I’m standing next to the door in the conference room while Trevor, our CEO, tells us that Fancy Bantams, our biggest and oldest client, is looking for a new agency. They’re putting it out to pitch, which means other agencies will try to win their business too, but they’re giving us a chance to pitch as well, just in case we can come up with something ‘fresh’. Trevor has said ‘fresh’ at least five times already and he’s only been talking for a couple of minutes.

‘I want everyone on this,’ he says, gesturing around the room. ‘I’m determined to keep this client and show them exactly what they’re looking for.’ He stares at us all and then corrects himself. ‘No. Show them what they don’t even know they’re looking for.’

He pauses for a second, eyebrows raised, as if he expects us to applaud this pearl of wisdom. Everyone just stares at him.

‘And as you all know,’ he continues, ‘Mel’s been Senior Planner on this account for, well, years.’

He turns to Mel, my immediate boss. She’s got the Mona Lisa look on her face that means she’s about twenty seconds from completely losing her shit. If I was Trevor, I wouldn’t be standing so close.

‘And while Mel has done an absolutely sterling job,’ Trevor says – he smiles at her, but I can see the fear in his eyes – ‘I feel that this is an opportunity for something… fresh.’

Mel almost snarls.

‘I met with Jolyon at Fancy Bantams yesterday,’ Trevor continues. ‘And his plan is to… crowdsource the agency.’

Mel’s top lip curls.

‘What that means,’ Trevor says, ‘is that a number of agencies will pitch to the entire Fancy Bantams workforce and they will vote – yes, vote – on the winner.’

Mel rolls her eyes. I must admit, I feel a bit eye-rolly myself. Depending on who actually works for Fancy Bantams, putting it out to a vote could be a Boaty McBoatface-style disaster.

‘So what I thought would be interesting would be if we approached it in a similar way here, in-house,’ Trevor says. ‘If all of the Senior Planners and Planners could work on this account, perhaps we could come up with something fre—’ He stops and clears his throat. ‘Outside the box.’

Oh, that’s even worse than ‘fresh’.

‘The winning pitch will result in a promotion and/or a bonus, depending on whether it comes from a Planner or Senior Planner,’ Trevor says, categorically not looking at Mel, who’s turned a startling shade of puce.

‘So!’ he claps his hands. ‘Please all fuck off and do the research and come back with something brilliant. Yes? Yes!’ He claps his hands again and we are dismissed.

There’s a flurry of chatter as everyone leaves the conference room and heads for their desks. I didn’t have time for a tea before I left the house this morning – I didn’t sleep well last night and I couldn’t get up when my alarm went off – so I head for the kitchen instead. It’s not actually even really a kitchen, it’s more a corner of the main office, sectioned off with room dividers. I hunt in the cupboard for peppermint tea while I put a mug underneath the hot water tank.

‘Hey,’ Alex says, stopping in the doorway when he sees me. He smells slightly of smoke, like he’s just come in from a smoke break, even though it’s early.

I smile at him. ‘You haven’t seen any herbal teas anywhere, have you?’

Alex is an intern and I’m pretty sure Mel gets him to make her tea all the time. I haven’t really talked to him much before – we basically just smile at each other when I see him smoking outside with Nichola, one of the other Junior Planners.

‘Not in here,’ he says, the corners of his mouth turning down. ‘But I do have a secret stash…’ He grins.

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Mel’s?’ I mouth.

He nods. ‘I shouldn’t get you one, but…’

I smile, leaning back against the cabinets. ‘I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.’

‘I’m a rebel,’ he says. ‘Wait there.’

While he’s gone, I take the mug of hot water and empty it into the sink. I’ll make a fresh one when I get a teabag.

‘Ta-da,’ Alex says, but quietly, which makes me laugh. He’s holding a large wooden box, like a chest. Inside are rows and rows of different individually wrapped teabags.

‘Bloody hell,’ I say.

‘I know,’ he whispers. ‘You know you’ve made it when you’ve got your own herbal tea chest.’

I grin at him as I run my fingers across the top of the teabags, trying to decide which one to try.

‘I can personally recommend the liquorice,’ Alex says, putting the chest down on the counter and cracking his knuckles. I wince.

‘God, no,’ I say, half-lifting out a raspberry and vanilla. ‘That sounds horrible.’

‘Also, I’m not supposed to drink these, so forget I said anything,’ he says.

I laugh and lift out one labelled ‘chocolate and mint’. ‘Chocolate tea?’

‘I’d steer clear of that one,’ Alex says. ‘I’ve heard bad things.’

‘I think I’ll go classic,’ I say, taking out a plain peppermint. ‘Thanks so much.’

‘So, Fancy Bantams, then?’ he says, leaning against the door jamb. ‘Ready to come up with something…’ He does air quotes. ‘“Fresh”?’

I grin. ‘I don’t know. I mean, I’ll give it a go, obviously. But I don’t fancy my chances.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’ve applied for Senior Planner before and not got it.’ More than once, I don’t tell him.

‘Ah, but this is different,’ he says. ‘This is democratic. May the best pitch win and all that.’

I nod. ‘I guess.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ he says, smiling.

I laugh. ‘Actually I’m thinking herbal tea’s not up to the job today. I’m going to go out and get a coffee. Want one?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, thanks. I don’t drink coffee.’

‘Wow. How do you, you know, stay awake?’

