Seb had caught him at his best. What a great photographer he was. He even made her look as if she must be stunning, if only she would turn around. It was compelling viewing. She could see what fun they could have with this campaign. Mr Beautiful and the mystery blonde, a great idea, in fact, it was Franco’s idea if she remembered rightly.
The annoying smug female voice of her voicemail had been repeating its instructions, “…to save press 2, to delete press 3…”
Oh shit… she’d not been listening. She pressed 1 to replay the message. It was from one of her bosses, Pete Wells, they needed to talk, he’d sent her copy proofs, call him.
She pressed 3 and deleted, listened through the other messages. Josie and Hel were reminding her of Friday lunch, they were keen. She made a mental note to call them back. Friday was free, if she hadn’t managed to go on holiday by then.
The next message was one of ‘those’ calls again. She’d been getting disturbing phone calls, one every few weeks or so for about a year. Heavy breathing or silence for a few seconds and then the phone would be put down, always from a withheld number. She kept thinking whoever it was would get bored and leave her alone eventually. She’d felt silly reporting it, as no specific threat had been made. She wasn’t one to make a fuss but had started to wonder if the calls were connected to her feelings of being followed recently. It was probably nothing, all in her mind.
“Urrgh, get a life, asshole,” she muttered as she deleted and moved on to the next message.
She couldn’t keep her eyes from looking back at the photos scattered across her desk. She didn’t feel brave enough yet to call her boss back. She knew how persuasive he could be, and he was right; it made sense to use the same formula for the rest of the campaign. But she’d committed a mortal sin in not getting agreement for a script change. There would have been so much bloody red tape, that she didn’t have time, what with Franco threatening to walk off set, the six hour USA time difference and her UK bosses being so ‘sitting on the fence’ anal (none had the guts to make a spur of the moment decision, too busy keeping their jobs safe), the shoot would have had to be postponed whilst she got agreement, shifting the time frame and costing money, she would have been in more trouble.
Should she come clean and tell her boss? Shit, in this nervous climate they used the smallest excuse to get rid of you, some of her sexist colleagues would love to hang her out to dry, she wasn’t sure she could trust her boss to defend her. Maybe stepping out of the campaign now she could get away with it. They could go back to the original girl, give her a wig, now that footy boy had grasped the idea on what to do, no one would be the wiser.
Besides, she didn’t want to have to work with footy boy again, it would be embarrassing. He’d been so bloody rude and he must think her a complete slut… he didn’t know she hadn’t done ‘it’ in a year!
She blushed and cringed with the memory of the ‘Gents’ episode, grinding into him like some wanton bloody hussy… and then him asking her name in that pompous ‘do I know you?’ tone.
Well, why should he know her name? They had only just met, stuck tongues down each other’s throats, exchanged juices, and spent a few hours wrapped around each other… shit! shit! shit! how bloody humiliating!
She shook her head, there’s no way she could see him again, let alone work with him. He was probably laughing with his chauffer as he drove away. She wanted to die. She shoved the pictures back into their envelope and buried them under the ‘to do’ pile.
The phone rang, it was the boss.
“Tara, good to speak to you; did you get my message and the photos?” Pete Wells purred into the phone, happy as a Cheshire cat. “We loved the stuff, want to do more, need your genius talent of course, Seb told us it was all your doing.”
… thank you Seb… very much… bloody hell!
“Right, we need to go through strategy, come to my office at ….”
“I’m so glad you like the pictures Pete, they are great,” she interrupted. “But Seb is being too kind, it was he and Franco, I just stood around keeping an eye on things. It ran itself to be honest, they work together really well,” she enthused, taking a deep breath. “And I’m off on holiday.”
He ignored her.
“3pm this afternoon, we have the whole team working on it. The ideas are endless… mystery girl, Franco Rossellini like no one has ever seen him before… both looking natural, believable… not your ordinary set-up, run of the mill shoot… a real moment between two people enjoying each other… feel-good-factor stuff, audiences will love it. We’re looking at TV, radio, cinema, online, poster ads… every bloody where. The client is eating it up.”
