Larger Than Life

by Adele Parks

  Recently, I’ve been wondering if Hugh and I had both applied for the position as MD at Rartle, Roguel and Spirity, who would have got it?

  Could I?

  How good am I?

  How good would I be on my own if, say, if I had to be?

  Julia interrupts my thoughts by slamming an inch-thick document on to my desk; every fibre of her body is screaming resentment. She obviously feels my insistence that she deliver the research on unit shift and share of voice for every saloon, coupé, convertible and roadster that Lexus, Jaguar, Mercedes, Volvo, Audi, Saab and BMW have produced to be somewhat unnecessary. Especially as I insisted that she provide the information by today, and she’s had to sacrifice her lunch hour in the sun to do so. However, my experience has always proven that Julia’s ‘research’ is rarely that; there will be more holes in it than there are in fishnet tights at a tarts and vicars’ party. I do feel guilty that by missing today’s sun Julia may have missed the British summer altogether, so I promise to read the research and give her feedback a.s.a.p. I’m hoping she’ll see that her contribution is valuable and that the deadline I set her was an actual deadline, rather than a deadline drawn in sand.

  ‘Whatever,’ sighs Julia, betraying her lack of passion about tracking car sales since 1980.1 make a mental note to mention this lack of enthusiasm at her next appraisal, but I doubt that I will. When it comes to the crunch, I’ll probably tell her she’s doing marvellously and is a great asset; I’ll then give her a pay rise even though she already earns about double what she’s worth.

  ‘Is everyone ready for the pitch practice?’ I ask.

  ‘Suppose.’ She barely hides her indifference.

  I bite back my irritation. For the past couple of weeks I’ve been working around the clock. I’ve attended research groups as far north as Edinburgh and as far south as Hove. I’ve talked to Zoom marketing managers in France, Italy, Germany, Sweden and Japan. I’ve visited countless dealers’ stores. I’ve masterminded a workshop with the client so that we can try to understand the brand as much as possible. I’ve commissioned creative briefs, vox pop interviews, and helped pull together a mood tape that represents the brand as it stands, and another to demonstrate where we’d like to take it. We’ve seen and understood the client’s market plans, or at least one strain of them. The strain that rewrites all that’s gone before and creates unrealistic expectations of what can be achieved in the future. We’ve studied the brand plan, the marketing strategy and the budget. Karl, Drew and I have met on a daily basis to debate the brand positioning and Brett drops in on our meetings with unprecedented regularity, demanding to see a creative brief. Everyone in the agency knows how important this pitch is to us.

  I stride into the meeting room that we have commandeered for the pitch; we call it the ‘war room’. This is blatantly an act of self-aggrandizement, but I work mostly with men so it’s necessary for their egos; as are sweat rings under their armpits, the bigger the better, and to think I used to worry that my bump was disgusting. There are pieces of paper haphazardly Blu-Tacked to the walls of the war room; these are the fruits of our recent efforts. They are tided: Future Product Fine-up. Brand Personality. Brand Personality Index-linked Against the Competitors. Driver Profile. Competitive Encroachment. There are charts showing the competitive ad spend of every car brand in this category, broken down by media type and year spend, share of voice, share of mind. There are examples of competitive ads, Websites and communication propositions. Our job is to develop a communication strategy that is at once relevant but different. It’s a struggle. All car adverts are the same – they show cars speeding around the Swiss Alps. The same-colour car, the same stretch of road, the same Swiss Alp.

  I catch Karl reading the Sun; he tells me he’s doing research into the minds of real people.

  ‘It’s a luxury-car brand,’ I argue. ‘You haven’t got time to waste.’

  He closes the paper and rubs his temples. ‘God, George, what hormone is it that’s giving you all this energy suddenly? I’m knackered. We haven’t stopped for breath in weeks.’

  ‘Two weeks until we present the strategy, Karl; we both know this isn’t the time to slow down.’

  ‘Suppose not,’ he agrees reluctantly.

