by Joan Ellis
‘Get that f****** thing off my car, you bitch.’
Picking up his new electric typewriter, he hurled it through the window. Fortunately for her, he had forgotten it was plugged in so the wretched thing just dangled by its flex. Had it been a manual the traffic warden would be dead and Peter would be serving time for manslaughter. Progress can be a mixed blessing.
Not surprisingly, this tale has become an advertising legend. One version has Peter perched on the window ledge threatening to jump on her if she doesn’t throw down her pen. As usual the board tolerated his outburst, reluctant to upset their golden boy, but they did refuse to replace his typewriter. So he just hired another secretary. One to make coffee and one to sit on his knee and take things down.
I carry the box awkwardly along the corridor and set it down outside the toilet where I disappear into my cubicle and bolt the door.
‘Mum, I’m sorry,’ I whisper up at the window. ‘Don’t know what I’m going to do now. Find work where there isn’t any, I suppose.’
Someone has scrawled the words ‘Peter is a perv’ on the wall behind the cistern. Lest we are in any doubt, the word ‘True’ is etched into the paintwork next to it. I come out and catch sight of my face, still purple and puffy, in the mirror. My water-proof mascara has run, even that disappoints. I pick up my box and am half way down the stairs when I bump into Darren.
‘Alright?’ he asks stupidly.
I may have changed my sheets but no amount of water can wash away the memory that silts up my brain.
‘You shouldn’t have got into my bed,’ I tell him, my face hot with embarrassment.
‘Someone had to stop you choking on your own vomit.’
‘You should’ve slept on the sofa.’
‘Forget it, I have,’ he laughs again and runs upstairs.
I sink down on a step where I curl up like a frozen prawn, pausing for a moment before going into reception. The only person I want to say ‘good- bye’ to is Wally but he’ll be at home now, sleeping.
I spot the telephone on reception and call Adam.
‘Adam? It’s me. I’ve been fired.’ He recognises my voice instantly.
‘No way? Don’t worry, Ella. Looking for a job is like looking for a parking space in London, if you go round long enough, you’ll find one,’ he tells me confidently.
His optimism is contagious. He’s right, I just need to get out there and start knocking on doors.
‘Can’t Steve help?’ he asks. ‘Want me to give him a ring?’
‘No, thanks. Not exactly flavour of the month with him.’
‘Really? That reminds me. There’s a new ice-cream parlour in Leicester Square. Flavour of the month is double-chocolate-choc-chip. Meet you there in ten, my treat. I’ll be the one with the triple scoop cone.’
For once, the last thing I want to do is eat but it’ll be good to see Adam.
I rashly decide to leave CBA through the revolving door. It is going at quite a lick having just disgorged a thrusting young account executive, compelled to do everything at breakneck speed in case someone he wants to impress might be watching. I complete two and a half rotations before Mr Media joins me. What with me and my cardboard box and him and his briefcase, it’s a snug fit. He manages to escape but when I try to follow, the aperture closes and a young couple get in. They become so passionately entwined I imagine she must be pregnant by the time they spill out into the reception.
Seeing blue sky on a weekday is not something I’m familiar with. The heat is enticing people to drink lattes in pavement cafes and expose their white, pallid limbs. I don’t feel sunny. I turn right onto Old Compton Street, passing the studio where I edit, edited my commercials. The cool receptionist in her air-conditioned office, spots me through the window and waves. I smile back at her, unsure whether to go in or not. I stand on the pavement, without purpose, no longer one of the busy people who dart in and out of their shiny Soho offices.
When I was a client no request was too much trouble, be it a cappuccino from Bar Italia at ten o’clock at night or a plate of noodles from the Chinese restaurant on Brewer Street. Having cast the best actors and voice-over artists in my commercials, I would then have the privilege of directing them. They didn’t need my help to turn in award-winning performances, transforming thirty-second commercials into works of art. A wealth of talent just to sell loo cleaner, no wonder people tell me it’s a crap way to earn a living.
Unfortunately, not all the luvvies were lovely. One actress was particularly difficult. The radio commercial was for a body wash and the script required her to sing supposedly in the shower. The song was nothing more than a ditty, short and simple. But, she was having none of it, arriving at the recording with her long-suffering agent in tow.
‘Tell her I don’t sing,’ she told him to tell me.
‘She doesn’t sing,’ her agent said apologetically.
‘You can hum if you like,’ I suggested bursting into my own pathetic rendition and then laughing too loudly.
‘Tell her I don’t sing,’ she snapped.
Time was ticking by. Studios don’t come cheap and neither did she. With one eye on the clock, I had five minutes to re-write the commercial minus the song. Neither of us left the studio covered in glory that day. I hadn’t bargained on a comedienne taking herself so seriously.
Now, someone pushes past me, nudging the box and almost knocking it to the ground. I reposition it, wedging it firmly on my hip.
