Accidental Crime - 25

Dawn

Nigel had insisted that the six trainees listened to each other’s presentations, which caused Dawn at least three problems at her latest count.

Problem number one identified that unmistakable fact that Munch would now be shared with at least six different people and therefore, should it hit the heights she had all morning expected it would, then she would be surrounded by six ruthless marketers, all determined to lay claim to the idea as their own. Similarly, should Munch fail to live up to its undoubted potential, she was faced with six ruthless marketers who would do everything in their power to distance themselves from the idea, exposing Dawn’s failings through a regulated series of sighs and surreptitious murmurings.

The second problem – problem number one was really a two-part problem depending on the outcome – was the prospect of being made to follow on from the promised flamboyance of Robyn’s contribution, whose choice of top that morning had suggested that she was quite content to exploit her advantages to the full. Dawn wasn’t even convinced Robyn had an idea to bring to the table – although, to be accurate, Nigel had actually dismissed the need for a table when setting up the room earlier, insisting that it created an ‘unnecessary barrier’ – and half-expected her to simply stand up, shake it all about, do the hokey-cokey and turn around, bamboozling all before her as she visually represented her idea (Nigel’s words, not hers, once the stunned applause had settled down) and set the person following her quite a challenge to live up to the standard just set. She, of course, would be the person following, and not even an un-popped blouse button would be able to redirect the attention onto the virtue and value of the world of Munch.

The third problem was a problem she had not anticipated prior to that morning, prior to the ‘car park incident of 8.52’ that had now rendered the possibility of Clarkson’s Revenge Part 2 a genuine concern. She had been astonished at just how easily she seemed to have got away with the handbrake havoc and the prospect of him marching into the room while she stood trembling before her fellow trainees, had begun to fill her with such dread that she was sure it had already been arranged, probably with everyone else made aware in advance just to heighten the awkwardness of the moment, leave her staggering around for cover, for some protection as Clarkson et al brought her crashing down. It would be the working life equivalent of being crowded into a corner of the school playground by a horde of seven year-olds, pushing and shoving her to the damp ground below, chanting such well-thought-out and probing insults as ‘silly Simmonds’ and ‘desperate Dawn’, as she hugged her My Little Pony lunch-box close to her chest, trying not to listen to the voices telling her that ponies were ‘so uncool’, something ‘only six year olds’ would be interested in. Adult or not, she would revisit those tears that had dampened the name label her mum had only put on that morning, smudging the letters so that the lunch-box now belonged to someone called ‘Lawn’ or ‘Alan’. Having survived the seemingly inevitable onslaught of tears when confronted in the car-park, it would surely only compound her humiliation to well-up and wail within the apparently-safe environment of Nigel’s office, no doubt being offered a consolatory tissue from Deborah, who would be relishing every reddening of her eyes.

Her only hope, she reasoned, was Munch itself. The idea would save her – even if Clarkson did appear, Nigel would surely postpone her downfall until he had heard enough to secure the idea as his own – and she would leave with her head held high, claiming a moment of triumph as others sought to orchestrate her fall.

There was a fourth problem that struck Dawn as she entered the office, taking her seat next to Darren, who was now suitably sandwiched between her and Robyn: what if none of the three problems occur and the presentations pass without drama, with everyone keeping their eyes and ears to themselves and the door remaining firmly shut to any unwelcome intrusion? She was not prepared for the hour to pass by without the slightest hint of suffering and it was that, perhaps more than the other problems put together, that seemed to weigh heaviest on her heart as she shuffled her papers in her slightly sweaty hands. What if Munch prompted nothing other than a ‘thanks, Dawn’ from Nigel, a muted applause as she returned to her seat like those before her, offering her thoughts but clearly not setting the world ablaze? As Deborah smiled at her, taking the seat to her left, she wondered whether abject failure would be better than mediocrity? At least it would provoke a reaction and she could vigorously defend it, claiming it to be something better than it really was. But mediocrity? What was to be gained in mediocrity?

