Living the Dream Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  Henry Holt and Company ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For Josh Jones, obviously

  Part 1

  CHAPTER 1

  Ten Thousand Spoons

  The third floor of the Soho office block smelled of instant coffee and disappointment. Outside, London was in high spirits, alert and hectic. Inside the air was tepid, made of plastic and powered by static.

  Emma Derringer was the first to arrive, because nobody at APRC was ever half an hour early for work. Motion-detecting lights blipped on as she passed through the office, which throbbed with the low sound of wasted energy. Smoky rainbow screen savers swirled and the air con hummed with electric persistence. The office was kept just short of warm in winter, and just short of cool in summer, so that everyone was slightly uncomfortable all year round. It made Emma’s curly hair go fluffy and meant that everybody got everybody else’s illnesses, regardless of how many Beroccas they drank.

  The APRC Values had been engraved into the plasterboard that ran the length of the office.

  INNOVATION

  VALUE

  QUALITY

  PURPOSE

  Emma was incessantly punctual; it wasn’t deliberate, she was born that way – literally, on the morning of her due date. Time seemed to move differently for her friends, who plucked hours from Emma’s life indiscriminately. Hours that she spent standing outside stations or alone in bars.

  She played through the events of the night before. She’d been waiting for a mate in Soho Square, sitting on a bench and rolling a cigarette when a bike courier sat next to her. Glancing sideways at him Emma noticed that he was scruffy and handsome. He asked her for a light.

  Twenty minutes later they were deep in conversation. Emma had calculated all the time she’d spent waiting for her friends and the fact that if she could take it back, she’d still be twenty-four. Instead she was twenty-seven, and sitting on a park bench with a cute courier, waiting.

  He had smiled at her use of ‘cute’. Emma allowed a cheeky grin to surface at the brief flashback that tingled through her system, happy that she had abandoned waiting and spent the night drinking and kissing and mucking about with him instead.

  Innate punctuality aside, Emma was the first to arrive at APRC so that for the first half an hour of the day she could pretend the office was a sanctuary of quiet creation. Could start her computer on her own terms; could, for a brief moment, be a proper writer, and not an executive assistant.

  She walked past the deserted PR department where the desks were covered in sweet wrappers, cuddly toys, branded pens and photos; framed pictures of loved ones, pets in hats, nights out with the girls or couples embracing on the beach.

  PR was comprised of eleven women whom it was near impossible to tell apart. It was a high-pitched minefield of femininity. They each had names that ended in ‘y’ and their desk drawers were filled with shoes, hand cream, Tampax and Nurofen.

  Emma had specialised in feminism and women’s media as part of her literature degree and worried that her contempt for them was inherently sexist. But she shuddered at their seemingly endless conversations about lunch. Whenever she walked past them she wished, briefly, that she cared enough to wear make-up or heels to work.

  If the APRC carpet colour were on a paint chart it would be called Electric Snooze. Next to her desk there was a red swoosh in the carpet that marked the end of PR and the start of creative. She pictured the meeting where that decision had been made. Some horsey grey-brained office manager piping up with ‘I’ve got it! How about a lovely red swoosh for the creative department? That will have SUCH impact.’

  Whenever Emma thinks of the term creative department, her brain puts ‘creative’ in inverted commas.

  She pressed the button on the back of her computer and waited for the techno sigh that signalled the start of the day. She typed in her password (Fresh_He11) and shoved her jacket under the desk. (DEAR ALL, Please keep your coats and bags out of sight and NOT on your chairs as they are unsightly. Thx.)

  In the kitchen, they had a coffee machine that ate aluminium capsules and spat out tepid, coffee-flavoured water. Emma had staunchly disapproved when they’d bought the machine and told the receptionists that it was the environmental equivalent of throwing ten thousand spoons at the moon. They had looked at her blankly, and walked away. She stood and waited for the machine to heat up, staring at the logo.

  Built for life.

  She pictured the advert: people holding cups and smiling – proud mums, executive dads, other gender archetypes and maybe an arty sort to mix it up, a rock climber, a skateboarder and someone not white for demographic and then blam, built for life.

  That’s how it would go.

  Emma had been working in advertising for nearly a year, but had started thinking in straplines after a few months. She worried that her brain was permanently broken.

  She made a professional-strength coffee, vowing to quit coffee next week. Her other perennial goals were to stop smoking, binge drinking and biting her nails. She’d made no progress with them either.

  Aim high, she thought, and miss.

  Back at her desk Emma sat and stared at her screen – a Mac standard image of a long white beach with crystal-blue waters and palm trees swaying in the breeze.

  Fuck you, desktop.

  She opened her emails, preferring the junk mail to any real messages about work. ‘50% off!’ ‘Book Now!’ ‘Last Chance!’ ‘Coming Soon!’

  The first message she opened was from Slick magazine. She had submitted a sardonic opinion piece called ‘Girls Gone Mild’, a response piece to an article she had read about the ‘empowering rise of onesie culture’. Emma wanted to address the idea that dressing as a cartoon tiger was only empowering until you had to strip naked to go for a wee. Slick were ‘not interested at this time’.

