by Adele Parks
‘I’ve tried.’
‘Have you?’ He looks up at me with surprise and scary intensity. James has very deep-brown eyes and, although my personal favourite has always been green eyes, I have to admit that his are exceptionally beautiful. They are aflame. The fire is unmistakable, unambiguous, unequivocal.
His eyes are lit up by love.
I haven’t seen that for a while.
‘So you don’t think she should marry him?’ he asks.
‘Well, not if you love each other, no.’ I’m being cautious. Because, after all, I don’t want to say anything that will compromise Sam’s position. She is my best friend, albeit a best friend who can’t stand being in the same room as me.
‘It’s such a mistake.’ James runs his hands through his hair and hangs his head. His pain and frustration are almost tangible. He really is delicious – what can Sam be thinking of by looking a gift horse like this in the mouth? ‘I don’t get this obsession with being married.’ He suddenly looks up at me and is obviously hoping I can explain it to him. I can’t, he’s the wrong sex. How can I explain that Sam has come to the end of her tether? She can’t bear to be the spare female at even one more cosy dinner party hosted by smug couples. She’s been a bridesmaid about six times. She’s woken up in her share of strange and familiar beds only to be asked to drop the latch on her way out. In short, she’s seen love come and go more often than is decent and she can’t risk it again.
‘Well, from her point of view, you’re a bit of a gamble, a wild card,’ I stutter. I’m trying not to offend him, because he looks genuine enough sat on my sofa with his tan and his pecs and his burning eyes; on the other hand, he is shagging his brother’s fiancée, which isn’t exactly the epitome of trustworthy behaviour.
As though he were reading my mind, James says, ‘there’s no reason for you to trust me, I’m behaving treacherously towards Gilbert. I’m aware of that.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you have to believe me that I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘That doesn’t necessarily make it OK,’ I comment, and after all I should know. James looks as though I’ve just punched him.
‘I love her.’ He stares at me for about two weeks. I’ve met dozens of Sam’s boyfriends in the past. I have even heard one or two say exactly the same thing. I can’t look convinced, because James feels compelled to add, ‘I love the way she scrunches her nose up when she laughs. I love her because she is the most altruistic, forgiving, sweet-natured woman I’ve ever met. I love her because she is beautiful, capable and peerless. I love her because she buys at least three copies of the Big Issue every week even though she has a direct debit for Shelter. I love the way she can drink me under the table. I love it that she’s competitive. I even love her flat feet and the fact she scratches her head when she’s thinking.’
I don’t think I’ve ever heard any man say such things about any woman to a third party, not even grooms about their brides in their speeches at the many weddings I’ve attended. James loves Sam for the same reasons I do; well, except I could take or leave her flat feet and scratching.
‘What about Africa? Aren’t you supposed to be going back soon?’ I can’t see Sam living anywhere without there being a Chanel or Dior or Estée Lauder concession within spitting distance. He can’t seriously think she’d go with him.
‘I’ll get a job here. I’ll work in a travel agency. I’ll find something. I’d do anything.’
Considering that it’s been difficult to persuade Sam’s boyfriends to move over in bed or give her a share of the duvet in the past, I admit this is serious.
James stands up and moves towards the door. He’s leaving because we both know I’m not the one he needs to convince.
‘Sorry, to – er – have barged in like this. I just needed to say it.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’ I sweep his embarrassment away as best I can. ‘Have you thought of telling Gilbert about your affair?’ I ask.
‘I can’t do that to either of them.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ I open the front door and James starts to walk up the path. ‘Have you thought of proposing?’ I yell.
‘Not whilst she’s engaged to my brother.’ He shrugs.
‘No, suppose not,’ I repeat and then add, ‘Er, good luck.’ I realize that my parting shot is inadequate and imperfect in the face of his pain and passion.
Oh God, being an adult is so difficult.
