Larger Than Life

by Adele Parks

  I’m finished.

  The room erupts into riotous laughter. The members of the audience, on average, earn £30K apiece and yet their mental age is equivalent to their shoe size. I notice the odd woman in the audience trying to keep a straight and loyal face but then their solidarity breaks as they hear repeated imitation farts, which the majority are indulging in.

  What can I do? I can hardly ask for everyone’s understanding that the uncontrollable gases are the result of my being thirty-four weeks pregnant. Sales forces rarely do understanding. I catch Dean’s eye and immediately wish I hadn’t. He looks like he’s just had intercourse with a cactus. His face is puce, his eyes are rolling, I think that is genuine steam emitting from his body. Surely he can’t think I did that on purpose. Surely he knows I’d rather eat my own eyeballs than fart in public. Of course I’ve farted, and for that matter burped, in public before. Once at Christmas 1997, and another time near the turn of the millennium. But on both occasions I was at noisy parties and able to walk swiftly away before anyone attributed them to me. I’d rather curl up with agonizing stomach cramps than fart in front of Hugh, I’d rather excuse myself from bed at 3 a.m. saying I need to walk the dog than let loose, and we don’t even have a dog. And now I’ve farted in front of 200 potential clients, my most important colleagues, and my boss.

  I see no reason to carry on living.

  I stumble through the presentation, but I’m not sure anyone is listening. I battle against the tasteless gas jokes, which are heckled intermittently, and after twenty minutes I ask, ‘Are there any questions from the floor?’ About one hundred hands shoot up.

  ‘Can I offer you a Settler?’ Snigger.

  ‘Can you run through the budget? I do hope your claims to cost efficiencies aren’t all gas and air.’ Titter.

  ‘I liked your adverts – at least they’re not a rip off of anything else I’ve seen.’ Chortle.

  So I did have their attention.

  44

  The alarm clock interrupts my nightmare. I’m grateful. I was dreaming that I was presenting to a huge audience of a company’s sales force, and it was a really important pitch for business, worth millions of pounds in advertising revenue. It was essential to Dean that Q&A win this high-profile, multimedia, international account, and I ruined the presentation by uncontrollably letting rip. As I mooch into consciousness I’m struck with a hideous thought – this was not a dream. This really happened. I sigh and pull the covers back over my head. I can smell Hugh’s early morning body and it’s some comfort; at least it is until he says, ‘So are you going to face up to’ – he hesitates and then sniggers – ‘your gaffe and go into work today?’

  However big the man, farts and burps are irresistible joke fodder, it’s genetic.

  I peek out from under the covers and scowl at him. I wish I’d never told him about the incident. It would be nice to get some sympathy, but I realize my chances are anorexic.

  ‘Come on, George, you can’t hide away for the rest of your life.’

  ‘I’m not planning to hide away for the rest of my life – just until after the pregnancy,’ I mutter.

  Hugh shows no mercy but flings the duvet completely off the bed. I dash to the shower, not least because I don’t want him to see my corpulent flesh. As I close the bathroom door he asks, ‘Who were you presenting to, anyway?’

  I hesitate. In the past I’ve sometimes broken agency confidentiality and discussed with Hugh an account that Q&A were pitching for. He’s often a help when bandying ideas about, but this time I have observed Dean’s instructions for absolute secrecy and I haven’t discussed the fact that Q&A are on this luxury-car pitch. The pitch that the entire industry is talking about. Well, at least I haven’t discussed it with Hugh, although Libby does know what’s going on. It’s not that I don’t trust Hugh to keep tight-lipped, it’s just that… I don’t trust Hugh.

  I turn the shower on full blast and pretend I didn’t hear his question.

  The pitch is over. I’ve obviously blown any chance we had of winning, and, for a moment there, I thought we did have a chance. I dread to think what the consequences might be. I can’t imagine Dean suddenly developing a sense of humour. He’s probably already started to reconsider my severance package. His threat wasn’t so decent as to be veiled.

  Worse still, the pitch is over and so I no longer have an excuse to avoid thinking about the possibility that Hugh is having an affair. The possibility that he’s betraying me. Because no matter how many times I tell myself that it’s best to ignore the signs, I can’t. Because no matter how many times I tell myself that an affair isn’t significant, it is.

