It is.
He does.
Lovely.
‘Matthew Charlton,’ he declares.
‘Emma Westly,’ I reply.
He throws out a fast smile. ‘Really, you don’t need to introduce yourself. Your face is on half the conference marketing. You’re the keynote speaker.’
I like it that he owns up to knowing who I am. Some people are shy about doing so, and that creates an unnecessary barrier of complexity. He is confident enough to admit he’s impressed by me, or if that is going too far, too quickly, he is at least aware of me. Also lovely. I do a lot of keynote speaking. I spoke at the UN Biodiversity Conference in Montreal last year. I’m on an advisory committee that steered the 77th Session of the UN General Assembly on Environmental Matters. I’ve spoken at the last three COP conventions – Bonn, Madrid and Glasgow – in front of prime ministers and presidents. I know my stuff; I believe in what I’m selling. A future for us all.
‘You’re speaking at three-thirty this afternoon, aren’t you?’ he says. ‘I’m looking forward to it. In fact I’d go so far as to say you’re the reason I’m here. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Public speaking does not intimidate me, so I’m surprised to note that suddenly I’m nursing a rare lick of nerves. The thought of his eyes on me as I stand on the stage causes a whisper of something to flutter in my stomach.
I want to impress.
3
When I walk onto the stage, I feel and hear the auditorium hum with excitement, scepticism, challenge and support. A thousand delegates are in attendance. I can’t see beyond the first three rows; after that there is just blackness. He is sitting on the second row, fourth chair in from the far left. Keen. He wants me to see him. My eyes rest on him for a moment. I don’t change my expression or acknowledge him, but he knows I know he is there. Is this a little cat and mouse? I think so, and although I’m out of practice and have arguably never been especially good at playing games, it seems natural to me. This is necessary to make the beginning of something – anything – notable, fun.
Outwardly, I deliver the speech with my usual calm confidence, infusing it with the necessary sense of urgency when required, tingeing it with threat but ultimately leaving things on a note of positivity. That’s my style. My belief. We can make a difference. Saving our planet is going to require hard work and effort; however, if we all work together – by which I mean everyone, from country leaders to coffee drinkers, heads of industry to those in post rooms – then there is hope. It’s a matter of collective responsibility. I tell my audience about the initiatives my company are fast-tracking, how we’re contributing towards the aim to be net zero. That’s what I am here for, to willy-wave about my company’s part in saving the world; it keeps the share price buoyant. It’s necessary to start with the horrors – the floods, the melting icecaps, the deforestation, the famines. We’re a population used to binge-watching streamer shows; we expect a lot of drama in the first ten minutes of a performance. However, I never want to terrify and alienate. That would be unhelpful. So I highlight positive steps that are taking place across the globe: the initiatives of other companies and governments that are committed to change. As usual, I conclude by promising that there is a future for our grandchildren and even for their grandchildren if we act quickly enough.
As I leave the stage, there is resounding applause, some people stand up. He’s on his feet before anyone else and creates the momentum for the standing ovation. He seems animated, electrified. I don’t let my gaze linger on him, and I remind myself that the ovation is for my company’s work, not me personally. I’m a cog, that’s all. Still, it’s a buzz. I don’t have children or grandchildren, but I might be a tiny part of saving the planet for those who do, and that is massive.
The delegates and speakers are invited to a drinks reception that starts in half an hour’s time and is designed to soak up the couple of hours before dinner. When I first saw this on my agenda, I decided I would give it a miss. I know how those things generally go. At best, I’ll be cornered by an earnest ecowarrior who wants to preach to the converted; at worst, I might encounter an aggressive climate-change denier. It is far wiser and more time-efficient to return to my hotel room and plough through emails. I’m not a networker, I’m a grafter. There is little to be gained by pressing flesh, rubbing shoulders and appearing accessible. Better to leave the delegates with the stormy, solid impression I made on the stage.
But now I feel differently.