Nigel had decided that stress would be far more greatly induced if he didn’t announce the order in which the six would present their ideas and so Dawn was denied the security of knowing whom she would follow, further agitated by the apparent lack of order with which the morning was being conducted. It seemed, after four presentations, that there was little reasoning behind Nigel’s choices, and yet, with two still left to go, he had conveniently left Dawn competing with Deborah to be the one who would ‘go out with a bang’, as Nigel put it. Time was passing rapidly – the clock’s second-hand was turning much quicker than Dawn’s silent counting insisted it should – and it appeared ever more likely that, should she be asked to ‘round off the morning’, all eyes would be locked on clocks and watches as the lunch hour approached, venomous insults telepathically communicated to make it quite clear that she should cut her presentation down to be as short as possible, regardless of whether or not she had had the time to put the message across effectively. Strange, she felt, that lunch itself would distract people from hearing about the lunch of the future.

She had been surprised at how well she had coped with Robyn’s presentation, which Nigel had decided would be the perfect opener for the morning’s entertainment. There was, disappointingly, no dance, not even a wiggle or a shake, as Robyn stood, professionally, to deliver her idea: Sandwiches of the world – taste the difference. As she flicked through the slides of her PowerPoint presentation, Dawn sat astonished, not at the slightly quivering bosom before her, but at her presentational prowess, as images sped across the screen, words flew in from all corners (clearly representing the ways in which the sandwiches came from the ‘four corners of the world’ – brilliant!) and a mocked-up voice-over of Jamie Oliver delivered the killer slogan that left six jaws hanging low, eyes widened and hearts racing, as the bar was set unimaginably high. The word ‘difference’ in the slogan, Robyn explained, highlighted the fact that her new sandwich range would encompass all the different flavours of the world and bring together the world’s cuisines, all stuffed between two thick slices of organic bread, which was no doubt ethically-produced and guaranteed a lower carbon-footprint than its nearest competitors. It was, she finished her presentation by saying, the ‘equality and diversity lunch of tomorrow, today!’, bowing to her adoring audience, offering the clearest cleavage angle of the morning so far, as if to reinforce her double triumph and send shivers through the five who would follow.

However impressive and surprising Robyn’s presentation had been, Dawn had immediately spotted two weaknesses that would help her regain her belief that Munch would still have the edge. Firstly, there had been no rebranding of ‘sandwich’, she had simply made the word plural and changed the filling, and secondly she had clearly plagiarised for the second half of her slogan a phrase which had appeared on millions of packets of tea, coffee, chocolate, meat and who knows what else in supermarkets around the country. The idea had no mileage, however much she wanted us to believe it was reaching out to the four corners of the earth, and, besides, who would really want to eat a curry sandwich or, more accurately, who would be able to eat a curry sandwich without the bread disintegrating between their fingers, the sauce dripping onto their new skirt – or jeans, to keep the equality thread going – and the smell of the spices lingering in the mouth making any attempt at one-to-one meetings for the rest of the day a complete impossibility? It was remarkably easy, Dawn was discovering, to find fault where the picture had seemed so perfect, to dismantle someone’s ideas in one foul swoop, and whilst this brought instant encouragement in the run-up to her own presentation, it was with some agitation that she considered whether others shared her ability to find negativity in the most positive moments, ready to expose Munch as equally worthless and doomed to failure.

The subsequent presentations had brought little competition to Robyn’s triumph, as Darren’s Saladwich – wafer thin chicken in between two lettuce leaves – and Harry’s Sandwedge, where bread was ‘the king’ and fillings mere ‘servants’ trapped beneath door-stop slices of ‘wheaty goodness’, emphasised exactly why Dawn had decided against trying to respell sandwich in a variety of slightly-amusing yet uninventive puns. Bryan’s Luxury Lunch gathered a little more momentum, as taste buds tingled at the prospect of shredded aromatic duck and slow-roasted lamb, before Deborah helpfully pointed out – mid-presentation, to make it worse – that she had brought a duck wrap to work for lunch that day and so the idea was hardly original, as she would only too willingly prove. Bryan, to his credit, revised his idea on the spot, explaining that it was not necessary for the duck, lamb or whatever filling one might desire to be contained within a wrap, as originally proposed, and that it would be perfectly adequate for it to find its way inside two slices of bread instead. As the words ‘two slices of bread’ exited his mouth, the pace and tone of his voice dropped considerably, as the words ‘like a sandwich’ threatened to round the sentence off, the rebranding exercise seemingly over for the once-proud proponent of Luxury Lunch.

