Beyond the Point(78)
Easy? she wanted to say, and show her the pharmacy of medication in her purse. Nothing about this is easy.
“You know what I mean,” said Laura, with an added layer of kindness. To Dani, it seemed like her boss was trying to say something sincere, but it was coming across so desperately insulting. “You’re good at your job, and it looks good for the company to have you at the table. It’s a win-win. Comparatively, I just look like the old hag that refuses to retire. That’s all I’m saying.”
Dani sighed and chose to push forward with the marketing, rather than the debate over who had it easier in the workplace. “Let me just tell you a few more things about this online strategy.”
Laura leaned back and nodded.
“With TV ads, you can get certain data from a consumer: age, zip code, gender, race,” Dani conceded. “But with the Internet, we can drill down to the minutiae—what kind of music they listen to. How they lean politically. Where they spend their time online. It’s data on a whole different level.”
“I hear you. But unfortunately, we don’t have the benefit of time,” Laura replied. “The presentation is next week. It’s too late. What we have will do.”
Laura looked Dani up and down, taking in the sight of her black trousers and blue button-up shirt.
“Oh, and Dani, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ll need to wear a dress and heels to the presentation,” she added. “It’s Paris, after all.”
THE MORNING OF the Gelhomme presentation, Dani showered in an expansive hotel suite in the Seventh Arrondissement of Paris, then toweled off while taking in the view of the Eiffel Tower. The rain outside her window tempted her to get back in bed, but thankfully, a shot of pre-presentation adrenaline pumped through her veins, which acted like speed to get her moving.
The last weeks had been moving at a breakneck pace, as E & G prepared to present its final recommendations to Gelhomme’s CEO, Paul Duval. The London team had fleshed out six different marketing campaigns, which, thanks to a focus group of consumers, had been narrowed down to the final one. Somehow, through it all, Dani’s concept had survived. She had a football coach in Jamaica Plain to thank for that.
When the pressures of work mounted, Dani found herself staying up late at night to either revise Laura’s PowerPoint presentation, plan the itinerary for Locke’s upcoming trip, or shop online. The clothes and shoes she purchased only made her happy for a few days before they found their way to the bottom of her closet, a pile of unfulfilled promises. But she had no time to travel. And her doctor had put her on an extremely restrictive diet, hoping it would help with the arthritis pain. So she couldn’t eat out at fancy restaurants or drink alcohol. So what if clothes had become her guilty pleasure? What else was she supposed to do with all that money?
Wrapped in a Burberry trench coat and lavender cashmere scarf, Dani stopped to check her reflection. It had been nearly impossible to find a barber in her Notting Hill neighborhood who could do black hair—but she’d finally found someone, and he’d relaxed her hair and added a weave. It was straight and silky, parted on the side, with extensions that reached her collarbone. But no matter how she styled it, she still didn’t feel like herself when she looked in the mirror. Even her freckles seemed to have faded in England’s rainy climate. Her skin glowed thanks to the high-end products she could afford with her new salary. She looked expensive. But she felt cheap.
Yesterday, she’d received an e-mail from Hannah detailing life in Afghanistan. In the photos her friend had attached to her e-mail, Hannah stood in the midst of a desertscape, wearing ACUs and her Kevlar vest, smiling widely. Her platoon had convoyed out to a remote location, where they were building an outpost for incoming NATO troops. The photo looked like the set of M*A*S*H. There were six GP medium tents, Army green against sand. In another photo, Hannah posed outside of a wide aluminum shipping container with three young girls whose hands were wrapped in white bandages. The burn unit Hannah had described in the e-mail sent chills down Dani’s spine. In the photo, Dani saw dark shadows under Hannah’s eyes, pain hidden within her smile. By comparison, Dani’s life was completely self-serving—a picture of comfort and luxury. How could she complain to her friends about the existence of Laura Klein, or the loss of a man she’d never had, when by comparison, their chief complaint was the existence of Afghanistan?
WHEN SHE ARRIVED at Gelhomme’s Paris office, Dani made her way directly to the conference room to set up the audiovisual equipment. A simple spread of pastries, fruit, and coffee waited at the center of the table. The rest of the room looked like it had been prepped for a visit from the queen: wood floors waxed, windows washed, oriental carpet steamed, table shined, all twelve leather chairs placed in a perfect oval around the table. The buttery scent of croissants tempted Dani, teasing her senses with the memory of bread, but she refrained. The allergist’s proposed diet—no dairy, gluten, sugar, or inflammatory vegetables—had decreased her pain significantly. Hanging her jacket on a hook outside the door, Dani felt immediately powerful in the dress she’d chosen to fulfill Laura’s demand. White, with cap sleeves and a conservative neckline, the dress fit tight around her curves and stopped just below her knees. “Showstopper,” was the word the shopkeep had used when Dani had walked out of the dressing room. When he rang it up at the register, Dani hadn’t even listened when he said the total cost. She’d just handed over her credit card.