Syrup (25 page)

A couple of minutes before nine, a visible ripple sweeps the floor. I suddenly see heads turning, phones being put down, people leaning together.

“It’s time,” 6 says, standing. “Let’s go.”

The troops are chatting bravely en route to the boardroom, but there’s nervous tension in the air. I guess that’s inevitable when the VP of your department gets sacked, and I also guess that when his replacement is someone like Sneaky Pete, a lot of people start wondering about job security.

We file into the boardroom, and I wonder about the coincidence of meeting here so soon after Friday’s triumph. Maybe it’s nothing; maybe Sneaky Pete was late getting onto the room booking system and this was all there was left. But I don’t think so. I think he’s trying to tell us something.

He’s already seated at the head of the table, sprawled out in his three-thousand-dollar suit. He looks relaxed, prepared. His dark sunglasses regard me blankly.

Then my eye is caught by the person sitting next to him. It’s a girl, and she is the blondest person I’ve seen in my life. Her skin is virgin snow and matched by hair so white it seems to glow, the effect is slightly blinding. From an exquisitely manufactured face, eyes like blue pilot lights watch me coolly.

People bump around looking for chairs, but the girl doesn’t wait for them. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, “thank you for coming.”

I look at Sneaky Pete in surprise, but apparently the girl is now doing his speaking for him. He is looking only at me.

“My name is @,” the girl says, “and I am Mr. Pete’s personal assistant.” Her eyes sweep the room, and nobody even sniggers. “Let’s talk about change.”

There’s a coffee break at 10:30, and 6 and I take the opportunity to talk in an adjoining meeting room. “You should be flattered,” I say. “It’s really a compliment.”

“It’s a
copy,”
6 spits. She’s actually pacing. “He’s stolen me.”

“Well,” I start, then suddenly I can’t really think of anything to say. I stretch. “You’ll always be the original.”

6 stares at me.

“Hey, 6,” I say, trying to comfort, “it shows he’s worried. It shows he’s so impressed by you that he had to make a copy.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t call her 5,” 6 mutters.

Until the break, it’s all been routine. Sneaky Pete wants updates on a half dozen projects, @ tells us; he’s nominating coffee as a Tier Two competitor to Coke (which for one thing means the communal coffee machine has to go), and he wants to see a cost-benefit analysis from Sponsorship. But nobody loses their jobs and @ never once mentions
Backlash.

When we arrive back, the pace changes. “Many of you will have heard,” @ says, raking the room with her baby blues, “that the project
Backlash
has been taken out of Mr. Pete’s direct responsibility. Given the demands of his new role, he will not be able to continue personal involvement. The new project leaders, Mr. Scat and Miss 6, will carry it through to completion.”

This is precisely what 6 anticipated. I glance at her, but her eyes are fixed on @.

“We would like to make it clear to Scat and 6 that if any difficulties arise, Mr. Pete and myself will immediately make ourselves available. But he relies on you to alert him.”

I almost snort. I’m no master of politics, but even I can see that the only reason to announce this in public is so there are witnesses later.

“In the interim,” @ announces, “Mr. Pete has formed a cross-functional management committee to serve as an advisory body and clearinghouse for
Backlash.
At least one manager from each department is serving on this committee, to ensure that Scat and 6 have the support of the entire organization.”

“Excuse me,” 6 says slowly, “but did you say this committee is a
clearinghouse?”

“Yes,” @ says, eyeing 6 warily.

“And what does that mean, exactly?”

“It means that the committee will approve or reject your suggestions, depending on their suitability. Given you have only just returned to Coca-Cola, it is appropriate that experienced staff be able to guide you where necessary.”

6 grits her teeth. “Are you telling me that we need to have our every move
approved?
By a committee of accountants, engineers and administrators?”

“Each person on the team,” @ says, a little hostility creeping into her tone, “has at least some marketing knowledge.”

6 freezes.

“I don’t get it,” I say in the elevator.

“You will,” 6 says morosely.

