I Am Ella, Buy Me

by Joan Ellis

  ‘Don’t move, please. What is the Queen’s name?’ he asks.

  The man’s a fool. He should apply for a job at CBA. He’d walk it.

  ‘Ella, look at me. Can you tell me the Queen’s name?’

  If this is his idea of a chat-up line, he’s got a lot to learn. Oh I get it; it’s a trick question.

  ‘Elizabeth, Elizabeth the second!’ I tell him triumphantly.

  You don’t catch me out that easily. I’m not some lunatic imagining I live in the sixteenth century with the Virgin Queen still on the throne. He observes me closely but says nothing. Perhaps he wants to know her surname. Does she even have one? I don’t know. Did we do this at school? No, but we did study the war poets and our English teacher insisted, ‘The Naming of Parts’ by Wilfred Owen was about sex when it was clearly about a rifle. That’s the sort of teacher we had back in the ‘70’s.

  ‘Slough,’ I shout triumphantly. ‘No, Windsor. Her surname is Windsor.’ Not satisfied with that, he’s got another brain-teaser for me.

  ‘Who is the Prime Minister?’

  ‘Maggie Thatcher milk-snatcher,’ I chant.

  He looks at me, notes down what I’ve said and adds a few comments of his own in the margin. No doubt, ‘Delusional drunk.’

  I try to twist my head to read what he has written. He angles his pad away from me.

  ‘Margaret Thatcher, that’s right. You caused quite a commotion earlier, the station had to be closed because of you, young lady.’

  Patronizing and delusional, he could give Peter a run for his money.

  ‘I’m going now. I’m fine.’

  He shows me my reflection in a hand-mirror.

  ‘You’ll have a real shiner there tomorrow,’ he says.

  ‘Is there anyone you’d like me to contact for you?’ he asks.

  Adam’s the only person I can think of. At least, he’ll bring cake. But, it’s too late to bother him.

  Much to my disappointment, the ambulance-driver doesn’t deem my case serious enough to sound the siren. We arrive at A&E, unannounced; he checks me in and leaves.

  Cries, like wailing bird song fill the air and people who look like they might expire at any moment, fill the seats. Others, who have just popped in to shelter from the rain buy tea and Mars Bars from the vending machines. A middle-aged man is sitting on the floor shouting randomly at anyone who will listen.

  ‘Four bleedin’ hours I’ve been here. I’m dying.’

  ‘Ella David. Room two.’

  I stand up quickly. Too quickly. My head feels like it is filled with slow- setting cement. I shuffle along the corridor, shielding my eyes from the fluorescent lights. A short, sweaty man who looks like he would be happier flipping burgers for a living, leaps out of a side room.

  ‘I’ve got a junior doctor here, observing. Don’t mind, do you?’ Burger Man asks, indicating a young woman in a stiff white coat fiddling self- consciously with her stethoscope.

  No point objecting, I just want to get this over with.

  ‘You sustained quite a blow,’ Burger Man tells me. ‘It’s possible you have a head injury.’

  He looks up and I half expect him to ask if I’d like onions and fries.

  I feel a bit sick and sit down. Burger Man holds up my left eye-lid with his fat thumb, and shines a deceptively powerful light in my face before attacking my wounds with a ball of damp cotton wool. I flinch. It stings like hell.

  ‘Been drinking?’ he asks.

  I shake my head and the room spins.

  ‘Grab her, Jan! We’ve got a fainter.’

  The doctor steps forward, grips both my arms and sits me back on the chair, like a naughty child. She makes no attempt to conceal her contempt for me, a lush who fell down the stairs and is now squandering valuable NHS resources. I don’t blame her. She didn’t spend seven years at medical school for this.

  ‘Anyone we can contact for you?’ she asks abruptly. I feel worse than ever. I need a friend.

  ‘Adam,’ I say automatically. She blinks. Twice.

  ‘Give me his number and I’ll get someone to call him,’ she says.

  I lift my head slowly and look at the clock. He would come, I know he would but he’s got work in the morning. And there’s nothing he can do. This is one time when the restorative properties of chocolate cake aren’t going to cut it.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get a cab.’

  Burger Man takes a closer look at my wound and screws up his eyes.

  ‘You’ll probably need a scan but you’re going to have to wait; we’re very busy as you can see.’

  Thanks to him, scorching the back of my retina, I can’t see a thing.

  ‘I’ll get you into see the consultant as soon as possible,’ he tells me scribbling down some more notes.

  I thought he was the doctor. If he’s not, is he the Burger Man, a ketchup- wielding weirdo who lied about having a PhD and got to play God for the night? He tells me to sit in the waiting room. I don’t have time for this. Using the pay-phone, I call a taxi and leave.

