Christmas on Primrose Hill (9 page)

‘Like what?’

‘Well, we’ve drawn up a list of so-called challenges that Nettie could do over the coming days. One a day till Christmas Eve, we thought. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but there’s actually twelve days left to Christmas, so we could hashtag it to “twelvedaresofchristmas”? It’s a pun on . . . Yeah, right, you’ve got it. We thought of a hashtag to tie in with the charity too: “ballzup”. Geddit?’

‘Is this right, Nettie? Have you come up with a list?’ Mike asked, catching sight of Nettie’s frozen expression.

‘Uh, well, yes,’ she replied tentatively, trying to balance the anxiety about what Jules was signing her up for with the fear of losing her job.

‘It’s all her idea, this,’ Jules said again, giving credit where it was not due.

Mike looked pleased. He pulled out the head chair and sank into it, his fingers pressed into a steeple. ‘Elaborate, please.’

Nettie pointed to Jules in panic. ‘She’s got the list.’

Mike turned to Jules instead, an eyebrow raised, a sigh escaping him. ‘Jules?’

Jules stretched, in her element to be running the meeting. ‘So clearly things ended well after the Ice Crush stunt, but they
could’ve
gone badly wrong, as you just said yourself, so obviously none of us wants to repeat something on that scale and put Nets in any kind of danger.’

Mike pulled a so-so face, as if he thought it was still up for discussion. ‘It was funny, though.’

‘Exactly. What people were responding to was the comedy of the situation, not the danger per se – and I thought we could replicate that by doing a round-up, if you will, of the best Internet memes.’

Oh God. Nettie felt sick as she saw where Jules was heading with this. She desperately tried to remember what had been on that list. It was hard to get past the dyed eyebrows.

‘Go on,’ Mike said in an unconvinced tone, probably because he too did not know what a meme actually was. ‘What would that entail?’

‘Well, I’ve drawn up a list of the most popular ones, so it could include things like owling, money-facing, planking, Blakeing—’

‘“Money-what”? “Blakeing”?’ Mike echoed. He frowned, sniffing at the deception. ‘Are you making these names up?’

Jules chuckled. ‘No. Blakeing’s actually my favourite. It’s named after the US basketball player Blake Griffin after he watched the replay of a foul he got called on. He was holding a cup of water at the time, and he threw his hands in the air and tossed the water all over the poor sod standing behind him. It was an accident, but honestly, you should’ve seen the other guy’s face. Put it this way – it’s so funny I won’t watch it on a full bladder.’ She caught sight of Mike’s expression and turned to the girls. ‘Sorry. Too much?’

Mike cleared his throat. His inability to deal with an office full of women was a constant source of amusement for them all.

‘Anyway, so that’s what Blakeing is – basically chucking water over someone behind you. Or we could do an Ice Bucket Challenge—’

‘Stop right there!’ Mike instructed, his face set in deep concentration, one finger held mid-jab in the air. ‘Ice Bucket Challenge. Now, I know that. Let’s explore that.’

‘Why?’ Daisy asked. ‘It’s been done to death, and it’s minus two degrees out there.’

‘True. It has been done to death,’ Mike agreed, clearly unconcerned about the other detail.

‘Although that just means everyone already knows and loves it. What if we could put a twist on it to make it fresh?’ Caro said.

Mike looked at her. ‘Like . . . ?’

‘Like . . .’ She thought for a moment. ‘Like we could get people to vote. “Retweet” and “follow” if they want it to happen, “like” and “follow” if they don’t. Obviously everyone will want to see it happen, so they’ll both join our consumer base and actively grow it for us too. It’s a pyramid scheme for the charity’s Twitter following, basically.’

‘I like that, Caro.’

‘Yeah, but is that too passive? Like you say, this is a well-worn meme. If we’re going to make it feel relevant again, couldn’t we be more dynamic with the concept?’ Jules argued.

‘I don’t follow,’ Mike said.

‘Well, rather than post and wait for people to share and donate, why don’t we turn it on its head and get them to bid for the next event?’ An audible gasp zipped round the room at the idea. ‘What do you think? Five grand for the next skit? And it’s got to be raised in a day or the “offer”’ – she raised her fingers in speech marks – ‘expires. That way, we put the onus on the public to get the message out there. I totally think there’s the appetite for it.’

Nettie liked the idea of it – at least it meant there was a possibility that she wouldn’t have to go through with all these crazy stunts.

‘We’ll look a bit daft if there isn’t,’ Daisy sighed, examining her nails.

