All I Ever Wanted

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, smiling up at him. “I’m starving.”

“Bloody hell, don’t tell me you’re that thin and you eat carbs. Life’s so unfair. Hi, I’m Fleur Eames.” Fleur stopped dunking her tea bag and stuck out her hand. “Sorry I’m late. You wouldn’t believe what happened to me on the way in. Fucking deer almost smashed my windscreen, yeah?”

“You hit a deer?” I blurted.

Fleur glanced at me. “Almost. I had to pull over and settle down, though. Have a ciggie, calm my nerves.”

“Nice to meet you,” Muriel said.

“Great meeting you,” Fleur said. “Heard oodles of good stuff about you.”

“Ass-kisser,” Damien whispered, taking his customary seat next to me.

“Okay,” Mark said. “Let’s get down to business. Everyone’s met Muriel, we’ve got Callie’s great scones …” He smiled at me, and I forced a smile back. Good old Callie, scone baker. “Muriel, want to get us rolling? Tell us everything we need to know about Bags to Riches.”

“Absolutely. And let me just say I’m thrilled to be here.” She smiled at each of us in turn, then cleared her throat and reached for her notes. “Bags to Riches is an outerwear company that makes clothing out of a unique blend of cotton and plastic grocery bags.”

Her voice was confident and loud, as if she were addressing a stadium. “Our demographic is young, affluent people who enjoy outdoor activities, such as hiking and biking.” She paused, and made eye contact with each one of us, her expression grave. Damien kicked me under the table. “Our goal is to reach these people in a variety of media and increase sales. Thank you.”

With that, she sat down. Mark gave her a confused look, but she just smiled demurely and looked at her hands. “Um … okay. Great, Muriel,” Mark said. “Well, Callie, any ideas?”

I glanced from Mark to Muriel. What Muriel had just told us was something so basic a fourth grader could’ve presented it. Usually, Mark would give us much more detailed information … how long the campaign would last, which markets were underselling, which were doing great, product tie-ins, etc. “Are you … um, are you all done?” I asked her.

“Why, yes, I am, Callie,” she answered. “Mark said you were presenting some ideas. May we see them?”

“Of course,” I said, glancing at Pete, who shrugged. “Well, obviously what makes this company unique is the grocery bag element, and that’s something we’ll definitely focus on.”

“Obviously,” Muriel murmured.

I looked at her. “My first idea is geared toward male consumers, college grads, twenty-five to forty years old, earning more than fifty grand a year.” I reached down next to my chair, grabbed the first poster (PowerPoint was fine, but I was a little old school in presentations) and read my tagline aloud. “Kick some butt, save the planet. BTR Outerwear.” The poster showed a good-looking, sweaty guy, his backpack next to him, standing at the top of a mountain, overlooking a vast wilderness.

Mark smiled, and the usual tingle of pride fluttered in my stomach.

“Oh, nice work,” Leila said.

“Delicious,” Karen murmured, taking a bite of scone. “Him, I mean.” She jerked her chin at the poster.

“I’m thinking all our ads should be shot in national parks,” I continued. “If BTR coughs up some money, we can say we’re a proud sponsor of the Yellowstone Foundation or what have you, and—”

“He’s not even wearing Bags to Riches clothes,” Muriel protested. The rest of us paused.

“It’s a comp, Mure,” Mark said, patting her hand. “It’s a mock-up.” At her look of incomprehension, he continued. “It’s not the real ad … it’s just the idea for the ad.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well.” She squinted at the poster. “The name of the company is Bags to Riches, not BTR.”

“Right,” I said. “Well, that’s another thing. I think Bags to Riches is a little … off. See, it implies that someone’s getting rich off this, and while I’m sure that’s quite true—” everyone but Muriel laughed “—I think we should abbreviate.”

“I doubt my father will go for that,” Muriel said, scribbling something in a notebook. “Moving on, Callie, do you have anything else?”

I glanced at Mark, who was looking at the surface of the table. “Yes, I do, Muriel,” I said. “Female demographic.” I moved to the next comp, something I was quite proud of. It was a stock photo of a woman rock climbing somewhere in Bryce Canyon, dangling from a precipice, teeth gritted in concentration, dripping with sweat. “Redefining ‘bag lady.’ BTR Outerwear.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic, Callie!” Pete cheered.

Mark nodded approvingly. “Bull’s-eye,” he murmured.

I smiled. “Now, I’m not sure how much we can afford, but I’d love to use a couple of celebs who champion the environment—Leonardo DiCaprio, for example.”

“Why would we use him? Does he hike?” Muriel asked.

I paused. Looked at Mark again, who was suddenly engrossed in doodling. Glanced at Damien, whose eyes were very wide. “Well, if we get a well-known face, especially one associated with a cause, we brand BTR—”

“Bags to Riches,” she corrected.

“Right.” I paused. “Okay, well … people want to be like celebrities, right? That’s why J. Crew sells out of whatever Michelle Obama’s wearing.”

“J. Crew is not our competitor, Callie,” Muriel said condescendingly. Leila winced.

“I know that,” I said. “What I mean is, the First Lady has influence. Which is true in any ad campaign that uses celebrities, whether they’re hawking milk or Nikes. So if we had Leo in a BTR ad, I’m sure we’d see a bump in sales.”

“Hmm,” Muriel said. “Interesting.”

No one made eye contact. This was Advertising 101. I glanced at Mark, who was looking at Muriel with a very tender expression. He leaned over and placed his hand over hers.

“It’s a lot to take in,” he said. “Well, this has been great. Thanks, Callie. We’ll get back to you and talk about next steps. Oh, and by the way, the BTR people are coming out later this week. We’ll be doing an event on Friday. Participation mandatory.”

“What kind of event?” Damien asked, immediately suspicious.

“A little hike so Charles can see the beauty of a Vermont sunset,” Mark said, ignoring Damien’s stricken expression. “Drinks and dinner afterward.”

JUST BEFORE LUNCH, Fleur slipped into my office and closed the door. “What the fuck-all was Mark thinking?” she hissed. “Yeah, he’s shagging Muriel, but did he have to hire her? She doesn’t know a bloody thing!” She flopped onto my couch.

The thing about Fleur was that when she was truly upset, her accent slipped, something she was completely unaware of. Her accent was in full force now. I suspected she wanted gossip.

“It’s Mark’s company,” I said calmly, turning away from my computer. “And I’m sure Muriel will …” I paused. “Well, she’ll catch on. Obviously, her dad wants her on this account.”

“Callie,” Fleur whispered. “I’ve got much more experience than Muriel.” Accent gone, revealing shades of New York. The truth came out. “Just because my father doesn’t own the company doesn’t mean I should have to take orders from that frigid and ignorant bitch.”

“Listen,” I said quietly, “don’t go there. Just do your job well and trust that Mark will work things out.”

“She’s making more than me. More than you, too, as a matter of fact. Karen told me.”

“Karen shouldn’t have—”

“All right, all right, she didn’t tell me. I just happened to see some paperwork when I was in there for something else.” She sighed. “Figured you should know. You and Mark were … well. Whatever.”

The accent was back. I glanced at my watch. “I have to run, Fleur. I’m sorry. I’m meeting someone for lunch.”

“Oh, right!” she said. “The plan!”