Bryan retreated to his seat, well-chastised for another day, as Nigel’s eyes danced between Dawn and Deborah. It was, Dawn felt, some consolation to momentarily experience what it would be like to be Deborah’s main competition and yet the moment had an all too familiar resonance with netball lessons in P.E., as she waited until the very end to be picked by default by one of the captains, who would sigh disappointingly at having to have her on her team, reminding her with narrowed eyes not to do anything that would mess it up for the rest of them. Often, the word ‘mess’ was replaced with something slightly stronger, but Dawn’s memory had chosen to tone down the language in a vain attempt to lessen the impact of the moment. It wasn’t that Nigel was saving the best until last – not unless Deborah was his final choice of course – but that he had been doing everything in his power to delay having to hear her presentation, hoping perhaps that time would run out and he would conveniently be able to overlook Dawn’s pleading eyes to be given the chance to share her idea.

It was, therefore, with some surprise that his lips uttered the unexpected phrase, ‘Dawn, you’re up next’, after a few moments of flicking his pen from side to side, directing his hand towards the front of the room as if he doubted her ability to literally rise to the challenge. A glance to her left confirmed that Deborah cared little that she would be the last to go, no doubt relishing the prospect of knocking down all who went before and leaving Nigel with no choice but to go to lunch with her idea ringing loudest in his ears.

Dawn took a quick sip of her water as she rose to her feet, mysteriously missing her mouth as the first few splashes found their way onto her blouse, prompting her left hand to frantically pat away at the cotton, as if flesh had suddenly acquired the characteristics of a capillary sponge, absorbing the moisture before anyone had a chance to redirect their eyes to the cloud-shaped patch barely inches above her well-concealed cleavage. Unfortunately, as the bottle regained its top and Nigel’s twitching foot signalled his impatience at her sluggishness, it was clear the left hand was having no impact and she had little option but to step forwards and find some way in which to make the spillage seem entirely planned.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she began, ‘I am here today to present an idea to you that excites me so much that, when faced with the opportunity to come and share the vision with you this morning, I could not even keep control over my water. This stain,’ she persisted, pointing towards the seemingly-expanding patch, ‘symbolises what this idea means to me, this patch reflects the passion I have for this product.’

A chorus of smiles. She didn’t believe a word of it either.

‘You see, I stand before you today not with simply another idea for how to fill a sandwich or how to make it out of lettuce rather than bread. Sorry, Darren. I stand before you with a new brand, a new concept, an idea that will reshape the way we approach lunch, perhaps forever, from this moment onwards.’

The cold dampness of her blouse tingled the skin beneath.

‘I give you one word that will change the way we think about lunch. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...Munch.’ At this moment, a slide with an image, or at least the word in large bold font, would have cemented the promising start she had made, but disappointed eyes were left staring blankly at the blank screen before them, as Dawn continued to over-smile, cursing her lack of preparation – something she had been doing ever since Robyn’s Sandwiches of the world flew onto the screen in multiple colours to form a rainbow, to a chorus of oohs and aahs from those watching on. She watched as the word, her word, was mouthed by at least Bryan and Darren – her eyes weren’t quick enough to assess the entire audience – as quizzical looks flashed across their faces.

‘Munch is the lunch for the twenty-first century man or woman. Munch is simple, and Munch is sophisticated. No longer will people talk about grabbing a sandwich for their lunch. From now on, people will say ‘Need some lunch? Grab a Munch’.’

