‘Fast forward … a bit more … yep, pause,’ says Andy to the editor. ‘So if you cut at 2.06 and take three seconds of that shot, you can intercut with the mushroom shot from reel seven, then cut back in again on the other take, where she stumbles on the word “truth” but then finishes the line well.’
Andy is amazing. He has such great attention to detail that he’s able to shape and mould this mess into something that ends up looking totally brilliant by the time we finish late on Thursday night.
‘How on earth did you manage to do that, Andy?’ I say.
‘Oh, I love the editing,’ he says. ‘Finding those perfect little moments and picking them out. It’s like a jigsaw. And there’s always something brilliant just to the side of where you’re expecting it. You can have a shot that seems like a total disaster but then if you look closely, see, where this take finishes, Celina gives this beautiful, natural smile – because she thinks the take is over. She’s actually looking relaxed for the first time right there. And we can stick that smile on the end of the first shot and make it look seamless.’
While Andy’s been glued to the screen all week, I’ve been obsessing about what I’m going to wear to meet Daniel for coffee on Saturday. What am I going to wear? Do I look slimmer in jeans or a skirt? Will that small, subcutaneous spot have surfaced and disappeared again by then, or will it just be breaking through? Should I get my hair done? Maybe I should get my hair done? Last time Daniel saw me my hair was ‘done’ and it does always look better when the hairdresser blow-dries it …
I have to keep reminding myself that this is just a coffee, nothing more.
But I feel so excited about seeing Daniel that I find it impossible to keep this thought in my brain for long enough to over-rule my happiness.
And I know this is probably a bad thing.
Damn emotion, failing to be controlled by logic.
Friday
I’m finally back in the office after being out for more than a week. All I have to do is make it through today and then it’ll be the weekend and I get to see Daniel. But before I’m released from this luxuriously carpeted prison that is my second home, I have to sit through Happy Hour.
Happy Hour. Officially called ‘Inspiration Hour’ – though that doesn’t sound too inspiring. In actual fact it should be called ‘Boredom Hour’ or, on Sam’s suggestion, ‘Just Kill Me Now-er’. Happy Hour was introduced two years ago and was designed to ruin our Friday afternoons in spring and summer. During these sessions, one of our senior team deigns to share their ‘Original Blue Sky Thinking’ with the rest of the agency. A modest bunch, my colleagues; from the way they pitch it, you’d think NMN was a cross between Apple, Harvard and NASA. You’d never guess our most profitable client was a thrush cream.
To break this tedium we occasionally have external speakers from diverse backgrounds, selected to stimulate our minds, bodies and souls. We’ve welcomed Shirley Hanigan from our software providers. Shirley spoke at great length on ‘Perfect Presentations: Empowerpoint Yourself!’ (Berenice’s choice, clearly.)
We’ve also had Robbie’s personal yogi, Marco Nirvana. Marco presented us with his ‘Venn of Zen’. (A Venn diagram illustrating how to better balance our souls and our day jobs: Marco’s blue circle = ‘Ways to Find Meaning in a Materialistic World’; his red circle = ‘Ways to Succeed In the 21st Century Media Jungle’. The purple overlap = ‘Marco’s spirituality course in Crete, only £1499 this summer, including all soft drinks and one session of Reiki or a head massage’.)
But my absolute favourite of all time was Lieutenant Colonel Gordon Hattenstone: ex Black Watch, and undoubtedly The Hardest Man Ever to Set Foot in an Agency that has bottles of £24 organic Sicilian lemon handwash in its toilets. Gordon had killed loads of Taliban, rescued even more Afghan women and children, and raised £100k doing an Ironman for charity. Gordon showed us a testosterone-charged video of soldiers doing battle; all the boys in the audience nearly wet themselves with excitement. Gordon roused us with talk of ‘Ultimate Team Work’ and ‘Fighting the Good Fight’. And then we all went back to our desks and updated our status reports. (Although the following Tuesday I did lay out the napkins for my breakfast meeting with Devron with military precision.)
Before they promote me I’ll have to stand up and do one of these sessions myself. I hate public speaking but it’s an NMN rite of passage, like a frat-boy hazing but hopefully with less urine drinking. I’ve been avoiding thinking about my own speech for months now. What could I possibly speak about with any expertise? The joys of being dumped? The best use for old parmesan rinds? I’ve still got a month to work on it though, so for today I can relax and enjoy/endure the talk. First I have to swing by the mail room to pick up Sam.
