Selling the Dream

by Hugh Mackay

  As she watched Linc pay the bill, Marjorie could contain her curiosity no longer. It was probably a client, she thought, though the dynamic seemed more intimate than she imagined it should be. But what did she know of the ways of commerce? Anyway, it would be absurd to be in the same restaurant as her son-in-law and not say hello.

  Linc pulled Joanne’s chair back as she stood, straightened her skirt, leant towards him, put on her most solemn face and said: ‘Guess what colour knickers I’m wearing.’

  ‘Hello, Linc,’ said Marjorie, pleased to note that, up close, this woman, whoever she was, had a serious mien. Perhaps she was a client after all. Or even Linc’s boss – she looked considerably older than he, to Marjorie’s practised eye.

  For one chilling moment, Linc assumed Marjorie had overheard Joanne’s last remark. But, no, her demeanour was too calm. Not even the uber-cool Marjorie could have taken that in her stride.

  ‘Marjorie!’ he said, with genuine surprise. ‘How lovely to see you,’ he thought to add after a short pause that was possibly not short enough.

  Marjorie looked at Joanne expectantly and Joanne beamed back at her. ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said Linc, ‘Marjorie, this is Joanne, a colleague of mine from the agency. Joanne, this is Marjorie, Hermione’s mother.’

  Both women hesitated, and then yielded to the pressure of social convention.

  ‘How do you do,’ said Marjorie, true to her class and generation.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Joanne, true to hers.

  Joanne rescued them from the awkward pause that followed. ‘You must excuse me. I have another meeting to get to.’

  On reflection, Linc thought The Darby’s use of ‘another’ was a brilliant touch.

  Joanne vanished, a hint of her perfume hanging in the air and the clatter of her high heels clearly audible as she descended the stairs without an arm to clutch.

  ‘Come and meet the girls,’ said Marjorie, and Linc allowed himself to be ushered to the table where Marjorie’s three lunch companions, all looking remarkably alike, were drinking coffee. Linc was formally introduced to each of them in turn, failing to retain any of their names. It didn’t matter: there was to be no conversation. Having noted his discomfiture, Marjorie made it clear he was now dismissed.

  Raising his hand in a vague gesture of farewell, he headed gratefully for the stairs and fresh air.

  ■

  In bed that night, Linc decided he would finally reveal the Bravissimo play to Hermione. He needed to talk to someone about the tenor of Smythe’s conversation and its possible implications. Hermione would have a view. Hermione always had a view.

  Before he could broach the topic, however, Hermione rolled over to face him and said: ‘So. Joanne. Tell me about her.’

  ‘Ah. Your mother.’

  ‘Ah yes, my mother. Who exactly is Joanne? A colleague, I think you told Mum. You’ve never mentioned her name to me. Middle-aged but glamorous, Mum said. So?’

  Linc realised he should have been prepared for this. He should have taken the initiative, in point of fact (a phrase he found attractive when Smythe used it, and one he intended to adopt); should have said breezily when he came through the door, ‘Saw your mother in the city today. We were both lunching in the same place.’ Too late now. It was inevitable that Marjorie would have phoned Hermione to report on their est encounter, including a detailed description of The Darby, and equally inevitable that Hermione would have followed up. Hermione always followed up. Often in bed.

  ‘Oh, Joanne . . . she’s having pretty intense one-on-ones with most of the key people at the agency. Getting ready for her new role.’

  ‘Yes but who is she? Where did she spring from? Why lunch, and why somewhere like est?’

  ‘People eat, Hermo. Colleagues have lunch together all the time. A lot of business is done over lunch. Don’t you have lunch with your colleagues at the hospital? Isn’t there a lunchroom or something? Anyway, as I say, she’s working her way through the senior group. It’s all being done over a series of lunches. Away from the office, you see.’

  ‘Are you telling me Joanne is the new CEO? Is Bob retiring at last?’

  ‘Not exactly. It’s more complicated than that. Look, Hermo, this is part of a much bigger story. I’ve been meaning to tell you about it. The partners might be about to sell the agency. Bob may well retire when that happens. Joanne will be playing a key role in the revamped operation – sort of like the agency nerve centre, in a way.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean? Sort of like the agency nerve centre? In a way? In what way?’