  Secretly I know he’s thrilled that the old George has made a reappearance, and secretly I am too. OK, so I may not have toned calves (or indeed toned anything), I may not be able to wear tailored, sexy suits (although everything I wear is clingy, this is an accident of nature), but at least I’m able to write an impressive pitch document. It’s a thrill to be appreciated for my mind. It’s a first.

  The rest of the team join us: Drew, Brett, Julia, a pair of creatives, an Account Director and an Account Manager.

  ‘According to the research, which brand has the benchmark status in this category, Jaguar or BMW?’ I demand.

  ‘BMW,’ replies the Account Manager.

  ‘OK, well, let’s interrogate BMW then,’ I bark. I mean, let’s understand as much as we possibly can about BMW’s communication and advertising strategy, but it would be social death to be as straightforward as to say that – jargon to advertising is of equivalent importance as sun-blushed tomatoes are to the Bluebird Café.

  ‘Have we considered this sufficiently from the consumer’s point of view?’ asks Drew. ‘Have we done enough research into current perceptions of the brand?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve segmented the results of the group research and the vox pop research by age, class, sex, sexual orientation, income, religion, marital status, usage level and personality factors,’ assures the Account Director. The idea is that a clear understanding of the customers will mean that we can advertise to them more effectively. In reality, research is used as a post-rationalization to push through the creative endeavour, which Brett and Dean prefer.

  ‘OK, well, let’s run through the deck then,’ I instruct. ‘We’ll start with agency credentials, show them lots of ads that look pretty, then we’ll go on to the agency philosophy…’

  ‘Excellent concept, Brett, the boys have done good,’ smiles Dean; his attempt at an English idiom is proof that he’s really pleased with the creative team’s work.

  I smile, relieved, not least because the concept is actually mine. I don’t want the praise, I just wanted something that Brett, as Creative Director, signed off, and Dean, as MD, was delighted with. Not as simple a process as it sounds. For weeks, Drew, Karl and I have been arguing the positioning for the Project Zoom brand. As usual, we spent 90 per cent of our time outdoing one another in the up-your-own-bum stakes.

  ‘Our job is to communicate the brand’s desire to admit to its humanity.’ (Drew.)

  ‘It’s a car,’ I reminded him, playing with the ring-pull on my can of fizzy orange.

  ‘We must gradually move the brand tonality from clinically severe and strategic to something more congenial and charismatic. More sunrise than seascape.’ (Brett.)

  ‘It’s a car,’ I repeated, as I munched on the soft bourbon biscuits. They are my least favourite biscuits in the whole world, but I’d eaten the chocolate fingers and the custard creams, needs must.

  Then we spent roughly 7 per cent of our time arguing like children.

  ‘There has to be a picture of the car.’ (Karl.)

  ‘No, there doesn’t.’ (Me.)

  ‘But all car advertising has a picture of a car.’ (Karl.)

  ‘Exactly.’ (Me.)

  ‘Well, then, we have to have a picture of a car.’

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘Do.’

  ‘Don’t’

  ‘Do.’

  ‘Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.’ I only just resisted stamping my feet.

  The remaining 3 per cent of our time was spent feeding the creative team ideas that we then wanted them to present back to us. The trick is that they have to think the ideas are their ideas in the first place; any creative worth his DKNY trainers will seriously oppose anything that management might actually like. Karl, Drew and I then had to
pretend we believed our idea was their idea and whilst we ‘quite liked it’ we ‘had reservations’ as it was ‘too outlandish’. The creatives then told us we were ‘dull tossers’ and wouldn’t know a good idea if ‘it bit our lardy fucking arses’. Finally, faux-reluctantly, we agreed to use ‘the idea’ for the pitch.

  Downing Street looks decidedly un-spin in comparison.

  The idea is this:

  The cars look beautiful, but then you expect that; if you are spending anything upward of twenty grand on a car, it’s a given it’s going to look good. Karl has argued for various adverts that, boiled down in a melting pot, are little more than beautiful shots of the cars. I’ve argued that Zoom is the master brand in terms of engineering genius, technical innovation and excellence, and this is what we have to communicate. At the risk of appearing a bit wanky, it is possible to refer to their cars as having intelligent wheels, an engine with a brain, a sequential gearbox that contributes to a unique driving experience, and functional lightweight steering. These cars are in fact the ultimate boy-toy, a Swiss Army knife on wheels, the dog’s bollocks. And that’s the creative solution.

