Food Fight (5 page)
The first anniversary of Serge’s death drifted into Susan’s mind like a waking dream. Her thoughts strayed constantly across the ocean, into their home, into the bedroom as they lay together, or the kitchen as they cooked, a silhouette world of still-sharp memories.
Although she struggled to concentrate, she sensed Barney was pleased with the new product development. It was so sensitive that it was referred to only as Project Candy by the few in the know.
“What we’re looking at is a new ingredient with a totally new flavour,” Barney said.
“I’m a marketer, not one of your R and D scientists,” she said. “Get me the ingredient and I’ll promote it for you.”
“We’re on it, I assure you. And, you can bet your last cent that the scientists at Chewers are praying to the food gods at this very moment. By the way,” he placed his tanned forefinger against his lips. “The guys in compliance don’t need to know about this. And the same goes for regulatory affairs.”
DeKripps, like all the multinationals, had entire departments devoted to feeding the ravenous appetite of the Food and Drug Administration to ensure everything was above board.
“The best thing we can do is target higher incomes.”
“I thought we like caretakers?” He sounded doubtful. DeKripps had built its fortune on the mass market.
“And car mechanics. Yes, of course. It would be a departure. And I’m advising that DeKripps keep a low profile for now. One product can contaminate another. But we can still move upmarket.”
Later that day, Ellen asked her for a favour. “I’ve a consumer research evening tonight. Daiquiris and demographics. Would you stand in for me? It might take your mind off things.”
She explained that a friend did contract work for a cosmetics company, and Susan had often gone to similar evenings in London.
It was usually fun, with decent nibbles and sometimes a token payment.
“My friend lives in Chevy Chase, though. I hope you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine. But who am I supposed to be?”
“It doesn’t matter. You could be a housewife if you like. Tiffany is testing a new foundation for people with freckles, so I figured it might interest you.”
As night fell, Susan pushed through the hordes of Caps fans in red wigs spilling out of her local Metro. Ice hockey season had arrived, the supporters congregating at the Green Turtle bar before surging into the stadium next door.
She rode the Metro to Friendship Heights where she hailed a cab in the rain, waiting beside a little pile of discarded umbrellas. Extreme weather was one of the features of Washington life, particularly the mortaring downpours with gusting winds that turned umbrellas inside out. Occasionally the city would be flicked by the tail of a hurricane as it exhausted itself barrelling up the east coast. The violence reminded her of the Great Storm that uprooted so many of the ancient trees at Sussex, strewing them across the university campus.
The taxi took her up a driveway and delivered her to the door of a white clapboard house where the porch light was swinging dangerously.
Tiffany opened the door, haloed in light, straight from the pages of the Washington Gazette Style section, blue Jackie cardigan over pinched-in dress, shoulder length blonde hair tidy and sleek, the discreet self-confidence of understated wealth.
“You must be Ellen’s friend. I hope you’re not too wet.”
Five or six young women were draped decoratively on the floral armchairs and a sofa arranged in a semi-circle around a marble fireplace. The first thing Susan noticed was that they all had freckles, from tasteful sprinklings about the nose to a neck-and-shoulder shower or the full Monty like herself.
“I guess we’re all here for the same reason,” she said.
She headed for the only empty seat and introduced herself to her neighbour, another ginger-haired woman with a bob whose name was Linda.
“This could be a big night.”
“You mean for the magic cream?”
“I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment,” Linda said, reaching for the first unmarked jar of foundation.
“Me too.”
Linda and Susan rubbed a sample on the backs of their hands, which they held out to examine. Then they smeared more onto their cheeks. They had to score each cream on appearance, texture, skin-feel, and finally freckle concealment. Each sheet of score paper had room for comments.
“Something tells me we’ll have to wait a little longer,” said Susan, as she held up a small mirror to her face with a squint. “But then, it’s all about packaging.”
“How disappointing. What line are you in?”
“Marketing. Sorry.”
She picked up another jar and went through the motions. Linda had fallen silent. Surely nobody believed that one of these creams could really cover freckles? The other women were doing the tests with gusto, smearing the stuff over their arms and necks, anywhere the dark flecks lurked. Tiffany was providing wipes as required, checking with her waiter that everyone had a drink and a mini Red Velvet cupcake.
After a while, Susan wandered off to find the loo. As she crept upstairs, she could feel that invisible hand stretching out to shove her head back underwater again. She pushed open a door into the biggest bathroom she had ever seen, sat down heavily on a side of the free-standing bath, gripped the sides and waited to be overcome.
