Free Daughters by Elizabeth Buchan

those who wanted to make their way. Duncan was sceptical: ‘It’s probably every man and woman for themselves.’
    She pulled her thoughts back into line. ‘Rowan, please listen to me. It’s important that no one suspects you’re rattled. It’s not good for the image. I’ll phone the team later and see if we can do some damage limitation.’
    On she talked, finessing Rowan Saunderson into acceptance, until he went away, leaving her with merciful silence and the slight hiss of her conscience over David. Quite soon, that subsided too.
    She got up and went over to the film-editing unit, extracted a CD from the safe (nothing was kept on easily hackable computers) and snapped it into the machine. The image of Vegetalès’ latest moisturizer, packed ineco-green and gold, accosted her on her screen, and beside it the flawless face of a top model. In the bottom left-hand corner, deftly tucked into the line of peripheral vision, was the logo. The ad moved on, executing a progression of shape-shifting illusions, all promising beauty that – the underlying message ran – could only be relished alongside social responsibility. ‘Enhance your world,’ invited the strapline.
    Question: how could they persuade women to take Vegetalès’ skin-care products
to their hearts?
    The obvious answer: by telling them to buy products that made them better-looking, and cared for the environment.
    She knew, the team knew, everyone knew that creating demand did not work in a straightforward manner.
    She had written the paper for a trade
magazine.
Women buy into the illusion
with their eyes open
. They know that Model X or Y does not look like her image and, if she did, it would almost certainly not be due to the products. However, offer female focus groups the chance for a product to be sold them in a more honest manner, they decline it roundly. If they are asked whether being sold products by the thin and beautiful makes them feel miserable and inadequate, they agree, but not to a change in approach. The conclusion has to be that women do not wish to be reminded of the realities of the female face and body.
    The ad ended and she saw her own reflection in the computer screen.
Pale, raven-haired avatar
. She loved the images summoned by those words, envisaging herself floating through star-studded space …
    Back at her desk, she speed-dialled. ‘David, sorry about this but you’re off Vegetalès. Don’t ask.’
    ‘You dropped me in it?’ He wasn’t pleased but, since she was his boss, he moderated his response.
    ‘I did.’
    ‘You owe me.’
    ‘I do. Claim it one day.’
    It was late but she spent a further fifteen minutes or so constructing the ‘to-do’ list. On inspection, it appeared sparse and she cast around to add to it. ‘Ring
FT
and enquire who on diary, etc.’ Irrational, she knew, and indicating anxiety, but this type of housekeeping steadied her.
    Shut down computer. Wipe desk top with the cloth she kept in the drawer. Check cupboards shut. Adjust window blind. All ninety or so staff of the Branding Company had left.
    Silence.
    No one was talking to her. This was the moment when her chest loosened, and the tension that was frequently her companion through the day said, ‘So long, see you tomorrow.’
    So quiet she could hear her breath.
    Office solitude was peerless. It made her feel lonely, deeply so, but it was soothing. She had earned it. My God, she had.
    After a while, she pushed back the chair (Aeron, top ofthe range) and reached for her bag (a Birkin, donated by a client but accepted after the account was terminated. As if that made it better!) Catching up her jacket, she turned off the lights.
    Duncan’s flat was by the canal, a new-build shimmering with chrome, glass and boldness. A child-free destination dwelling for people with no ties, the childless affluent could perch here for a while, then move on. Yet all was not entirely well in this glossy and fashionable Eden: the fountains in the central square