I watch the receptionist as she answers the phone, no doubt making another lucrative booking. She nods at me, as if to say, ‘Excuse me, this client is about to pay lots of money to rent our services by the hour.’
A young girl stands in a doorway, waiting for her client who pays very little to rent her services by the hour. She is about the same age as me but looks much older. She appears lifeless, mannequin-like, as if she has seen too much life and prefers to occupy the safe space behind her eyes. A man walks purposefully towards her. The poor girl must be wondering what he wants for his filthy lucre. If he’s anything like Peter, he’ll want her naked on a smoked glass table taking down minutes of their meeting.
I pass my favourite shop, the one selling cutting-edge, hand-tailored clothes. The trousers I am wearing cost a week’s wages but are worth it because they make my thighs look like pencils. I covet everything on display. Why bother looking? I can’t even afford to window shop. I weave through the tourists clogging China Town, past the cramped, huddled shops and restaurants smelling of pak choi and steamed duck and emerge into Leicester Square. A man takes a mouthful of a hotdog just bought from a nearby stand and immediately spits it onto the pavement. This is London where you are never more than a few feet from a rat.
Peter must be very close.
Luckily, Adam is closer, holding two tubs each stacked with three scoops of double-chocolate-choc-chip ice-cream. I could kiss him.
Chapter nine
Discover your unique selling proposition
‘That was good,’ says Adam finishing his ice-cream before I’ve even started.
I watch him eyeing up the multi-coloured tubs in the window.
‘What one next?’ he asks.
He wants to help. He can’t get me a job but he can get me a triple-nut- mocha with extra toffee sauce. I shake my head. For once, chocolate has failed to work its magic.
‘So, Steve was no help? Thought you two would hit it off.’
I know he wants another tub but because I’m not having one, he declines when the assistant hovers over the display with her scoop.
‘We did but it got messy. I wanted to play with the big boys but didn’t know the rules.’
‘There aren’t any, Ella. You were just unlucky. Next time, it’ll be your turn.’ When Adam says something, I believe it. If he told me I could drop a dress size overnight, I’d be down Oxford Street snapping up the size tens. A wave of reassurance washes over me, soothing the sickening panic.
‘I know it will but I still need to find somethin
g else fast. I can’t afford to do nothing.’
‘You’re good; you’ll be fine. I promise. If anything comes up at my place, I’ll let you know. And I’ll ask around. There are jobs out there and there’s one with your name on it.’
I smile at him. He’s the kindest person I know in the industry. He’s the kindest person I know. Full stop.
‘Meet me in town for lunch every Friday. Then, you can arrange all interviews for that day.’
‘Well, that’ll certainly make the fare worthwhile.’
‘My treat. They’re paying me silly money. The way they carry on, you’d never guess we were in a recession.’
‘Thanks, Adam.’
I know he means it. Unlike most people in this industry, who promise the earth but wouldn’t give you the dirt off their shoes.
He asks for two sample spoonful’s of vanilla bean and cherry pie and gives me the biggest one.
‘That’s nice. Like it?’ I shake my head.
‘I’m going to have to take whatever’s going, Adam. I need the money. Trouble is I’m not qualified for anything else. Without shelf-stacking experience, I probably can’t even get a job in the local supermarket.’
‘You won’t have to. I’ll make a few calls this afternoon. Stop worrying, it won’t help.’
He’s right but I’m a wrong place, wrong time kind of girl. I’m not sure even the winning combination of Adam and double-chocolate-choc-chip ice- cream can change that.
Chapter ten
Keep your communication single-minded
The next day, there’s no time to waste. I get up early and drive to the Unemployment Office in my BMW. It’s a company car and I won’t have it for much longer so I might as well make the most of it. A slew of parking tickets for leaving it outside the agency on double yellow lines had deterred me from driving to work. Darren claimed the system was so inefficient, only one in ten outstanding parking fines was ever followed up. I was always that one.
The dole office is nearby but is a million miles away from the world I inhabit, inhabited. No complimentary coffee, newspapers or glossy magazines in this reception, only uninviting grey pamphlets about state benefits and intimidating posters warning me about the dire consequences of making fraudulent claims.
People stand in line, waiting. Waiting to be called by faceless clerks. Waiting to be processed. Waiting to be told their lives are on hold until they get on their bikes and get a job. I wouldn’t dare ride a bike, not in London.
When I reach the front of the New Claims queue, I am rewarded with a bunch of forms. I sit down and leaning awkwardly on my lap, attempt to fill them in. I struggle with some of the questions but my National Insurance Number is one of the few useful pieces of information I know. The forms are incomprehensible. Perhaps I could offer to rewrite them so people like me can understand them. I fill them in as best I can and hand them in.
