I Am Ella, Buy Me

by Joan Ellis

  ‘Why on earth would you want to move? CBA must be buzzing, right?’ Buzzing? Only with the sound of flies feasting off all the rot.

  I can practically hear her flicking through her Rollerdex already looking for my replacement. Her loyalties don’t lie with me but with the advertising agencies. They pay her fees. True, she got me the job at CBA but I never know whether to love or loathe her for it. For once, I think carefully before replying.

  ‘Just curious Charlie, putting out a few feelers.’

  ‘Well, this wretched recession is really biting now. I’ve had to cancel Bermuda this year and do Jamaica instead. Needs must and all that. We both know advertising is always the first thing to suffer. But don’t you worry. Leave it with me darling. Your work is so gorgeous I want to eat it! I’ll make a few calls and see what I can do for you. In the meantime, sit tight and don’t do anything rash, there’s a good girl. Speak soon. Bye, darling. Oh and give Peter a big kiss from me. Tell him Charlie sends her love.’

  That’s going to be harder than she thinks. Right now, I wouldn’t give him the kiss of life.

  Charlie likes to come across as everyone’s favourite aunt. The act is lost on me particularly as my aunt, Dad’s sister, was a witch of a woman who thought a naked doll smoking a cigarette was an appropriate gift for my sixth birthday. When Mum wrestled it off her, Auntie tried to strangle her. The doll went in the bin and I was sent to bed. So if Charlie thinks pretending to be a close relative is going to win my trust, she’s mistaken.

  I replace the receiver and immediately the phone rings again. It must be Charlie calling back to suggest I consider a cushy little number in Saudi Arabia. Middle Eastern salaries are tax-free and Charlie would earn a healthy commission. But if I took a job out there, I may as well bury myself up to my neck in sand for all the chance I would have of landing a London gig again. This city spawns some of the best advertising in the world and doesn’t take kindly to people selling out.

  ‘Charlie, I really don’t think...’ I begin before being interrupted by a man’s voice.

  ‘Hello, is that you Ella?’

  I think I recognise the voice but why would Josh be calling me?

  ‘Who is this please?’ I ask.

  ‘Josh, Josh from CBA.’

  Yes, it had to be. I don’t know anyone else who talks like he’s related to Princess Margaret.

  ‘Ella, are you still there?’ he prompts nervously.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply twirling the coiled phone flex nervously around my hand. What does he want? To amuse himself with tales of my demise? Or to discover how the other half live? Perhaps he wants to explain where my P45 and pay cheque have got to.

  ‘Sorry, thought we’d been cut off,’ he laughs but I’m not sure why, he hasn’t said anything amusing.

  ‘How are you, Ella?’

  I don’t like it when he uses my name. It’s another of his tricks to win friends and influence people.

  ‘How am I? I’ve no work, no car and no money so I’ll have no flat soon. Oh and my mum will face eviction as I’ve just used the last of my savings to pay her rent. So, Josh, what do you think, am I ‘A’, ‘delighted’ or ‘B’, ‘suicidal’? Peter had no right to fire me, we both know that.’

  I have been polite to him for too long. I’ve nothing to lose. The pleasure of speaking my mind is fleeting. I remind myself Adland is a small place and Josh knows lots of people. I’m not doing myself any favours. This is getting to be a dangerous habit of mine. But I refuse to let myself be cowed. Mum showed me the way by eventually having the guts to walk out on Dad. All I have to do is follow in her footsteps. Just in more stylish footwear.

  Josh cuts across my thoughts.

  ‘Sounds like I’ve called at the right time. I hope you will be ‘A’ ‘delighted’ because I am ringing to say your job is here, if you want it. We’d love you back.’

  ‘What? You can just rehire me? Can’t imagine the board would be too thrilled. Or the client, come to that.’

  ‘Peter never fired you, Ella. You know what he’s like. I told him it was a bad idea but...’

  ‘The bastard! So, it was all just a joke?’

  ‘Yes, but he took it too far.’

  ‘Have you any idea what I’ve been through?’

  ‘No, I’ve got a trust fund so probably not something I can relate to. But that’s all in the past now. Can we move on?’ he says glibly.

  ‘Move on? Are you mad? You can’t just expect me to come back like nothing ever happened. I got so upset at the dole office, I crashed the car.’

  ‘Not the BMW? Is it a write-off?’ he asks with the level of concern normal people reserve for close relatives in Intensive Care.

  Josh had ill-concealed car-envy. My model was top of the range and came with all the bells and whistles. Josh had to settle for playing with his horn.

  ‘Have you had any other offers?’ he asks tentatively.

  ‘A few,’ I tell him.

  It’s true. I am considering my options, namely a series of indecent proposals from a young entertainer who performs best lying down.

  ‘I am in talks with several agencies.’

  Recruitment agencies but he doesn’t need to know that.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. I understand. Look, Ella why don’t you think about what I’ve said and get back to me tomorrow?’

  I don’t need to think. I’m done with being treated like a dog by a bitch at the dole office.