She began to weep. She stood up and looked at her trembling face in the mirror. It was shiny from tears, makeup and wipes, and distorted by her sobbing. As she paused for a deep breath before letting out another sob, she heard footsteps coming along the corridor, followed by a gentle knock.
“Susie, are you OK?” It was Tiffany. She must have been missed downstairs.
“Coming.”
She grabbed a towel to wipe her face, unlocked the door and came out, blinking at Tiffany.
“I just can’t do this tonight. I’m not in the mood. Maybe too many people. I don’t go out much these days. I don’t know if Ellen told you about how I lost my husband. It’s the anniversary of his death coming up. I thought it’d take my mind off things, but I feel so lonely. And just now I was obsessing about my freckles. It’s stupid, isn’t it? I never know what’s going to set me off.”
“You’ve had a terrible shock,” Tiffany said. “It’ll take time to get over it. Have you considered a widows’ group?”
Susan was sure she meant well. But she wasn’t ready for the American way of grief, sharing her bereavement with strangers. She’d already said too much. “I’m not sure it’s for me,” she said. “But thanks. I’m sorry to be such a wet blanket. I’d better get going.”
Grabbing her raincoat, she turned down Tiffany’s offer to call a cab, and allowed the waiter to open the front door. The downpour was now a steady drizzle.
Turning to wave while walking down the drive beside a gentle rivulet of rain, and even as fresh drops mingled with her tears, she thought: These people are the ideal target group for Project Candy.
She’d been in Washington for about three months before she was able to assure herself of Barney’s trust. He invited her one morning to accompany him to a meeting with one of the two Senators from Kansas, a Corn Belt state and home to DeKripps headquarters.
“Wanna walk?”
It was a twenty minute hike from DeKripps to Capitol Hill, less at the speed with which Barney powered along Pennsylvania Avenue. She practically had to run to keep up.
“Just leave it to me, Susie,” he instructed as they marched along. Was this his way of shutting her up or just casual sexism? “We’ll only have 15 minutes with the Senator, so I’ll brief him on how we’re staying ahead of the competition.”
Susan had noticed that for Barney, everything came down to competition, and he was determined to win.
“What sports did you play at college?” she asked.
“Football.” She could imagine him helmeted and shoulders padded as he elbowed and pummelled his way to the touchline. He emptied his pockets onto the security belt at the entrance to the Russell building, where two Capitol police officers stood chatting. Susan picked up her handbag at the other side and headed for the lift.
“So is this just a hand-holding exercise?”
“Keeping them happy. Congressmen like to feel they’re in the loop.”
Two young interns followed them into the lift, unaware that Barney’s eyes were burning shamelessly through their dresses. “And I’m like
yeah
,” one of them said, “and he’s like
well
,” while the other nodded.
More long-legged, long-haired creatures slunk by in the marble hallway, each in full makeup and formal attire in line with the Congressional dress code.
They reached Senator Dailey’s third floor office and stopped at the receptionist who blocked their way.
“Good morning, Mr McManus, Ms Perkins. The Senator’s expecting you,” she said.
They were ushered into a wood-panelled office where a large man in a white shirt was leaning back in his chair opposite two aides. A third excused himself and left the room as they entered.
“Ah, Barney, good to see you,” he said, standing to shake hands. Susan was introduced to the chief of staff and a press officer.
“We’ve had some bad news this morning,” said the Senator. “Hey, Jerry, bring some chairs for our guests would you?”
“What’s up Senator?”
“It’s this damned Tea Party. It’s the end of politics as we know it. Any dumbass now thinks he can run for Congress by saying they want to claw back government. And now it’s happening to me!”
Dailey explained he would now face a primary challenge from a Tea Party candidate in next year’s midterm elections. The problem with American politics, Susan had discovered in DC, was that there was always an election to win. How did they ever have time to think about anything else but fundraising?
She looked at Barney. He’d got the message.
“Well, Senator, is there anything we at DeKripps can do to help? You know we have cash for red states, you know we have cash for moderate Republicans.”
The Senator acknowledged the offer with a slight nod, loosening his striped tie beneath a double chin and rolling his sleeves to the elbows.
“What they don’t realise, these assholes, is that their policies will destroy government,” he said. “Maybe that’s what they want. Hell, why don’t they just throw a grenade into Congress? But after two terms as Senator, I’m not going to roll over for a Tea Party guy. Right, Richard?” he said to the young press officer.
“Right, Senator, that’s what we’re going to tell them.”
“I mean, none of us want Obamacare. Can you imagine what socialised medicine will do to your life expectancy? I won’t be voting for that. I was against the auto bailout too. But these people are insurrectionists. They’re anti-everything! And now the Tea Party wingnuts are polluting the minds of Kansas voters.