  There are no pictures of cars; there are no winding Alpine roads. There’s a black screen. Then, first of all, there’s a simple line drawing of a Swiss Army knife. The Swiss Army knife morphs into line drawings of other boy-toys such as a WAP phone and then an iPAQ. These pictures morph again into ground-breaking inventions such as the Enigma code machine, the Apollo II capsule – inventions that have, arguably, altered the course of history. The penultimate drawing is of a dog’s bollocks. The final shot is of the car’s badge. It’s brave, it’s risky, and we’re all unsure as to whether the client will let a picture of dog’s bollocks get into production. However, the concept will raise a laugh in the pitch presentation and it does the necessary in terms of shock, cut-through and communication. We’ve tested the ad concept in six European countries and it went down a storm with the target audience of males aged twenty-five to thirty-five. Guy Ritchie has agreed to direct the ad, and Ewan McGregor has agreed to do the voice-over, providing we remain ‘edgy’ (i.e., keep the bollocks).

  I think it might work.

  We’ve backed up this sixty-second ad with a number of shorter adverts that draw attention to specific technical innovations. In addition we have a strong, efficient and differentiating media plan.

  I think it might just work.

  By the time the rehearsal is over it’s after nine o’clock in the evening.

  The team has had enough. I give them my credit card and tell them to put it behind the bar at the Crown and Sceptre and then go on and get slaughtered; I’ll pick up the tab tomorrow. They’re grateful; they don’t need to be asked twice.

  ‘Are you joining us?’ asks Drew. And, whilst it’s nice to be invited, it’s been a while, I say no because I want to go home and have another read through the deck. As I turn the lights out in the war room I can smell something in the air. Not just summertime, not just the fat, creamy lilies that are scattered in vases throughout the agency, with a liberality that suggests we are expecting to host a wedding for OK magazine. There is a faint whiff of possibility, of power, of success. The perfumes I used to drench myself in, which have eluded me of late. And I love that smell.

  42

  Despite the fact that the Tube is heaving and I have to stand for the entire journey home (the age of chivalry is not only dead, it’s entombed), and despite the fact that I am wedged between a cheesy armpit and a girl who is weeping into her mobile phone, I still manage to walk through my door feeling positive.

  I waddle to the bathroom and start to run a cool bath. I might even paint my toenails because open-toed shoes are eternally sexy, irrespective of hip width and stomach girth. Although looking at my swollen feet I may be kidding myself.

  I wish Hugh would rinse his stubby hairs away and not leave them cleaving to the porcelain; how difficult is it to swill a bit of water around a sink? I notice that he’s left his empty can of shaving cream on the loo seat, too. This is his way of asking me to buy him another can. Doesn’t he know that there is a Boots on every high street? Anyway, where is Hugh tonight? He must have said. I remember that he was asking for his dress shirt this morning; he must be at some awards do or client dinner. When he asked where his dress shirt was, I wanted to yell, ‘On the floor, in the smoky heap that you left it last time you went to a black-tie function.’ But, of course, it wasn’t. Because I also want to be perfectly efficient and the drive to be perfectly efficient is the one that made me pick up the shirt, wash it (with all the other white washing on a very high temperature), press it and return it to his wardrobe. Just call me the laundry fairy.

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t get wound up, not after such a successful day, I instruct myself.

  I slowly and carefully ease myself into the bath, enjoying the sensation of the cool water enveloping my body and the feeling of buoyancy, which temporarily releases me from my feeling of off-the-scale massiveness. I stroke the baby and start to talk to it.