“So we have to get everything approved by this committee? How bad is that? They’ll probably be a great help. And you know, if things go wrong, it’s almost like we’ve got someone else to blame.”

“It’s all responsibility and no control,” 6 says. “The classic path to failure.”

“Oh, I get it,” I say as the elevator doors slide open. “You don’t like losing control.”

6 turns and stares at me. “Scat,” she says testily, “I know that you enjoy psychoanalyzing me, but not everything I say is evidence of some deep personality trait. Sometimes I’m just telling you what’s going on. Got it?”

“Oh,” I say, a bit taken aback.

“We’re being measured on the success of the movie,” 6 says, stepping into the corridor, “but the committee has the power to prevent us from making it a success. We therefore lose control of our own destiny. This is not a good thing.”

“Oh,” I say, catching up. “So we avoid the committee? Go around them?”

“It won’t be that easy,” 6 says. “They’re signing the checks. But we’ll do what we have to.” She stops and stares at the office coffee machine for a moment, perhaps bidding it a silent farewell.

“Hey,” I say. “How bad can this committee be? I mean, most of the time they’ll just have to go on our say-so. Right?”

6 sighs.

“In here,” Pam says, holding the door open for us.

I’m stunned, staring open-mouthed at the vast space, the indoor fernery, the tremendous views.

“We have to share?” 6 says, sounding faintly disgusted.

“I’m really sorry, 6,” Pam gushes. “We’re short on office space. We’re converting some meeting rooms next month.”

“Wow,” I say, fingering a fern.

“Does @ get her own office?” 6 demands.

“Uh, I don’t know,” Pam squeaks unconvincingly.

6 sighs.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Pam says, escaping. She shuts the door behind her.

“This is
fantastic.”
I walk over and press my face against the floor-to-ceiling window. “Look how small the
people
are down there.”

6 ignores me, and I hear her pushing buttons on her personal percolator. I bet there will be some fiery words when they try to pry that away from her.

“Wow,” I say again.

“Scat,” 6 says tersely, “if we’re going to share an office, we need to establish some ground rules.”

“Oh,” I say. “Okay.”

“For one, don’t gawk out the window. You look like a six-year-old.”

“Sorry.”

“And if you have a meeting with someone in here, don’t lean right back in the chair, even though they tilt.”

“They do?” I ask, interested. I reach over and swing one, just to check.

“Don’t do it,” 6 warns. “You feel confident, but you look pompous.”

“Ah.” I let the chair spring back.

“Make sure that the desk is always clean, but keep the In tray piled right up,” 6 says. “You’re busy, but efficient.”

“Got it.”

“Don’t put any personal effects on the desk—no family photos, no cute little quotes, nothing.”

“How come?”

“It emphasizes your personal side,” 6 says, “and therefore your vulnerability.”

I frown. “What are these? The rules of engagement?”

“Just do it,” 6 says wearily.

We spend our first morning running through status reports. Brennan has been commissioning reports from everyone even remotely connected to the film, and we plow through four months’ worth before realizing that they all say the same thing: things are going just fine.

In the afternoon, 6 goes through the schedules and I try to study the expense reports. At 7:30, she catches me staring out the window. “Something you need?”

“6,” I say, pained, “can we take a break? There’s only so much I can read about budgets.”

“Fine,” 6 says, closing her folder. I notice that she doesn’t appear tired at all. 6 looks like she always does: alert and wary. “Let’s call it a night.”

“We should hurry. There’s a 7:42 bus.” Although I’m not particularly looking forward to half an hour in a freezing tin can trying to avoid eye contact with potential psychopaths.

“We’re not taking the bus anymore,” 6 says. She pulls open a drawer and removes an envelope. “Coke pays the bills now.” From the envelope, she pulls out a credit card—sized object and slides it across the desk to me. I realize, hardly daring to believe it, that this credit card—sized object, its face glinting gold in the evening sun, is, in fact, a gold credit card.

“Corporate cards,” 6 says. “Charge everything on them.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling close to tears. The end of my poverty rises before me like a big gold credit card. “Okay.”