The recently unemployed are easy to spot. Full of hope, keenly studying the cards pinned to the notice board detailing vacancies and diligently noting down employers’ names and phone numbers. I look to see what’s on offer. These are the only ads I’ll be looking at for a while, a far cry from what I’m used to, scripting a prime-time television commercial.
‘Admin. Assistant. 20 hours a week. Experience essential.’
‘Store-hand required. Nights. 40 hours a week.’
‘Cleaner. Mornings only. Good references.’
My heart sinks. Being a copywriter doesn’t qualify me for anything other than being a copywriter. Even my typing skills aren’t great, always having had the luxury of relying on Peter’s secretary to produce the final pristine draft. I clutch the white envelope Peter gave me. It is still sealed because I can’t bear to open it, can’t bear to see my P45 or my last pay cheque. It’s too final and I am not ready to admit this is really happening.
One man clearly knows how to work the system. I recognise him. As I drew up, he was parking his top-of-the-range Jaguar in the loading bay outside the unemployment office to ensure he was first in line when the doors opened. Now I watch him take his battered dole card from his back pocket and sign on the dotted line when his name is called. He makes no attempt to disguise his trade, his brown hair white with plaster dust, his hands calloused and hard, even his boots are spattered with blobs of cement. Having secured his benefits for another week, he runs out, leaps into his car and takes off, no doubt heading for the nearest building site to work as a labourer and get paid cash in hand, no questions asked.
A lady with a long, grey plait stands next to me. She clenches and unclenches her fists and rises up and down on the balls of her feet. A piece of hair, like steel wool, falls across her mouth as she speaks.
‘I try to live everyday in the light, do you?’
Well, I’d love to but Peter is the Prince of Darkness.
She moves closer and observes me, taking in my dyed hair, painted nails and make-up. Muttering obscenities, she sucks her teeth in disgust.
‘David!’ shouts a clerk.
Someone has the same Christian name as my surname. It happens all the time. No-one moves. Lethargy rules. It seems contagious. The sooner I get home, the sooner I can phone round for work. The longer I’m here, the more chance failure will cling to me like mould, its spores destroying the last threads of my self-confidence.
‘David!’
I check my watch. I’ve been here over an hour, long enough to have written an entire radio campaign. The hard-faced woman behind the New Claims Desk continues to leaf through a pile of piles as I approach her, smiling politely.
‘Hello, my name is Ella, Ella David. I’ve been waiting a while and ...’
‘Why didn’t you come when I called, David?’ she asks aggressively without looking up.
‘Sorry, David is my surname, my name is Ella.’
‘That’s what I said, David.’
‘But surely, I’m either ‘Ella’, ‘Ella David’ or ‘Miss. David’.’
‘Sit,’ she growls.
‘I’m not a dog.’
This is role-reversal at its worse.
‘I’m not an inmate. I’ve done nothing wrong, just lost my job.’
‘P45?’
She is a dangerous woman with power over the powerless. Fortunately, she is too stupid to realise. In another life she could be Peter’s secretary. I hand her my white envelope and she recites her mantra, breathing garlic in my face.
‘You must be available for work to qualify for Unemployment Benefit. Any jobs on the vacancies board you can apply for?’
‘No,’ I tell her truthfully.
‘No? What was your last job?’ she asks in disbelief as she scans my forms.
‘Copywriter.’
‘What, like legal stuff?’ she asks.
Before I can explain, she jots the word ‘copyright’ onto her pad.
‘No, not ‘copyright’. I am an advertising copywriter,’ I tell her helpfully pointing to the word on the page. ‘I write TV and radio commercials.’
I do a helpful little mime of writing something in mid-air.
‘So, you see it’s ‘copywriter’, spelt c-o-p-y-w-r-i-t-e-r not ‘copyright’, spelt...’
When I look up, she is glaring at me as if to say, ‘I hated you on sight. Now you’ve corrected me in front of a roomful of people, including my boss, I loathe you even more.’
‘Surely you can type?’ she sneers.
‘No, I had a secretary.’ She sneers.
‘What about cleaning? You can mop a floor?’ Sarcasm. I’m sure that’s not in her job description.
‘You have to be actively looking for work at all times to be eligible for benefit. Keep a record of all the jobs you apply for and the interviews you attend. Bring this information with you when you next sign on. You need to...’
She is talking but I am not listening. I do it all the time, just glean the bits I need to know as my mind wanders to a more interesting place, usually a café, eating cake with Adam.
‘Sign here, David,’
she demands, pushing yet another official form across the desk at me.
A cheap ballpoint pen is secured to the table by a length of string. Why? No one wants to steal it. It doesn’t even work. The clerk turns her back to me. I unzip my bag and take out my Mont Blanc pen. The last time I used it was to sign my name was on my CBA contract. Same signature, different meaning. What was the difference? About five hundred pounds a week.