  ‘Mummy’s been a ball-breaker today,’ I brag, and then I apologize in case ‘it’ is a ‘he’ and ‘he’ is feeling intimidated. Slowly the Radox works its way into my skin and psyche and I begin to drift, mentally as well as physically. I begin to daydream about my perfect life. My perfect life is this. It’s a hot summer afternoon and I’m sat in a garden under an umbrella; I’m watching my baby crawl and gurgle on a picnic rug on the grass nearby. Various friends are with me, and we’re all drinking Pimm’s, and there’s a smell of barbecued sausages drifting towards us (although, because this is a fantasy, there’s no smoke choking the guests, and I have remembered to bring my washing in off the line). There’s a medley of children running around the garden; I can identify Millie, Kate and Tom, but there are others too and, again because this is a fantasy, none of them are squabbling. Libby’s there, and Sam with James (go on, then, I’ll throw in a wedding ring for Sam). I’ve won Project Zoom and therefore Dean has awarded me a generous maternity-leave package, so I know that this time of languid summer afternoons, whilst not endless, is at least extended.

  Suddenly, I sit bolt upright in the bath, sending waves of water crashing over the edge on to the tiles.

  I can’t see Hugh.

  The water floods past the bath mat and really has made an awful mess.

  I suppose he must be doing the barbecue. Mustn’t he?

  After my bath I wash the bathroom floor, and as I’m on my knees I wash the kitchen floor too. Then I tidy the drawer where I keep the cookbooks and the money-off coupons. I should probably have done this before I got in the bath, but my ability to think sequentially is impaired at the moment; it’s another pregnancy symptom, and not one any woman should ever confess to any man.

  At 9.15 p.m. I pour myself a large glass of iced water and add a slice of lemon. I’m trying to trick my mind, my body and soul into believing that I’m enjoying a hefty G&T. It’s boiling hot and the sun is streaming through the blinds, which I’ve pulled down because I’m naked but for a pair of Mothercare maternity knickers – although, arguably, these knickers are more modest than some of the skirts I used to wear pre-pregnancy. My thighs stick together, and when I prise them apart they make a thwack sound, not unlike a plunger relieving a sink of years of hair and dead skin.

  ‘Who could resist me?’ I ask ironically. I giggle to myself, because this doesn’t horrify me as it would undoubtedly have done in the past. In fact, it makes me laugh so much that I let my thighs melt and mash together over and over again, just for the pleasure of pulling them apart and hearing the thwack sound.

  The doorbell rings.

  Bugger, I could ignore it. I look down at my naked state, and state is definitely the appropriate word – boobs hitting my knees, sweat running over my bump in rivers. There’s no one on this earth I’d let see me dressed like this. Or, rather, undressed like this.

  Except.

  Sam!

  Thrilled,
I dash to the door and am about to fling it open to reveal my naked, corpulent self, but at the last second I’m infected with a hint of caution. I spy through the letterbox.

  ‘James?’ I yell.

  ‘Sorry to arrive unannounced. I know it’s rude of me, but—’ The ‘but’ is so desperate that I barely remember to fling a jacket on to protect my modesty and protect his sensibilities. I open the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  This time his face does flicker on greeting me, but I can’t kid myself – it’s not appreciation, it’s bewilderment.

  ‘Er, if I’ve come at a bad moment… ‘he starts to apologize, as he scans my semi-nude, nearly immodest state.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, we’re not swinging from the chandeliers. I’m on my own actually. It’s fantastic to see you.’ I realize this sounds a bit like a come-on and I’m mortified. I’ve obviously spent too many evenings on my own; I’m pretty hopeless at deciding what’s acceptable chit-chat. I decide not to worry too much; I suspect James has more on his mind than my semi-nakedness. ‘Come in, fix yourself a drink, I’ll go and find some clothes,’ I urge, pulling him over the threshold before he can run away and before the neighbours start talking.

  Five minutes later, I come down the stairs again and this time I’m decently clad. James is sat in the kitchen at the breakfast bar. I’m pleased to see he has poured himself a beer – it shows he’s relaxed – and I’m delighted that he’s poured me a glass of milk – it shows he’s thoughtful.

  ‘You must think it’s odd my coming round here like this.’

  ‘Not really.’ I head towards the more comfortable chairs in the living room and James follows me through.

  ‘You’ve got to talk her out of marrying my brother,’ he splutters before he’s even sat down. ‘You’re her best friend; surely you don’t think she should marry him, she loves me.’ James turns a bit pink as he realizes that what he’s said could sound irresponsibly arrogant.