by Joan Ellis
I can’t let him turn me down. Not now. I coil the flex through my fingers as I wait for his response.
‘Okay. I’m hooked. Drink in The Fox in five?’
‘See you there,’ I say putting the phone down.
I grab my best High-Pro ad and put it in my handbag before re-applying my lippy and galloping downstairs.
When I arrive at the pub, I spot a tall, thin expensively-dressed man waving at me from the bar. He is wearing round, yellow-rimmed glasses, the designer logo etched on the sides.
‘Hello, Ella. I’m Steve.’
‘Hi, how did you know it was me?’
‘You’re the only girl in here. Drink?’
He laughs and catches the barman’s eye.
‘White wine, please,’ I tell him.
Steve orders two large glasses and hands over a fiver, telling the barman to keep the change. When the drinks arrive we look each other in the eye and say ‘cheers’. We laugh. We talk. We laugh some more. It feels like a date. I feel on top of the world. I’ve only known him two minutes and already I’m planning what to buy him for Christmas, silver cufflinks in the shape of aeroplanes. ‘High-flier’. Oh no, I’ve been working with Peter for too long. I hope mind-reading isn’t one of Steve’s many talents.
Steve’s teeth are big and white, his skin golden brown. Is that a smear of foundation on his shirt collar? Surely not?
‘You come highly recommended, young lady. Adam really rates you,’ he says smiling. ‘He’s a good bloke.’
‘Yes, yes he is,’ I say remembering the time he did my shopping for me for four weeks after I’d broken my arm and refused to let me pay for any of it.
‘How’s the wine?’ he asks.
‘Nice,’ I hear myself say. ‘Really nice.’
‘Nice’? I’m trying to convince one of the greatest Creative Directors in the business to hire me as a writer and the best I can come up with is ‘nice’? And I said it twice. Not nice.
‘Come on then, let’s see these awesome ideas.’
He looks expectant, like I’m about to show him the meaning of life. I’m pretty sure it’s chocolate but judging by the way he has drained his glass, it’s white wine all the way for him. I thrust my hand into my bag and take out the crumpled piece of paper. Embarrassed, I smooth it out with the flat of my hand on the bar.
‘Steve, I probably shouldn’t be showing you this; it’s for High-Pro.’ His eyes widen.
‘My first thought, probably not great, but...’
That’s right, Ella, you sell it to him. Who in their right mind can say ‘no’ to that pitch?
‘Mega!’ he exclaims. ‘Love it.’
‘Really?’ I squeal trying to swallow the incredulity in my voice. Steve Winter likes my work. This is it. There is life after CBA.
‘Peter thinks it sucks,’ I tell him.
‘If he hates it, I love it. The guy’s a dinosaur. None of the kids in my creative department have even heard of him.’
‘He has refused to show it in the pitch.’
He looks at the work, then back at me for a moment longer than is comfortable.
‘I’ll present it,’ he says decisively, taking another mouthful of wine.
‘What?’
‘I’ll pitch this to High-Pro.’
Peter may not like my idea but I like Steve’s. Shame it’s not moral or ethical. It’s probably not even legal. And when Peter finds out, I’ll lose my job. I can’t risk it.
‘Thanks, Steve but I don’t think so.’
I fold up the layout and slide it back into my bag.
‘If we win the business, I’ll hire you. How much do you want?’
We all have our price. I wonder what mine is? I am tempted by his offer but the stakes are too high. I shake my head.
‘No, thanks, Steve.’
‘Why are you so loyal to that bastard? He’ll stab you in the back first chance he gets. Did Adam tell you what he did to me?’
I nod.
‘And you know Peter was gunning for Adam too? Peter’s a leach. He did one half-decent ad back in the 70’s and he probably ripped that off from some junior art-director. He has been living off it ever since.’
‘Yes, the trouble is the board love him. As long as he keeps the clients happy, they’re happy.’
He turns away and orders two more white wines. The barman sets them down on the polished wooden counter. Steve looks uneasy about his outburst. He plays with the knot in his tie and begins to calm down as he talks about what’s going on in the industry. We have a lively exchange about new campaigns. Suddenly, he stops and looks intently at me. I don’t like the silence and start to gabble, trying to appear bright and witty when inside I’m still the kid wearing someone else’s knickers. Mum couldn’t afford to buy new clothes and took to shopping in Oxfam. She picked me out a crocheted bolero. A bolero? I didn’t even know where Spain was, let alone want to dress in their national costume.
I should try to impress Steve, not blame my shortcomings on the Balearic islands. Before I can convince him he needs me, he leaps up.
‘Gotta go. Let’s hope one of my lot has come up with something on High- Pro or I’m looking at an all-nighter. I’ll give you a bell and we’ll sort a date.’
‘A what?’ I ask my voice high-pitched with excitement.
‘A date for you to show me your portfolio, yeah?’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
What am I playing at? This is Steven Winter, Creative Director of KO’d. He might, if I stop behaving like a complete fool, offer me a job but he certainly doesn’t want to ask me out. I might turn up in a bolero.
