Which, actually, must be no time at all. There’s hardly any gray there: She’s clearly paranoid. Which makes sense. Demeter is super-aware of her age and how we’re all younger than her. But then, she totally overcompensates by knowing every Internet joke before anyone else, every bit of celeb gossip, every new band, and every…everything.
Demeter is the most on-the-case, earliest adopter known to mankind. She has gadgets before anyone else. She has that must-have H&M designer item before anyone else. Other people camp outside all night to get it—Demeter just somehow has it.
Or take restaurants. She’s worked on some very big restaurant names in her time, so she has zillions of connections. As a result, she never goes to a restaurant except when it first opens. Or, even better, when it’s not open yet except to special, important people like her. Then as soon as the general public is allowed in, or it gets a good review in The Times, she goes off it and says, “Well, it used to be all right, till it was ruined,” and moves on to the next thing.
So she’s intimidating. She can’t be easily impressed. She always had a better weekend than anyone else; she always has a better holiday story than anyone else; if someone spots a celebrity in the street, she always went to school with them or has a godchild going out with their brother, or something.
But today I’m not going to be intimidated. I’m going to make intelligent conversation and then, when the time is right, I’ll make my strategic move. I just have to decide exactly what that strategic move should be—
“OK?” says Demeter, who is typing away at her monitor, totally ignoring me.
“Fine!” I say, dipping the brush again.
“If I have one piece of advice for you girls, it’s don’t go gray. Such a bore. Although”—she swivels briefly to face me—“your hair’s so mousy, you wouldn’t notice.”
“Oh,” I say, nonplussed. “Um…good?”
“How’s Hannah doing, by the way? Poor thing. I hope I reassured her before.” Demeter nods complacently and takes a sip of coffee, while I gape dumbly at the back of her head. That was an attempt to reassure Hannah?
“Well…” I don’t know what to say. “Yes. I think she’s all right.”
“Excellent!” Demeter resumes typing with even more energy, while I lecture myself silently. Come on, Katie.
I mean, come on, Cat. Cat.
Here I am. In Demeter’s office. Just her and me. It’s my chance.
I’ll show her the designs I’ve done for Wash-Blu, I decide in a rush. Only I won’t just plonk them on her desk, I’ll be more subtle. Make conversation first. Bond with her.
I glance for inspiration at Demeter’s massive pinboard. I’ve only been in this office a few times, but I always look at the pinboard to see what’s new. It’s like Demeter’s entire fabulous life, summed up in a collage of images and souvenirs and even fabric swatches. There are printed-out designs for brands she’s created. Examples of unusual typefaces. Photos of ceramics and mid-century-modern furniture classics.
There are press cuttings and photos of her at events. There are pictures of her family skiing and sailing and standing on picturesque beaches, all in photogenic clothes. They couldn’t look more perfect. Her husband is apparently some super-brainy head of a think tank, and there he is in black tie, standing next to her on a red carpet somewhere. He’s holding her arm affectionately, looking appropriately gorgeous and intelligent. Demeter wouldn’t settle for anything less.
Should I ask about the children? No, too personal. As my eyes roam around, they take in all the piles of papers everywhere. This is yet another thing that drives Sarah mad: when Demeter asks her to print out emails. I often hear her muttering at her desk: “Read them on the fucking screen.”
On the shelf beside Demeter is a row of books on branding, marketing, and design. They’re mostly standard titles, but there’s one I haven’t read—an old paperback entitled Our Vision—and I look at it more closely.
“Is that book Our Vision good?” I ask.
“Brilliant,” replies Demeter, pausing briefly in her typing. “It’s a series of conversations between designers from the eighties. Very inspiring.”
“Could I maybe…borrow it?” I venture.
“Sure.” Demeter turns her head briefly, looking surprised. “Be my guest. Enjoy.”
As I take down the book, I notice a little box on the same shelf. It’s one of Demeter’s most famous triumphs, the Redfern Raisin box, with its dinky little red string handles. Everyone takes those string handles for granted now, but at the time, no one had ever thought of such a thing.
“I’ve always wondered about Redfern Raisins,” I say impulsively. “How did you get those string handles through? They must be expensive.”
“Oh, they’re expensive.” Demeter nods, still typing. “It was a nightmare persuading the client. But then it all worked out.”
“Worked out” is an understatement. It was a sensation, and the sales of Redfern Raisins rocketed. I’ve read articles about it.
“So, how did you do it?” I persist. “How did you persuade the client?”
I’m not just asking to make conversation; I really want to know. Because maybe one day I’ll work on a project and want to push through some super-expensive feature, and the client will be all stroppy, but I’ll remember Demeter’s wise advice and win the day. I’ll be Kung Fu Panda to her Master Shifu, only with less kung fu. (Probably.)
Demeter has stopped typing and she turns round as though she’s actually quite interested in the question herself.
“What we do in our job,” she says thoughtfully, “it’s a balance. On the one hand it’s about listening to the client. Interpreting. Responding. But on the other, it’s about having the courage to go with big ideas. It’s about standing up for your convictions. You need a bit of tenacity. Yes?”
“Definitely,” I say, trying to look as tenacious as possible. I lower my brows and hold the hair dye wand firmly. Altogether, I hope I’m giving off the vibe: Tenacious. Alert. A Surprisingly Interesting Junior Member Of Staff Whose Name It’s Worth Remembering.
But Demeter doesn’t seem to have noticed my tenacious, alert demeanor. She’s turned back to her computer. Quick, what else can we talk about? Before she can start typing again, I say hastily, “So, um, have you been to that new restaurant in Marylebone? The Nepalese–British fusion place?”
It’s like catnip. I’ve mentioned the hottest restaurant of the moment, and Demeter stops dead.
“I have, actually,” she says, sounding surprised that I’ve asked. “I went a couple of weeks ago. Have you?”
Have I?
What does she think, that I can afford to spend ￡25 on a plate of dumplings?
But I can’t bear to say, No, I just read about it on a blog, because that’s all I can afford to do, because London is the sixth-most-expensive city in the world, hadn’t you noticed?
(On the plus side, it’s not as expensive as Singapore. Which makes you wonder: What on earth does everything cost in Singapore?)
“I’m planning to,” I say after a pause. “What did you think?”
“I was impressed.” Demeter nods. “You know that the tables are handmade in Kathmandu? And the food is challenging but earthy. Very authentic. All organic, of course.”
“Of course.” I match her serious, this-is-no-joking-matter tone. I think, if Demeter had to put her religion down on a form, she’d put Organic.
“Isn’t the chef the same guy who was at Sit, Eat?” I say, dabbing the brush into more gloopy dye. “He’s not Nepalese.”
“No, but he’s got a Nepalese adviser and he spent two years out there….” Demeter swivels round and looks at me more appraisingly. “You know your restaurants, don’t you?”
“I like food.”
Which is true. I read restaurant reviews like some people read horoscopes. I even keep a list in my bag of all the top restaurants I’d like to go to sometime. I wrote it out as a jokey thing with my friend Fi one day, and it’s just kind of stuck around, like a talisman.
“What do you think of Salt Block?” Demeter demands, as though testing me.
“I think the dish to have is the sea urchin,” I say without missing a beat.
I’ve read that everywhere. Every review, every blog. It’s all about the sea urchin.