I Am Ella, Buy Me

by Joan Ellis

  He looks at Chloe. She shakes her head. He says nothing. Now I know who is pulling the strings. I look through their ideas. Most of them are ingenious but a few lack this raw brilliance.

  ‘Some of this work shows real flair but other stuff is weak. Look.’

  I flip back through their portfolio until I find an example. They exchange a nervous glance.

  ‘But you’ve got talent. I’m going to give you a chance and offer you a short trial. We’ll pay your expenses and give you some pocket money. How does that sound?’

  The door opens and Alan Ferguson stands there.

  He’s wearing a new jumper, a slim-fitting green woollen polo neck. Perhaps it was a gift from the Italian waitress at the patisserie. I heard they’re dating. It shouldn’t bother me but it does.

  ‘Hi, Ella, sorry to interrupt,’ he says smiling at Chloe and ignoring David. ‘Just need you to autograph this.’

  He holds out a layout for me to sign-off.

  ‘Can you give me ten minutes?’ I ask. He looks good. Green suits him.

  ‘It’s got to go now. Pete approved the concept before he left. I’ve done the tweaks he wanted. It just needs your signature,’ he says.

  He puts the storyboard in front of me. I want to like it but I don’t. It’s not on brand. I know the client won’t buy it.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he asks.

  He flicks his hair away from his eyes and grins at me. For once his charm fails to work its magic.

  ‘I can’t sign this off, Alan. We both know it’s not right.’

  ‘Just initial it so I can get it biked over to the client,’ he tells me coming out in an unattractive red rash on his neck. It clashes with his hair.

  He is insistent, even offering me his pen and letting his hand brush against mine. Chloe is watching me closely.

  ‘It has to go now. Just sign it off, please Ella,’ he simpers. ‘Pretty please.’ He winks at Chloe.

  ‘No,’ I tell him.

  I’ve just said ‘No’ to Alan Ferguson. I give myself a pat on the back. His cocky smile fades.

  ‘You need to redo it. Simplify the layout.’

  ‘Come back, Peter, all is forgiven,’ he mutters as he slams out of the office.

  I’ve never seen him lose his temper before. Even angels have dirty faces in this business. I turn back to the team. Chloe is watching me from under her fringe.

  ‘Okay, are you up for giving it a go?’

  ‘Would we be working directly with you?’

  ‘Yes, for the time-being, I’m acting the acting Creative Director.’

  ‘Then, we’d love to,’ she tells me, her face lighting up. ‘I really like your work.’

  She goes on to list my best campaigns in detail.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say stunned by her enthusiasm.

  ‘If we do well, are we guaranteed a permanent job?’ David asks, his tone pure steel.

  ‘Wait and see. Someone better might come along tomorrow. Sorry if that sounds harsh, that’s the business you’re in. But you’ll be working on live briefs. Who knows you may even get a television commercial out of this. It would look great on your showreel.’

  They need to know this is Adland not a charity. That reminds me – Kitty Rescue.

  ‘Chloe, how do you feel about being a cat?’

  She slides a sheet of paper from the back of her folder and hands it to me. This girl really has done her homework. It’s a letter she has written from Marmalade to me suggesting I give her Kitty Rescue to work on. It is brilliant, better than mine.

  ‘Marmalade approves,’ I tell her.

  ‘Marmalade approves’? I can’t believe I just said that.

  ‘When can we start?’ she asks her face lighting up like a Christmas tree.

  I open the door.

  ‘We have a new team, Chloe and David,’ I tell Jill. ‘Please put them in my old office.’

  I pick up the phone and call Adam. His answer-machine kicks in. Shame, I’d have loved a chat but I settle for leaving a message.

  ‘Just taken on Chloe and David, thanks for sending them over. They’re great. Okay, talk to you soon. Thanks again. Bye.’

  I replace the receiver and go to pour myself a large gin and tonic to celebrate. I enjoy the intoxicating smell of quinine. My hand is on the gin bottle when I opt for fizzy mineral water instead. New blood may be just the shot in the arm CBA needs right now but I need to stay sharp and be careful not to cut myself.

  Chapter twenty-five

  Avoid waffle

  I’m dreading going home to Tom and put off leaving the agency for as long as possible by sorting through memos and signing-off art-work. Alan saunters in having re-worked his story-board. This time he doesn’t smile, just hands me a pen to initial the layout he drops on my desk. The work is better but not his best.

  ‘You haven’t worked your magic,’ I tell him flatly.

  If looks could kill, I’d be flat on my back with his pen, driven like a stake, through my heart.

  ‘Ella, it’s on brief. We don’t need to reinvent the wheel on this one. The courier’s waiting, please sign it.’

  ‘You’re paid to be creative. If you can’t do that you shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘It’s a bloody trade ad. Nobody’s going to care.’

  ‘I care and so should you. That’s what you get the big money for. Tell the courier to wait and redo it.’