“What does Franco think of all this? He’s a pretty private guy normally, keeps a low profile, it may be too much for him.”
“Oh he’s cool; his agent thinks this would be a good clean way of increasing his profile. The fact that not many people know much about him, and that he is considered a goody-goody, all adds to the interest the campaign will attract. With so much official coverage, the paparazzi boys may leave off him a bit. Stalk someone else for a change. Where did you find the girl, by the way? Who is she? Get her signed up under an extended contract.”
She hadn’t thought about that.
“Seb will know, I think he booked her for us,” she bluffed. “But I guess we can use anyone, right? You can’t see her face.”
“Nah, keep the same girl, it has been approved by New York and the client, she has the right feel, I thi…”
Tara, flustered, interrupted him, “Pete, look, I’m going on hols any minute, Seb will handle it all for you, he’s a genius.”
“Tara, sweetheart,” his voice took on a harsh tone. “You can’t go on holiday now, it’s impossible. We can’t do it without you. You don’t understand, Franco will only do it if he has the same team… that includes you.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, shocked.
“What I said; he has put down certain conditions.”
“What conditions, exactly?” she was getting angry now.
“The same girl, photographer, producer, you, something about Mozart and champagne, and the best part is he has offered to let filming, it should only take a few days, take place at his summer villa on the coast in southern Italy… he is going there for a break before next season starts… great, huh?”
He waited for her comment, she was silent, he continued.
“Stills will roll out as poster and press ads first, and then TV, online and cinema commercials will follow. Short fifteen-seconders, with him alone, looking for the girl he has lost, interspersed with flashes of stills of the pair of them together, and a strong music theme. We’re licensing the old soul number ‘Gotta See Her?’ The radio ads, downloads and music videos will roll out last, using the music track, which will be released as a single. ‘Gotta See Her’ will be synonymous with him and the brand by then. The world will get involved in looking for her,” he said excitedly.
Tara was silent, she felt sick.
“This is why we need to sign the girl up with a secrecy clause now, she is a major pin in the whole thing… we have to keep her a secret for as long as possible, extend the life of the campaign.”
It was getting out of control. What the hell was she going to do now? Everything had gone so fast. The shoot was only four days ago; they must have been working night and day to come this far – getting the client to agree on budgets and Franco and his agent to agree on the additional exposure.
She could see the beauty of the idea, it was simple and effective, she just didn’t want to be involved. She would talk to Seb, he was a darling, he’d know what to do… Franco must be loving this, what a little shit.
“Tara, we’ve got to set this all up now. Franco only has a small window of time before the new season starts, he won’t have time when training begins, his agent was very clear. The lawyers are haggling over money now, but that won’t be a problem.”
His other line was ringing; she could h
ear it faintly in the background. She was grateful for the interruption.
“Pete, why don’t you get that call, I’ll speak with Seb and call you back?”
“Yeah, yeah…you can’t go on holiday Tara…Call me back, bye,” he was gone.
She sat back in her chair, thinking, nervously slurping noisily on the empty coffee cup.
Dialling Seb’s number, an idea came to her. No, she would handle this direct. Disconnecting the call, she flicked through her address book; finding the agent’s number, she redialled.
“Ned Bromley’s office, may I help you?”
Tara scrunched up her face with foreboding, she could tell the receptionist had one of those superior, bored tones that filled you with the sure knowledge they most certainly would not help you. The type that had made a monumentally bad career choice; they hated answering the phone and dealing with the public in equal measure.
Their only enjoyment came from the Hitler’esque power they bandied over callers and the game that no one got past them or the barbed wire fence they protected their bosses with.
“Mr Bromley please,” replied Tara politely.
“And you are?” the last word of each sentence drawn out into an indifferent nasal whine… whoever you were, you’re not getting past me, sucker.