Hugh comes in at one-thirty in the morning. I’m at the dining-room table, ostensibly reflecting on the enthusiastic, almost unearthly preoccupation the engineers and designers at Zoom have with building the ultimate driving machine; in reality I’m worrying about Sam and James and Gilbert. Hugh has been through the door for about thirty seconds and he still hasn’t mentioned the shiny kitchen floor. I don’t think I can forgive him.
‘Where have you been?’
He doesn’t answer immediately, but empties his pockets of his mobile, loose change and keys. To think I used to find this little ritual endearing, when obviously it’s as irritating as someone scraping their fingernails down a blackboard.
‘I told you, we went to the Unilever clients’ summer ball.’
‘We?’
‘Yes, me and the team.’ He seems confused.
‘Why didn’t you ask me to go with you? I suppose it’s because I’m too fat to be seen with. Where was this ball? So who’s on this team?’ I know, I make those involved in the Spanish Inquisition look inadequate.
Hugh doesn’t look at me, but tells the breakfast bar that no one took their partners. That the ball was at Grosvenor House. That he had mentioned it this morning, and that the team members are Mark, Tom, and Toni.
‘With an “i” or a “y”?’
‘What?’
‘Toni. With an “i” or a “y”? Male or female Toni?’
Hugh almost grins. ‘Well, I suppose, strictly speaking, she’s female, but not easily identifiable as such. She’s a real bulldog. Good brain, though,’ he adds as an afterthought.
‘Really,’ I snipe. It’s not Hugh’s style to comment on female intelligence. He rarely walks along the street turning to check out the pert grey matter. He’s never commented, ‘Fantastic pair of medulla oblongata.’ I’m not convinced for a second. I’ve heard it all before. Well, at least if not first-hand then certainly second, through films and girl friends. No one ever admits to a colleague being attractive. The bulldog is undoubtedly far from being a bruiser. I can see her now – a leggy, skinny, redhead. A number of Hugh’s sexual fantasies involve redheads.
‘I’m telling you the truth,’ he insists.
‘As though you’d know what it is,’ I mutter.
‘What’s that supposed to mean, George?’
I don’t bother answering. I walk to the kitchen, open the fridge and hunt around for the milk.
‘How many copies of the Big Issue do I buy a week?’ I ask Hugh.
Hugh stares at me as though I’ve just confessed to a three-in-the-bed but doesn’t answer.
‘What do you love about me, Hugh?’
He loosens his tie. ‘Your ability to hold a sequential conversation,’ he mutters sarcastically.
I pour myself a glass of milk and head off to bed with my week-by-week pregnancy guidebook.
43
It’s hard to say how things are going. The Managing Director, Marketing Director, the Marketing Controller, two Marketing Managers and the Brand Manager all appear rapt. But it crosses my mind that they could have learnt that encouraging-nodding-of-the-head technique on a course in Tunbridge Wells.
Karl is being predictably slick and efficient.
‘The health of the brand is excellent. Sales are at record levels, the product continues to improve and goodwill amongst consumers has never been higher. Why, then, I hear you ask, would we suggest that now is an appropriate time for a change in the communications strategy?’
Actually, none of the clients has asked any such thing, and I have a
horrible feeling that one of the Marketing Managers has just started writing a shopping list on the agency-supplied notepad, with the agency-supplied pencil. Undaunted, Karl carries on, his rhino-like skin is an invaluable asset at times like this; a more sensitive man would crumble.
‘Given the success of the brand, you may be inclined to simply repeat what you’ve already been doing. More of the same. But that’s not a good idea. Why not? I’ll tell you why not.’ Karl pauses dramatically. ‘The environment in which we are operating is constantly changing, and we need to change with it. After all, once you’re at the top there’s only one way to go.’ He starts to crank up the emotional pressure. If you can’t impress them then depress them was not the agreed strategy. I fling him a warning look. He ignores it.
‘Success is invariably followed by plummeting decline and the decline can always be traced back to the unwillingness of an old dog to learn new tricks. Think of the Roman and Soviet empires, think Thatcher. Or, more prosaically, think Spam and Red Mountain… ‘Karl continues to try to intimidate the client as he briefly touches on some media-buying issues. ‘there is increased competition in advertising in the car category on TV, in in-flight, in the press and on posters… So-called “innovative” media ideas offer no respite as they are copied immediately… And we all know that TV does not deliver as it used to.’
