Authors: Richard Blanchard
Snow Blind (13 page)
Two snowboarders appear from the hotel side of the bridge. They sludge along with boards strapped to their backs, dragging their attitude behind them. They nudge past me and walk towards the mist.
“Listen, how has your day been?”
“Tiring, Bepe didn't sleep well last night. He must have woken up eight times, sometimes bad dreams, sometimes water. I let him sleep in my bed from five o'clock. He has been asking for you,” she tells me through gritted teeth.
“Can I speak to him?”
I look to the far end of the footbridge and see no arch. The foul weather has eaten the station. I see two cigarette butts move magically in the mist. The scene evokes some wartime rendezvous between the French Resistance and an English pilot, the mist drowns the bridge in a thankfully lost world of Hitler and Churchill. A train surges under the bridge. I feel I am riding it as it passes through the grilled metal under my legs.
“Bepe mate. Bepe. Bepe.”
“On the plane diddy.” He is gabbling but was drowned out by the train.
“Yes, I went on the plane yesterday. Daddy loves you and we will play when I get home I promise. I will be a good daddy for my baby.”
“Listen, don't make any more drunken promises to my child.” Sophia was back on the phone.
“I promise I will do more with him babe after we are married.” I plead.
“You work too much for that. You see Max and ask him to get another copywriter on your pay and for your hours. You ask him because you never see Bepe in the week.” Not a good day to ask for less work. I choose to neglect to mention the new ByeFly campaign.
“You worry me sometimes. You don't know what is slipping through your fingers. Listen, enough. I got to go but we haven't agreed on our wedding presents.” I wait for Sophia to go further. “Should we say a limit of £200 or have you bought yours?”
I can get through this. “I'm happy with something around that mark babe.” I can ask Juliet what she is going on about later. Can't feel my hands; they are frozen onto the metal casing of my phone. I know she suspects my vagueness.
Snow pit-pats on the polyester shell of my coat and this time it sticks instantly.
“I will be better babe, I promise. He really shook me up yesterday.”
I hear heavy footsteps releasing in a “Thwooing” noise from the metal bridge.
“I will call tomorrow babe. See you.” I end the conversation in haste, without receiving a reply, just in case this has a bad ending.
More steps, heavier and more quickly. I cannot see anyone but the steps are doubled. Why are they running? I sense it may be the snowboarders again. I move quickly to the top of the steps I came up. A man rips past me and after one step down he leaps off them completely, arching his back for effect and spotting the landing with ease.
The snow falls with unrelenting ease.
The second man stops dead in front of me at the top of the steps, watching his friend land so well and escape into the Chamonix town. We are face to face, deep in each other's personal space. He strips his lungs for his next breath. He must be twenty; I smell his tobacco breath. He shows no expression to reveal his next move. I imagine myself faced by Bepe at this age, his frame suddenly bigger than mine, his life suddenly more vital than mine. What answers will I have for him then? He grins at me.
“You fucker!” he screams with complete abandon at his friend across the road, but facing me. He pats me on each cheek with his huge boarding mittens and leaps from the top step holding his snowboard aloft. Savage brutal youth that will out given time.
Six minutes late now, what am I to expect? The tiny lift holds me in; a metallic coffin moving at the Zimmer-like speed of a broken Tardis. I fall out of its doors into the hotel lobby, immediately cracking my breastbone into the shoulder of a black waist-coated waiter.
“
Pardon. Pardon Messieurs
.” He is all apologies despite my culpability. He balances his tray superbly, only losing one can of fizzing Red Bull. He disappears behind the bar again.
I am still steadying myself when I spot my Centurion colleagues across the open hallway. Steve is parked legs akimbo on the edge of the low-slung lobby chairs: a modern version of some back-breaking 1960s' design when posture hadn't been invented. The seating area has an adjacent bar and flows one way into the dining room, the other to the reception desks. Max stands arms folded in front of a massive rustic fireplace, all rough-hewn wooden lintels and stone; its flue disappears into a high wood-beamed ceiling. He is flushed, probably from a shower and the unseasonably lit fire; I want to take a run at him and barge him into its flames. He concentrates hard, trying to muster the words to motivate us. He knows he has a big problem, but wants someone else to shoulder it.