‘Think about what I said, Ella. You’ve got my number. Call me.’
He puts his hand on my hip and goes to kiss my cheek just as I turn my head. His lips meet mine, fleetingly. I laugh, embarrassed but oddly delighted. He smiles and briefly touches my forearm. Charming, but I can’t help thinking a handshake would be more appropriate.
When I get back to the agency, Peter is reclining on the leather sofa, in his lair. I can see cigarette smoke snaking through his open door. He spots me. Damn.
‘Ella?’
Tentatively, I go in. Fortunately, his mood seems to have lifted. I note the empty crystal tumbler at his feet and the half-drunk bottle of whiskey on his desk.
‘Sit down,’ he says patting the space next to him.
I perch tentatively on the edge. For some inexplicable reason, I find myself sympathising with him – after all it’s his neck on the line if we lose this pitch. It has to be right. I should cut him some slack. Then, I catch sight of the large silver-framed photo on his desk, a picture of his loved ones. It’s Peter in his Porsche. I stop feeling sorry for him.
‘Peter, I don’t think you should have spoken to me the way you did. My ideas are on brief and …’
‘Forget about all that. I’ve cracked it,’ he declares.
He spreads his work out between his well-shod feet, planted a yard apart. Smug is Peter’s default setting. He seems to have added deluded to the mix. The work is all style and no substance, just pretty girls with big hair. I’m not known for my diplomacy.
‘Where are you going with this, Peter?’ I ask.
I’ve heard Josh use this one, many times. When he says it, it sounds neutral and honeyed like he’s reserving judgment and is genuinely interested as to how the idea might pan out. When I say it, it sounds like, ‘I can’t believe you’re actually getting paid for this crap.’
‘Where am I going? I’ve arrived,’ he says repeatedly stabbing at each advertisement with his forefinger. ‘Look!’
I look but can’t see much.
‘Sex sells. Even if you are too uptight to admit it, Ella.’
Peter would use sex to flog lettuces to tortoises if they could afford them.
‘Darren’s drawing up my layouts as we speak,’ he declares defiantly. ‘Obviously, we’re keeping the strap-line, ‘High-Pro – A Hair-Raising New Idea’ because the client loves it.’
&nb
sp; Does he? Are you sure? If he loves a bad pun so much and is delighted to be the laughing stock of the hair and beauty industry, why would he put his business up for pitch? Why doesn’t he just stay with the agency that produced the dross? I imagine he wants some fresh thinking for his million, a flash of brilliance that makes everyone with hair want his products. Peter glares at me, waiting for me to heap praise on his big head.
‘We know that for a fact, do we Peter?’ I ask sounding all sarcastic. Peter sounds all bombastic.
‘Yes, we do, as a matter of fact. The Planning Director did some research among the target audience.’
What? Mr Planning asked Mrs Planning? Great, we’re basing a million pound hair-mousse pitch on a sample of one. A woman with no hair. Poor Mrs Planning is completely bald, her alopecia no doubt brought on by the stress of being married to Mr Planning. A man so anal, he insists on sitting in the same seat at every board meeting, next to Mr Media.
‘I do not have to justify my decision to you,’ Peter booms.‘I am the Creative Director. You are just my copywriter.’
‘I thought we were supposed to be a team,’ I say incredulously.
‘Can you manage to write the copy or shall I brief someone else while you pop home and run the vacuum round?’
I stare at him in disbelief. What was it Steve called him? ‘A dinosaur’.
‘And this time, no funny business,’ he says fixing me with a look. ‘Don’t want you arranging the first letter of the first word on every line to spell out some obscenity.’
As if. I’ve got a much better idea. I go back to my office and dial Steve’s number.
‘You can present my High-Pro stuff,’ I tell him defiantly.
Actions speak louder than words and this is me telling Peter enough is enough.
‘You sure?’ he asks unable to conceal his glee.
‘Yeah, go for it.’
With any luck, it’ll win the pitch and I’ll land a job at KO’d. Knock-out.
‘Shall I fax it over?’ I ask him.
‘No need, I can remember it.’
I pause then say quickly, ‘If it wins, you said there’s a chance of a job at your place, didn’t you?’
He takes so long to respond I think we’ve been cut off.
‘Whoa, easy tiger! Let’s get the pitch under our belts first.’
I bridle at the condescending comment. I’m not sure I like where this is going.
‘We need to be clear,’ I tell him coldly.
‘Your call, either I present it. Or Peter doesn’t.’
Now I see how Steven Winter got to where he’s got. In less than ten words, Mr Adland has persuaded me to do what he wants.
‘Fine, present it. But remember it’s my idea,’ I say. ‘At least you won’t have any competition from Peter. His stuff sucks and he expects me to write the copy for it.’
He’s not listening.
‘Awesome. Thanks, Ella. Gotta go. Gotta pitch to win,’ he says and hangs up.