  I hand the board back to him and he snatches it from me. As he walks away, I see face has turned a violent shade of red. It clashes with his hair. For once, Peter’s right, Alan is ginger. I wonder what I ever saw him.

  I go into the corridor to find Wally chatting to Jill. He is about to start his night-shift. I invite them into my office for coffee. He insists on tea with milk and two sugars.

  ‘Jill tells me you’re taking us on holiday,’ he says with a smile, displaying a full set of ill-fitting dentures.

  He makes himself at home on the couch, luxuriating on the leather.

  ‘I could do with some sea air,’ he says.

  ‘Jill’s being very secretive. Even I don’t know where we’re going,’ I tell him.

  ‘So Jill, what’s this one like as a boss then?’ he asks her with a wink.

  ‘Better than Peter,’ she laughs, pouring herself a coffee.

  ‘That’s not hard,’ I say.

  ‘He’s a naughty boy - only got himself to blame for the mess he’s in,’ says Wally slurping the last of his tea. ‘He got too cocky. Thought he could get away with it but ...’

  ‘Oh, God is that the time? I’ve gotta go. My evening class starts at seven; can’t be late,’ Jill says putting her cup down and heads off.

  ‘Wally, can I ask you something?’ I ask sitting down next to him.

  ‘What d’ya wanna know, young ‘un?’

  ‘You met Tom. Just wondered what you thought of him?’

  ‘Only saw the bloke for five minutes. I don’t know him,’ he says getting up and putting his mug on the table.

  ‘Please Wal. First impressions.’

  ‘Well, he’s a charmer, I’ll give him that.’

  ‘And?’ I prompt.

  ‘Put it this way, if you were my daughter, he wouldn’t have got his feet under your table so quick.’

  ‘He doesn’t live with me.’

  ‘And where is he when he’s not with you?’ Wally asks.

  ‘He crashes with a mate.’

  ‘Believe him?’

  I want to believe him but it’s not the same thing.

  ‘I don’t know, Wally.’

  ‘Yes, you do, young ‘un. Yes, you do,’ he says handing me a bar of chocolate. ‘It’s gone a bit soft but it’ll still taste nice.’

  I try to give him half but he’s having none of it.

  ‘You enjoy it,’ he tells me. ‘What’s wrong? You look worried.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I don’t want to worry Wally. I’m not his problem.

  ‘Tom can be so kind but …’ I tell him watching his fa
ce for a reaction.

  ‘He can also be a right …’

  Wally is too much of a gentleman to say what he’s really thinking.

  ‘Listen, none of my business but Jill said she was worried about you. She’s seen a difference since you’ve been with him.’

  ‘Jill said that, really?’

  And there was me thinking I was pulling the cashmere wool over everyone’s eyes. I’m touched Jill even noticed.

  ‘Sometimes the hardest thing to do, is the right thing to do,’ Wally says giving me a salute as he backs quietly out of the door. ‘Just do it.’

  With Wally’s fatherly words of advice still uppermost in my mind, I walk up my path and see the light on in the living room. My heart sinks. I should never have given Tom the key to my flat or my heart. Once, I longed for his arms around me after another stressful day but not tonight. When I open the door, the smell of stale smoke mingled with sweat hits me. Eau de Tom. When his fans get too overbearing, he can use it as crowd control.

  ‘Hi love,’ he says cheerily, turning down the volume on the television in my honour.

  He’s got a cheek after what he did last night and this morning.

  ‘Sorry, I was out of order,’ he says, hoisting himself off the sofa and walks over to me. ‘Forgive me?’

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that,’ I tell him steadily.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. It was the drink.’ And the drugs, I think.

  ‘Presumably you weren’t drunk this morning when you called me?’ I say angrily.

  He reaches out to put his arms around me. I step back.

  Slowly and carefully, he raises his fist and just for a moment I see my father standing there, ready to strike me for getting between him and Mum in yet another argument. Now, I back away and knock against the table. Tom unfurls his fingers to reveal a gold heart pendant in the palm of his hand. He suspends the necklace from his forefinger. The heart swings back and forth like a pendulum and I am hypnotized by its rhythmic swinging. He loves me. He loves me not. But this heart is not the real thing; it can’t be broken.

  ‘Ella, I was out of order. I am sorry. The gig stressed me out. I’d had a drink. Everyone wanted a piece of me.’

  I want to laugh in his face. He’s Tom Tyler. Not Boy George.

  ‘Let me make it up to you, please. Just give me time.’

  ‘I haven’t got that long,’ I tell him. ‘We’re over. You need to find somewhere else to stay between gigs.’

  ‘You don’t mean that, Ella. I am so sorry. It’s the drink. I’m not that person. I’ll stop drinking, I promise, anything, just don’t do this, please,’ he says softly as he goes to fasten the fine gold chain around my neck.