I find him leaning over three chocolate muffins, picking the chocolate chips off the top and holding them up to the light like diamonds before filing them in a line on the counter.
‘What now, Sam?’ I say.
He holds up one finger.
‘Sam. I know for a fact that you have a 2:1 in maths from Leeds and that it has been entirely your choice to waste your education on a decade of idleness in this room. I don’t know the exact reasons why you’ve chosen to underachieve – I suspect it’s something to do with your mother, or perhaps a fear of failure – these things usually are. However, this is a new low in time-wasting, even for you.’
‘Can’t you see I’m concentrating?’
‘What exactly are you looking for in those chocolate chips? If it’s the face of Jesus, it’s actually in a piece of toast in Las Vegas.’
‘I’ll know it when I see it.’
‘Explain yourself now, Sam, or we’ll miss the best seats.’
‘Alright, alright.’ He stops and turns to me. ‘Who is the laziest person in this agency?’
‘Other than you, Sam?’
‘I’m not lazy, just under-utilised. OK, lazy and light-fingered, nicks loo roll, could give the guys from Enron a run for their money, Freebie Gonzalez …’
‘Steve Pearson, obviously. And?’
‘Well, Suze, as you say, I’ve spent a fulfilling yet constantly challenging decade in this mail room. And in that time Pearson has never once brought down his own parcels. Until today, when he came in early for a quickie with Julie in Boardroom Three. CCTV’s got a lot to answer for,’ he says, shaking his head in horror.
‘Sam, remind me never, ever to piss you off.’
‘Anyway, Pearson then saunters down here with this jiffy bag, three muffins inside, home address on the label. He’s couriering them home to himself!’
‘Ridiculous; why wouldn’t he just carry the muffins home, Sherlock? Why spend twenty-two quid of company money on a bike?’
‘Same reason anyone in this place ever does anything that’s out of order,’ he says, putting a chunk of muffin into his mouth. ‘Because they think they can get away with it.’
‘The chips, Sam?’
‘I’m hunting for one perfect chip to put back in the bag to send to his house. Aha! This is the one.’ He nods to himself and carefully places one chocolate drop back into the envelope.
‘He’ll know you’ve opened his mail,’ I say.
‘He’s hardly going to bollock me for stealing his stolen muffins though, is he?’
‘Why on earth would you waste your time doing that?’
He looks out the window and up to the sky. ‘Because it amuses me.’ He pauses. ‘Because it feels like justice.’ And finally, ‘Because I can.’
‘Well let’s get a move on because if we don’t get the best seats I’m going to blame you,’ I say, as we head out of the mail room and race up to the boardroom.
‘You’ve got to admit that was the perfect chip, worth the quest, no?’ says Sam, as I pull open the heavy boardroom door, and see with relief that the best seats are still free. The best seats = the back row: the only conceivable place to sit if one is to survive. Sam, Rebecca and I hide here, whisper and try not to laugh or weep too loudly.
The rest of t
he agency are already seated – Robbie’s the speaker today, so everyone’s on time, and wants to be seen at the front. There is the usual low-level chattering, punctuated by the occasional guffaw, but the moment Robbie enters there is silence. He’s wearing a pair of black Prada trousers, limited edition snakeskin Nikes and a black t-shirt with a photo of Steve Jobs on that says ‘Stay Hungry, Stay Foolish’.
‘He’s half way there at least,’ says Sam, rolling his eyes.
After surveying the crowd Robbie takes out his iPad Mini and presses a button controlling the sound system, which blares out ‘Imagine’ by John Lennon. This mixes into ‘Video Killed the Radio Star’, then into Katy Perry’s ‘Last Friday Night’. Milking every second, Robbie glides to the podium across a carpet as thick and cream-coloured as he is.
‘A bonus point for anyone who can connect the dots on that little soundtrack,’ says Robbie, looking pointedly round the room.
‘Unholy musical trio,’ whispers Sam.
‘I thought you liked John Lennon?’ I say.
‘Lennon was a genius, unquestionably, but come the mid-sixties he was basically taking acid every day. McCartney held the band together, he’s the true avant-gardist.’
