“I’m not writing ‘smelly’ and ‘scary,’?” says Rosa impatiently.
“You have to,” points out Liz. Which is true. The big thing at Cooper Clemmow is: Everyone’s voice is heard. It’s in the mission statement. So even if you put forward some really stupid idea, everyone has to treat it with respect, because it might lead to something brilliant.
“Fine.” Rosa scrawls smelly and scary on the board, then glares at Flora. “But that’s hardly going to sell yogurt. Would you buy smelly, scary yogurt?”
“Actually, I’m dairy-free,” says Flora, a bit superciliously. “Do they have any, like, almond milk yogurt?”
“Of course they don’t!” Rosa knocks a fist to her head. “They’re a bloody dairy farm, not an almond farm.”
“Wait.” Flora looks at her with wide eyes. “Does almond milk seriously come from almonds? I thought it was just like…I dunno. A name or something.”
Rosa gives a bark of incredulous laughter. “Flora, are you for real?”
“Well, how do they make it, then?” Flora challenges her. “How do they get the milk out of the almonds? Like…milk them? Squeeze them?”
“That’s almond oil,” volunteers Mark.
“Well, what do they do, then?”
For a moment Rosa looks caught out—then she snaps, “I don’t know! And we’re not talking about almond milk; we’re talking about cattle milk. Cow milk. Whatever.”
Enough sitting back. I have to get into this conversation.
“Actually…” I begin, raising my hand. “I do know a bit about—”
“So, how’s it going?” Demeter cuts me off as she sweeps back into the room, holding a sheaf of papers.
“Hopeless!” replies Rosa. “This is all we’ve got.” She gestures at smelly and scary.
“We don’t know anything about cows,” says Flora bluntly. “Or the country.”
“Or almonds,” puts in Mark.
“OK, people.” Demeter takes charge in her usual way. She dumps the papers on the table and grabs a marker pen. “Thankfully, I know about the country, unlike all you poor urban creatures.”
“Really?” Flora looks taken aback, and I sit up. I’m looking at Demeter with a new eye. She knows about the country?
“Absolutely. I go to Babington House at least four times a year, so I do have an inside track on this.” She eyes us all as though daring us to disagree. “And the truth is, the country is very cool. It’s absolutely the new town.” Demeter scribbles out smelly and scary and begins writing. “These are our watchwords: Organic. Authentic. Artisan. Values. Honest. Mother Earth. The look we want is…” She considers for a moment. “Brown recycled paper. Organic hemp. Twine. Handmade. Rustic but fresh. And a story.” She holds up one of the brochures. “So we don’t just say, ‘This yogurt comes from a cow.’?” She taps the photo. “We say, ‘This yogurt comes from an English Longhorn named Molly.’ We run a competition: ‘Bring your children to milk Molly.’?”
I’m biting my lip. That cow in the photo isn’t an English Longhorn; it’s a Guernsey. But I’m not sure correcting Demeter on cow breeds in public is a very bright idea.
“That’s good!” says Rosa. “I didn’t realize you were so into the country, Demeter.”
“The name Demeter actually means ‘goddess of the harvest,’?” Demeter replies, looking smug. “There’s a very rural, down-to-earth side to me. I mean, I always shop in farmers’ markets when I can.”
“Oh, I love farmers’ markets,” chimes in Flora. “Like those eggs you get in straw? So cute.”
“Exactly! Straw.” Demeter nods and writes down straw.
“OK, I can see this now,” says Mark, nodding and scribbling on his design pad. “All-natural. This yogurt isn’t mass-produced, it’s crafted.”
“Exactly. Crafted. Very good.” Demeter scribbles crafted on the board.
“So…” He pauses. “A wooden yogurt pot, maybe?”
“Oh my God!” exclaims Flora. “That is genius. Wooden yogurt pots! You could collect them and like…put stuff in them! Like pencils, makeup…”
“Very expensive,” says Demeter thoughtfully. “But if we turned this into an ultra-ultra high-end brand…” She taps the marker on her hand thoughtfully.
“Prestige pricing,” says Rosa, nodding.
I know about prestige pricing—it’s where you charge more money and consumers think, Ooh, that must be good, and buy a whole heap more.
“I think people would pay a lot of money for a wooden pot with artisan yogurt in it,” says Mark seriously. “And the name of the cow printed on the pot.”
“We’ll brainstorm names,” agrees Rosa. “The cow’s name is crucial. It’s everything, in fact.”
“Daisy,” suggests Flora.
“Not Daisy,” counters Liz firmly.
“Anything else?” Demeter addresses the table, and I raise a hand. I fought to get into this meeting; I have to contribute.
“You could talk about whether they look after their cows properly?” I volunteer. “I mean, they’re called ‘Contented Cow Yogurt,’ so they must be happy cows or whatever? And we could use this idea in the image?”
“Yes!” Demeter seizes on this. “Animal welfare, huge. Happy animals, huge.” She writes happy shiny cows on the board and underlines it. “Well done.” She gives me a nod, and I feel myself blossom. I contributed something in the meeting! OK, it was just a small something—but it’s a start.
—
After the meeting ends, I send a batch of survey results to Demeter. Then she sends back a message saying: Actually, could she have them all in a different format? Which on the one hand is a pain. But on the other hand means that at least I don’t sit there all morning doing nothing but getting nervous about my date-or-whatever-it-is. I’m occupied; I’m focused; I’m barely even thinking about lunchtime….
OK, full disclosure: This is a lie. I’m totally getting nervous. How could I not? This is Alex Astalis. He’s huge! As I now realize, having googled him for two solid hours last night.
I can’t believe I thought he was some random guy. I can’t believe I thought he might be an intern. This is the trouble with meeting people in real life: They don’t come with profiles attached. Or maybe it’s a good thing. If I’d known he was so important, I never would have messed around on stilts with him.
Anyway, time to go. I pull my hair behind my ears, then forward. Then back again. Argh, I don’t know. At least my bangs look OK. I hadn’t realized how high-maintenance bangs were before I got them. They’re so bloody needy. If I don’t smooth mine down with hair straighteners every day, they pop up all morning, like, Hi! We’re your bangs! We thought we’d spend all day at a forty-five-degree angle; that OK by you?
Anyway. It really is time to go.
I stand up so self-consciously that I’m sure everyone will turn from their screens and say, And where are you going? But of course they don’t. No one even notices as I leave.
The pop-up Christmas Cheer place is a bit of a walk from the office, and as I arrive I feel rosy-cheeked and out of breath. Apparently it “pops up” every December but no one knows quite how to describe it. It’s a kind of market-cum-café-cum-fairground, with a “gingerbread house” for children and mulled wine for grown-ups and carols blaring through a sound system.
I see Alex at once, standing by the mulled-wine stand. He’s wearing a slim-fit coat, a purple scarf, and a gray hipster cap and holding two plastic glasses of mulled wine. He grins as soon as he sees me and says, as though we’re mid-conversation, “You see, this is the problem. They have a merry-go-round but no one to go on it.” He gestures at the merry-go-round—and he’s right. There are only a couple of toddlers sitting on horses, both looking fairly terrified. “All the children are in school,” he adds. “Or they’ve gone home for lunch. I’ve been watching them disappear. Mulled wine?” He hands me a glass.
“Thanks!”
We clink the plastic and I feel a little exhilarated swoop inside. This is fun. Whatever “this” is. I mean, I can’t quite work out if it’s business or…not-business….Whatever. It’s fun.
“So. To work.” Alex drains his drink. “And the question is: Can we rebrand this?”
“What?” I echo, puzzled.