  When I get home, I avoid the bathroom mirror and head for bed. Right now, I would love someone to take care of me, give me a cuddle and make me a cup of sweet, strong tea to drink through a straw. I’ve never felt more alone. Work has enveloped my life. Adland never sleeps. It learned that from Maggie Thatcher. Apparently, she survives on just four hours a night. I read somewhere lack of sleep drives you crazy. Who in their right mind would want to spend time with me? A girl obsessed with advertising. It’s less about what I am selling and more about what it lets me buy. Peace of mind for Mum. While I’m paying her rent, she’s free from money worries for the first time in her life. I owe her this. She gave me so much. And gave up even more. Having lost my home and my Dad, I clung to her, stifling any other relationship in her life. Now I know how she must have felt; the closest thing I have to a boyfriend is Marmalade.

  I wake with a start, to the familiar buzz of my alarm, having dribbled on the pillow. And I wonder why I’m still single. I go to the bathroom, wash my face and rub it vigorously with a towel. I almost pass out. The mirror shows the left-hand side of my face is a muddle of purple and blue. It looks like someone’s been at it with a potato-peeler. No amount of make- up is going to mask this mess. But staying at home is not an option. My body is stiff. With difficulty, I put on my black suit, the one with the huge shoulder pads, and set off. I pass a couple of schoolboys. One points at me and gurns. The other laughs. Undeterred, I slowly make my way up the hill through Queen’s Wood to Highgate tube station. At the entrance, I see the deep stairwell and shudder. Gripping the handrail tightly, I walk gingerly down. People tut and push past, anxious to get to work, eager to make money. I stand on the escalator letting others run down the left hand-side. Reaching the bowels of the station, I take up pole position on the platform, where I know the double doors of the train will slide open onto the first carriage and I will be perfectly placed to get on and grab a seat. I don’t want to be jostled and hang back, letting the first two trains, packed with upright, uptight bodies go. Eventually, I arrive at the agency later than usual but still in time for the presentation.

  Peter’s secretary looks at my face, puts her hand over her mouth and runs off. Peter strides out of his office, wearing a hand-made suit and a made-to-measure smile.

  ‘Good night, was it Ella?’

  ‘The stairs at the tube were wet and I slipped.’

  ‘Always knew you were a lush. Well, we can’t have you in the pitch looking like an inebriated tramp so just write me a creative rationale, keep it loose, nothing too detailed - make me sound good. Should be easy enough. Then you can go home. Don’t want you putting everyone off their croissants,’ he says.

  ‘I’m here to present.’

  He laughs, long and throaty. I can see his fillings, mercury like bullets between his back teeth.

  ‘Listen, sweetheart, if you didn’t want to sleep with me, you only had to say. Obviously you’re out of the running with me until that face has hea
led. It would be like bonking Quasimodo.’

  He makes a gagging motion. He is the least funny man I know. But I might have the last laugh. If he finds me having a face like a pizza a turn- off, I hope it takes forever to heal.

  ‘Peter, I am going to the presentation. I’m part of the team.’

  I step forwards. He bars my way, wagging his nicotine-stained forefinger in my face and scrutinizing my bruises.

  ‘Did you throw yourself downstairs deliberately? Try and top yourself because I rejected you the other night?’

  He laughs.

  The bastard. How dare he? I would give anything not to be beholden to him. But he has the money and the power. If I tell him where to stick his job, I’ll be the one stuck where the sun don’t shine.

  ‘Ella, I pay you to do what I tell you to do. Creative rationale as quick as you like.’

  He calls the shots and I can’t afford to be fired but something snaps inside me.

  ‘I don’t feel well. I’m going home.’

  I push past him and go to the kitchen for some water. I hold the cold glass against my forehead. It eases the pain momentarily. When I come back Peter’s secretary is watching me closely.

  ‘Ella, your driver is here, white Mercedes at the back of the building,’ she tells me looking at my face. ‘Are you okay? That looks painful.’

  ‘Few bruises, nose bleed, nothing serious,’ I reassure her.

  ‘Good,’ she says.

  She turns away and starts typing, her slender fingers flying over the keys. She must be doing a hundred words per minute. I’ve never seen her move so fast. I’m impressed.

  Laughter is coming from the boardroom. I can’t resist putting my ear to the door.

  ‘Sorry, you’re not allowed in there. Peter says you’ll frighten the client,’ she tells me, clearly embarrassed to be the messenger.

  ‘Fine by me. It’s a lousy campaign anyway,’ I shoot back.

  Just then Darren appears, carrying a pile of slickly drawn layouts.

  ‘Here’s the High-Pro stuff. I’ve made the logo bigger and changed the typeface, like Peter asked.’

  Curious to see just how bad the finished ads really are, I take a quick look.

  No, it can’t be. It is. It’s my idea. The one Peter said was rubbish. Now, he’s about to take the credit for it. No wonder he didn’t want me in the presentation. The scumbag.

  ‘Please don’t touch Peter’s work,’ says his secretary snatching the boards up.

  ‘Peter’s work?’ I ask incredulously. ‘The only thing he’s any good at his stealing other people’s ideas.’