“Come on man, come on.” Max squeezes these words out, while pushing a flip-chart pen into his top lip. This is the instrument to record our company redemption. I slip into the seat alongside Steve; the laidback chair frame may suit mine but I feel stupid, almost lying prone with my neck bent at ninety degrees. The waiter I had mown down reappears, his tray replete with Red Bull and a double espresso for each of us.
We await Max's speech. I imagine him stood atop a hay cart like Kenneth Branagh's boyish depiction of Henry V, rallying the troops pre Agincourt.
“I want the big idea now boys. We are going to create iconic work that is going to change brand perceptions of ByeFly. The campaign strap line will be on your gravestone. Let's have some blue-sky thinking about flying now, just give me the big idea for their positioning now boys.” He has emptied the advertising cliché drawer in front of us.
Since when would anyone want little ideas? He wanted a big idea on a poster campaign for a sad local gun shop; “shooting stars” became their nonsensical strap line and resulted in us being blamed for the air gun assault of a local celebrity.
He takes one leaping stride towards the flip chart and squeakily carves BIG IDEA onto the first sheet.
“Over to you guys. How do we deliver?” Max throws himself onto the couch and flicks the black marker pen into the air with thumb and forefinger. It tumbles over and over in a looping trajectory. Steve catches it emphatically and takes to his feet. Just what do they want Max?
“I get the brief boss. Thanks for that.” That was no brief; it was sweaty desperation. Steve underlines the words with a flourishing squiggle.
“Let's go through some kick-start themes, emotional, rational, surreal, price lead⦠What ones do you remember Dan?”
“Err. Before we launch into it, can we talk about the problem a bit more?” I meekly seek clarification. We few, we happy few, we haven't got a clue.
“We haven't got time boss.” Steve cuts me dead.
“What problem do you want to talk about Dan? How many months I can pay for my M6 convertible without the ByeFly account?”
“Can we at least think about that customer research we got and what it says about their brand?” Max knows I am right; Steve stares at him to see whether I am to be humoured.
“Okay then, a problem statement. The customers know the headline prices are a con, they always end up paying more after taxes and baggage charges. They are mostly single students just going to get pissed to places they have read about in
The Guardian
. They also know that the service is as basic as it can be, but by their standards they think it is the Ritz. They recognise the brand name as a budget airline that offers a squalid service for a depressingly false price. They just want to get on the plane, close their eyes and get off as quickly as possible. The market context for budget airlines is crap; consumers read all about mindless hedonistic stag parties and planes choking the earth to death. Where do you propose we go with that lot?” Max depressingly sums up to move us on quickly.
All clients want a differentiated brand position from which to build recognition, but they are rarely prepared to invest time, money or brain power to get it. That's ByeFly, trying to hoover up dumb flyers that have little choice.
“So the only answer is to go beyond the brand experience to crack this brief?” Silence answers my proposal.
“Where do you propose to go then?” Max cutely sanctions me to take the floor. He suspects I am right but wants me to come up with a solution before he will endorse my thought.
“If we focus on the product and service we just end up screwed by all the other airlines who can deliver on them.” This is my version of a motivating rallying call.
Juliet glides through the lobby, observing our petty business theatre. She looks lovely and reminds me there is life outside this cocoon. I picture her from behind, rising naked from our student bed in London; I always waited for her to get up first for this very reason.
“Can we just get on with it?” Steve acts impatient for the benefit of Max.
Max re-takes the pen, has a shot of Red Bull and stands up again.
“A ByeFly on the wall.” Steve starts the brainstorm.
“Buzz off to your destination,” I add.
“A magic carpet flies you there,” Steve follows my theme.
“A fly past â you know, the Red Arrows,” Max makes his first contribution as the pen squeals our ideas onto the second flip page. He writes with such vigour, it feels like he is raiding our brains.