The clients are just reaching for the Prozac when I cut Karl short by pointing out that the best brands, with the appropriate communication, can always cut through the clutter.
The clients smile at me gracefully. Karl winks at me, and I realize that we have just played good cop/bad cop to perfection – without even rehearsing it. I feel a flicker of excitement dart up my calves and then explode in my stomach. We’re a good team. I’d almost forgotten how good we could be.
Drew is suitably academic and incomprehensible. He asks, ‘Are there truly any real brands?’ No one knows how to answer this, although he has been asking it at every pitch for as long as I’ve known him. I don’t mind; it’s the planner’s job to be obscure. One of the uppity Marketing Managers starts to attack the segmentation chart that Drew is presenting. Drew bats back by pointing out that this is the same chart that Mars always use, and, if it’s good enough for Mars, well then… Drew then adds, ‘Why keep a dog and bark yourself; after all, it’s better if you stick to the knitting.’ No one has a clue what he’s on about, least of all himself, or the uppity Marketing Manager. No one wants to admit to being ignorant, so his point is conceded.
Drew then shows over forty slides on the market-research results, sprinkling his presentation with details on continuous surveys, retail-audit presentations, consumer panels and tracking studies. He uses so many acronyms I’m beginning to think I’m in the wrong meeting, so I have no idea what the clients must be thinking. AGB, TGI, EPOS, DAR, ECG, NRS. I, for one, fear he’s gone OTT. Even if he has a point, we’re so bored that we can’t be bothered to let him make it; the pitch process is fast turning into a kind of slow-water torture.
When Frank looks confused enough, I start to chip in with my thinly disguised sales pitch. It’s a unique mix of: flattery – ‘We’re all aware of the exacting standards you set’; glossing – ‘so what did the brand research tell us? We did credibly well against all the key dimensions of performance, engineering quality, technology and design’; and telling him how it is – ‘But I’m afraid the brand performed poorly against the aspirational characteristics, dynamic, sporty, contemporary and prestigious.’
I can see the clients sinking into their seats; it’s my job to lift them.
‘But don’t worry, we do have the solution.’
Drum roll, and then Brett presents the creative concepts, which are all anyone is ever interested in anyway. Brett shocks us all. He’s very keen and largely articulate. When questioned by Frank about why we went with this direction, he doesn’t say, ‘because black is my favourite colour’, he shows an astonishing amount of acumen. ‘What we are trying to do is exploit the dissonance between the brand’s residual association with yuppies and the 1980s, and current cultural values of anti-badge advertising. This is all about not taking yourself too seriously, about being big enough to take a pop at yourself…’
It’s clear, they love them. The MD slaps Frank on the back, Frank beams and winks at me. The Marketing Managers are already getting excited about the prospect of meeting Guy Ritchie. Now all I have to do is draw the meeting to an accurate and memorable conclusion.
I start with a bit of reassuring good sense about knowing what their company is good at, about never underestimating the workload, nor the importance of selling the idea to the sales force – at which point Frank surprises me by stealing back the show.
‘Do you mean that?’
‘What?’
‘The bit about the importance of selling the idea to the sales force?’
I can hardly say no. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. Let’s do it. We’ve seen six agencies and I’d say it’s down to two. You and one other.’ He doesn’t pause to say congratulations. ‘You can both present to our sales force, and we’ll see what they think.’
This is great news.
‘You can do it this afternoon.’
This is bad news.
It’s an unusual situation. Frank’s on-the-spot decision to take advantage of a sales conference that just happens to be taking place today (I smell a rat) is unlikely to be a genuine impulse. I don’t seriously believe that the decision of who will handle the advertising business will rest with the sales force. I think the MD and Frank’s marketing department are just trying to keep the unions happy. My experience is that really good advertising never comes from committee approval. However, the client is god and if they want their potential agency to sweat blood and tears in front of a 200-strong audience we’ll do it.
