I am such a deluded moron.

'… unfortunately since rebranding… major rethink… feel we need to be considering

alternative synergies…'

Up to now I've just been sitting and nodding, thinking this business meeting lark is really easy.

But now Doug Hamilton's voice starts to impinge on my consciousness. What's he saying?

'… two products diverging… becoming incompatible…'

What was that about incompatible? What was that about a major rethink? I feel a jolt of alarm.

Maybe this isn't just waffle. Maybe he's actually saying something. Quick, listen.

'We appreciate the functional and synergetic partnership that Panther and Glen Oil have

enjoyed in the past,' Doug Hamilton is saying. 'But you'll agree that clearly we're going in

different directions.'

Different directions?

Is that what he's been talking about all this time?

My stomach gives an anxious lurch.

He can't be-

Is he trying to pull out of the deal?

'Excuse me, Doug,' I say, in my most relaxed voice. 'Obviously I was closely following what

you were saying earlier.' I give a friendly, we're-all-professionals-together smile. 'But if you

could just… um, recap the situation for all our benefits…'

In plain English, I beg silently.

Doug Hamilton and the other guy exchange glances.

'We're a little unhappy about your brand values,' says Doug Hamilton.

'My brand values?' I echo in panic.

'The brand values of the product,' he says, giving me an odd look. 'As I've been explaining,

we here at Glen Oil are going through a rebranding process at the moment, and we see our

new image very much as a caring petrol, as our new daffodil logo demonstrates. And we feel

Panther Prime, with its emphasis on sport and competition, is simply too aggressive.'

'Aggressive?' I stare at him, bewildered. 'But… it's a fruit drink.'

This makes no sense. Glen Oil is fume-making, world-ruining petrol. Panther Prime is an

innocent cranberry-flavoured drink. How can it be too aggressive?

'The values it espouses.' He gestures to the marketing brochures on the table. 'Drive. Elitism.

Masculinity. The very slogan, "Don't Pause". Frankly, it seems a little dated.' He shrugs. 'We

just don't think a joint initiative will be possible.'

No. No. This can't be happening. He can't be pulling out.

Everyone at the office will think it was my fault. They'll think I cocked it up and I'm

completely crap.

My heart is thumping. My face is hot. I can't let this happen. But what do I say? I haven't

prepared anything. Paul said it was all set up and all I had to do was shake their hands.

'We'll certainly discuss it again before we make a decision,' Doug's saying. He gives me a

brief smile. 'And as I say, we would like to continue links with the Panther Corporation, so

this has been a useful meeting in any case.'

He's pushing back his chair.

I can't let this slip away! I have to try to win them round. I have to try and shut the deal.

Close the deal. That's what I meant.

'Wait!' I hear myself say. 'Just… wait a moment! I have a few points to make.'

What am I talking about? I have no points to make.

There's a can of Panther Prime sitting on the desk, and I grab it for inspiration. Playing for

time, I stand up, walk to the centre of the room and raise the can high into the air where we

can all see it.

'Panther Prime is… a sports drink.'

I stop, and there's a polite silence. My face is prickling.

'It… um… it is very…'

Oh God. What am I doing?

Come on, Emma. Think. Think Panther Prime… think Panther Cola… think… think…

Yes! Of course!

OK, start again.

'Since the launch of Panther Cola in the late 1980s, Panther drinks have been a byword for

energy, excitement and excellence,' I say fluently.

Thank God. This is the standard marketing blurb for Panther Cola. I've typed it out so many

zillions of times, I could recite it in my sleep.

'Panther drinks are a marketing phenomenon,' I continue. 'The Panther character is one of the

most widely recognized in the world, while the classic slogan "Don't Pause" has made it into

dictionaries. We are now offering Glen Oil an exclusive opportunity to join with this premium,

world-famous brand.'

My confidence growing, I start to stride around the room, gesturing with the can.

'By buying a Panther health drink, the consumer is signalling that he will settle for nothing but

the best.' I hit the can sharply with my other hand. 'He expects the best from his energy drink,

he expects the best from his petrol, he expects the best from himself.'

I'm flying! I'm fantastic! If Paul could see me now, he'd give me a promotion on the spot!

I come over to the desk and look Doug Hamilton right in the eye. 'When the Panther

consumer opens that can, he is making a choice which tells the world who he is. I'm asking

Glen Oil to make the same choice.'

As I finish speaking I plant the can firmly in the middle of the desk, reach for the ring pull and,

with a cool smile, snap it back.

It's like a volcano erupting.

Fizzy cranberry-flavoured drink explodes in a whoosh out of the can, landing on the desk,

drenching the papers and blotters in lurid red liquid… and oh no, please no… spattering all

over Doug Hamilton's shirt.

'Fuck!' I gasp. 'I mean, I'm really sorry…'

'Jesus Christ,' says Doug Hamilton irritably, standing up and getting a handkerchief out of his

pocket. 'Does this stuff stain?'

'Er…' I grab the can helplessly. 'I don't know.'

'I'll get a cloth,' says the other guy, and leaps to his feet.

The door closes behind him and there's silence, apart from the sound of cranberry drink

dripping slowly onto the floor.

I stare at Doug Hamilton, my face hot and blood throbbing through my ears.

'Please…' I say, and clear my husky throat. 'Don't tell my boss.'

After all that. I screwed it up.

As I drag my heels across the concourse at Glasgow Airport, I feel completely dejected. Doug

Hamilton was quite sweet in the end. He said he was sure the stain would come out, and

promised he wouldn't tell Paul what happened. But he didn't change his mind about the deal.

My first big meeting. My first big chance — and this is what happens. I feel like giving up on

the whole thing. I feel like phoning the office and saying 'That's it, I'm never coming back

again, and by the way, it was me who jammed the photocopier that time.'

But I can't. This is my third career in four years. It has to work. For my own self-worth. For

my own self-esteem. And also because I owe my dad four thousand quid.

'So what can I get you?' says an Australian guy, and I look up dazedly. I've arrived at the

airport with an hour to go, and have headed straight for the bar.

'Erm…' My mind is blank. 'Er… white wine. No, actually, a vodka and tonic. Thanks.'

As he moves away, I slump down again in my stool. An air hostess with a French plait comes

and sits down, two bar stools away. She smiles at me, and I smile weakly in return.

I don't know how other people manage their careers, I really don't. Like my oldest friend

Lissy. She's always known she wanted to be a lawyer — and now, ta-daah! She's a fraud

barrister. But I left college with absolutely no clue. My first job was in estate agency, and I

only went into it because I've always quite liked looking round houses, plus I met this woman

with amazing red lacquered nails at a career fair who told me she made so much money, she'd

be able to retire when she was forty.