I Am Ella, Buy Me

by Joan Ellis

  I haven’t eaten since yesterday. My arm reaches across the table and my fingers inch towards a plate of thickly-coated chocolate biscuits. I pull it towards me.

  ‘I’m guessing you’ve smoothed it over with Kitty Rescue and charmed them into staying with us, Josh?’ I ask shamelessly buttering him up like a warm croissant.

  But Josh isn’t biting.

  ‘If you mean did we do lunch, then yes, we did. We went to L’Etoile and pulled out all the stops, champagne, fillet steak, the works. But if you mean did I make it okay for you, then no, I didn’t. That’s not my job. Obviously, they are still very uptight about that stunt you pulled with the copy. Apparently, the client’s wife saw it and told her husband to fire us. Luckily for you they are getting divorced so he ignored her.’

  He glares at me as he arranges his papers in obsessively neat piles.

  ‘That’s good,’ I murmur, trying to remember what it was I’d heard recently about the client’s wife.

  ‘Good? The man is losing his five-bedroom house in Primrose Hill not to mention his prize-winning pedigree pug. That dog’s worth a fortune in pet food endorsements alone.’

  ‘Who got custody of the kids?’ I ask suddenly remembering the slim white envelope that arrived two days after my twelfth birthday.

  At first, I thought it was a late card for me but it was addressed to Mum and typed in neat black print. I handed it to her and went off to set about my quest to teach Beauty-Column-Sixpence to talk. She was incapable of mustering more than an irritable squawk, eyeing me suspiciously before standing on one leg and simultaneously cleaning her claws and doing a dropping. Having been roundly dismissed by a parrot, I wandered back into the living room where Mum sat holding a sheet of stiff white paper, the empty envelope discarded on the floor.

  I can still remember the look on her face, crumpled and confused. It was an expression I would become horribly familiar with. Without money as a shield, life deals some harsh blows. I went to her and put my arms around her neck.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ I asked her.

  ‘He doesn’t want to see you,’ she told me.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your father.’

  I glanced into the hall at the parrot. She yawned and showed me her thick, grey tongue.

  ‘Oh.’

  It didn’t matter to me. I didn’t want to see him either. We had our life and it didn’t include him. True, it was nowhere near as comfortable but we were well rid of his ranting. Once, I remember him cornering Mum in the hall by the front door. She said something and he grabbed her around the throat making her face twist and eyes bulge. He tightened his grip before releasing her and running up the stairs. Then, he stopped half way, and doubled in size, taking hold of the wooden banister and wrenching it out of the wall, as effortlessly as pulling a weed. It lay there for weeks, like a dead animal, surrounded by little piles of cement rubble and masonry nails.

  Mum had held the letter tightly. I tried to read it over her shoulder but she lay the piece of paper in her lap, face down.

  ‘His solicitor has written to say he wants no further contact with you.’

  Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth opened wide. So, it did matter, it mattered that he had said ‘no’ to me.

  Now Josh, stands beside me. I seem to have upset him too.

  ‘Who cares about the bloody kids?’ he snaps. ‘If I were you, I’d focus on sorting out your own mess. Obviously, you’re off Kitty Rescue so you need to win this one.’

  ‘Watch me,’ I tell him defiantly.

  Despite the bravado, I know he is right. As delighted as I am to stop being Marmalade, Kitty Rescue is, was, my main account. Luckily, I have got experience on other business. In the past, I’ve written ads for everything from lager to loo cleaner (some people might argue they’re the same thing). I also helped win the Nighty-Night Beds account but the agency was forced to resign the business after Peter was caught doing a spot of product testing with one of our junior account executives. She was unfortunate enough to be laid, and laid off by Peter.