6 unlocks and I go into the kitchen to scrounge up dinner while she pokes hopefully at the answering machine. The sum total of 6’s larder is a half dozen eggs, a Mr. Goodbar hidden underneath a box of cereal, and an old, old bagel, but I manage to get a couple of omelets out of it anyway. 6 is impressed but tries not to show it.

We meet in the bathroom and eye each other while brushing our teeth, then have a small face-off over who is going to leave so the other can go to the toilet, which ends up being me. When I finally make it to bed, I am stunned to see 6 sitting up with a report, the manila folder illuminated by her Barbie lamp. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re not seriously going to keep working.”

“According to this,” 6 says, not looking up from her folder, “we have two months to finish this thing.”

“Sounds like plenty of time,” I say, hoping to induce 6 to put down her folder.

“Mmm,” 6 says distractedly, and flips the page.

“I don’t know,” Tom Cruise whispers. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

“Let’s junk it,” I say. “Sounds like every other alien flick I’ve ever seen.”

6 flicks the remote, freezing Tom just as he is reaching one gloved hand toward the alien spacecraft. “Scat, this is kind of important to the plot.”

I sigh heavily.

“What?” 6 says.

“Well,” I say, a little annoyed, “we’ve been here for three hours and you’ve knocked down every one of my ideas. I mean, do you want to fix this thing or not?”

“Yes, I do,” 6 says, her lips tightening, “but preferably not by removing all sense from the plot.”

“6, who cares if the plot’s shaky? It’s an ad.”

“Scat, you obviously have no comprehension—” 6 begins, then stops. She stares at me for so long I shift in my chair.

“What?”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’ve been approaching this from the wrong angle.” I gape, waiting for the thunderbolt to strike in retribution for such blasphemy. “I’ve been treating this like a movie. That’s what Sneaky Pete did, too: he made a good movie. Now we need to make it into a good ad.”

“So you want to hear my ideas again?”

“Scat,” 6 says, “I want you to trash this thing. We’re going to rebuild it from the ground up.”

“This whole deal with the aliens being all scary? No good. They should be cool. They should have personality. They should have one-liners.”

6 scribbles on her notepad.

“And when they drink a Coke, they have to look like they’re loving it. Everything else should stop. None of this just gulping it down and tossing the can away.”

“Right,” 6 says, writing.

“Speaking of which, how they’ve invaded Earth because they’re addicted to Coke’s secret Ingredients—let’s face it, that’s never going to be plausible. We should acknowledge it’s not plausible and just have fun with it.”

“Mmm,” 6 says. “Good thinking.”

“As for the characters,” I say, warming up, “if they were any stiffer, they’d be my dad. Everyone takes themselves way too seriously.”

“You’re right. There’s no self-deprecating sense of humor.”

“Uh, yeah.” I glance across to see if she finds any irony in talking about a lack of humor, but apparently she doesn’t. “For one, Winona is too totally evil. I like her evil, but she needs some kind of counterpoint, a contrast. I’d like her to get drunk on Coke, maybe even a little giggly. And then when she gets vicious, it’s even nastier.”

“Good,” 6 says, writing this down.

“Oh, which reminds me,” I say. “Can Winona have double layers of teeth? Just at the end, when she pulls back her lips?”

6 looks at me.

“Go on,” I say. “It’ll be cool.”

She frowns, but writes it down.

“Gwyneth’s character is total cardboard. She doesn’t do anything but scream. She’s gotta blast a few aliens of her own. And she should save Tom’s ass at some point, too. As for Tom, we’ve got to change that first scene with him entering the space academy. It’s so keen on making him out to be macho, it’s just pathetic. I think we’d like him more if he got beaten in that first fight. Hey, how about
Gwyneth
beats him up?”

“Mmm,” 6 says. “Intriguing.”

“Just some ideas,” I say modestly. “Just throwing them out there.”

“I like it.” She sits back. “Now, this is where things get tough. We need to push all this through the committee.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “The committee. When do we actually meet those guys?”