by Joan Ellis
‘I’m glad we’ve come to a Little Arrangement. See you later,’ he winks. And don’t forget your toothbrush.’
My relief at this reprieve is immediately replaced by terror. Peter thinks I’m going to sleep with him to keep my job. He plans to hold me to something I said under duress. His ego is so out of control it should be kept under licence.
Chapter two
Know your competitors
I’m on the horns of a horny dilemma.
Do I sleep with Peter to keep my job or look for another position? (Anything but the missionary.) The first isn’t an option, the second isn’t viable; advertising is always the first thing hit in a recession.
In this business, it’s not what you know, but who you know and I know Adam Hart’s number off by heart. I’ll give him a call. As my best mate and Deputy Creative Director of one of London’s top agencies, Adam is well- placed to advise me. If he can’t help, he’ll know a man who can. We joined CBA within a week of each other and spent most of our time working our way through the free boxes of chocolates provided by our confectionery client. The trouble was, when the agency needed them to shoot the TV ad, we had eaten the star of the show. Nonetheless, he is a precociously talented writer, and it wasn’t long before a zealous young recruitment consultant head-hunted him for his current role. Adam doubled his salary overnight. A stroke of luck given Peter was planning on firing him. Not because Adam was bad at his job but because he was too good; Peter couldn’t handle the competition.
I dial, put the receiver to my ear and eventually hear the familiar purr of the dialling tone followed by the reassuring click as someone picks up the other end.
‘Adam, it’s me,’ I whisper into the mouthpiece. ‘Listen, I need a job. Anything going at your place?’
He recognises my voice instantly.
‘Ella, what’s up? Thought you were still at CBA. Richards hasn’t fired you, has he?’
‘Jumping before I’m pushed.’
‘The man’s insane, you’re good,’ he assures me.
‘It’s my own fault. I blew it. Drunk on the job,’ I confess. Then, I tell him about Marmalade’s latest letter.
‘Awesome. I’ve always wanted to do something like that,’ he says once he’s stopped laughing.
‘Tell me what to do, Adam.’
‘Go and see my mate, Steve Winter. Peter fired him just before you joined CBA. Best thing that ever happened to him. He’s Creative Director at KO’d now. Give him a call. Tell him I sent you. Good luck. Let me know how you get on. By the way, there’s a new restaurant opened in Frith Street, we ought to check it out next time we have lunch, heard they do a lovely chocolate mousse.’
Then he gives me Steve’s direct line and hangs up. I replace my receiver. Adam is just like me, comes from nowhere but is determined to go places. Even if it is only the nearest cake shop - we share a passion for patisseries.
Using the arm of my typewriter as a mirror, I re-apply my lipstick before dialling Steve. Silly, but a quick slick of lippy makes me feel more confident. To my surprise, he answers straight away.
‘Steve Winter,’ he says confidently.
I introduce myself as quickly as possible; he’s a busy man – pitches to win, secretaries to bed.
‘Friend of Adam’s? Wicked. And you work for Pete? Poor you. That sucks! Yeah, come over. Be great to meet you.’
He’s enthusiastic, like he is asking me on a date but I need a job not a boyfriend.
‘Are you looking for a copywriter?’ I ask nervously suddenly sounding like I’m inhaling helium.
‘No, we’re cutting back. Just laid off one of our best creative teams. But it’s always good to see good people. If we like you, you’re first on the list when things pick-up. Can you get here tomorrow after work, with your portfolio? Say six-ish?’
‘No problem,’ I chirp before putting the phone down and bursting into tears.
No problem? Big problem. I don’t have a portfolio, I have a cardboard box full of ads, the most recent written by a cat. It might work on dear old Mrs Miggins but it certainly isn’t going to cut the mustard with Steve Winter, one of the hottest Creative Directors in town. My Kitty Rescue work isn’t about to set the world on fire. Best thing I can do is take a match to the lot.
Where can I find creative briefs to work on at a moment’s notice? Then I remember what we did at college and scoot downstairs to gather up armfuls of magazines. Back in my office, I leaf through them to find rubbish adverts. There are plenty of offenders. Someone, somewhere is getting paid big money to come up with this dross. But I can use them to glean the facts about the products and hopefully, come up with better versions of the ads. I examine an unforgivably poor Pro-High hair mousse ad; a mishmash of colours and a headline so lame it needs amputating.
‘High-Pro. A hair-raising new idea!’
An exclamation mark has been added to ensure we get the joke. But no amount of punctuation can save this stinker. At least it shouldn’t be difficult to improve it.
I’m moonlighting and it’s not even dark. I work all afternoon, making notes, identifying what makes each product unique. Usually, everyone except Wally is out of here by six at the latest. But not tonight. No, this evening they are in it for the long haul, nicking and necking chilled beer from Peter’s fridge. Alan Ferguson has turned up and is pouring whiskey chasers from the bottle he keeps in an empty filing cabinet. (The only filing Peter’s secretary does is her nails.) My heart sinks when I hear Darren, the studio manager suggest a game of table football. Trust him, the man with the knack of looking busy when he’s doing nothing; unlike me who has the knack of looking like I’m doing nothing when I’m busy. I listen to the incessant thwack of the ball, followed by the shouts and jeers as goals are won and lost. I have to stop myself cheering out loud when the final triumphant cry goes up.
