Page 6 of The Promise of Tomorrow
ELENA
Elena and Rory walked out of the lift on the third floor. The marketing office was open plan. It was Wednesday 20 November, the day of a meeting she’d arranged with boss Derek, the director of marketing. Years ago, before starting her career off in HR, she’d had a Saturday job in the sixth form, thanks to her dad speaking to one of his friends. She’d worked in every department, including HR, but also production and marketing, and a passion and focus had grown for the latter. Her unusually broad experience had propelled her career forwards. Under Derek, Elena ran the marketing department at Bingley Biscuits, but this meeting was an example of how she sometimes stepped out of her strict remit, such as becoming involved in product development.
She’d had an idea on how to optimise the Bingley Biscuit brand during the current cost of living crisis. Rory had lived with her for a couple of weeks now. He was tidy, enjoyed cooking and always washed up, and didn’t interfere much with her usual routine. She’d put in overtime, researching her fresh concept after work, whereas Rory had been out at some sports club, or athis dad’s, and once met up with his mountain-biking mate, Izzy. The whole friend-with-benefits thing didn’t do it for Elena. She and her new housemate were just different that way, she told herself.
Today wasn’t a formal pitch to Derek – more of a casual chat. But it was crucial it went well. Her idea could be seen as compromising the Bingley Biscuit name and had been rejected in previous years. Derek might be very hesitant about pitching it to the board. He might not even hear her out – especially if Rory didn’t back her up. She’d told him about it a few days ago and suggested he join the meeting. Elena had never been afraid of fighting her corner, not when it came to a project she wholeheartedly believed in.
At eight forty-five in the morning, most of her colleagues were already on phones or typing away. The grey walls and flooring might have lacked appeal, along with the bland desks, printers and computers, were it not for the bright mosaic of prints of the colourful tubes of Bingley Biscuits on the walls. Their chocolate-coated oatie biscuits sold best, followed by the crumbly shortcake rings and cream vanilla sandwich fingers. These family recipes went back to the beginning of the twentieth century when the Bingley family had opened a home-baked goods shop on Oldham Street, in a part of Manchester city centre now known as the Northern Quarter. Business boomed and premises expanded during the postwar economic prosperity of the fifties. By the mid-sixties, the family had bought their first factory. It was a fiercely competitive market, but the brand had held its own over the years, and more than that – at least, until the pandemic.
Gary’s desk was nearest to the door. He was a well-built man with a ginger buzz cut and a goatee beard, about the same age as Elena, today wearing an Aztec print shirt. She and Rory stoppedby his chair. Caz, fortyish, with a ladybird red bob and lips to match also came over. Gary sat, his fingers intermittently typing and dipping into a bag of Maltesers, acting as if the other three weren’t there, until Elena hummed the first line to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.
‘Never did like karaoke,’ muttered Gary.
‘You’ve been on at me for months to organise it!’ said Elena.
‘Yes, and it took until Rory asked you,’ he replied with an injured tone. ‘We really should be allowed to bring partners next time. My husband would have smashed it with his version of “La Bamba”.’
‘Don’t be such a sore loser. Last night was fun,’ she said and pushed his shoulder. Kind of. ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ had been Rory’s choice. He liked a challenge and she’d wanted to prove she was equally up for it. ‘Although I agree, it’s a shame your Diego couldn’t come. We must go out for dinner again soon. I haven’t seen him since before Christmas. I could listen to his Spanish accent all night long.’
‘I recommend it,’ said Gary, unable to stop himself smiling.
Caz sighed. ‘Competitive as I am, I’m not cross that we got booed off the stage. You two smashed it. Perhaps our choice was bad. Singing that classic “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now” was jinxing it.’
‘Watch out, Caz and I will thrash you at the next staff night out,’ said Gary, breezily. He’d paired Elena and Rory together for the karaoke, seeing as they were what he called house buddies now.
‘No chance,’ said Rory and helped himself to one of Gary’s Maltesers.
‘Amazed you sang so well, though, Elena, what with your main focus being on that guy in the Italian suit,’ said Gary. ‘Give us the low-down.’
‘Nothing to report,’ she said airily. ‘Andy’s an accountant. Who knows where the evening might have gone if it wasn’t for Rory dragging me up on stage when things were getting cosy?’
Rory shrugged. ‘Sorry about that. Bad timing. But it was our turn. You should have got his number.’
‘I would have but he’d left by the time we’d finished.’ Andy had lovely eyes. Soft hands. A genuine smile. She imagined the comfort of skin touching skin, of kisses you could lose yourself in… Oh, how Elena longed for that physical comfort right now. But it wouldn’t be fair to get close to a man, not when her thirtieth birthday was just over a month away…
‘So, spill. What Christmas night out have you got in store for us colleagues, Swan, in December?’ asked Gary.