Jules shot her a warning look. ‘Surely you’ve got something to contribute other than doom?’

Daisy dropped her hand to the desk as all eyes rested on her. ‘Of course I do.’ There was a long pause as they all – Daisy included – wondered what that was going to be.

‘Tell me your thoughts, Daisy,’ Mike said, sounding more like a therapist than her boss.

Suddenly a light switched on behind her eyes. She glanced at Jules smugly. ‘Well, most people did it in the summer in their gardens or their pools – private places, right? Why don’t we do it somewhere we can get an audience gathered? Let’s make it a happening, like a flashmob thing.’

‘Flashmob, yes . . .’ Mike nodded, thinking how cool this sounded. ‘That’s a good thought.’

‘Where, though? Time is of the essence. If we’re going to make the “twelvedares” hashtag work, we need to get on to it today,’ Jules said, batting back the challenge with a smirk. She loved these mini-battles with Daisy.

‘Uh . . .’ Daisy stared at the ceiling, willing inspiration to strike. ‘Uh, well, it needs to be somewhere public where loads of people will see it, so . . . it could be Hyde Park, maybe? Beside the Serpentine or . . . ooh, Speakers’ Corner?’

Mike pulled a ‘not sure’ expression as Nettie groaned and slid further down her seat.

‘Or . . . on the steps of St Paul’s?’

He shook his head. ‘They might think we’re protesting about something.’

Daisy began to look desperate. ‘OK, how about . . . ?’ The room fell silent. And then quite suddenly Daisy’s expression changed, a satisfied smile growing on her lips, which literally reeled Mike forward from his chair. ‘Oh my God, I’ve got it.’

‘What is it?’ Caro asked.

‘It’s genius is what it is.’ She looked around the room, drumming her French manicure on the conference table, her eyes coming to a stop on Jules. ‘Trafalgar Square. Fourth plinth.’

Even Jules grinned, leaning across the table for a celebratory hand-slap. Everybody was looking jubilant – everybody except Nettie, who was looking between them all rapidly, looking for signs that this whole thing was a joke, a fix-up. It had been one thing trying to save her job, but this . . . this was way beyond anything Jules had run past her. The blue eyebrows weren’t seeming quite so bad after all.

‘This is great. Pure marketing gold,’ Mike said, smacking his palm on the desk. ‘We might rescue this account yet, ladies. I’ll get on to White Tiger right away, bring them up to speed with the concept, but let’s start putting everything in place.’

There was a scraping of chairs as everybody jumped up.

‘And, uh . . . who’s going to do this Ice Bucket Challenge in minus two degrees on the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square?’ Nettie asked, throwing her biro onto the desk.

The team looked at her.

‘Well, you, of course,’ Daisy said.

‘Why me? The hashtag is “bluebunnygirl”. Anyone could put that suit on. I’ve already done my bit. At the very least, we should rotate it and take turns.’

Mike sat back down again. ‘Lest you should forget, Nettie, your impetuousness this weekend very nearly lost us our star account. White Tiger wanted you out. This changes things, I grant you – your idea is solid gold – but the fact remains you should have never gone ahead with it without the requisite permissions in place. You’re lucky I’m not giving you a formal caution, or worse. I would have thought you’d appreciate that following through on the campaign is the very least you can do.’ He took a breath. ‘Not to mention that everyone sees you at the end of the clip when they take the rabbit head off you.
You
are the person all those people are following.’

‘You can’t really see me, though,’ she argued.

‘You can,’ Daisy said quickly. ‘Well, they can definitely see you’re not a blonde, anyway.’ She held up a wisp of her own tousled blonde hair with a ‘sorry, not sorry’ expression.

‘Or a redhead,’ Caro agreed, twirling one of her strawberry-blonde plaits.

‘It’s important that we maintain the integrity of the project,’ Mike said solemnly. ‘I don’t think your followers would be very pleased to discover they’d been duped by someone else. What would there be to stop any old Tom, Dick or Harry just going out and buying one of the outfits and stealing your thunder?’

Nettie stared back sullenly. Let them steal away. ‘Well then, let’s ditch the costume and I’ll just do it as myself. I don’t want to wear that thing again. It’s heavy and it smells.’

‘
Branding
, Nettie. The hashtag, remember? Blue Blunny Girl, not crazy, mad, brunette girl.’

She glared at him, but her arrows didn’t pierce his thick skin.