I put the phone down and stare at it. What the hell have I done? I’ve just handed Steve Winter my best work, an idea he believes will win the pitch. Let’s hope he has a shred of integrity woven into his bespoke suit and honours his agreement to hire me if it’s successful. This is my golden opportunity. I should be presenting the concept myself, not giving it away to the first bloke that asks. Ouch! That sounds familiar. Don’t go there, Ella. Focus on work. Reluctantly, I churn out the copy for Peter’s ad.
‘I’m off now,’ he says, putting his head round the door. ‘Leave the work on my secretary’s desk; I’ll check it in the morning. Oh and I’ve unplugged the fax machine and locked it in my office, just in case you think it’s hilarious to give the client a sneak preview. I know your tricks – still haven’t forgotten Kitty Rescue. You’re a very naughty girl. I like that.’
He approaches my desk and stands behind me. My body tenses. I feel him put his hands on my shoulders, very gently. He is so close I can smell his breath. Whiskey mixed with nicotine. His lips brush my ear.
‘I was going to wait for you tonight,’ he whispers urgently. ‘Thought we could have some fun. Enjoy our Little Arrangement. But I got a better offer. Night-night.’
He spins my chair round to face him, laughs and walks off. The pungent stench of his oh-so-expensive aftershave lingers in the air long after I hear his Porsche roar off. It smells like he’s still in the room, watching my every move, waiting to ponce, I mean pounce.
My fingers shake on the keys. Somehow I manage to finish the copy. I read it through. It’s not good enough. I rip it out and put a fresh piece of paper in the roller and rewrite it. I check it again and spot a couple of spelling errors. I paint correcting fluid over the mistakes and blow on it to encourage it to dry quickly before retyping the words. Now it’s as good as I can make it. I remove it from the typewriter and leave it on his secretary’s desk.
I give Adam a quick call before I leave. It’s later than I thought; he’s already left the office. I feel a pang of disappointment when his answerphone machine clicks in and I have to settle for leaving a message.
‘Thanks for the tip-off. Steve was really nice. Ringing him was a good move. If you fancy breakfast at Pat Vals this week, let me know, my treat. Bye and thanks again.’
Chapter five
Be careful who you cross on the way up; you might meet them on the way down
Swinging by KO’d to see how Steve is getting on with High-Pro could be fun but I must go over to Mum’s. She sees my signature on cheques more often than she sees me. When I’m not too busy I go as often as I can but Peter isn’t keen on his staff having a life.
I hurry towards Oxford Circus tube, step in a puddle and curse; my new black leather boots will be ruined. They are sky-high, with a price-tag to match but worth it as they make me feel a million dollars. It’s raining hard now. Luckily, I can run in heels and just make the station entrance before another deluge. A crowd has gathered at the top of the stairs. Everyone wants to get down into the station but London Transport staff are anxious to avoid overcrowding on the platforms and are only letting a few people through at a time. A woman shakes her umbrella, I turn my head to avoid the spray and lose my balance.
Falling forward, I drop over the edge of the top stair. Sliding down headfirst, I grate the side of my face like a lump of Parmesan cheese against the serrated metal edges of the steps. A thick fog descends and envelops my head. I lie on the floor, my grazed cheek grateful for the cold comfort of the concrete. If my friends could see me now. What friends? I spend more time with Peter than anyone else. I must get a life. No, I must. I am about to die. Blood pools like gravy in front of my eyes. I’m no doctor (much to Mum’s disappointment) but even I know this is not good. Oxford Circus can’t be the end of the line for me. Then again, I’m already six foot under; it will save on the burial costs. But I can’t die - I’ve got a pitch to do.
‘Help me,’ I murmur.
No-one comes. I am alone. My mouth fills with a metallic-tasting liquid. Then nothing.
When I open my eyes I am in a wheelchair being carried up the stairs by two men. I’ll die of embarrassment if the brain haemorrhage doesn’t kill me first. My eyelids fall like shutters, blotting out reality. If I can’t see it, it’s not happening.
Now, I am in bed with a stranger looking deep into my eyes. He’s a fast- worker, obviously not a London Underground employee. He snaps on a pair of rubber gloves, the sort doctors wear when they examine you in places you don’t want to be examined. And I thought the evening couldn’t get any worse.
‘What is your name?’ he asks gently.
‘Ella.’
He’s already got me into bed; it’s a bit late for pleasantries.
Plastic tubes, red blankets, a man in green. Why am I in an ambulance? I struggle to remember.
‘Is Peter okay?’ I ask anxiously as I picture him drunk with his Porsche keys in his hand.
My head feels heavy, full of pain.
‘Peter? Who’s Peter?’ the
man in green asks.
‘Peter Richards.’
‘You were alone in the station when we got to you. Now, Ella, are you going to be a good girl and come to the hospital with me?’
He talks slowly like he’s considering having me sectioned. I can save him the paperwork. I work in advertising. It’s like an asylum but with more stylish jackets.
‘I must go and see Mum. And I’ve got a presentation in the morning,’ I say struggling to sit up.