‘Everyone down The Fox. Loser buys the first round,’ Alan shouts.
What he says goes. I hear them all heading past my office towards the lift and sneak a look at Alan through the door. His face is partially obscured by his long auburn hair. There’s no way that’s ginger. Peter’s just jealous. Alan exudes a gentle vulnerability and is the only man I know who can get away with wearing jumpers knitted by his mother from homespun wool. He looks like he got lost in 1950’s Britain and has landed back here thirty years on, bemused and beautiful. I could dream about him all night but I must crack on. When the coast is clear, I raid the stationery cupboard for paper and pens. I pull the top off the thickest black marker and inhale. The acrid aroma reminds me of every campaign I’ve ever conceived, evoking hope and fear, success and failure. I rip the front cover off a pad and look down at the most terrifying sight a writer can face - a blank piece of paper. Unfortunately, it reflects my current state of mind.
Obviously, I’m going to have to work alone on this one without the benefit of an Art-Director’s input. Then again, I work with Peter so I’m used to flying solo.
There’s nothing like a deadline to focus my thinking. ‘Deadline’ is a horrifyingly appropriate word but right now, I need a lifeline. Sadly, the only person who can provide one is me. I set about filling the bin with discarded scribbles. Seeing the waste-paper basket overflow is part of the process, making it look like I’m getting closer to the Big Idea. When I start to wane, I visualise the alternative - Peter without pants, panting on the shag-pile. I don’t want carpet burns. I mentally dress him in a sturdy pair of Y-fronts and some loose-fitting trousers. That’s better.
I spend the next three hours coming up with new versions of the High-Pro ad, one of which could be a winner. As I reach out to receive the coveted Golden Crayon Award in front of an elite crowd of media greats at The Grosvenor Hotel on Mayfair’s Park Lane, I feel the heat from the spotlight on my face.
‘Thank-you,’ I gush. ‘Thank-you ...’
‘No worries,’ says Wally shining his torch in my face. ‘I heard a noise, thought it was Pete up to his old tricks with one of his young ladies. Not hiding him un
der there, are you?’ he chuckles flashing the beam under my desk.
I shake my head and laugh nervously. Wally never bothers to check the third floor. He usually gets as far as the second before nipping back down to the basement to enjoy a well-earned mug of tea and a packet of biscuits before giving his wife a ring on the company phone.
‘Sorry, Wally I’ve got loads to do by the morning. Okay with you if I stay here the night?’
‘Kip ’ere? You’ll get me shot, young ’un. Go on then but only if you promise not to come downstairs and have your wicked way with me. I know all about you young career girls.’
If I was planning on sleeping my way to the top, I wouldn’t start with Wally’s bottom.
‘I hope Pete’s paying you double-time. Wouldn’t catch me working all night,’ he snorts at his own joke and taps his watch-face.
I am surprised he can even see it as it’s virtually obscured by thick grey whorls of arm-hair. I can just make out the faded inky blue tattoos he acquired during the war.
‘You women’s libbers got more than you bargained for. You thought ...’
‘Yeah, thanks, Wal, I owe you. One last favour, please can you ring me and make sure I’m awake by seven? Don’t want Peter walking in and finding me asleep at my desk.’
‘Yes, certainly, and what would madam like with her early morning call? Tea, toast and a bacon sarnie?’
He smiles, closing the door behind him as gently as a man with upturned hams for hands can. He reminds me of my Grand-dad, unimpressed by money and most of what it buys. Provided he can pay his bills and take his wife for the occasional meal at the Berni Inn, he’s happy.
All Grand-dad asked for was a few quid to spend on the horses. Sometimes, he let me read through the runners and riders and would let me pick the ones to back. At ten I was too young to study form but was a sucker for names like ‘Whooping Miss Molly’ or ‘Daisy Darts Off’.
‘The odds are a hundred to one,’ he would say. ‘The bloody thing will never win.’
He was right. Daisy didn’t so much dart off as die. During the steeplechase, she jumped and landed badly. The cameras moved away quickly and I knew it was the last race she would ever run. As a distraction, Grand-dad reached down the side of his arm-chair, produced a small, paper bag of toffees and handed it to me. Dad never shared his sweets, eating half pound bars of chocolate to himself in full view of me and Mum, feeling no compunction to offer us so much as a square. Probably why I like Adam so much; he’s always the first to discover the latest confection and makes sure I’m the second.
‘One day I’m going to buy you a new house with a bath and hot water,’ I remember telling Grand-dad as I washed my sticky hands under the solitary cold tap.
‘When you get to my age, little ‘un, you’ll know time is more valuable than money.’
Now the clock goads me, ‘One hour gone. Tick. There goes another. Tock. Still haven’t cracked it, have you? Tick Tock.’
