Tracey sat back and looked at her presentation. It was good. A lot of work, but she was really pleased with the results. Even Kate had noticed how industrious she had been, or at least quiet and staring into her laptop in a manner previously reserved for the Selfridges sale. Fortunately, the boss hadn’t seen some of the photos that appeared on the screen. Although they were genuinely work-related, muscly men wearing more baby oil than clothing weren’t the normal sort of images found in the office. Kelvin, normally happy to help her out with IT matters, hadn’t hung around when he saw exactly what she was trying to lay out on the screen.
Closing the computer, Tracey thought about the meeting later that evening. She was going into battle, or at least to present a plan to win the battle of Leighton Oxley’s theatre. For a moment she understood what went through Kate’s mind when she pitched for work. Mind you, she wasn’t usually selling this sort of product.
*
Finishing with a flourish, Tracey turned to the room and waited for her applause. Looking back at her were Freddie, Gareth and Doris. They were silent. For a few seconds, she wondered why Freddie looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights. He stared at the screen with his mouth slightly open.
This wasn’t the reaction she had expected. All the daydreams had ended with warm congratulations, heart handshakes and possibly even a hug. Turning back to the projected image on the wall, even Mr November seemed to be smirking, although that might have been the missing chunk of wallpaper.
Freddie gathered himself. “No. I mean, no. I mean, we can’t do this sort of thing. Not in Leighton Oxley.” He stuttered, almost lost for words.
Gareth chimed in, “I wonder if this is quite the right thing Tracey. I can see you’ve put a lot of work into this idea and I’m sure that, ahem, male strippers might seem like a good idea, but I’m not sure about the council…”
“Yes, the council. The bloody council”, Freddie interrupted, “They would go absolutely bloody nuts. You know how some of these posh old dears are like. We struggle to get some of the panto jokes past them.”
“But”, spluttered Tracey, “This sort of thing is all the rage.”
“Rage? I’ll give you rage” cried Freddie, “Councillor Osbourne. He’s about as with it as, well, Queen bloody Victoria. Tell him that we’re going to put oily blokes in tiny pants on stage and it would kill him. Right after he brought down the fire, brimstone on us. There’s no question of it. Gareth, what were you thinking?
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