  I pull away and we both watch as the necklace falls, the heart slipping between the floorboards, pulling the chain down with it, the thin thread of gold slithering like a worm, out of sight. Tom stamps his foot to try and stop it from disappearing but it’s too late.

  ‘There goes last night’s wages,’ he says unable to disguise his annoyance.

  ‘Well, if that’s all you’re worried about,’ I snap.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. Please Ella.’

  He reaches out to me but he sees my face, taut with anger and disappointment and thinks better of it. My eyes dart to the crack in the floorboard. I wonder how long the necklace will languish in the dust, out of sight.

  ‘You can’t buy back my heart with a heart,’ I tell him.

  I turn round to look at him but he has one eye on the television, his hand reaching for the remote. I stand between him and the screen.

  He tuts and throws the remote on the floor. The back snaps off and one of the batteries springs out and rolls under the sofa. I can’t believe he can even consider watching a film. I am incensed and turn off the television at the set. He stomps over and flicks it on again just as the closing credits roll.

  ‘Thanks! I’ve missed the ending. Happy now?’ he grabs the flex and yanks the plug out of the wall.

  The same sickening knot tightens in my stomach, the same one I felt when Adam told me he was living with his girlfriend. I need to know the answer to one question.

  ‘Tom where did you sleep last night?’ He looks nonplussed.

  ‘In a Photo-Me-Booth,’ he replies without missing a beat.

  An implausible answer but preferable to the alternative: Cara’s place.

  ‘Y’mean, one of those kiosks like they have in Woolworths for taking passport photos?’

  ‘Yeah, a Photo-Me-Booth,’ he tells me matter-of-factly, wondering why I need to define it.

  I just need to be clear he’s not confusing a Photo-Me-Booth with Cara’s bedroom. It would be an easy mistake to make. I bet she’s got a swirly seat that goes up and down too.

  ‘Did you take your photo?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’ he asks as if it’s the most ridiculous question he’s ever heard.

  ‘Did you take your picture in the Photo-Me-Booth?’

  ‘No, I was asleep.’

  Of course, you were. Fast asleep, dreaming of Cara.

  Tom is the archetypal bad-boy with exactly the right mix of narcissistic, Machiavellian and psychotic tendencies to make him irresistible to women who like that sort of thing. Add in the good looks and it’s a potent cocktail. Delicious, dangerous and damaging, one too many and you’re under the table and under him. Time to sober up just like Mum eventually did when she left Dad. Shame there’s not the equivalent of the AA for people addicted to love.

  ‘Hello, I am Ella, and I am a loveaholic.’

  The first step to recovery is recognising I have a problem. The second step is walking away from the problem.

  I wonder, was I madly in love or just mad about the boy?

  Chapter twenty-six

  Keep the concept relevant yet unexpected

  ‘The Honeydrop client, Clive, will be here in twenty minutes and we know he’s always on time. Josh was two minutes late for our last meeting and he wouldn’t let him in. Quickly, show me your storyboard, Chloe.’

  The brief Peter had said was perfect for me, ended up on Chloe’s desk. She may not be a mum but she clearly knows how they think. Smiling confidently at me, she puts the work on my desk. The visuals are clear and simple. David’s drawings are brilliant; they could sell the idea without any help from me.

  ‘David has excelled himself,’ I tell her. ‘So have you.’

  ‘Thanks, Ella. I’m so glad you like it,’ she says following me as I walk away to speak to Jill.

  ‘Chloe and David have done some fantastic work. Can you set up the boardroom for the presentation?’

  ‘All done,’ she tells me. ‘Reception just rang through to say the client’s here. Shall I go down and get him?’

  I nod and check my hair. I got up early this morning to have it cut, coloured and scrunched. I pay a top stylist to make me look like I’ve just got out of bed.

  ‘Morning, Ella, been jogging?’ asks Clive.

  He focuses on my hair as he bounds out of the lift like one of his father’s over-enthusiastic gun-dogs.

  ‘Lovely to see you, Clive,’ I say making incredulous eyes at Jill behind his back and reminding myself to be nice, like Adam advised.

  Clive looks at his watch and adjusts his cufflinks before taking off his overcoat and handing it to Jill.

  ‘Sorry, ladies, I’m a tad early. Travelled up last night and spent a very interesting evening in a club full of girls who turned out to be chaps. Most disconcerting.’

  I daren’t ask how he discovered their true gender.

  ‘You see all sorts in Soho, Clive,’ I say steering him into the boardroom just as Josh arrives. ‘I know a lovely restaurant, I can book it for us all next time you’re down.’

  ‘Oh, I’d like that,’ he smiles.

  Adam was right. Being friendly with clients is easier than I thought.

  ‘Clive, how are you?’ asks Josh shaking his hand and working his public school-boy charm. ‘And your wife? Enjoying the ne
w house? Marlborough isn’t it? Beautiful place.’

  ‘She’s fine. We’re both very excited to see what our architect has come up with. He’s drawing up plans for a loft extension, should add a bit to the value of the property.’