Peter’s secretary will be here in a couple of hours. Unlike most people who get ready for work before work, she gets ready for work, at work, arriving early to ensure no-one sees her without make-up. Wally spotted her one morning and escorted her off the premises thinking she was a bag lady. An easy mistake to make given she often turns up with a bundle of dirty laundry, her smalls which she puts through the company washing machine in the upstairs apartment. She leaves the same day with it all clean, dry and, by some miracle, ironed. No one minds. Except me. I get absurdly irritated by it. I’m working my arse off in the office while she’s washing her pants in the agency penthouse. Can’t be right.
I wake up with my head on my layout pad. I feel terrible. At least my new campaign for High-Pro hair mousse seems to have passed the overnight test. But is it strong enough to blow Steve Winter’s designer socks off?
Now Peter’s secretary waltzes in, a challenge given she is wearing a tight-fitting satin skirt which permits only the smallest of movements. She shuffles into my office like an Arian geisha and squints at me.
‘You scared me,’ she says sharply, her hands fluttering to her face to conceal her pallid complexion. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Work - you remember, it’s what we get paid to do when we’re here.’
I resent the fact that she seems to do very little but gets paid very well. She even has a company car. A Porsche. One model down from Peter’s.
She tuts at me and makes her way, as best she can, over to her desk. My phone rings. It’s Wally.
‘This is your early morning call, madam!’
‘Thanks, Wal, I’m up,’ I tell him quickly replacing the receiver before I alert
Peter’s secretary to my nocturnal activities.
I catch her smiling at herself in the mirror, checking her teeth for lipstick and spinach.
‘Just nipping upstairs for a quick shower,’ I say loudly startling her.
‘You’re not allowed up there. It’s only for clients and the board.’
‘That’s me - I’m very bored. Won’t be long,’ I say as Peter appears. What’s he doing here? He’s never in before ten.
‘Didn’t I fire you?’ he says lighting up a long pink cigarette with a golden tip.
He draws on it hard and stares at me from under his hooded eyes. He slides closer and winks at me.
‘No,’ I tell him defiantly. ‘No, you didn’t. Why would you? I do all the work.’
‘Oh that’s right, I remember. We came to a Little Arrangement, didn’t we? Let’s just call it a change in the terms of your contract. I’ll get my secretary to type up the new clause now. Let the bonking begin.’
‘This rutting season is a long way off,’ I tell him.
He laughs. He is so close I can smell the smoke on his breath and recoil. He widens his eyes at me, like a wolf spotting its prey. Suddenly, he morphs into a corporate animal. I’m not sure which version is more terrifying.
‘We’re pitching Friday morning,’ he barks.
So that’s why he’s here. He flicks open his briefcase and takes out a wad of papers.
‘Briefing, my office, nine a.m. It’s worth a million so I want you firing on all cylinders.’
He must be joking. After last night, I’m burnt out.
‘Oh and we’re up against That-Little-Shit, Steve Winter at KO’d.’
I wonder if Peter’s told the award-winning copywriter formally known as ‘Steve Winter’ that he has changed his name to ‘That-Little-Shit’.
Now we’re pitching against him, it certainly compromises my interview. Talk about bad timing.
‘It’s essential we get our ducks in a row on this one, Ella.’
Why can’t Peter just say ‘be organised’? No one would guess he works in the communications industry. I run up the stairs, two at a time and take a quick shower. When I come down, I help myself to a large mug of Peter’s Blue Mountain coffee.
‘Fresh coffee is only for the board,’ Peter’s secretary squeaks her mantra and waves her newly polished red nails at me in an attempt to dry the varnish.
‘When I was upstairs, I noticed your washing had finished so I whacked it in the tumble-drier for you. Put it on the hottest setting so it would be ready sooner,’ I tell her, nonchalantly.
‘My silk knickers!’ she exclaims leaping up. She’s so small, shrunk pants should be the perfect fit.
I just hope the brief we’re about to get is as tight.
Chapter three
Know your client
Meetings are dangerous places. Even before anyone has uttered a word, life-changing decisions must be made. Like what to say, too much and I risk saying something stupid, too little and I look like an air-head. It’s a lose-lose situation. Choosing where to sit is another minefield. I can’t be in Peter’s eye-line. I’m not up to him picking on me. My mind wanders to thoughts of a freshly-baked, warm almond croissant. If we can wrap this meeting up before ten there’s a chance the patisserie will have a couple left, one for me and one for Wally. Fingers crossed.
I find an empty seat at the end of the table and sit down. To my horror, Josh plonks his files next to me.
‘Didn’t Peter fire you?’ he asks moving away as if getting the sack was contagious.
‘Oh you know Peter, says stuff in the heat of the moment. We’re fine now,’ I say sounding ridiculously optimistic.
I eye up the freshly-made sandwiches and salads tantalisingly placed just out of my reach in the centre of the table. Getting a top-notch in-house caterer was all down to Adam. He told the board, if a client has two great agencies on their shortlist they’ll always pick the one that provides the best tuck. He wasn’t wrong, feed their egos with quail’s eggs and smoked salmon and you’ve got a client, not just for Christmas but for life.