Not everyone was looking entirely convinced but Nigel was nodding along slowly – hopefully not nodding off, although Dawn couldn’t be sure – and she still had a number of slogans scribbled on the page she held before her, along with a reminder to talk about Doug, her ‘example person’ whose story she would begin to tell as soon as her eyes had confirmed that the patch had ceased its descent.

‘Doug is a twenty-three year old car salesman,’ she began – she had considered making him an accountant but remembered hearing Nigel pair the words ‘blasted’ and ‘accountant’ only five days ago and so thought it best to keep clear of any potential area of anger – holding her notes by her side to make it quite clear that she knew what she was talking about, ‘and he’s been getting bored of bringing sandwiches into work. The ones he makes at home are never fresh enough by the time he gets to eat them and the ones he buys on his way to work are just too expensive and, besides, he only really likes the chicken and bacon one, and we all know that people today need a balanced diet, so that’s no good, is it?’

She wasn’t sure if she actually wanted a response to her rhetorical question but part of her longed for an American-style ‘Amen’ shout just to let her know that those listening were on board with what she was saying. Gentle nods of the head gave nothing away.

‘And so what exactly does Doug do? Does he keep buying more and more expensive fillings to make his own sandwiches worth the effort, going through weeks and weeks of procedures in his office to get a fridge installed to keep the food fresh, or does he turn to salads, pastas, little pots of fruit, and put the sandwich world behind him for good? What Doug needs, and what Doug wants, is something new, something simple and something that will get him believing in the sandwich form again. He needs Munch. Why, you might ask. Why Munch? Why not just change the colour of the bread? Well, let me tell you what Doug gets from Munch, why Doug is not only buying it every day of the week but is so thankful that a product has finally met his needs that he is telling all his friends about it and they are telling their friends and so on. Before long, every office in the city is eating Munch for lunch. Sandwiches, as they used to be known, have become a thing of the past in barely two weeks. And if this can happen in one city, then just think of what could happen across the whole of the country, if not the world, if all the Dougs out there get the lunch they’ve been waiting for their whole lives.’

Her palms were sweating. She was surprised by the passion and enthusiasm she was displaying for an idea that was barely hours old and as she told of Doug’s contagious evangelism of Munch she began to dream that maybe, just maybe, some part of her story might come true.

She paused for breath, and a quick wipe of her hands on her skirt, which unfortunately gave Darren, clearly a little irritated at Dawn’s earlier reference to his lettuce idea, the opportunity to interrupt with the question that she was all too aware was yet to be answered: ‘yeah, but, what actually is it?’ A flurry of mmms and yeahs from those who clearly shared the question but not the conviction to raise it filled the air, and Dawn’s rapid glance at her notes did little to help. On the page before her, she had sketched a possible layout for a magazine advert and had storyboarded a television advert but the sub-title ‘What it is’ remained a solitary figure, as the space below it mocked her inability to focus on what really mattered.

She nodded and frowned, as if this were a question that required great thought and consideration, briefly flirting with the idea of responding ‘well, yes, that is of course an important question but what is more important is what Munch represents’, leading smoothly back into her narrative of Doug-led world domination. Nigel’s impatient and expository glance in her direction, however, reinforced the importance of providing a semblance of an answer, something that would show she had thought about it but wasn’t prepared to give too much away, just in case someone in the room was looking to steal her idea and make the fortune that was so rightfully hers.

‘You ask what Munch is,’ she finally said, looking around the room at faces that displayed varied degrees of concern over the answer she would provide, ‘and that is a crucial question, one that Doug himself asked when faced with this new brand before him. What marks it out as different from the rest? What characterises Munch exactly? Well, let me tell you.’

She glanced again at the pages before her, hoping some words might have magically appeared.