My
voters.”
He’d picked up a pen and slammed it down on the desk. His collection of family photos jumped with the impact. “But Barney, that’s not what you came to hear. What can I do for you?”
Their time was almost up. Barney gave his pitch about how DeKripps was taking its responsibility to the nation’s health seriously by easing up on added sugars and taking a stand on fibre.
“We remain America’s most trusted brand and we intend to keep that trust,” he said. “All we’re doing is changing the conversation, just a tad.”
The Congressman nodded at the mention of High Fructose Corn Syrup. Not only did he come from the Corn Belt where HFCS was produced, but he sat on the Senate Agriculture, Nutrition and Forestry Committee where he was a champion of American corn growers and processors.
“That’s terrific, Barney. Thanks a lot for stopping by.”
Barney stood at the signal and motioned to Susan.
“Senator, always a pleasure,” he said, stretching out his hand and pumping Dailey’s firmly as they eyeballed each other.
“DeKripps is right behind you,” he said meaningfully, as he pressed the Senator’s stubby paw. “Give my best to Shirley.”
“I will. Goodbye, Ma’am,” said the Senator, shaking Susan’s hand. His press officer whispered something into his ear, and they all stepped outside together. The glare of a TV camera caught them leaving Dailey’s office.
Susan heard the Senator saying, “I look forward to debating with Mr Burdock,” as she and Barney set off down the hall.
“How do you think that went?” he asked.
“Not quite as I’d expected, I must say.”
“Let’s have a coffee.” He took her downstairs to the basement, through a brick tunnel labyrinth which eventually led to a coffee bar.
“Welcome to the only privately owned coffee bar in Congress,” Barney said. He showed her into the little café with a hot and cold self-service buffet at one end. A couple of Congressmen, vaguely familiar to Susan, were seated at a table. Staffers waited in line for coffee to go. Susan and Barney took theirs into the next room.
“This is obviously not my area, but should we be taking this Tea Party thing seriously?”
“DeKripps? We are, don’t worry. Dailey’s probably safe, but I can think of a few others in Congress who should be worried. I’m from Philadelphia, and right next door there’s this crazy woman who wants to run for Biden’s seat next year. She’s Tea Party and she’s a witch! I mean, a
real
witch. Can you imagine it? A witch on the Senate foreign relations committee? We’d be the laughing stock of the whole world.”
“There’s a real revolutionary streak in America, isn’t there? It reminds me of France. I think the French and the Americans have more in common than we realise.”
The comparison seemed to leave Barney cold. He sipped from his coffee and winced.
“What I’m saying is, it’s dangerous, Susie. Dangerous for the Republicans. And everything that’s happening is good news for Democrats, although God knows they’ve got enough problems. Look at how Obama’s screwed up healthcare. He’s been in office for almost a year and Congress is still jammed with this goddamned thing.”
“From what I read, the gridlock in Congress isn’t just on healthcare. There’s warfare on any reform that comes to the floor. It might even affect us with HFCS.”
“True, I’ve never seen it this bad. Never. But food-wise, it’d be dangerous if people start seeing nutrition as a political issue, not a health issue.” He narrowed his eyes. “We’re not there yet, though.”
Susan thought of Mimi. For her daughter, food was already political. After giving up media studies, the subject
du
jour
, she’d ended up in her NGO, which had completed her political education. She knew that Mimi did communications, although her latest job seemed to consist of holding childish protests, dressing up in public places to shout about policy reform. Or awareness raising, as Mimi called it.
Barney began jiggling his knee with caffeinated impatience. When she’d finished her latte, instead of heading the way they came, he took her past the sprawling Senate cafeteria, its food stations spread out in the basement. This was the place where French fries had been re-baptised Freedom Fries during the Iraq war.
Serge, a Bush-hater, had been apoplectic, and hadn’t seen the joke.
A little further along the corridor, Barney showed her the little subway train that ran to the Capitol.
Beside it was a well-stocked Senate gift shop. It would be the perfect place to pick up some Christmas presents, stamped with the Senate seal.
They walked in silence along Pennsylvania Avenue, then as they neared the office she asked, “How’s Project Posh?”
“Project Candy? It’s dandy.”
He obviously intended to leave it at that. But then he added, “You’ll be impressed. We’ve got one scientist in particular who deserves a Nobel Prize.”
“The peace prize? Let them eat Candy?”
He laughed. “The prize for chemistry. Or biology. One of those. You’ve not mentioned Project Candy to anyone, right?”
“Of course not.”
“You know loose lips sink ships,” he said, pulling an invisible fastener across his mouth. “Zip ‘em Susie.”