And then some.
Although, as Dean, Drew, Karl, Brett and I pack up our charts and tapes (in the knowledge that we have less than fifty minutes to get to Euston station, buy our tickets and board the train for Milton Keynes), it’s hard to view the ‘opportunity’ to pitch our creative concepts to the entire sales force as quite the victory it surely is. This morning we were running on adrenalin (well, at least I was; I can’t vouch for Brett, his adrenalin quite possibly comes from something a little stronger than black coffee and Pro Plus). The adrenalin rush lasted throughout the morning’s presentation, and whilst we are all trying hard to cling on to the can-do attitude we’re all feeling a bit nervy and jaded.
Thank God it’s a bright sunny July day and all of London is celebrating this fact. The parks are full, the cafés are heaving, and the streets are bubbling over. The world is awash with optimism. People are actually smiling at one another in the street as though they were living in a different century. Black clothes seem to have been banished overnight as effervescent beauties and uglies dress in flirty, colourful summer dresses that are unashamedly feminine. Blokes grin their appreciation, trying but failing to pluck up the courage to strike up a conversation. There’s nowhere quite like London, on a hot summer’s day, to convey possibility. The smells of sweet sweat (barely disguised by designer perfumes), sun oil, lager and garlic all collide into one another to create an infusion of expectation. Even the facts that my previously toned upper arms are rubbing the edge of my maternity bra, and that the sweat is running down the chafed flesh, don’t upset me.
‘I think we can really do this, guys. I think we might just win it.’
Karl looks doubtful, Brett looks sulky (he had a big lunch planned) and Drew is simply looking out of the cab window.
‘Really. I have a good feeling,’ I enthuse.
Only Dean picks up my ebullience, and that’s only because he’s American. ‘You’re all ready to wow them, Georgina?’
‘Sure thing, Dean,’ I grin.
‘Attagirl, go get ‘em.’ He thumps my back and I regret my lack of pompons. Dean definitely sees me as the team cheerleader.
The pitch is perfect.
Karl is pleasantly polished and effective. Drew cuts his presentation in half, which still means it’s twice as long as necessary, but it is an improvement. And, most importantly, Brett’s presentation of the creative concept sends a ripple of excitement through the audience.
It’s in the bag. It’s in the bloody bag! I’m sure of it. All I have to do is make a careful and notable summary. No flannel, no frills, no problem.
I stand in front of the mike, which immediately squeaks irresponsibly. Rather than yell ‘testing, one, two, three’, which is so unoriginal, I cough and realize that the sound hasn’t been picked up. I glare my irritation towards the back of the hall. A scruffy individual, in jeans and square glasses, begins to panic and run around, as though there is a rocket up his boxers. If only. I turn to Dean and smile prettily, trying to convey that everything is under control. An outright lie. The mike makes another high-pitched squeaky sound; this one apparently indicates that the blip in the sound system has now been rectified. I’m meant to understand this because the geek in the jeans and glasses has stopped sweating buckets and is holding his thumbs up in the air.
I approach the mike for the second time, rehearsing my opening under my breath. ‘It’s an unusual position you find yourselves in. You are a victim of your own success. The sheer volume of sales…’
Then it happens.
It starts in my shoes, or at least I think it must because it certainly builds from somewhere, and my shoes are as far away from my mouth as any other part of my anatomy. It builds in my stomach and pauses there for a fraction of time. Long enough for me to recognize it for what it is, but not long enough for me to stifle its progress. My stomach growls and rumbles. Then it rises up my oesophagus; there’s a moment where I can’t breathe. Then the sulphurous, clamorous, ruinous BURP explodes.
I’m so pleased that the mike is working efficiently and that it picks that up.
Not.
A number of the more juvenile members of the audience (about three-quarters) start to titter, and, before I can quickly look around for someone to blame the bodily explosion on, the worst thing happens. I fart. A rip-roaring, resounding, wall-reverberating, ripe FART.