  Yet, somehow he got to keep his annual bonus. He gains in stature from his antics yet I mess around with one piece of copy and I get screwed. Peter’s a smooth operator. No qualifications apart from a Degree in Schmoozing, he has cunningly wormed his way in with both the board and the clients. The men want to be him and the women want him. He has an easy charm designed to disarm. If the boys fancy a long weekend in the south of France, Peter gives them Cannes, with can-can dancers. And if the women clients fancy a little extra for their fat fee, Mr Big will oblige. He lays claim to anything decent to come out of the creative department and expects me to take it lying down. But I will not sleep with him to keep my job. I have to convince Steve Winter to hire me this evening.

  Easy peasy, lemon squeasy.

  Oh no, I just said that out loud. I said ‘Easy, peasy, lemon, squeasy’ within earshot of Josh Jenkins. Add that to ‘Okelly Dokelly’ and he is forgiven for questioning my supposed winning way with words. For once, I am both delighted and relieved to see Peter. If anyone can create a diversion, he can. He doesn’t disappoint. The poser swaggers in like advertising royalty flanked by his minions, Mr Media and Mr Planning. His homage to punk looks like several kilts in clashing tartans, fastened with giant safety pins and fashioned into something resembling a suit. Not his finest sartorial hour.

  Peter stands and addresses the room, looking like he might undress any minute. He clips and unclips one of the larger safety pins holding the whole ensemble together. Like Nero fiddling while Rome burns. I have visions of the outfit coming asunder and Peter standing like a grotesque Venus, swathed in plaid. I don’t know what men wear under their kilts and I don’t want Peter to show me.

  Mr Media and Mr Planning take it in turns to say ‘Yes, Peter’, ‘No, Peter’. ‘Three bags full, Peter,’ must be Josh’s line.

  ‘Essential we get our ducks in a row on this one because coming second is not an option.’

  Having exhausted all the jargon he currently knows, Peter eases his left buttock onto the edge of his desk in an attempt to appear both laid-back and cutting-edge. He looks like he’s got piles.

  ‘Okay, we know why we’re here, a million pound pitch on Friday morning. Our main competitor is That-Little-Shit-Steve-Winter over at KO’d so we must crack it. No excuses.’

  He nods towards the back of the room where Mr Media and Mr Planning fight to turn off the light. Even Edison would have agreed it is an unedifying sight, grown men jostling for position in Peter’s pecking order. No wonder, with a million quid up for grabs and heads on the block, even the most insignificant tasks become competitive. Do they believe that on the day of reckoning, when Peter draws up his list of names for the chop, he is going to think, ‘Oh we can’t lose Mr Planning, he’s a whizz with a light switch. Same goes for Mr Media, if you’ve got a petty job needs doing, he’s your man.’

  As if to prove the point, Mr Media steps self-importantly into the limelight and presses the ‘play’ button on the video recorder with such aplomb I expect the room to explode. And it does, as we watch the big bang, Peter having sex with the client’s wife, Mrs Kitty Rescue.

  That’s it, I remember now, last year’s Christmas party. Peter gave Josh strict instructions to keep Mr Kitty Rescue out of the way, while he plied Mrs Kitty Rescue with vintage champagne. The last I saw of them they were slow dancing and snogging to ‘Silent Night’. Very festive. Their affair lasted about six months. It was common knowledge; Peter made no attempt to hide it. She was an ex-model and certainly raised his kudos.

  Apparently, the pair of them thought they had it sussed. On the pretext she was walking her poodle, she’d nip round to Peter’s. The client never dreamt his wife was up to no good with Adland’s bad boy. Then again, the fact her pedigree pooch was tied to the lamp-post outside his house when it got run over was a bit of a giveaway.

  Now, none of us can take our eyes off the film. Judging by the tasteless decor, gold wallpaper and a g
ilt mirror on the ceiling, it was shot in Peter’s bedroom. But how the tape came to be in the machine is anyone’s guess.