‘Munch is the simple, no-fuss alternative for the man or woman of today. Forget those ridiculous one ninety-nine or two twenty-five prices which leave you fishing around in your wallet or purse, wading through unwanted coppers, while others in the queue grow ever more irritated at how long it’s taking for you to grab your tuna crunch. Munch will be priced at one pound for a small one and two pounds for a large one, our two different sizes perfectly catering for different appetites. This is, if you like, the lunch that truly embraces equality and diversity, the lunch that understands people’s different needs and provides for them, all within a fair pricing system.’

She hated herself so much. If she were sat where Deborah was at that exact moment, she would be hurling silent insults in her direction with such venom and disapproval, shaking her head and looking to those sitting by for a sign of acknowledgement that they too could not believe what they were hearing. It was, in fact, with some confusion that Dawn not only detected little alteration in the demeanour of those before her – clearly more adept at concealing their feelings than she deemed herself to be – but witnessed Nigel frantically making notes, ticking boxes and smiling as he looked up at her in between scribbles. Was he really buying this? Perhaps there was a way to get safeguarding, solar power and saving the dolphins into the rest of the speech? Either way, she decided it was certainly worth pursuing the diversity angle, praying that Robyn’s presentation would now be a distant memory as she veered dangerously close to the idea she had happily dismantled less than an hour earlier.

‘And it’s not only Munch’s prices and sizes that are fair for all, suitably different for our diverse culture in this country today. Its bread is a rainbow nation in itself, a new blend of Ciabatta, French stick and Hovis. No more national divisions at lunchtime – this is European bread. And as for the fillings, well, simplicity with diversity is the key. Are you, like me, sick of picking up a sandwich with six or seven different fillings, all jammed mercilessly together forced to find some way to harmonise and gel together? Would you ever make that type of sandwich at home? Who here – now be honest – who here has ever thought, I think I’ll peel and chop a red onion and cook up a bit of sage stuffing to accompany my otherwise naked chicken sandwich? Since when has it been a problem for chicken to be naked? I’ll tell you – it hasn’t and it never will be. Not if Munch has anything to do with it.’

At the sound of the word ‘naked’ it was clear that there was minor shuffling in seats, perhaps even a few newly-crossed-legs. Nigel’s eyebrows remained raised for longer than usual, before a brief concealed chuckle suggested that he was perhaps – surely not – relishing every minute of this, capturing every detail he could remember on the page before him, as if any minute now he would charge out of the room, leaving a Nigel-shaped hole in the door, ready to claim Munch and all it stood for as his own. Dawn considered pausing there, retreating to her seat defiantly, resisting giving away the final crucial piece of information that would enable him to leave now, long before Deborah had even had the chance to offer her thoughts. In fact, on reflection, that did not sound like too bad an idea, but the baying eyes before her willed her to go on – whether in awe or in hope of her compounding failure she wasn’t sure – and she could not help but complete what she had begun.

‘Munch is naked lunch. Simplicity itself. Back to basics. The bare necessities. Single, undressed fillings crammed between the crunchiest and most flavoursome bread you’ve ever tasted. Just think how easy it will be to demonstrate diversity through Munch. On every supermarket shelf you will be able to pick up English Munch, Chinese Munch, American Munch, German Munch, and so on. A different country for every day of the week, perhaps. No one sandwich will be better than the rest. All will be equal, each unique in its own way. When someone eats a German Munch at work, no-one will be thinking about the war or penalty shootouts, they’ll be thinking what a great choice that lunch is, just like their Japanese Munch has turned out to be. Munch will bring the world together, it will bring communities together, it will bring families together.’

Dawn sensed the restlessness in her audience.

‘And so, all that’s left for me to say, I think, is Love your lunch? Crunch a Munch!’ She paused as dramatically as possible, hoping for reverberations of impressed mumbles, before adding a final ‘thank you’, Nigel leading the applause as she withdrew to her seat and the discarded water bottle rolling on the floor beneath her chair.

‘Thank you, Dawn,’ Nigel said through an enigmatic smile. ‘Deborah, you’re up next.’

Dawn smiled as Deborah smoothed down her suit and stuttered towards the front, the clock reading three minutes to Munch.

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