I know that if I go to the bar, Matthew Charlton will find me, and I want exactly that. It’s curious behaviour for me, but maybe I deserve a treat. I’ve been working really hard recently. We’re buying a company that needs to be amalgamated into AirBright. The restructure will have an impact on systems, staff and physical space; it’s a lot, and we’re just at the beginning of the process. I want to indulge the undeniable frisson of excitement he’s sparked, just for fun. I use the thirty minutes to dash to my room to freshen up and check emails marked urgent, then I’m back in the bar at 17.05. Not what anyone would call fashionably late, but I hope not excruciatingly obviously keen either.
He is leaning against the bar, gaze trained on the entrance. Our eyes clash immediately and I head towards him.
‘I didn’t know what to order for you,’ he says, waving at two glasses of sparkling water. I like this. He presumed I would join him for a drink, but he didn’t presume to do anything cringey like order a glass of champagne. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy drinking champagne, but not at work and not with men I’ve just met.
‘Water is perfect.’
‘Shall we find a seat.’ It’s not a question as such, more of an imperative. He immediately picks up his glass of water and his rucksack and steps away from the bar, glancing about, looking for a table. I’ve been on my feet all day, and although high heels at work are thankfully a thing of the past, I would like to sit down. And yes, I can’t deny that being ensconced away from the throng and with him sounds ideal.
We find a small round table and two comfortable chairs in the far corner of the room. Most of the delegates are clinging to the bar and therefore it’s quiet here. Perfect.
‘So you’re press? Who do you write for?’ I ask, the moment we sit down. I need to know so I can evaluate what he wants. A story? Me?
‘I don’t write for anyone. I’m not press as such, I’m a freelance photographer. The Access All Areas pass is something a friend blagged for me. I understand it entitles a person to a free drink at dinner tonight and the right to jump the queue in the canteen.’
I’m relieved. If he’s not press, he doesn’t want a story. I want to beam, but instead I say sardonically, ‘Great perks. Have you exercised the queue-jumping privilege?’
‘No, I’m too polite.’
I smile. ‘So who are you freelancing for? What’s your brief?’
‘No one has commissioned me to be here. My plan is to take some great shots and then try to sell them to any of the papers, or put them on the websites that let people buy images for presentations and so on. You know Shutterstock, Getty and the like.’
I nod. I am aware of those services. My own marketing department often uses them. It’s immediately apparent that Matthew isn’t earning big bucks.
‘Have you taken any great shots?’
He reaches into his rucksack and pulls out his camera. After a few clicks and whirrs, I find myself looking at images on a 5x3 cm preview screen on his SLR. Matthew leans close to me as he flicks through the photos he’s taken. His body isn’t touching mine, but I can feel the heat of him, smell his aftershave, and under that a note of sweat that I find strangely appealing. They are good, clear shots. Vibrant. They capture the subject’s emotion and animation whilst managing to be flattering – not an easy task. Often a photograph of someone speaking makes them look like they’ve entered a gurning competition.
I am the subject. There are at least a dozen photos of me delivering my speech.
Just as I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable and wondering if he’s a crazy stalker, we come to photographs of this morning’s speakers: Gina McCarthy, a renowned specialist on air quality who served as the first White House National Climate Advisor, and Jim McNeill, a British polar explorer. There are at least nine or ten shots of each of them, which negates the stalker concern. There are also many others of delegates looking earnest, interested, sceptical or even, in one case, thoroughly bored. ‘Is he napping?’ I ask with a laugh.
‘Yes, but don’t worry, that wasn’t taken during your lecture. I promise your audience were rapt.’
‘You have some great shots. A cut above the usual conference photographer.’
He smiles, but not easily; it’s a tight expression and I regret my comment. It sounds patronising. I am genuinely impressed. I’m usually rather unpleasantly surprised by images of myself. I always look a little older than I expect to. A little more worn in. In these shots I look strong, determined, authoritative. It’s impossible to say as much without sounding oddly vain.
A silence falls across the table and I want to shoo it away. I consider asking him how he chooses which conferences to freelance at, but it all seems a bit impersonal, and that’s not the note I want to strike with him. I’m grateful when he makes the next comment, even if it is still work-related.
‘You were really impressive up there on the podium.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It must be quite something to be part of the solution.’
