by Blueberry Pie
(part 3, continued on from here)
People say corporate life wilts even the most creative of minds. I’m not sure mine has ever been weighed down with genius – but anything that was ever there has definitely been MacDisneyfied now. To top it all, in PR anything goes as long as it gets people’s attention and gets fat gold coins rolling through eyes, cartoon-style.
My presentation was no exception, and on that mid-March Thursday I had arranged for a large plastic cherry to be made to illustrate my glorious, life-changing Cherry iPhone app idea. Yes, my imagination had no bounds. It reached the ceiling in fact, nearly touching an air conditioning unit.
It stood in Meeting Room 3, regal and proud of its kitsch red skin. However, its leaves were supposed to flash green every so often, and it was doing no such thing. I called its creator, my artist friend Katie, a girl with more pink hair than even cliché generally allows.
“Mate, amazing cherry. Where did you find the dazzling shade of red?”
“I used it to paint Greta’s room last time we broke up. I painted devils and everything,” Katie replied.
“Inspired. Listen, the only problem is the leaves at the top won’t light up.”
“Oh yeah, you need to climb in round the back. There’s a switch inside, you can’t miss it. It’s all a bit Freudian.”
“Amazing. Cheers!” And with that I took off my shoes, and climbed into the cherry, like Edmund crossing into Narnia for the first time.
The cherry enveloped me with red light. Apparently, some cults force their victims to lie in a womb-like pod to make them feel calm and renewed before they brainwash them. I could see why.
I felt a hand on my back, and jumped, causing the whole cherry to shake.
“Popped your cherry have I?” It was Charlotte. “Sorry, it had to be said.” She climbed in. “Only you could pull off a giant fucking cherry Bess.”
I was flummoxed. This was not the ex-girlfriend reunion I had planned for.
“You look good, like the longer hair. It suits you. Not wearing shoes these days though Bess?” She looked me up and down. The truth was, Charlotte looked good.
“You’re such a wanker Charlotte.” We both laughed. “So how was New York?”
“Yeah good, you know. Lots of great opportunities.” Vague as usual. “So what’s this cherry for?”
“It’s to demonstrate my Cherry iPhone app idea. Basically, you shake your iPhone and it tells you who you’ll marry, like the old rhyme. So, tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief… But we added things in, like pimp and popstar, just to make things more palatable for 21st century tweens. Then after you’ve shaken it, you get an ad for Juicy Juicy Cherries.”
“So what’s your usual outcome?”
“Oh, I usually get sailor.”
“The token gay option then.”
Actually, Charlotte looked really great. Her noble looks: her brown-eyed, tanned face – all framed with a stubborn nest of blond hair – looked all the better for its Stateside sojourn.
“I missed you though,” she added. Then we just stared at each other, like teenagers playing the staring game, the fact we were both in an oversized cherry making me forget I was in Meeting Room 3, at work, about to give a presentation. Chatting to my ex like she’d never dumped me.
Charlotte kept smiling.
“Stop smiling Charlotte.”
Suddenly we were kissing, her hands all over me. Fuck, it felt good. Ex good… bad good… oh god, good always feels good.
And then the whole cherry tumbled to the floor, the lights in the leaves somehow turning themselves on. Oh, too Freudian for words.