  I’m tired. Really tired. Tired because recently I’ve put enormous effort into trying to win the pitch. The long hours and deep concentration were arduous. And I’m tired because I’m pregnant. My body, proficient at lifting weights and running marathons, has never endured anything quite so physically gruelling and demanding as this. But mostly, I think I’m tired of Hugh.

  I know, big news.

  When I emerge from the shower, Hugh has already left for the gym; he still works out before going into the office and then showers at the gym. On the bed there’s a breakfast tray. Tea and toast and croissants, with honey on the side (my favourite accompaniment) – not in a jar but carefully decanted into a little bowl, which looks so much better. There’s also orange juice, and when I taste it I note it’s freshly squeezed. There’s a small vase of sweet peas that must have been cut from our garden; they are still dripping with morning dew. The tray looks beautiful. It looks just like something you’d find in the pages of a lifestyle magazine. I sit on the bed and stare at the tray. A large tear rolls down my cheek and splashes on to the toast. I’m not sure if I’m crying with relief, regret or rapture.

  45

  ‘You are a fucking genius,’ laughs Brett.

  Have I walked into the wrong office?

  ‘Yeah, well done, George. Fair play, who’d have thought it?’ Karl shakes his head with mystified delight.

  I don’t react. It could be a wind up. Trust no one is closer to scripture than mantra in advertising.

  ‘Congratulations, Georgina. Congratulations, every one of you. Well done for all your hard work. Take the rest of the day off,’ booms Dean.

  A cheer engulfs the war room and within seconds ripples through the agency. It sounds genuine enough.

  We’ve won.

  ‘We’ve won?’ I know I’m being slow – the champagne corks are already popping and it’s unlikely that I’ve got the wrong end of the stick, but I want to be sure.

  ‘Yes, we fucking won,’ laughs Karl. He sits back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head as he rests his feet on his desk. He’s trying to look like a man who knew all along that Project Zoom was in the bag. Not like a man who berated me for the entire journey home from Milton Keynes for ‘Throwing away the pitch’.

  ‘And it’s all thanks to you,’ smiles Dean, pumping my hand.

  ‘No, not really. Karl, Drew, Brett, the whole team… ‘I splutter modestly. I’ve never known the New Business Director get such direct verbal praise for winning a pitch. A bonus yes, but not so much of the glory.

  ‘You’re being modest,’ smiles Dean.

  I am.

  I wrote most of the pitch and the creative idea was mine (cleverly planted to appear to have been generated in the creative department so as not to offend anyone, but in fact mine).

  ‘No, really, it was a team effort.’

  ‘Oh yes, the pitch document was.’ With a dismissive air Dean waves his cigar-holding hand and brushes away months of work.

  ‘But then… ‘I don’t grasp it.

  ‘The gas thing, that was yours,’ Dean chuckles. I stare, uncomprehending. He tries to enlighten me. ‘Apparently, Frank couldn’t make his mind up between the two agencies on the shortlist, but that – er – gas thing you did swung the vote. The dealers loved it. They thought it made our agency appear less poncy than the other contender. They lik
ed our down-to-earth attitude. So we were awarded the £80 million account, and Q&A are now £8 million better off. Let me buy you lunch.’

  So we won.

  But not because I spent hours arguing over the appropriateness of the word ‘intelligent’ rather than ‘efficient’ to describe an engine. Not because I trawled through endless videotapes of groups of men talking about their passion for revs. Not because our team was the most committed, thorough and creative. Not because I worked so hard that sometimes my head burnt and my eyes turned fizzy. Not because I ate, drank and slept cars for weeks. But because I had wind.

  ‘Good job you’re pregnant, Georgina,’ adds Dean as he slaps my back. ‘the old George was far too sexy for gas. Far too polished to pull a stunt like that.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a blessing.’ I try to smile.