  She gave her disappointment a few seconds to subside, shut her mail and opened her blog.

  She typed a new post and called it ‘Bicycle Guy’. She stared at the empty screen for a moment, trying to pinpoint what about him had been so appealing … Strength, maybe? His arms had been taut under his courier outfit. His light Scottish accent hadn’t done any harm, but it may have been the enthusiasm with which he described his job and his concern for her safety – he begged her to wear a helmet if she took up cycling – that had made her lean forward and kiss him. Two bottles of red wine later, she had realised he was boring and walked away, but he had watched her go with a satisfying mix of glee and disappointment. She saved the post as a draft to her magazine blog, Stupid Shit Machine.

  By the time the receptionists turned up and started bringing the office to life, Emma was ready to face the day as her alter ego: someone who worked in advertising and meant it.

  CHAPTER 2

  Everything Tastes Better When It’s Free

  Somewhere over the Atlantic, Clementine Twist was on a Virgin 747 bound for London. She sat squidging a slice of lemon with a straw. Four mini-bottles of gin stood soldier-like, guarding
her plastic cup from her neighbour – a shabby, bulbous businessman who was asleep against the window, mouth agape, tie and fly loosened. She looked over at him and rolled her eyes. Normally a hangover this bad would have stopped her drinking, but regardless of her headache she could never resist a free drink. Everything tastes better when it’s free, she thought.

  Clementine had pictured herself doing this journey in Executive Mode, wearing a trouser suit and carrying a briefcase. She would get upgraded just from the sheer fabulousness of her hair, and she briefly considered renting a limo to take her to the airport so that she might march up to the desk with a stretched-car swagger.

  The plan had been reliant on having some money and an early night, getting a haircut and buying a briefcase and so, predictably, it had come second place to spending her last night in New York getting completely wasted with her now former friends and peers.

  Four hours earlier she had been shaken awake with shouts of ‘Your flight, Clem. GET THE HELL UP!’ In a drunken flap, she had pushed as many things as she could fit into a rucksack and had run, without cleaning her teeth, out of the door to JFK. The last thing her roommate and best friend in the city had done was shove sixty dollars into her hand and insist she get a cab. Clem hadn’t even had time to thank her properly, for everything. Standing on the corner of St Marks Place and Second, in the pouring rain, she had tried to say it all with a look and hoped it had at least been cinematic. At the check-in desk she had tried to avoid breathing on the lady. Simultaneously she was trying not to be sick and searching for her passport and tickets, which were in her handbag by sheer fluke.

  Clem allowed herself a smile. She must have looked, smelled and sounded ridiculous trying to check in. Scrabbling through her bag, wearing a Yankees T-shirt that was plainly her pyjama top. They had not given her an upgrade, they had given her the seat at the back, next to the toilet and another shambolic passenger, along with a dirty look and a series of condescending smiles. In the queue through security an overweight New York woman had whispered that she’d better have a splash of perfume to mask the stale booze, or the stewards wouldn’t let her fly. She would have been insulted had it not been completely true.

  Two hours into the flight, she was a bit tipsy and held a pencil in the hand that wasn’t taking care of the lemon. She was making two lists. One of the things she would miss about New York, the other of things she was looking forward to in London. Under New York she had written ‘Roommates / Pizza / Jordan’ and on the other she had written ‘Emma’. She looked past the sleeping beauty and out of the window at the clouds. Executive mode wasn’t going particularly well for her so far.

  Clementine had just graduated, top of her class, from her yearlong post-grad course at Columbia film school, where she had been awarded a full scholarship. She’d made friends and produced work that she was genuinely proud of. She’d been to London once during her year in NYC and it had felt like a visit to a historic town, to the past. The past, which was now looming over her looking very much like the godforsaken present.

  The night before, Clementine had felt like a star; she and her friends had raised toasts to her future success. In her bleary flashback she was holding court in a booth in some snazzy diner that none of her small and geeky entourage could really afford.

  ‘To high friends in good places,’ she’d yelled across the floor. At the time she’d imagined a restaurant-wide cheer, but in retrospect she realised, she had probably just seemed obnoxious.

  Her final submission to the course was a screenplay, her big hitter, called Moonshiners. It was a brooding period drama about English booze smugglers in the eighteenth century. It was ‘Prince of Thieves meets Goodfellas’ and was on desks from London to LA. Her professor had sent an introductory email to Drake Jones, one of the leading agents in the UK, and she’d sent scripts to big names. But as she sat at the back of a plane making its way towards the UK, she felt sad and small; all she really had to show for her time in New York was a few email addresses and several maxed-out credit cards.

  She wondered when, if ever, she would start to feel like the big shot she was purportedly becoming. She scowled at herself and signalled for another gin. ‘I’ll have a big shot,’ she muttered at the lemon. The lemon was Jordan and she was stabbing him repeatedly in the face.