“Tara Warr of Harvinger Larvsen, thank you.”
“He’s in a meeting.”
“In that case, may I speak to Mr Rossellini, thank you.”
There was a pause; did Tara hear a nasal snigger?
“FRANCO Rossellini, Madam?” dripping with… in your dreams!
“Yes…FRANCO Rossellini,” Tara tried to be patient.
“Out of the question.”
“Why?”
“Mr Rossellini doesn’t take calls,” she replied haughtily, another successful block… take that, sucker!
“Well, how does one communicate with FRANCO Rossellini?” Tara tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“Write in with a stamped addressed envelope, Madam. Mr Rossellini does not take calls.”
“Well, if you are able to do your job properly and take the message that he calls me pronto to prevent the withdrawal of his £4.5 million Sporjakk fee, which I guess goes part way to paying your grossly overinflated wages, you may find that he is indeed capable of ‘taking’ a call. Thank you,”... take that back, sucker.
There was a pause; Tara envisaged the woman fuming, sucking indignant air through yellow-stained dentures, biting back a retort. She gave her phone number and got off the call before Frau Adolf could counterattack. She probably should not have said, “Auf wiedersehen” before putting the phone down. Her watch said 10:45 a.m.
She wondered if he would call and, if he did, what the hell was she going to say. She didn’t feel quite so brave now. Maybe the Nazi receptionist wouldn’t pass on the message.
She busied herself working through the easy stuff in her pending file. She confirmed Friday lunch with both Helen and Josie’s answer machines and avoided calls from Pete Wells and Seb, asking Mrs B on reception to put their calls onto her voicemail. They could wait until she spoke with footy boy or his agent.
Just as she was reminded by her grumbling tummy that it was time to get sushi for lunch, Mrs B buzzed on the internal line.
“There is a Mr Rossellini in reception asking for you, Miss Warr, shall I send him on up?”
“What? Ohmigod. No… wait… err… is it FRANCO Rossellini?” Tara stuttered.
“Hold on, err, Sir, excuse me,” Tara could hear Mrs B talking to Franco… oh no, how embarrassing!
Mrs B was in her late sixties; she only ever bought a paper for the obituaries, crosswords, and cricket pages; she would not recognize the star.
“Is your first name Franco dear? Yes, thank you dear… Miss Warr, he’s nodding, yes he is FRANCO Russelminey.”
“Rossellini, Mrs B, Rossellini, he’s a footballer, Mrs. B… err… ohmigod… he is in reception… in front of you?” Tara stated the obvious.
“Yes, Ms Warr, he is standing in front of me.’
Mrs B didn’t give a monkey’s who the gentleman was; she just needed to know what to do with him. Two other phones lines were ringing. Tracey, the second receptionist, was on lunch and someone had stolen her daily paper’s Sudoku page, she was not having a good day. Tara’s dilly dallying wasn’t helping… chop chop, girl, honestly, the young women of today!
“Sorry… yes, please ask him to wait in the boardroom if it’s free, I will be right down. Thank you Mrs B,” Tara tried to regain some measure of professionalism.
She put the phone down and held her head in her hands.
“Fuck! fuck! fuck!”
What the hell was he doing here? It was bad enough dealing with him on the phone, but face to face.
“Shit!”
She made a mental note to stop swearing so much.
She rushed to the loo with her makeup bag. A quick tart-up. If she was going to be humiliated, she was going to look good doing it. Her stomach flipped with anticipation. She was surprised at how excited she felt. She could almost feel his energy in the building. She plastered her face with makeup, washed her teeth, baby-wiped her armpits, rearranged her hair a thousand times, and finally took the lift to the ground floor.
Notebook and pencil in hand, she strutted as efficient-looking as possible across reception. Not fooling anyone, least of all Mrs B, who was on a call, pointing her at the door of Boardroom 1.
With a flourish Tara opened it.
