Kit: The Meeting with the Biscuits

Bright Marden held its meeting in a hotel conference room that smelled of coffee and carpet cleaner. The chairs were arranged around a polished table. There were biscuits in the centre, carefully distant from every seat.

Graham Pitts, who represented the business group, wore a pale pink shirt and a watch that kept lighting up. He was not pleased to be discussing vouchers with teenagers when he had apparently expected a brief conversation about a cheerful launch photograph.

Celia sat beside him. Jo sat between Nell and me, not to separate us but because she'd brought the budget folder and needed room to open it.

“We're not asking you to change your recommendations,” Graham said. “We're asking you to include offers that support local trade.”

“The offers require spending more than most of the outings cost,” I said.

“That's why they're offers.”

Nell kept her hands flat on the table. I could see the sentence she wanted to say arrive and be dismissed.

“The guide was commissioned for young people who don't necessarily have that money,” she said. “A discount on something they can't afford doesn't solve the same problem.”

Graham looked at Jo. “Isn't supporting the town part of this?”

“It is,” Jo said. “The agreed method was useful, independent information. The sponsor acknowledgement is already included.”

He turned a page in the sample. “Independent doesn't have to mean negative.”

We hadn't said anything negative about the businesses. That was the difficult part. An absence of recommendation was being treated as a criticism, and I could feel the conversation trying to push us into apologising for not advertising every available sandwich.

Celia intervened.

“What about a separate insert? Not part of the editorial pages.”

“Distributed where?” Nell asked.

“With the guide.”

“Then readers still get both as one thing.”

“Clearly marked.”

I looked at the proposed insert. It used the same colours and typeface as our pages. A reader would have to study the small print to understand the difference. Most wouldn't, and I couldn't blame them.

“We could link to the festival's general listings,” I said. “Not make offers part of the guide. People can choose whether to look.”

Graham leaned back. “The group contributed because it expected something tangible.”

Jo opened the agreement. She didn't wave it around or sound triumphant. She put it on the table and referred to the relevant lines. The contribution covered a stated print run and an acknowledgement. Additional support for a larger run and launch refreshments had been discussed but not finalised.

“Then perhaps we don't extend the support,” Graham said.

Nell inhaled. I waited for her to bargain away something she thought I wouldn't miss.

Instead she asked, “What does that leave us able to print?”

Jo had done the calculation. A smaller run. Fewer pages if we wanted heavier paper. A simpler launch. We would need to choose between colour throughout and keeping enough copies for several distribution points. Our project fees were separate and already secured. Nobody was asking us to repay work we had completed.

I looked at the samples. Some of my favourite photographs depended on colour: the yellow jumper, the blue museum window, the red shirt of the woman dancing. In black and white they would need different crops, different contrast, different neighbours on the page.

I wanted to keep them as they were. I also wanted the guide to mean what it said.

“We can redesign,” I said.

Nell turned towards me. “Are you sure?”

“No. But we can work it out before we agree.”

Graham looked disappointed that the problem had become a practical one rather than a moral surrender. Celia made notes. Jo asked for the revised funding position in writing so there would be no confusion later.

When the meeting ended, the biscuits remained untouched. Nell took one only after Graham and Celia had left the room.

“Is that protest?” I asked.

“No. Lunch.”

We went outside. Jo had another meeting across town, so she left us with the cost sheet and a promise to check the library's small event room availability. Before she went, she said we had handled the conversation well.

Nell thanked her. She didn't look at me to see whether I agreed.

Celia caught up with us near the hotel entrance.

“Kit,” she said. “About the feature. I should have taken the joint authorship more seriously. I was concentrating on the publicity angle.”

“Thank you.”

“It doesn't excuse the wording.”

“No.”

She nodded. “We'll use the corrected description from now on. Both of you will see it first.”

There was no need to make her into a villain to say she'd been wrong. I was learning that this was less satisfying than a villain and much more common.

After she left, Nell and I walked towards the library.

“Black and white?” she asked.

“Maybe one colour on the cover. Depends on the quote.”

“We can shorten the introduction.”

“I like the introduction.”

“You can like it at half the length.”

I laughed. We kept walking. It was the first time in days that the work ahead of us had felt difficult in an ordinary way.