  Linc was taken aback by the vehemence of Hermione’s enquiry. He should not have been. Hermione’s enquiries were always both vehement and relentless. She had scarcely begun on Joanne.

  ‘I think she’ll be a sort of general manager – or possibly a senior executive assistant to the new CEO, whoever that might be. And, Hermo, it might well be me. I’ve been meaning to mention this. Things are moving rather quickly, in point of fact.’

  He had been saving this up to impress Hermione and the boys when it became official. Having to reveal it in this way, as a mere distraction from the Joanne question, made it feel like a big announcement that was coming out small. But he hoped it would sound big enough, dramatic enough, to switch the focus a bit; stop the bloodhound in her tracks; perhaps even cause a mild flutter of interest.

  Hermione did pause. Then she frowned. Knowing Linc as well as she did, she found it hard to imagine that anyone would ever appoint him CEO of anything. In her experience, he operated quite well within strictly defined boundaries. Never send him shopping without a list, for instance. Never expect him to cook anything without a written set of detailed instructions. Never leave children in his care without prescribing exactly how the time should be spent. She assumed Linc was a highly successful person in his field, or he would not have been paid so much money and given an Aston Martin to drive. But his field was not the taking of responsibility. His field was not leadership. His field was not people skills. CEO? Never. He must be deluding himself.

  ‘Hmm. So. Back to Joanne. She might be this. She might be that. If this happens. If that happens. Who is she now, Linc? What does she actually do?’

  ‘She runs the creative department. Well, she’s Markus’s PA, but she effectively runs the department. Markus is totally out of his depth when it comes to admin. I’m sure I’ve mentioned that. Totally out of his depth when it comes to most things, in point of fact.’

  ‘So she’s an administrator, is that what you’re telling me? And when, or if, the agency is taken over by some unnamed, presumably foreign, entity – perhaps we’ll get to that – the middle-aged-but-glamorous Joanne will continue to be an administrator but on a larger canvas. Is that it?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So she already knows you very well, since you both work in the same quite small organisation. But suddenly she feels the need to have – what did you call it? – an intense one-on-one with you.’

  ‘With all of us. The key people, I mean. This is going to be a big step for her, and she’s preparing herself. Getting to know what goes on beyond the creative department.’

  Hermione’s eyes narrowed in a way that Linc was familiar with. ‘How often have you two had lunch together?’

  ‘That was the first and only time.’ That, at least, was true, though he later wondered, replaying the conversation in his head as Hermione slept soundly beside him, whether ‘first’ was the wisest word to use; having used it, ‘only’ was, of course, redundant.

  Antennae twitching, Hermione had been tempted to ask the standard questions, but she knew she’d only receive the standard answers. Time to pay another of her rare visits to the agency, she decided. See this Joanne for herself.

  ‘I need to sleep,’ said Hermione. ‘I’m in theatre at eight in the morning.’

  She rolled onto her back and took Linc’s hand in hers for a few moments. He interpreted this as a sign of reassur
ance and affection; in fact, Hermione was taking his pulse. As she expected, it was elevated.

  13

  ‘COME IN, LINC. Have a seat.’

  It was six o’clock on a Friday evening. Bob Kelman, leaning back in his chair, was holding a glass of single malt – his third – up to the light and making approving noises. Markus Craven, a glass of red wine untouched on the coffee table in front of him, was leaning forward on the leather couch in Bob’s office, looking tense.

  When Bob summoned Linc to a meeting with Markus ‘to sort out a couple of issues around boundaries’, Linc could easily imagine what they might be. Emboldened by his third encounter with Harry Smythe, he didn’t much care. Now sitting opposite Markus, he felt like a poker player with an invincible hand.

  ‘No point in beating around the bush, Linc. Markus has a bit of an issue with the way you’re handling a couple of client relationships at present. There’s a bit of a feeling – am I right, Markus? – that you’re maybe not bringing the creative department in on all your thinking.’

  ‘BudJet?’ said Linc, confident and relaxed.