“Forget plane travel â Beam me up Scotty,” Max adds a tired attempt at a Star Trek link.
“Maybe we could name a cloud after every passenger!” I can't tell if Steve is a genius or not.
“What about “comfort is for wimps”?” I add
“I want to get some price-led ideas as well. If it cost any less you would have to walk.” Max focuses on their biggest weakness as a budget airline.
“Or Robin Hood, he steals from the rich to fly for the poor. The people's liberation front of flying.” I delve back into Robert Lindsay's feisty depiction of the Che Guevara of Tooting in
Citizen Smith
. I spend my life half-remembering sitcoms of my childhood as a source of inspiration for brands today.
“Maybe we have an anti-brand spokesman. Rather than Richard Branson, we invent a parody Hitler look-alike, like Freddie Starr used to do, who dictates that you should fly with ByeFly.” Steve at least goes out on a limb.
“What about emotional blackmail, the staff could be seen pleading, fly with us or we will be sacked.” Sometimes you throw in an idea just to keep your numbers up.
“It's not an emotionally based brand.” Max commits brainstorm hara-kiri; he judgementally dismisses a theme when no idea is meant to be a bad idea.
“Okay, what about telling a story then? How could we use a story style like a thriller, comedy or action story to depict the brand?” I suggest loosely.
“What about doing a version of
The Office
, with Ricky Gervais playing a dense pilot who thinks he is God's gift?” Max again tries to rely on copying something else.
“What about that customer service guy on the Nationwide adverts who couldn't give a toss about what he tells the customers,” Steve continues.
“Problem with that is that ByeFly would be the joke airline,” I point out.
“What about a spoof remake on the Airplane films? That would have plenty of scope for some laughs.” Max makes a reasonable suggestion; I should have thought of that one.
“What about reprising the end scene in
Casablanca
where they are about to go on the plane, do something all moody and emotional in black and white?”
“Or Strangers on a Plane,” I chip in.
“What do you mean?”
“It's a take on
Strangers on a Train
, that 1940s' black-and-white movie. Fly with us and meet the love of your life, to take your mind off the crap service.” Would Max dare to take on something more abstract?
“That sounds good, like a pastiche with stiff acting like Harry Enfield did in that Mr Cholmondley-Warner football sketch.” Steve likes the idea; he must have forgotten it was mine.
“It would hit the demographic profile of most frequent flyers being single. We could do a PR stunt where we marry a couple that we got together. It would also be funny doing the price message. “Darling, it's positively tragic that other people pay more than £10 for a trip to Athens.”” I develop and endorse my own idea, Max thinks about whether he could sell it, Steve waits to be told that Max likes it.
“Why don't you two work that one up and the price-lead Robin Hood one for tomorrow?” Max has made his undemocratic choice.
“Are we going home tomorrow? Did you look at flights Dan?” Max asks knowing that I have hardly been out of his sight and can't possibly have looked. He is such a bastard for pushing, but knows he can dangle my job carrot-like in front of me.
“I haven't had a chance. I could look to go on Saturday if you like, but we have ideas we can sketch out from here can't we guys?” I know Max will keep pushing to go home early.
“Alright, let's stay here till Sunday as planned, but we need these ideas developed and on the plane home with us.” Strange, Max must have some confidence in what we have done to agree to that.
“Come on, soup is out guys!” Johnny beckons us around the corner to dinner.
I have earned my corn for today, even though we are on holiday. Max is happy for now, he has raped these ideas from us. He has some intellectual property that he can use to make himself look good in front of the client next week. The problem is moving on, and the drama abates for now.
W
HY DOES
D
AN PUT UP WITH THESE SO CALLED FRIENDS?
Our group weaves into the Chamonix night traffic. Dan certainly doesn't know the reason for my rejection of him but it cannot stay that way. I am here to let off a time bomb, however inconvenient that is. I picked up this puppy, after I was emotionally mauled by Tristan, how naïve of me to choose either partner. Our unresolved past has subtly affected every relationship I have ever had.