‘Yeah – “Frog Chorus”,’ I whisper back. ‘Doesn’t get much more cutting edge than that.’ Rebecca lets out a small giggle.
‘Anyone at the back?’ says Robbie. ‘I’ll give you a clue, something in the Katy Perry lyrics.’
There is some conferring in the audience. Jonty sticks his hand up. ‘Is it something to do with Fridays? It’s Friday today. And the Katy Perry song is all about Friday nights?’
‘Epic fail I’m afraid,’ says Robbie, allowing himself a little laugh. ‘Any more takers? No? One last clue.’ He presses the remote back on: ‘Islands in the Stream’ plays out, at which point Steve Pearson’s hand shoots up.
‘Mr Pearson?’ says Robbie.
‘Is it the Beatles?’ says Pearson. ‘John Lennon was a Beatle. “Video Killed the Radio Star” – the Beatles were the first radio stars. And Katy Perry, doesn’t she go out with George Harrison’s son or something?’
‘And “Islands in the Stream”?’ says Robbie.
‘Oh. I don’t know,’ says Pearson. ‘Written by a Beatle?’
‘Written by the Bee Gees, you muffin-stealing bozo,’ says Sam, under his breath. ‘And the title was taken from an Ernest Hemingway book.’
‘Are you sure about that, Sam?’ I say.
‘It’s true,’ he whispers, ‘I’ll bet you a fiver.’
‘The answer is not the Beatles,’ says Robbie. ‘I’ll have to enlighten you: it’s the w, w, w, the digital highway, the internet.’
‘How on earth is the answer the internet?’ says Sam, shaking his head.
‘These songs are all connected,’ says Robbie. ‘Just as we are all connected. The internet connects us in ways we could never have imagined. Katy Perry’s song talks of posting pictures on the internet. “Video Killed the Radio Star” is about the death of the radio medium, and many people think the internet is the death of paid-for TV advertising.’
‘“Video Killed the Radio Star” is actually about Kenny Everett,’ says Sam to me. ‘And actually Kenny Everett was mates with John Lennon … And now I come to think about it, Kenny G has a cameo in that Katy Perry video …’
‘Too much time on your hands, Sam,’ I say.
‘And Kenny Rogers sings “Islands in the Stream”! The answer should be Kenny!’ says Sam indignantly.
‘Imagine,’ says Robbie. ‘Well, who could have imagined even ten years ago how indispensable the internet would be to us? Who could have imagined Foursquare?’
‘Yep, civilisation would definitely end if we didn’t know that Jonty has just entered Starbucks on Oxford Street,’ mutters Sam. ‘Besides, you can’t have “Imagine” as a clue just because it has the word imagine …’
Sam puts his hand up. ‘What about “Islands in the Stream” then?’
‘Streaming? Islands, floating, like clouds.’
‘What’s he talking about?’ I say.
‘Cloud computing, it’s like a big virtual memory bank. It’s pretty amazing actually. Though remember, if you write it, you can never delete it.’
‘If you delete it from your trash can it’s gone though, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘It’s never gone,’ says Sam.
‘What does the G in Kenny G stand for?’ says Rebecca.
‘Let me play you a little something,’ says Robbie, and turns on the projector. Up on screen comes the clip from the Olympics opening ceremony illustrating the internet, where a girl loses her phone and a guy finds and returns it to her. Robbie watches the screen, lips pursed together smugly. Once the clip is over he turns, pauses, then starts:
‘Technology is changing faster than the blink of an eye. In the year 2000 there were less than a million homes with the internet in the UK. This year that number will top eighteen million. Today we laugh online, we cry online, we can even meet the love of our lives online.’ Rebecca gives me a sharp jab in the ribs.
‘Most importantly for us warriors in the media battleground,’ says Robbie, ‘more consumers than ever use the internet to shop …’
‘For porn,’ whispers Sam.
‘So now more than ever we must fight for the best ideas. Be original, be creative. There’s so much digital white noise – think how your campaigns can stand out! Grab that consumer by the throat. Have the killer end line,’ says Robbie. ‘Remember your Maslow! The consumer has basic physiological needs: water, breathing, sleeping …’
‘Sleeping is my basic need at this point,’ says Sam.