  ‘Here’s a top tip…’ She leaned over and whispered to her unconscious cohort, whom she had named Dirk. ‘Don’t shag actors, they don’t have an honest bone in their body.’ She cackled at the pun. ‘And neither will you,’ she finished, sloshing some gin over his oblivious leg. Then she stopped and felt a long cold hug of sadness stretch over her shoulders. For a moment she wouldn’t have minded if the plane had started to plummet to her dismal end in the Atlantic. She crossed out ‘Jordan’.

  She wondered where she would go when they landed at Heathrow. She sighed, unable to picture her immediate future, and passed out. Her head dropped slowly onto Dirk’s shoulder, and the rest of the gin, tonic and lemon sludge slid out of the cup and down through the gap in the seats.

  CHAPTER 3

  Value Banner

  As the volume in the office started to build, Emma sat silently at her desk and watched her co-workers. They conducted themselves with an air of urgency that Emma struggled to maintain.

  Her enthusiasm was a mask, her efficiency a defence mechanism, her presence a scam. She was good at her job because she’d figured out after three months of negative feedback that life was simpler when she got things right the first time. She stopped short of excellent, because excellence seemed superfluous.

  There were Post-it notes stuck to various piles of paper on her desk – ‘Pls print proply’ was attached to a document, which Gemma the intern had bound with most of the pages upside down.

  Gemma was a twenty-two-year-old business studies graduate who couldn’t give the faintest shadow of a shit about the job. It was an attitude that Emma admired.

  The constant battle that their boss, Adrian, had with their quite similar names was a joke that never wore thin; it occupied the same comedy cupboard as saying ‘afternoon’ when someone was a bit late.

  Everyone laughs.

  No one laughs.

  Work laughs.

  Under her coffee cup there was a printed presentation, with a note written in big black letters: ‘SEE ME’.

  He’s gone out of his way to find a marker pen.

  The document had started life as twenty-five landscape pages, scrawled in pencil during a group brainstorm. At APRC it was called an insight document, the product of an ideation.

  In the beginning Emma had silently rejected the corporate vernacular. Now she said things like ‘experiential’ without flinching. She was gradually but conspicuously becoming one of them.

  ‘SEE ME’. It was the ‘We need to talk’ of the office world. Emma sighed for the first time that day and then instinctively checked for an audience. She’d recently had a verbal warning about sighing; apparently people found her audible exhale demoralising.

  Why even leave a note? she wondered, getting up and mooching through to the kitchen for a banana. The first thing that happens when he walks in the room is he sees me. I sit directly in front of his glass office. I literally see him all day.

  She dropped the Post-it in the kitchen bin.

  APRC was made up of five departments. Twenty-eight people spending forty hours a week under a collective ‘value banner’. The term had been proudly coined by Adrian in 2005, and had made an appearance in every meeting since. The values existed in leather-bound books that the corporate department handed solemnly to each new employee, urging them to uphold the values in all that they did, at work or not.

  When Emma had been initiated into the APRC way of life, she had taken her boxed set of values documents home and shown them to her flatmate, Paul, who took them from her and wordlessly threw them out of the kitchen window, onto the roof below where they remained, gently festering in the damp London outdoors.

  Emma’s department occupie
d the area with the highest denim count, where the shoe of choice was low-rise Converse. The ‘creatives’ sat at their 27-inch Mac screens and wore bulky designer headphones; they spent hundreds of pounds on plain black T-shirts, sneered at pop music and knew a lot about paper. They talked dispassionately about football and went on holidays to San Sebastián. They said ‘gig’ when they meant ‘job’ and had framed pictures of fixed-gear bikes.

  The creative department surrounded Adrian’s glass-box office. He called it ‘his hub’ and revelled in the idea that he was integral to the creative process. Emma’s official title was executive assistant, but because her desk was closest to Adrian’s office, and because the consensus at APRC was that the hierarchy was in constant flux, she had inadvertently become Adrian’s PA. It meant that she arrived every day to an increasingly varied selection of tasks – a quality of the job she claimed, disingenuously, to enjoy.

  The rest of the creative department was made up of Gemma; Ross, a freelance web guy; Drew, the director; Jack, a designer with no discernible personality; and two Eds, glorified sales people who argued officiously about everything. They were best friends, but seemed to revel in each other’s shortcomings. Emma didn’t know if they hated each other or if theirs was just an executive’s approach to friendship.

  CHAPTER 4

  Team Meeting

  At 11.05 Adrian Gilmartin entered the conference room and the group hushed. He was a formidable man – big in three directions. He was a proud forty-nine years old (‘years young’) and stood 6'4'' in a dark blue suit and light purple shirt with white cuffs. His salt and pepper hair was on the right side of thin. He always looked a bit too warm.

  He had studied economics at Oxford and admired, above all, capitalism’s grip on humanity and its ‘unique ability to tackle problems purposefully, meaningfully and for the greater good’.