  She wiggles past me into the boardroom. I want to run in after her and, like in the movies, leap on the table and unmask Peter as a fraud but I am not convinced the glass top would take my weight. Then I remember the Christmas party when it supported two people, one of whom was Peter. Perhaps I could burst into song, a real show-stopper about how a no-good, down and dirty guy did me wrong and strut about pointing at my esteemed Creative Director. Josh would try and have me thrown out but the client would prevent him, seeing me for a gutsy-girl-made-good and sweep me into his arms. Everyone would applaud. And Peter would be forced to flee the agency in disgrace, never to darken its doors again.

  ‘Bet you’re not getting much action with that,’ says Darren eyeing my black eye.

  ‘My face will heal but you’ll always be a creep.’ It hurts to talk but that was worth the pain. Now I must phone Steve before it’s too late.

  ‘Sorry, Steve, you can’t present my idea. Peter is pitching it to the client as we speak.’

  ‘You’re kidding! It’s all I’ve got. They’ll be here in an hour.’

  ‘How do you think I feel? It’s my idea and …’

  ‘Gotta go,’ he says, hanging-up.

  ‘Ella, your cab’s waiting. Hurry up,’ calls Peter’s secretary.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. I want to be here when the presentation ends.

  I want to see Peter’s face when he sees mine.’

  Peter may have stolen my work but I am going to make him pay. Just because he’s a lying bastard doesn’t mean I have to take it lying down.

  Chapter six

  Know your strategy

  At ten past twelve the board room door swings opens and six men, two High-Pro clients, Peter, Josh, Mr Planning and Mr Media, gush out on a tidal wave of testosterone. They talk too much, laugh too loudly and shake hands too firmly. Peter loosens his tie with one hand and slaps the senior client on the back with the other. I’ve never seen him look so thrilled with himself. Then he sees me.

  ‘Go home,’ he hisses out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Did the client like your work, Peter?’ I ask sarcastically.

  Mr Media and Mr Planning walk slowly down the spiral staircase, pausing to listen in. Josh pushes past them.

  ‘Peter, if your secretary can get our coats, we’ll be on our way,’ says the client, pointing at me.

  ‘No problem, Mike,’ he tells him before turning to me. ‘Ella, fetch the coats.’

  Everyone gets one moment, a point in time when they can do or say exactly what they like. One moment to savour before their world comes crashing down. This is Peter’s. He just doesn’t know it yet.

  ‘Enjoy the presentation, Mike?’ I ask ignoring his side-kick who is hovering nervously at his elbow.

  ‘Yes, very good but we do have another agency to see before lunch so if we can have our coats…’

  Peter steals my idea and the client robs me of my dignity.

  ‘I am not Peter’s secretary,’ I assert. ‘I am Ella. I am his writer. I worked on this campaign.’

  ‘Really?’ Mike asks as if I’ve just told him I’ve seen the Tooth Fairy.

  He turns away to face Peter, ‘So you think you can bring the commercial in under budget?’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ says Peter.

  With nothing to present, Steve Winter is out of the running. That means High-Pro is as good as ours. I cannot stand back and let Peter take all the glory. No way. That one idea has not only won us the business, it could win me an award, promoting me to the same league as Alan Ferguson. Time to take control.

  ‘Mike, let’s do dinner. Peter, ask your secretary to book a table for three at Le Caprice tonight.’

  The client’s eyes widen with greed as he anticipates antipasto and aperitifs. Peter looks like he’s going to vomit.

  ‘Le Caprice! Fantastic! I’ve always wanted to eat there. Can we say about seven thirty?’

  Love at first bite. One mouthful of nouvelle cuisine from one of London’s hippest restaurants and he’ll be eating out of my hand.

  Not wanting to disappoint the client, Peter reluctantly nods at his secretary to make the call. He walks Mike and his shadow to the lift. The doors close on the two men and Peter and I watch the display as it counts down the floors – three, two, one, fire!

  ‘How dare you? Who the hell do you think you are? I won the pitch and you turn up and jeopardise everything,’ screams Peter his shoulder pads heaving.

  ‘But it’s my idea. You told me it was crap then present it as your own. You’re amoral. At least offer me a pay rise, don’t just steal it.’

  ‘Listen, Ella. I worked my arse off in there. I don’t know what Josh was playing at but I was the one who turned the whole thing round. I persuaded the client to buy the idea.’

  ‘The point is you rubbished my work and then took all the glory, like you always do.’

  ‘Really? As I remember it, I briefed you, you couldn’t crack it and I saved the day. And if you try and challenge me, believe me, I will wheel out the CBA legal guns and point them at you. Comprendez?’

  ‘I no speakie bullshit.’

  But behind my bravado, I know Peter and his cronies could see to it that I never work in advertising again.

  ‘And, if you don’t like the way I do things...’

  ‘What, Peter? You’ll fire me?’ I ask, my tone reaching a dangerous level of defiance. ‘You nee
d me to progress the idea and come up with next award-winner.’

  A flicker of realisation crosses his face.

  ‘Look, Ella,’ he says, backtracking, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. ‘This is all very simple; we came up with the same idea, at the same time.’

  ‘That’s not what happened and you know it. You haven’t had an idea in years.’

  He takes a step towards me, his voice low and menacing.