  ‘Well, yes, BudJet and –’

  Markus cut in: ‘Damn right, BudJet. What’s all this crap about rosebuds? Where did that come from? And I gather you’ve trashed “Safer Than Crossing the Road”, which was the agency’s key recommendation, as if you didn’t know. We never really got to present it before your . . . your Ripperman burst in and shattered the atmosphere. We had them in the palm of –’

  ‘Have we won the BudJet account or haven’t we?’ Linc addressed Bob, as if Markus had not spoken.

  ‘In the bag. Ninety percent certain. Neroli has promised a final answer next week.’ Neroli had already told Bob that KK&C had indeed won the business, but it suited Bob’s strategy for dealing with Markus to break it to him in easy stages. That meant keeping Linc in suspense, too. Collateral damage. (In fact, Linc already knew: Neroli had called him even before she spoke to Bob, so he also knew Bob was prevaricating.)

  ‘So, whatever we did seems to have worked,’ Linc said. ‘Am I right?’

  Bob nodded. Markus glared.

  ‘So what, precisely, is your objection, Markus?’ Linc was at his most supremely unctuous.

  ‘I thought I made it clear. You chucked a fucking hand grenade into my presentation – that mightn’t have been deliberate, I admit, but I haven’t heard a word of apology from you. You appear to have undermined the agency’s recommended concept, and –’

  ‘And we’ve won the account.’

  ‘I haven’t finished. I’ve hardly started. What gave you the right to start recommending rosebuds? New livery? Ten-second spots with no consumer benefit in sight? When did you start running creative or strategy, you fuckwit?’

  Bob drained his glass and poured another. ‘Hold the abuse, I think, Markus. If you will.’

  Linc snarled: ‘I am not known as The Hunter for nothing. I am known as The Hunter because I hunt. I was brought in here to hunt. Right, Bob? I brought you the balance of the Cocky account – no thanks to you, Markus. I’ve brought you the bulk of the GBH account, with more to come – no thanks to you, Markus. And now I’ve brought you BudJet – definitely no thanks to you, Markus. I’d call that good hunting. What would you call it, Markus?’

  While Linc was delivering this testimonial to his own success, Jhon Kornfield sauntered in, as if paying Bob a spontaneous Friday afternoon visit. Bob and Jhon had calculated that it would take Markus about five minutes to lose his cool. They had also calculated that if there was to be a showdown, the whole Bravissimo–GBH situation meant that keeping Linc happy was more critical than keeping Markus happy. One way or another, they decided it was important for Jhon to be present.

  Jhon’s private view was that Markus was losing his edge. It was widely acknowledged that Bob had lost his some time ago, so Jhon felt rather like the captain of a sinking ship, except that he wasn’t the captain and, officially, publicly, the ship wasn’t sinking. But no one except Jhon knew how close they had sailed to a reef on two recent occasions – the share market had been less responsive than usual to his magic touch – or how desperately they needed this latest run of new business to get Bravissimo safely on board. The spend on The Ripper was welcome but it was actually less significant than The Ripper’s symbolic value as a demonstration to Bravissimo that GBH were bringing their new products to KK&C.

  Bravissimo. For Jhon, it was a life raft. He had been wondering for some time how to get Bob’s and Markus’s names off the door; this was the perfect solution. But first, Linc had to be grappled to the agency with hoops of steel. It would be typical of Markus to resort to puerile abuse, and no one knew how Linc might react if he felt sufficiently affronted or, worse, under-appreciated.

  Markus wasn’t finished. ‘And what about The Ripper? Where’s the media budget? A team of out-of-work actors –’

  ‘Students,’ Linc said.

  ‘Whatever. Anyway, charging around the countryside in black robes. Very clever. Very amusing. Where’s the follow-through? Where’s the strategy? Where’s the media strategy? Where are the billings, Linc?’

  ‘There will be a commission for us from the fees we’ll pay the students, in point of fact. But that’s peanuts. We will be paid a realistic fee – a remarkably handsome fee, if you want to know – to compensate us for the power of the idea itself. Jerry Weisbrot understands these things. And, by the way, Bob may have misled you about BudJet.’ Linc pronounced the name very carefully.