  It is a good thing we won the pitch. A brilliant thing. I look around the agency and everybody is laughing and smiling and joking. No doubt they’ve already mentally spent their bonuses dozens of times over. They radiate confidence and self-belief; nothing lifts an agency like a pitch win and a multinational, multimillion-pound win is the jackpot. Part of me really wants to join in the celebration, but part of me holds back. The office revellers appear to be at a 100-mile distance from me. It’s as though I’m looking at them through a lens; a lens smeared with Vaseline, like photographers use when they are taking one of those tacky wedding shots. Take the Vaseline gimmick away and what are you left with? Inappropriately dressed people, with glued-on smiles. I did want to win this pitch, so, so much, but surely there ought to be more dignity involved in winning. Surely the actual work I do, the way I spend my day, all my days, my life, ought to mean more. I try to explain my feelings to Karl.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s an odd tie-break?’

  ‘Who can drop the biggest clanger? Who the hell cares? We won, didn’t we?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  He’s right, I’m being churlish. We won, that’s the main thing. Who’d have thought it? I was worried that my pregnancy would destroy my career; in fact, it’s galvanized it. I was so sure that I no longer fitted in this world now I no longer fit into my jeans, but perhaps I do. Perhaps there is another way of doing things. I would have preferred to be appreciated for my ability to effectively position a brand rather than my ability to make trumpeting sounds, but the point is I won the pitch. I begin to smile and allow myself to feel if not proud, then at least pleased.

  ‘We screwed the arses off Rartle, Roguel and Spirity,’ laughs Karl.

  ‘Who?’ The agency name is so familiar, but it’s the last one I expected to hear in this context. ‘Rartle, Roguel and Spirity were in the pitch?’ I ask. My stomach lurches, but, for once, this isn’t to do with the pregnancy sickness. The lurch stubs out the flicker of pleasure at winning the pitch. Suddenly everything slams into focus and I can see the whole picture far too clearly.

  ‘Duhhh. Yes. Keep up. They were on the shortlist. Apparently, it was down to them or us. Don’t you read Campaign?’ Karl rolls up a copy of Campaign, and playfully hits me over the head with it. ‘They leaked their involvement last week,’ he explains. ‘Quite a good publicity stunt if you are sure you’re going to win, which they obviously thought they were. Bloody suicide if the client is snatched from under your nose.’ Karl sniggers. He leaves the magazine with me and wanders away to refill his champagne glass.

  Rartle, Roguel and Spirity.

  Hugh.

  So this is what Hugh has been working on all this time. This might even explain the late nights. Although not the condoms. Oh my God, he’ll be devastated. He must have spent months, literally months, on this pitch. Why didn’t I know this? It’s so obvious. How can I have been so wrapped up in the pregnancy as not to have known this? Poor, poor Hugh.

  I read the article, which clearly states Rartle, Roguel and Spirity’s involvement in the pitch. It gets worse. There’s a picture of Hugh and a quote from him. Stupidly, arrogantly, he’s quoted as saying he’d lay his job on the line that no one could come up with a more thorough response to a client brief than the one R, R&S had come up with. Surely he wouldn’t have said that if he hadn’t had insider information that he’d already won the pitch, even before it had taken place. Sadly, such things do happen in our business. But he hasn’t won. We’ve won it and we’ve won it because I farted.

  This is a disaster.

  I bolt into my office and close the door behind me. I call Hugh, but his secretary says that he’s in a meeting and she can’t put me through. He might be, or he might just hate me. I beg her to get him to call as soon as he’s free. She grunts; I’m not sure if it’s in agreement.

  I call Jessica and briefly fill her in on the events of the last twenty-four hours.

  ‘But, darling, that’s marvellous news,’ she trills.

  ‘No, it’s not, Hugh is going to be broken-hearted.’ I try to convey how prestigious it would have been for Hugh, as the new MD of Rartle, Roguel and Spirity, to have brought in the Zoom business.

  ‘But, surely, as President of Neoteric Enterprise at Q&A, it’s an extremely prestigious win for you. And isn’t your salary dependent upon how much new business you win?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ I agree.

  ‘Hugh’s isn’t.’

  ‘Well, no.’

  ‘And didn’t your boss make it clear that he thought you weren’t up to the job now that you’re pregnant?’

  ‘He hinted as much.’