‘Added to which, there is very serious money attached to this already. The charities are
relying
upon you to grow and move forward with this. Lives are at stake, Nettie. If Jules is right about this, then you’ve got an opportunity here that money literally can’t buy. It’d be madness – not to mention career suicide – to let it slip through your fingers. Who knows how long the momentum will be with you? We all know from bitter experience just how quickly the winds of change . . . uh, blow.’

He paused for breath again, but his point had been made in the concise two-word term ‘career suicide’ and she sighed defeatedly.

‘Right,’ he said, seeing he’d won the point. ‘Well, let’s hit the ground running with this, everyone. Jules, if you can send on that list to me of the other dares, along with explanations, please. Damned if I’ve ever heard of “owling”.’

‘Sure thing, Mike,’ Jules said, her eyes sliding over to Nettie, who was still seated.

Mike, Caro and Daisy darted off to make phone calls as Jules slunk back to the table, knowing she’d run too far with her victory.

‘It’ll be OK, you know,’ she said, sitting back down beside her.

‘That’s easy for you to say when you’re not the one doing it.’

‘I promise we won’t let it get out of hand. It’s just going to be silly prank stuff. No danger.’

‘I hate that fucking costume.’

Jules pulled a comical sad face. ‘Well, you could owe it a little more gratitude. It has brought you a huge fanbase, not to mention the eternal devotion of Jamie Westlake.’

‘Or not, as you so kindly pointed out in the lift earlier.’

‘Pah, don’t worry about her,’ Jules said dismissively, shuffling her papers into a neat pile. ‘That’s only ’cos he hasn’t met
you
yet. He’s just killing time, waiting for you to float into his orbit.’

Nettie sighed and pushed back her chair. ‘Sometimes I worry about you, Jules, I really do.’

‘I’ve been reading up on him, by the way, which is far easier said than done. Did you know he never gives interviews?’

‘What? Never?’ She picked up her notebook and pen.

‘Nope. I practically had to get a private detective just to find out that he’s twenty-nine . . . and a Scorpio, which means he’s excellent in bed. Generous lover.’

Nettie turned at the door, unable not to smile. ‘It does not mean that.’

‘Course it does. And he grew up in Canterbury; he was a choirboy – would you believe it? So that explains the wildness.’

Nettie chuckled, leaning against the frame.

‘And I think he’s left-handed. In all the photos he’s . . .’ Jules bit her lip. ‘Which way do you hold a guitar?’ she mused, holding her own hands up in the air and having a go.

Nettie gently pushed herself back upright, ready to go. ‘Whatever. I don’t care.’

‘But you have to know these things. You’ve got to know some background for when you meet.’

‘We are never going to meet, Jules.’

‘He’s following you, isn’t he?’

‘He’s following thousands of people,’ Nettie said over her shoulder as she walked out.

‘Eighteen, actually!’ Jules called after her.

There was a pause before Nettie reappeared. ‘Eighteen?’

Jules was waiting for her, a satisfied grin on her face. ‘Eighteen. He’s even worse than you. Look.’ Jules brought up the Twitter screen on her iPad and, finding his profile, held it up for Nettie to see. She gave Nettie a triumphant look. ‘Huh? Huh? That puts a different slant on things now, doesn’t it?’

Nettie didn’t say anything. She met her friend’s eyes for a moment before walking away with a shake of her head – and a smile on her lips.

Chapter Six

The pigeons loved her. Maybe it was the purchase their claws could grab in the fur or possibly the sheer bulk of the bodysuit, which allowed so many of them to roost upon her at once, but inside the bunny head, Nettie was freaking out. She had never liked birds since she’d seen the Hitchcock film on a sleepover when she was twelve and she had provided Jules with many amusing moments over the years, almost lying flat on the pavement as she dodged Primrose Hill’s low-flying pigeons.

‘Caro! Get them off me!’ Nettie demanded, jogging on the spot and waggling her shoulders wildly, shaking the pigeons off only for a moment before they settled upon her again.

Caro, standing ten feet away and filming her on her phone, laughed. ‘Yeah! That’s great, Nets. Funky dancing – they’ll love it!’

Caro was live-streaming shorts of the ‘build-up’ and Jules was hoping the hashtag might start trending. She was sitting on the steps outside the National Gallery, monitoring the social media activity with an intense expression and nibbling on her nails as Daisy lackadaisically tried to give parking directions to the men in the van who were delivering the ice. This alone made Nettie nervous. She had assumed they would just use a few cubes from a cafe or, at most, buy a bag from the nearest grocery store. Why did they need a
van
?