‘And then there are more sophisticated needs,’ says Robbie. ‘Fulfilling employment, sexual intimacy, self-esteem.’ I’m still working on all three of those.
‘And it is advertising’s role to meet these emotional needs,’ says Robbie. ‘Successful brands fill gaps in consumers’ lives that they can’t articulate for themselves. It’s our job to get under their skin, pre-empt their desires. To do this well you need to understand the hearts of your brands. You are the midwives of your brand’s soul.’
Sam wriggles in his chair. The phrase ‘brand soul’ always makes him shudder.
‘Which brings me finally back to our working-class hero John Lennon,’ says Robbie. ‘“Life goes by while you’re making other plans.” Carpe diem, guys: make the campaigns you’re working on today the greatest you can.’ He raises his hands in the air like a preacher. ‘Every Tweet, every banner ad. Accept nothing less than excellence. Be brave. Be fearless. Thanks for listening.’
‘Martin Luther Doggett,’ says Sam, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye.
‘I hate that John Lennon quote,’ I say, as the rest of the room filters out. ‘Reminds me of all the years I’ve wasted here.’
‘Robbie misquoted him, as ever. That’s not even what Lennon said,’ says Sam. ‘And besides Lennon borrowed it off a journalist, it wasn’t even Lennon’s own.’
‘Then it’s the perfect quote, seeing as half the campaigns on this agency’s reel are borrowed,’ I say. ‘Meanwhile what the hell am I going to talk about when it’s my turn?’
‘Gorelick,’ says Sam.
‘What?’ I say.
‘G is for Gorelick. Kenny G. His surname is Gorelick.’
‘Sam – I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you,’ I say.
Is that a little blush I see blossoming on his cheeks?
‘Are you coming for a drink after work?’ he says. ‘It’s Jinesh’s leaving do, we’re going down The Crown. Come. I haven’t seen you properly for ages.’
‘Can’t, I’ve got something urgent I have to do,’ I say, as I grab my bag and head for the door. Something urgent that I don’t really want to do, but I feel I should: go home and call Daniel again.
I’ve drunk a glass and a half of red wine and I can’t put it off any longer so I pick up the phone and dial his number.
‘Daniel McKendall,’ I
say.
‘Hey, Susie Rosen! I was just thinking about you.’ You were?
I take a deep breath. ‘Listen. I’m sorry for the short notice but I can’t see you tomorrow.’
‘Don’t tell me, those pizzas are eating into your weekend?’
‘Oh no, that’s all done. We’re in the central ad break in Corrie on Monday night if you fancy a laugh?’
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ he says. ‘So what are you up to tomorrow then, anything exciting?’
‘I just can’t make it, that’s all.’
‘Why?’
‘I just don’t think it’s a very good idea if we hang out.’
‘Why not?’ he says.
‘Because … I don’t think it’s a good idea.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Because all I’ve been thinking about since I last spoke to you is what I’m going to wear when I meet you,’ I say, feeling ridiculously exposed, even as the words come out of my mouth.
‘Right …’ he says. ‘That’s sweet.’
‘And that’s not normally how my brain works when I’m thinking about having a cup of coffee with a mate.’ I mean, I didn’t even sort out my dress to Polly’s wedding till an hour before the ceremony, but you really don’t need to know that.
‘What are you saying?’ he says.
‘I’m saying I think I fancy you. I’m sorry. It’s messed up. This is embarrassing. But I’m kidding myself if I say that you’re just a mate, because you’re not just any old mate. Not that you’re not a mate, but … I’m just trying to be honest with myself and with you because this feels like a weird situation,’ I say.
‘Oh sweetheart, that’s really flattering,’ he says. ‘It’s fine, we’re not going to do anything, we’re just hanging out. We can be mates, can’t we? I was really looking forward to seeing you.’
Now I feel really stupid. What am I even thinking of? I’ve made it sound like I’m in love with him. All it boils down to is this: I fancy him. He’s married. We have a history, and because of the other night I feel nervous. And that’s understandable. He’s a good-looking man. There was an almost-kiss. But I am totally able to control myself. I’m seeing him for two hours in broad daylight. And in this phone conversation I’ve made it sound like I’ll be trying to dry hump him in the street.
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