  Peter is admiring his technique, cocking his head from side to side, appreciating his performance from all angles. I’m laughing so much, I’m crying. This is the most fun I’ve had since Adam bought me a whole tin of Quality Street for Christmas. Josh, exasperated by my prurience, quickly ejects the tape before handing it to Peter as if it were nuclear waste. Peter looks all set to take a bow but Josh shoots him a look of such disgust it even permeates Peter’s hide. He settles for putting the tape in his briefcase, doubtless to enjoy later in the privacy of his own bedroom, his finger firmly on the ‘pause’ button.

  Josh demands Peter’s secretary tracks down the correct tape. I take advantage of the ensuing mayhem to have a sandwich. Thanks, Peter. This is the closest we will ever come to doing lunch but that’s fine by me. Poached salmon or brie and grape? I can’t decide. Before I make my move, Peter’s secretary sashays in with another cassette. She bends down to put it in the machine and all the men in the room lean to the side at a ninety degree angle to watch her. They quickly sit up straight just before she gets up and four pairs of eyes follow her out of the room.

  Peter’s impromptu performance is engrained on my brain. Whenever I try and think of something lovely, Alan Ferguson or eating cake with Adam, there’s Peter’s peccadillo. I’m scarred for life. That could constitute an industrial injury - perhaps I can get counselling on expenses.

  ‘Okay. Let’s try again,’ says Josh attempting to restore order as he switches on the video player.

  It’s a commercial for High-Pro hair mousse. I’m ahead of the game. We’re pitching for High-Pro. I just might win this one. I feign interest in the ad but it’s so bad I’d almost prefer to watch Peter perform again. The ad opens with a disturbingly energetic girl gyrating about the screen shaking her big moussed-up hair to the sounds of a sanitised punk rock track. She ends by thrusting a giant phallus at the camera. On closer inspection I realise it is a can of High-Pro. The words ‘A Hair-Raising New Idea!!’ appear along the bottom of the screen in big type. And, in case you nip out to make a cup of tea and miss it, the voice-over helpfully shouts the line so loudly you’re bound to hear it, even over the noise of the kettle.

  ‘Total crap so it won’t be difficult to beat,’ smirks Peter, still thrilled by his moment in the spotlight.

  Pompously, Josh reads us the brief. Out loud, word for word. This isn’t a briefing; this is story-time. For a moment I’m back in the fuggy atmosphere of my classroom, the one that smelt of wee and furniture polish, listening to my teacher, Sister Mary Francis.

  ‘Sorry, Ella, did we wake you up?’ asks Josh, his educated drawl clotted with sarcasm.

  I sit bolt upright and pray he doesn’t ask me anything. The last thing I remember seeing was a close-up of Peter’s rear view. Now, it sounds like he’s talking out of it.

  ‘I think we’re all singing off the same hymn sheet so we just need some awesome ideas to run up the flag-pole and see who salutes.’

  That’s a full house in Bullshit Bingo. Now I know how Peter Richards justifies his mega-buck salary.

  I wait for everyone to leave and then help myself to the sandwiches curling unappetisingly at the edges. Pudding consists of two biscuits, like bars of chocolate with a thin layer of shortbread underneath, Adam’s favourites. Heaven.

  I’m reluctant to present my High-Pro ideas to Peter. After all, I’m only here because he thinks I’ll have sex with him. Perhaps I should show my work to Steve in the hope he likes it enough to hire me. Then again my salary pays my mortgage. And Mum’s rent. More importantly, there’s no guarantee Steve will want me. I stick with the devil I know.

  Peter leans across his desk and views me suspiciously.

  ‘High-Pro ideas? Already? You can’t have anything worth looking at. I’ve only just briefed you. I want stuff that’s right, not rushed. Oh yes, grab your Filofax and let’s put a date in for our Little Arrangement.’

  He leans back in his chair, legs apart, hands resting on his thighs. I stare at the chair, willing it to topple over. Please, oh, please.

  ‘I had a thought in the meeting, just wondered if you think it’s worth developing?’ I say, approaching his desk.

  ‘Show me,’ he demands.