Elena tapped her nose and headed off to the other side of the office. Rory had been given the desk opposite hers, when he’d joined the company permanently. The top of hers was fairly tidy, with a pen pot, file rack and wire letter tray, and a stress ball in the shape of a sloth. Gary had bought it for her last Christmas, for the Secret Santa. He’d said it was ironic as Elena was the least lazy person in the office. Her top desk drawer, deep and wide, was messier, filled with an array of dog-eared paperbacks – and a spare Kindle, kept at work, to act as a back-up. Elena would rather run out of food than stories. All genres were in that drawer – historical and contemporary, by British and foreign authors. Her current read – or re-read – wasSense and Sensibilityby Jane Austen. Despite her party-loving image at the office, she strongly related to responsible, measured Elinor, who greatly contrasted her impulsive sister, Marianne. Closed versus open, safe versus risky… Elena knew which type she was, or, rather, what she’d forced herself to become.
‘I’m not sure Brandy and Snap appreciated our tunefulrendition when we got home.’ Rory put down his satchel and took off his damp trench coat.
‘Oh,homeis it now? Don’t go getting any ideas. And I seem to recall it was onlyyousinging.’ She made herself busy, taking off her coat, not wanting to give away that since he’d moved in, her place had felt like a real bolt hole in a way it hadn’t before. Even though they hadn’t spent much time together, just knowing that someone else shared her home reminded Elena of when she’d lived with her parents. She’d forgotten how reassuring it felt, how comforting, to hear someone else upstairs singing in the shower or boiling the kettle. She was very close to her mum and dad and had lived with them, happily, until starting at Bingley Biscuits four years ago, and pole-vaulting onto the property ladder with her current pad. The privacy and space were great, she’d told herself. Yet how quickly she’d grown used to Rory’s evening rendition of ‘Ocean Eyes’ that wafted through the spare room’s walls. Not to mention the conversations he had with Brandy and Snap – mostly telling them how clever they were, with their playing dead and camouflage skills, and reeling off statistics about their fellow species.
This last week, he’d even persuaded her to watch TV again a couple of times. They started a new Netflix thriller series. Her last boyfriend, from over a year ago now, loved watching thrillers too, but didn’t dissect them in the way Rory did, in the way Elena loved to, looking at the plot and characters analytically and trying to work out the ending. Not that it mattered. There were so many other things she’d… liked about Darren. She’d never said loved, not when it came to boyfriends; she wouldn’t let herself get that attached. In fact, she and Darren split up after ten months – the longest she’d dated anyone for years – because she couldn’t commit when he’d begun talking about the future. What would be the point, when hers was so uncertain?
Elena leant against her desk. The firework. It had been a warning. It had to be.
With his unaffected dancing when she put music on, with his colourful clothes and spontaneous bursts of singing, Rory had turned out to be a good distraction from darker thoughts about the little girl who’d got lost in the wooded area of the common and made a deal with a strange woman.
Rory slid a folder of paperwork out of his bag. At leasthe’dtaken the idea seriously. Their meeting was at nine but Derek was always early. They headed for his office, the only private space that wasn’t open plan. Elena knocked on the door. A friendly voice invited them in. Derek stood by the window, looking across at the industrial landscape. The factory was Sharston way, a thirty-minute drive from south Manchester, up to an hour during peak traffic. He turned around and ran a hand over his receding grey hairline. He wore a dark jumper and chinos, and glasses with a bold, dark blue frame. Derek was fair and transparent, the two things Elena valued most in a boss. He also passionately believed in enjoying Bingley Biscuits’ products. The chinos hugged his legs, like the jumper did his chest. A double chin lay against the top of the shirt collar. Gaining extra pounds went with the job. Elena had put on almost a stone since joining the company four years ago, thanks to the freebies and tasting sessions. Caz bemoaned her own weight gain and Gary obsessively went to the gym. Rory’s life was far too physical for the daily Bingley treats to make a difference. Elena didn’t mind the extra curves. They made her look even more like Mum.
The mum she’d nearly lost, a long time ago.
Derek indicated for them both to sit down and sat behind his desk – basic, white, the same as everyone else’s. It was the rest of the room that reflected his status, with the Nespresso coffee machine, filtered water and the row of industry awards on ashelf. On the wall hung a photograph of Derek standing next to King Charles, who’d visited six months before, on a tour of manufacturers who were reducing their carbon footprint. His Majesty had talked, at length, with CEO John Bingley about the company’s new study into the possibility of the electrification of their gas-fired industrial ovens. That was the Bingley Biscuits secret to success. It had embraced change throughout its hundred-year history, continually diversifying, experimenting, taking on board new social responsibilities, such as a reduction of palm oil in their products. Most importantly, it kept a finger on the pulse of what mattered to consumers.
‘What have you got for me? I’m intrigued.’ Derek rubbed his hands together, straight to business as usual. ‘It’s now in doubt as to whether our continued drop in profits is solely down to the energy crisis and global price increase of our basic ingredients.’
‘Is the Lipstick Effect finally waning?’ asked Elena.
