A Summer to Remember. Victoria Cooke
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those things on your feet the trainers you’re marketing?’
‘Uhm, yes.’ I’d forgotten I was wearing them. As hideous as Rocks are on a woman of my age, they are bloody comfortable.
‘Okay, so I’m assuming your target market is tweens to teens?’ he says.
‘How did you guess?’ I say dryly. ‘They don’t seem to have the target audience in mind, though. They’ve gone too young with the pitch, and I think that kind of campaign will alienate the older kids. Young kids will want them anyway if the older ones are wearing them, so targeting them seems redundant.’
‘I agree with you, not that I know anything about the field of marketing, but I definitely think the image needs to be cool.’
‘I think they’re trying to go head to head with Strides, and to me that seems like a bit of a cop-out. They can piggyback off the brand strength of Strides and undercut the prices or throw in some tacky gimmick like a free keyring or something, but that won’t build the Rocks brand, which is I’m sure what the client will want.’
Harry nods. ‘Agreed.’
I sigh. ‘So, what are teens into? I could sell sand to a desert-dweller normally, but when it comes to kids, I’m not really au fait.’
‘Pop concerts, smartphones, skateboarding …’ Harry tails off.
‘They have a pigtailed girl holding a doll at the centre of their campaign idea. Rocks are going to hate it. I just don’t know how to get them to listen to me so we can actually work on something worthwhile.’
‘You can’t. But you can show them. Put a mood board together or something, and you can storm in there on Monday with something real to show them.’
Could I do that? Usually, we discuss our ideas first and then put the concepts down on paper, but I don’t want to bore Harry with that fact. I’m not sure how I’ll be perceived if I go rogue. Still, I can’t exactly sink any lower in any of their estimations and there’s no obvious Spice Girl Patrick could call me in that scenario, so what do I have to lose?
‘I’ll have a think,’ I say. ‘You’re good at this. Why on earth did Barney want advertising advice from me when he already has you?’
‘He doesn’t think I know what I’m talking about.’
‘Well, he’s wrong.’
‘It was Barney’s way of befriending you. I don’t like to massage his ego too much, but he is intuitive. He just has this knack for knowing when he meets a great person.’
Heat floods my cheeks. ‘Well, I’m glad you think so.’
‘You know, maybe tomorrow night I can help you out a little with your project.’
That sounds promising. Before I can reply, Barney comes bounding over. ‘I’ve worked up a thirst.’ He presses the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically. Harry moves a blue cocktail over, and Barney takes a huge gulp.
***
The next day, the cookout starts at six, and Harry and Barney have refused my offer of help – despite getting all frazzled when discussing the planning – so I’ve decided to rent a car for the day and explore a little. They recommend a ‘car rental guy’ just off the main street. When I arrive, I see a few different types of cars on the small forecourt, but it’s the shiny red soft-top Jeep on the road outside that catches my eye.
I go inside and ring the bell on the counter as instructed by a little pink sticky note beside it. The small office smells of oil and rubber, and a sports car calendar hangs on the grubby wall behind the desk.
‘Hello there, what can I do you for?’ a cheerful older man asks as he comes in from a side room marked ‘Private’.
‘I’d like to rent a car for a few hours, please.’
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place.’ He laughs and then coughs with the dryness of it.
I choose one of the very cool Wrangler Jeeps and ask for the top off. I can’t wait to go beach-hopping. While we’re sorting out paperwork, the old man calls out ‘Son!’ to someone in the back and asks them to prepare the car. I get a little rush of excitement at the thought of driving down some beautiful American roads with my hair blowing in the wind like Thelma or Louise.
‘You—’ a male voice travels from the entrance behind me ‘—are all set.’
‘Fantast—’
‘You have got to be kidding me.’ As I turn, the recognition hits us both at the same time.
‘Is there a problem?’ The kindly man’s tone has become much more formal.
‘No!’ Ethan and I say in unison.
‘Good,’ says the older man, but his single, raised eyebrow suggests he’s humouring us. ‘Then Ethan can show you the controls,’ he says before heading into the private room.
‘Why are you everywhere?’ I whisper bitterly as we walk outside.
‘Why are you everywhere?’ he repeats childishly. ‘I thought you worked in Boston.’
‘You were in Boston when I first met you, so what does that matter?’
‘I was there for the day. You’re here all the time.’
‘It’s my second weekend here. That’s not all the time.’ I realise I’m pouting, but I keep it going because I’m committed to it now. ‘Anyway, I thought you were the bike guy, not the car hire guy.’
‘I am the bike guy. My father owns most of the rental places in Provincetown, and occasionally I move around when we’re short-staffed. Your turn – why are you here?’
‘Barney and Harry invited me to the beach later for the cookout, so I have today free to explore.’
Ethan groans. ‘So you’ll be there too?’
‘Yes, but apparently everyone from the town is invited, so I’m sure we can keep our distance.’
‘Good.’
‘Yes. Brilliant,’ I huff. ‘So, are you going to show me the controls so I can leave or what?’
He explains how it all works, which is pretty much how any car works, but I do listen carefully to how to put the hood on, just in case. I adjust the seat and get ready to drive off. ‘So, is there anywhere else I should avoid if I don’t want to see you?’
‘I wouldn’t rent a kayak,’ he says. ‘And I go over to Boston Harbor once a month to take our promotional fliers to the tourist information booth.’
‘Noted,’ I say.
‘Would you like any maps or anything?’ he asks.
‘Yes, please.’
‘Here you go.’ He hands me a thick pile of folded maps.
‘Why are you being so civil all of a sudden?’ I ask, taking them. It’s unnerving, like dealing with a Jekyll and Hyde.
‘It’s my job,’ he says dryly. ‘And I’d like you to try and find your way back before closing time.’
‘Oh.’ I should have known.
Once I’m on the open road, I forget all about Ethan and enjoy driving down the beachfront road. It’s not like the beachfront drives in the UK, all built up and busy with fried doughnut stalls and amusement arcades; it’s largely natural and unspoilt. There are some clapboard beach houses and small motels dotted around, but mostly it’s sand and grassy dunes stretching out into blue water and salty air. I find myself in North Truro, looking up at the tall white Highland Light lighthouse and park up. A few summer tourists have already begun to gather in a queue, and with nothing better to do, I join them.
I