  ‘Josh, is Peter okay with this? He seemed pretty angry with me the last time I saw him.’

  ‘Absolutely, he asked me to call you.’

  ‘Really? Then why didn’t he ring me himself?’

  ‘Too busy. To be honest Ella, I’m worried about him. We all are. He’s not coping. The pressure of his divorce is getting to him. He spent all week in talks with his lawyer and all day in court, getting taken to the cleaners by his ex-wife. The you-know-what is really hitting the fan and the agency could go down the pan. Sorry, I think I may have mixed my metaphors there but you see where I’m coming from.’

  Peter stressed, skint and covered in crap? Things are looking up.

  ‘Let me think about it, Josh. Who else knows about all this?’

  ‘Just Peter, Darren and the boys in the studio. No-one important,’ he reassures me. ‘The board just assumed you were on holiday.’

  ‘Holiday? I need one to get over this nightmare.’

  ‘We can compensate you, Ella. And it goes without saying we are more than willing to match any offer you may be considering.’

  Bingo!

  ‘Match it or better it, Josh?’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying but clients are slashing their budgets. We’re all tightening our belts.’

  ‘Josh, don’t insult me.’

  ‘Okay, Ella, let’s stop horse-trading and cut to the chase. We want you back. We can’t progress High-Pro without you. To be honest, Peter tried some stuff. It was pretty awful and the client blew it out. Name your price and let’s get you back on board.’

  He has shown his hand. How careless.

  ‘Peter was out of order. He should be begging my forgiveness.’

  ‘Peter is on his knees. Trust me. But let’s not forget you were very rude to our biggest client. That cost the agency a long weekend in St Tropez for him and his mistress. We’ve done our bit, Ella. I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.’

  Just like Peter’s ‘Little Arrangement’? I hope not.

  ‘Get back to you soon,’ I say replacing the receiver.

  ‘Get back to me now,’ Tom calls from the bedroom.

  Chapter thirteen

  Tell your audience something they don’t know

  ‘Take the money. Think of it as compensation for how that pervert Peter Richards treated you. He thinks he can do what he likes because you don’t have a union,’ advises Tom as he grates mounds of Cheddar directly onto the work-surface in my kitchen.

  I resist the urge to grab the dustpan and brush and start sweeping up the strands o
f cheese as they fall on the floor.

  ‘I don’t know. That might be pushing it, Tom.’

  My gaze is fixed on his shoes, willing him not to step in the mess and tread it into my new cream woollen fitted carpet in the bedroom.

  Since we met, we’ve enjoyed spending time together. It’s a commodity we’ve both got plenty of. We enjoy doing the simple things, walks up Ally Pally, swimming in the ponds for free on Hampstead Heath and window shopping, planning what we’ll buy when he makes it big.

  It’s the small things that mean the most. Like this morning, I got up to find last night’s washing- up all done and put away. Most importantly, we laugh about stuff no-one else would get. That’s the real joy. Nothing matters quite so much when we’re happy and together.

  With Tom, I can be Ella. Not just Peter’s copywriter, wary and forever on my guard. With Tom by my side, I can conquer Adland. Watch me.

  That day outside the dole office, he rescued me. Now I want to rescue him right back. Since arriving in London, he has spent months crashing on mates’ sofas. Not any more, he can sleep in my bed whenever he likes. Occasionally, when he’s got a gig out of town, he’ll stay at a bed and breakfast or if funds are really tight, sleep on someone’s floor. When he’s selling out Wembley, this will have been a small price to pay.

  ‘You’re good. CBA need you, they’ve said as much. Take what you can from the bastards. Got any white sliced, love?’

  I shake my head and shudder slightly at the thought of plastic bread as I hand him a small loaf of fresh wholemeal.

  ‘Sorry, just brown, unsliced. The knife’s in the block, by the kettle,’ I say watching him wield the blade like a saw. ‘I can’t afford to price myself out of a job.’

  I watch in horror as he slices directly onto the work-top. ‘Tom, do you mind not...’

  I check myself. No-one likes a nag. Dad couldn’t stand Mum’s persistent fault-finding and used it as an excuse to punish her.

  ‘Don’t undersell yourself and don’t let them take advantage of you. They’re in the wrong, remember that. They owe you big-time. Ask for a five grand pay rise.’

  I like that idea. Nice one, Tom. It’s feels good to have someone batting in my corner. I hand him some fresh mayonnaise. He sniffs it suspiciously.

  ‘No salad cream? Ah well, this’ll have to do.’

  I must quell my obnoxious tendency towards food snobbery. Too many expense accounts lunches have given me expensive tastes. Tom’s brow furrows in marked concentration as he presses yellow worms of cheese onto the bread with the back of a tablespoon which he then uses to dig straight into the jar of mayonnaise and lift out a dangerously wobbly mound.

  ‘Five grand?’ I repeat. ‘You think I’m worth that?’

  ‘Of course. Go for it, love. The guy’s offered you an open cheque.’