  I quickly fan out the sheets across the smoked glass.

  ‘Think it’s on the right lines?’ I ask.

  I shift from foot to foot, hoping he’ll like it.

  ‘You’re a girl and this is hair gunk so you’ve got a head-start,’ he says, the corners of his mouth twitching like they do when he thinks he’s struck advertising gold. ‘Hey, ‘Head-Start’ is a great slogan. It could work for High-Pro. See what you can do with it.’

  I can bin it, that’s what I can do with it. Peter clicks his fingers at me. ‘We might have a brief coming in for cough syrup, another one right up your street.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re a woman.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s for kids.’

  ‘I don’t have any.’

  ‘You must want them, you’re a girl.’

  ‘Do you like this?’ I ask forcing him to focus on the work.

  He stares into the distance, his eyes wide and his pupils dilated.

  ‘Every woman I know wants babies. My babies. They’d have looks and talent, a rare and winning combination. But I’m not getting tied down. No way. That’s why I’m splitting with my wife.’

  No, I want to tell him, your wife is divorcing you because she got tired of you playing the field and decided to have some fun herself. She had such a blast; she left you.

  Reluctantly, he stops talking about himself for long enough to review the work. He flicks through the ideas, giving each one no more than a second of his time. He screws up his face like he’s in pain. Oh no, he’s not having a heart attack. Not now, we’ve got too much to do. It could be a delayed reaction to his sex-tape coming to light. I thought he was playing it cool earlier, obviously suppressing his anxiety. Don’t collapse on me, Peter, please. I can’t give you mouth to mouth or you’ll get the wrong idea and I’ll be starring in your next porn flick.

  ‘Is this another one of your jokes?’ he asks tossing aside the layouts.

  ‘No. I want to win this.’

  ‘We’re pitching for a million pound account on Friday against That-Little- Shit Steve Winter and you show me this? Go home and do the washing- up or whatever it is you women do all day,’ he rails.

  ‘I don’t understand. What’s wrong with it?’ I ask warily, never having seen him quite so angry before.

  ‘What’s right with it?’ he rages sweeping the work onto the floor.

  I see ornaments, porcelain figurines of little girls in headscarves wearing simple skirts and blouses lying on the floor, hands severed from arms and heads broken off necks. And I hear Mum screaming and crying in disbelief that her husband could, with one swift action, destroy her beloved collection.

  ‘The work’s good, Peter.’ I tell him as I snatch up my work and leave the room. ‘You should be pleased we’ve got something to present at such short notice.’

  He can’t treat me like his whipping boy. He needs me. I work. He shirks. But, he has the power to keep me on or erase me from the payroll. He can do whatever he wants. Just like Dad. Mum stayed with him, clinging on for crumbs, hoping he would change back into the man she fell in love with.

  If I walk now, I’ll go back to where I came from. Nowhere. And it’s easier to find a job when you’ve already got one, another of life’s little ironies. I’ll work for CBA for as long as it works for me. After all, I am Ella. I am not my mother. I don’t have to put up with Peter. No amount of money is worth that. But before I walk, I need to know where I’m going.

  Chapter four

  The idea is king

  ‘Hello Steve, it’s Ella, Adam’s friend. Just confirming our meeting tonight?’ I whisper anxiously into the receiver,
trying not to be overheard.

  ‘Just about to call you; I’m going to have to cancel.’

  His voice is aloof. He has better things to do than look at my work. But this is my opportunity to get out from under Peter.

  ‘Shame, I’ve got some interesting stuff I’d like to show you.’

  ‘If it’s good, it’ll keep,’ he says.

  He is flip, dismissive. I imagine him leaning against a huge black lacquered desk, flicking through this week’s copy of Campaign checking out the shots of himself, posed on the iconic spiral staircase in his agency’s atrium alongside yet another report detailing yet another million pound win. He has had plenty of lucky breaks. I just need this one.

  ‘Limited offer – today only,’ I tell him.