identifying as a route forward.’
‘The client is open-minded and wants NEW ideas. Do you think the accompanied feeding time depths were the best method?’ he asked.
‘Yes but I might have added some follow-up phone interviews. And made sure I got a good spectrum of pet owners. Highly involved, less involved – that kind of thing.’
‘We don’t call them phone interviews anymore,’ he said. ‘They’re in-depth digital pow wows.’
‘Well those. You know, talk to the owners after they’ve used the product and get their feedback.’
‘I like that. I wonder whether we should frame it as a litter or a food? I’ll have to think it through.’
The turmeric was catching in my throat. I was tired. Perhaps I needed a supplement for women in their forties who struggled to be enthusiastic. I wished it was time to go to bed. The senseless back and forth. It was kind of enjoyable … sort of … like the sensation of peeling off old nail varnish from your thumb, and it coming off in one piece.
When you worked in market research for long enough you realized that whatever category you worked in the stories you told the clients were, more often than not, the same. It was all about finding some sort of human insecurity or lack, then addressing this lack with your product. For pet owners, the lack was usually a guilt that they weren’t spending enough time with their pet. It was the same for working parents. We all want to believe that we’re doing everything we can for our loved ones. In an unpredictable world, this sense of control was important. There might be a terrorist attack at any moment but at least your cat had a nice smelling bottom and your baby had eaten three vegetables. It’s the little things and all that.
I thought about Bella and what she might be doing right now. It was mid-morning and they’d probably be playing outside. I hoped she didn’t have any accidents today. They usually asked me to log into the portal to check on her progress. I could never remember the password.
Did this make me a bad parent?
As we were talking, Simon’s eyes scanned down to his phone screen to see if there was any fresh update on his news feed. He was continually showing me his screen to show some fresh horror that was kicking of – a primary teacher who was a rampant paedophile, a dead elephant with its tusks ripped out, a woman raped on a packed train, a terrorist chopping someone’s head off. When I’d been Simon’s age, I’d spent an inordinate amount of time listening to Radiohead and feeling sad but there was rarely a specific reason for this sadness (aside from the time I shaved my eyebrows off). I felt sorry for his generation because there were now so many reasons to feel unhappy. There was too much information on the stuff that was going wrong. If we’d been peasants we would have just muttered into our mashed potato whilst people far away were burned and villages pillaged. The culture of being constantly plugged in wasn’t healthy.
‘You look a bit pale,’ he said as we both stood up to go back upstairs. ‘Do you want to get a fish burrito later?’ he asked. ‘I’m walking down to Borough Market at twelve and they’re super tasty.’
I nodded. It would be good for me to do something different and get over my cynicism towards younger people and their food obsessions. I was saying YES to life today. Yes to a coffee with Bryony! Yes to lunch with Simon! We went up to our desks and put our headphones on. The blankets still seemed to be out in force, and I wondered why nobody said anything or just went home where it was warm. Wasn’t there a law about keeping employees at a comfortable temperature? It seemed today that they’d despatched with both air-con (which was a relief) and heating. Maybe the girls in the toilet had been right to worry that the soap wasn’t posh anymore. This was all symptomatic of a broader money-saving initiative. Perhaps being kept chilly made your brain less sleepy. There wasn’t enough time to worry about these macro things, and by the time I’d answered the fifty and then some internal emails about meetings, innovation sessions, new initiatives and brainstorms to land on the names for these initiatives, it was time for lunch.
Kath had sent me a text. She had three beautiful children who looked like they’d stepped out of a Boden catalogue. Back when I’d been romping around the capitals of Europe with my Top Shop blazer, and bag full of bad marketing ideas, she’d been bringing up kids, and being generally excellent at it. She thought my life was exciting and I thought hers was calmer and more authentic. We were both bored but she argued that at least I was getting paid for my time.
Hey high flyer? How’s things?
Fine, I replied. I might be coming down with something – feel a bit yukky.
There’s a lot of bugs about. Lara has an Instagram account. What do I do?
Lara was her twelve-year-old daughter, and I was surprised she hadn’t had an IG account for longer. We weren’t the first generation to have no real idea what our children were doing.
Just follow her and ask her to keep the account private.
I think she’s putting videos of her making slime on there.
I think that’s pretty normal.
Is Bella okay?
She won’t wear tights and keeps falling over.
I remember that phase too.
Ring me later.
Cool will do
Later Simon and I walked towards Borough Market. It was a nice day, the sun was out, and I had that momentary pop of happiness that comes with realizing that you’re not dead yet. Perhaps this was the thing. The small moments of happiness and nothing more.
When Bella squeezed me tight.
When I leant in and smelt her hair.
When the sun came out after a few days of grey.
The prawns being defrosted.
Leggings instead of tights – signalling a small parenting victory.
The market wasn’t busy, and I picked up a box of raspberries (priced at six pounds so I set it back down). I thought about how much Bella would enjoy eating these and picked them up and paid for them. If you’re a working mum, you basically have a child-ghost who follows you about all day, making you feel pain in your heart and angst about whether you’re doing the right thing. It wasn’t unusual for me to buy stuff for her to make myself feel better. I was sure we all did the same thing.
We ordered our burritos and I tried to eat mine but about fifty per cent fell on the pavement. I didn’t like this trend towards eating whilst in motion. It wasn’t enjoyable. It also made a mess of your clothes. Simon smiled. He had a wise face, and blonde hair that sprouted out the sides of his cap. He was wearing braces with his black skinny jeans and giant high-top trainers which had come back into fashion again. I had a feeling that he saw me as a benevolent granny type. Was he seeking some sort of mentor? I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been to lunch with someone. Usually the dynamic types were cliquey and didn’t want to come too close as they sensed I had a losing streak.
‘So, I read that report you wrote about “Scouting for Trends,”’ Simon said biting into his burrito. ‘It was cool.’
I was finding his interest in me quite curious. He’d never spoken to me before. There was also a side of me that felt suspicious. Was he a spy? Was he Darren’s spy?
‘Yes.