He was perched on the edge of the large boardroom table, cool as a cucumber, reading a magazine. He looked relaxed, with the understated chic that only French and Italian men could pull off. He wore a midnight blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a white T shirt peeking through at the open neck. Scruffy designer jeans, handmade brown lace-up shoes, and matching belt. She took a quick intake of breath at the sight of him, but managed to turn it into a cough, he was bloody gorgeous. He looked up at her, his face serious.
“You called, I was passing, what do you want?” he asked patiently, looking down at his watch with a raised eyebrow. He’d been waiting twenty minutes.
Tara fumed…how dare he be so pompous? I didn’t invite him. Her heart pumped so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
“Sorry, I was in a meeting. It was very nice of you to pop in, but you really shouldn’t have. I have another meeting now and can’t talk, we could talk on the phone later.”
The words were out before she could retract them… coward, why did she say that? He stared at her as if he was trying to work something out. He’d given her the same look at the photo shoot when she’d dragged him into the ‘Gents,” he was not impressed.
“It’s nothing really,” she tried to make amends. “Just about the Sporjakk shoot, it can wait.”
Why did he look so damned gorgeous? She couldn’t concentrate. She wanted to kiss him again but he was being so damned cold. She wished he would just jump on her. He continued to stare; she flushed with colour, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Could he tell she was lying?
She pretended to look anxiously at her watch, as if holding up the other meeting, turned to the door and held it open for him to leave. Obediently, he jumped up off the table and moved to the door. Stopping just in front of her, he leaned in close.
“My driver will pick you up at 6 pm, we will talk then, if you haven’t got another meeting?”… that raised eyebrow again.
He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body, she jumped back. She could smell soap; he must have just got out of the shower. A picture of him wet and naked, towelling off, flashed into her mind, shit… she wanted to lean in and kiss him, what the hell was wrong with her? She was like a bitch in heat.
“Yeah, y… yeah, that would b… be f… fine…,” she stammered, anything to get him out of there; her hormones were going bananas.
“6 pm, good,” he smiled.
She offered her hand for him to shake goodbye, feeling immediately stupid. He could
n’t help let out a grin, he’d been offered more than that a few days ago. He put up the pretence and shook it graciously. She thought bowing his head was a bit over the top, but nevertheless was grateful for his politeness and his speedy departure.
Mrs B watched the pair from behind her reception desk, her sparkly eyes followed Franco over the rim of her specs as he strode leisurely through the reception area and out the front door… that Tara’s a bit scatty… but nice buns on him! she giggled to herself.
Her niece would be impressed with her modern lingo! Not bad for an oldie; she may be grey and crumpled on the outside, but she sure was bright as a button on the inside. She cheekily gave her own ‘buns’ a wiggle in her chair; they also caused bit of a stir in their day.
The lift creaked its way up to the fifth floor. What the hell had she done? That was pathetic; she should have talked it out with him there and then. Now she had to prolong the agony… fuck, what a bloody coward.
The afternoon dragged on. She still hadn’t eaten; she couldn’t, she felt sick. Her stomach flipped between dread and longing to see him. He obviously thought she was a complete fool, he’d been laughing at her. That bowing like a Chinese person was over the top.
Pete and Seb had called four or five times and were being put through to Tara’s voicemail by the increasingly hacked off Mrs B, who was on the receiving end of their frustration. Tara would buy her flowers on the way into work tomorrow as a thank you.
Not being able to concentrate on any constructive work for the rest of the day, she set about filing for England, the job she hated most in the world, the job that she would put off for months, and save for when brain numb with a hangover, where no constructive thinking was involved. The piles of filing were squirreled away by 5:45 p.m., leaving satisfying space on her desk, at least she felt good about that.
Where men were concerned, she had a four tiered policy, not dating married men, not dating anyone more than ten years older or younger than her, not dating anyone smaller than her, and not dating anyone she worked with.
The Penance List Page 9