  Please put the spoon down, I think as I wait anxiously for the oil-based sauce to spray up my newly-decorated walls, freshly papered with Designer’s Guild finest.

  I mentally calculate how much extra five grand would give me a month after tax and national insurance. He turns to sneeze into his free hand. I reach out and rescue the spoon from him.

  ‘Bless you! Here, let me,’ I say quickly smoothing the mayonnaise on top of the cheese. ‘I was thinking more in the region of two thousand.’

  ‘After what they put you through? No way,’ he says wiping his hands down his jeans and slapping the second piece of bread on top. ‘They haven’t even apologised. They treated you like shit, Ella. Don't let them get away with it. Screw them for every penny you can. You’re an asset or they wouldn’t have asked you back. Times are hard. They can take their pick of talent. And they’ve picked you. Be happy.’

  Using the heel of his hand, he squashes it all together causing cheese mulch to squelch out at the sides.

  ‘For you,’ he says, holding it out to me with both hands like a small boy having proudly made his mum a treat.

  I don’t want it but he is bursting for me to try it. I can’t say ‘no’ to that smile. I take a small neat bite, remembering the unopened packet of smoked salmon in the fridge.

  ‘You finish it. I’ll make myself a salad later. Lost my appetite with all this stress.’

  ‘You didn’t fancy this, did you love?’ he asks emitting a throaty laugh and pointing to his plate. ‘I could tell by your face.’

  ‘No, it looks lovely, I just wasn’t hungry.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ he laughs giving me a hug. ‘You’re right. It does look crap. But it was made with love and it tastes good.’

  He takes another bite and chews it theatrically before swallowing it in one gulp.

  ‘Play on that bastard’s guilty conscience,’ he advises. ‘Peter Richards? Who the hell does he think he is, God?’

  ‘Lucifer is more his style.’

  Tom picks up the bread knife and says, ‘I’ll have a word with them, the bunch of ...’

  ‘There’s no need, thanks,’ I say smiling at him hoping he’ll smile back.

  It works, which is a relief as he doesn’t look nearly so attractive when he’s annoyed. His face becomes all red and round. He sets about making another sandwich, thinly slicing wholemeal bread, layering on pieces of smoked salmon, squeezing over some lemon juice and adding a couple of twists of black pepper. He carves off the crusts before cutting it into quarters and arranges the pieces neatly on a plate.

  ‘There you go - all yours.’ I take a bite.

  ‘It’s delicious, thanks’ I say, trying to quell the shock in my voice.

  ‘My pleasure, anytime. You eat the best bits and I’ll have all the crap,’ he says chewing happily on the discarded crusts.

  That’s the best offer I’ve had in a long while. I just hope it’s not too good to be true.

  Chapter fourteen

  When you have nothing to say, use showmanship

  I’ve always hated supermarkets. Too many products, too many irritating tannoy announcements and too many people getting in my way. I would like to go back to a butcher, a baker and a couture dress-maker all in the same street. But today, with Tom, this shop is a different place. He leaps on the back of the trolley and whizzes past the frozen foods into chilled meats where he grabs two packets of square ham and some orange coleslaw that looks like something Marmalade threw up.

  ‘Fancy Spaghetti Bolognese tonight?’ he asks lobbing in a pack of minced beef.

  ‘Lovely,’ I reply, remembering the cheese sandwich fiasco and inwardly fretting about the mess he’ll make. ‘Remind me to call Josh when we get home, before he changes his mind.’

  I take my turn to push the trolley but it develops a wayward wheel. Just my luck.

  ‘Make him wait,’ says Tom. Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen.’

  ‘I’d love to but the longer I don’t work, the less money I have,’ I remind him picking up a packet of smoked salmon, check the price and replacing it in the cabinet.

  ‘Have it if you want it,’ he says reaching across me and selecting the largest size. ‘I’m paying. Here, try this,’ he says popping a sample slice of salami into my mouth from a plate on top of the delicatessen counter.

  I chew on the salty, greasy meat and gag.

  ‘Oh love, here,’ he says looking around and grabbing a packet of kitchen roll off the shelf. He rips it open and tears off a square, holding it open for me to spit into lobbing the offending tissue into the air towards the bin behind the deli. It lands in a woman’s trolley. Luckily, she is too busy examining the merits of fabric softeners to notice.

  Tom laughs. The lady looks up and stares at us. I turn away. If I can’t see Tom, I’ll be okay. But I keep picturing his face when he threw it and imagining hers when she discovers it. Tom is clinging to the edge of the shelf, trying to remain upright but he creases over and slides onto the floor. My stomach hurts from suppressing laughter. It is the most intoxicating pain I know.

  ‘Tom, get up!’ I shriek.

  Suddenly I’m crying. I haven’t been this happy in
ages.

  Eventually, we get to our feet, embrace and kiss. When we eventually part the store detective is watching us. I know she is the store detective because she is always in there, traipsing up and down the aisles with the same three items in her basket.

  ‘Fancy a film this afternoon? Matinees are half-price if you’re signing on,’ Tom asks.