He grins. ‘Clean living.’

‘God.’

He smiles at me for a second and then looks down at the box of teas. ‘Shit. I’d better get this back in the safe.’

On the way to Gino’s, the coffee place a few doors down from the office, I think about last time I applied for Senior Planner. How Mel told me that my work was fine, but ‘fine isn’t really good enough for Senior’, how I had to really ‘stand out and shine’, how I was more of a ‘quiet asset’ to the company. I’d wanted to smush her non-fat muffin in her face.

‘Hey, gorgeous!’ Gino’s son Marco says as I walk in, his face breaking into a huge smile.

Marco is nice, he is. But he only seems to be able to communicate with women via flirting and it makes me uncomfortable. Because I’m an idiot, it took me a while to work out exactly what it was about him that made me uncomfortable, but then he asked for my number and winked and the penny – finally – dropped.

‘Hey,’ I say now. ‘How are you?’

He tips his head on one side. ‘Better now, darling.’

I do a stupid nervous little laugh. ‘Could I have a latte, please?’

‘To take away or will you stay with me?’

That laugh again. ‘Take away, please. Busy at work!’

While Marco makes the latte, I stare at the chiller cabinet and the pile of muffins. One has a tiny flag with ‘salted caramel’ printed on it. I can resist a lot of things (actually, I can’t), but salted caramel isn’t one of them.

Marco turns back with my latte in his hand and one eyebrow raised.

‘Could I have a salted caramel muffin too, please?’

‘Good choice,’ he says.

I rummage in my bag for my purse while Marco bags the muffin and then I hold out a tenner, smiling.

He takes my money and turns to put it in the till, before turning back to me, a smirk on his face, his hands empty.

‘My change?’ I say.

‘You didn’t give me the correct money?’ He pulls a fake-looking confused face.

‘You know I didn’t,’ I say, my cheeks heating. ‘I gave you a tenner?’

‘Ah,’ he says, smiling. ‘I think you’re right.’ He turns back to the till and takes out some money, but clenches it in his hand and hides his hand behind his back.

‘How about a kiss?’ he says, twinkling at me as if this is charming and not horrifying. I want to say, ‘What the fuck?’ I want to say, ‘Fuck right off.’ But I don’t. I do the stupid laugh again and say, ‘I really need to get back to work…’

Marco’s still got his hand behind his back and now he’s pursing his lips. I should tell him to give me my money and fuck the muffin. I glance around to see if there are other customers who might like to comment on how inappropriate this is, but there are only two people in the cafe – a youngish guy in a suit, hunched over his table and talking urgently into his phone, and an older woman with a newspaper spread out on the table in front of her and a biro in the corner of her mouth like a cigarette. She looks at me and rolls her eyes, so that’s something.

‘Can you please just give me my change?’ I say.

He leans forward and taps his cheek with his index finger and, fuck it, I lean across the counter and kiss him on the cheek.

‘You want to go out with me,’ he says in my ear, before I can pull back. ‘I’ll treat you really nice.’

‘I’ve got a boyfriend,’ I say. ‘But thanks.’

All the way back to the office I curse myself for kissing him. What was I thinking? Why didn’t I tell him to shove his inappropriate advances right up his arse? Because I didn’t want to make a scene? How fucked up is that? I think of all the times men have made me uncomfortable and I let them because I didn’t want to embarrass myself, or them. Or my mother. And it makes me furious.

Also, why did I tell him I had a boyfriend? Just ‘no’ should have been sufficient. I shouldn’t need to prove I ‘belong’ to someone else.

Back at my desk, I Google Fancy Bantams and click on their website. It’s quite simple – black, white and grey, clean lines. Very post-Apple. The only interesting thing about it is the logo, which is, inevitably, a fancy bantam. It looks sort of like the Nando’s logo, but a bit more over the top. The chicken – is a bantam a chicken? I don’t know, I should probably find out – has one leg kicked out like he (she?) is heading off for a stroll. Its face is turned to one side so it looks like it’s looking at me, but with just one eye. It’s kind of cheeky, but also a bit disconcerting.

I click through to the photos of the clothes. They’re all boring. Basic leisurewear in grey, white, black, beige. Cargo trousers, t-shirts, cardigans, hoodies. Not a single thing you wouldn’t see in a normal menswear range. The models are thin and pale and bored-looking, standing straight on to the camera and then to the side, like fashion mugshots. I run my hands back through my short hair. Every item is described as unisex. But why does unisex basically mean men’s stuff that women can wear? I make a note on my yellow legal pad. It just says ‘blah’.

I read the ‘About’ page and the page about the company’s ethics and how the company came about and it’s all so bland and worthy that it leaves me wanting a little snooze. No wonder they think it all needs sexing up. But just thinking that makes me feel a bit sad and wrong. Yes, sex sells – it’s one of the first things I learned when I started at Houghton & Peel – but why should that be? Shouldn’t that be something we work against as we evolve? I know instantly that some of the pitches will focus on getting sexier models, making the women look like they’ve rolled out of bed and pulled their boyfriends’ clothes on, and the men like off-duty boyband members. But edgier. ‘Edgy’ and ‘sexy’ should be the keywords for this pitch, I know. But I can’t bring myself to do it.

I need something better. Something ‘fresh’. Something brilliant. Something to blow their little chicken minds.