  ‘So then. From what I can see it was down to either Hugh or you being made unhappy. You’re my daughter, Georgina; this is clearly the better result.’

  ‘But I won it for a stupid reason.’ I sigh. I’m literally banging my head on my desk; metaphorically it’s against a number of brick walls.

  ‘No, you didn’t, Georgina. Get a grip.’ Jessica’s clipped tones jolt me into taking notice. ‘Do you honestly think £80 million of business is awarded on a whim? It seems to me that the win being attributed to the incident’ – (neither of us can bring ourselves to be more graphic than this with regard to my bodily functions, God knows how we’ll get through labour) – ‘is just one of those urban myths that you advertising types are so fond of.’ I stop banging my head; she may have a point. ‘I imagine you won the pitch because of good old-fashioned hard work. You tried hard. You were successful. Just be proud of yourself

  ‘But I feel terrible for Hugh.’ How can I explain to Jessica that I’m more used to wanting what Hugh wants and what is good for Hugh than I am at even identifying what I want? ‘He will assume that I knew I was pitching against him.’

  ‘Why didn’t you know? Ought you to have known?’ she asks.

  It’s a tricky one. I don’t like to admit that I didn’t know that R, R&S were pitching partly because I’ve been neglecting the industry press and partly because I’ve been neglecting Hugh. My silence is very telling.

  Jessica adds, ‘Hugh’s big enough and pretty enough to look after himself, George; it’s about time you realized that.’

  ‘I thought you liked him,’ I wail.

  ‘I thought you loved him,’ she comments.

  46

  Hugh, somewhat predictably, doesn’t come home from work until very late. I’m lying in bed but I’m far from asleep and that’s not just to do with the growing baby pushing against my bladder.

  Today should have been a perfect day. Dean insisted on taking the Project Zoom team out for lunch. Most of the team are still there, twelve hours later, scoffing and quaffing. However it was all I could do to force down a couple of mouthfuls of prawn and glass-noodle salad with sesame and ginger, and my modest portion had nothing to do with the fact that I had to pick out the prawns. For once I was glad to have a legitimate excuse to avoid champagne. I didn’t want to taste that dry crackle at the back of my throat. I didn’t want to feel that intrinsic headiness of bubbles zapping my brain cells that definitely signals celebration. Because I didn’t feel much like celebrating.

  ‘Cheer up, George. It’s not a
bloody wake, you know,’ laughed Karl as he ordered a double brandy and cut himself some blue cheese from the board.

  I realize that it is absolutely impossible to explain to Karl or Drew or Brett why I’m sad. They can’t understand that I’d rather Hugh had won Project Zoom. None of them are in a serious relationship, even Brett, and he’s married. They never have ‘issues’ or ‘problems’ or things they ‘need to discuss’. If a woman that they are sleeping with ever suggests that she needs to talk she is swiftly shown the door. They all had emotional lobotomies before they left prep school. It’s a pity we can’t have a chat because they could give me a great insight into Hugh’s state of mind. I didn’t enjoy the lunch.

  I wonder how many more lunches Hugh’s going to ruin for me.

  I can tell from listening to the sounds he makes as he closes the door and takes off his jacket that he’s drunk. I hear him throw his jacket on the back of the chair and I hear it miss and fall into a crumpled mess on the floor. He stumbles upstairs, crashing from one side of the stairway to the other; I hear a picture fall off the wall. It’s a good thing we haven’t yet got a baby for him to wake. He swings into the bedroom and then pauses for a moment; it’s obvious that he’s attempting to appear sober.

  I pretend to be convinced because he needs me to be so. ‘Hi.’ I smile, falsely bright. I don’t ask where he’s been. Or who with.

  ‘Hello, Georgina,’ he articulates carefully. He sits on the end of the bed and starts to take off his shoes. He doesn’t put them carefully in his wardrobe but casually throws them across the room. His shoes are unimportant now and my grand-mother always said you could tell a lot by a man’s shoes.

  ‘I was just going to make a cup of tea, do you want one?’ I offer with sham geniality. I know, by the way his eyes are dangerously dancing around, that he needs to sober up.