  Markus gazed quizzically at Bob. Bob gazed lovingly into his single malt. Jhon gazed intently at Linc, whom he had just heard say ‘in point of fact’. Linc, the verbal bowerbird. Jhon knew exactly where he had picked that one up. He had only heard one other person say that in the recent past: Harry Smythe. Ergo, Linc had been talking to Smythe. How the hell did that happen?

  ‘Misled me in what way?’ said Markus, suddenly wary.

  ‘I had one lunch with Neroli Fishbein. Bob was there. I offered her a few thoughts off the top of my head, a few ideas, and that was it. You’d probably call them concepts. It was simply another part of the agency’s pitch. I never even saw your so-called concepts.’ (That was untrue: Linc had made it his business to check the work before his meeting with Neroli.) ‘Wouldn’t know your concepts if they bit me on the bum. Couldn’t be less interested in them.’ (That, at least, was true.) ‘But I’ll tell you this for nothing: if I’d known you were urging them to go with safety, I most certainly would have done everything in my power to stop it. Safety? For a low-cost carrier? You’ve got to be joking, Markus. The punters are already worried enough, clambering onto a plane they suspect hasn’t been serviced properly. Why in God’s name would you bring up safety?’

  ‘Bob?’ said Markus.

  Bob drew the corners of his mouth down, as though thinking deeply before giving voice to his thoughts. In fact, as the other three men in the room knew only too well, Bob didn’t think deeply. Not anymore, if he ever did. His misleading of Markus was a sin of omission. He had been postponing the embarrassment of having to explain to Markus that his BudJet concept was dead in the water, that Neroli Fishbein was entranced by Linc’s promotional strategy and was already talking seriously to her colleagues about the livery question. Even now, Bob couldn’t bring himself to spell it out for Markus. He looked appealingly at Jhon.

  Jhon took charge, as he increasingly seemed to be doing. ‘Okay, okay. Give it a rest. Let’s sort out where we go from here. We have landed BudJet’ – he could see no reason to keep up Bob’s pretence of uncertainty – ‘and it will be up to Neroli to decide what she wants and what she doesn’t want. My impression, listening to Bob, is that Linc won her over and she may well be keen to take his ideas on board, holus-bolus. I don’t know if they’re going to paint rosebuds on their fucking aeroplanes, Markus, but so what if they do? We want their business. We don’t want to be over-invested in anything we might or might not have said in the pitch. Okay? Campaign in poetry; govern in prose. Didn’t someon
e famous say that?’

  ‘Mario Cuomo, governor of New York,’ said Markus, a collector and shameless recycler of bon mots. He always wrote advertising copy with The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations at his elbow.

  ‘Right. So we sign BudJet, and we sort it out later. If it’s going to be a heavily promotional launch, which is what it sounds like, Linc will be key. Obviously.’

  Markus looked sulky. Linc looked impassive. Bob looked ashen.

  ‘You okay, Bob?’ Jhon said.

  Bob nodded and slumped further down into his chair, his capacity for mediation exhausted. It would be some hours before he was well enough to go home, even by cab, to face his increasingly unsympathetic wife.

  ‘Alright, then, what about The Ripper? You’re comfortable with Ripperman, aren’t you, Markus? Whether you are or not is entirely academic, as it happens, because I saw Jerry Weisbrot in the corridor yesterday, and Jerry is over the moon. So we are all officially delighted with Ripperman. Got it? Jerry is talking BSUF, but there’s going to be plenty of scope for follow-up media. I myself wouldn’t dare venture into the arcane reaches of media strategy, but that’s what Jerry said.’

  ‘Jerry said that?’ said Markus, sensing a consolation prize.

  ‘Ripperman gets things moving. Sets the tone. Then it’s time for saturation TV. I’m just quoting Jerry.’

  Linc seemed bemused. ‘I don’t care what you do for the follow-up. By then I’ll be out hunting again. My brief is to get everyone under twenty-four aware of the product in the first month. I know how to do that. Markus can follow up with as many pretty pictures as he likes.’

  ‘Go easy, Linc,’ said Jhon, smiling with lots of eye contact, to show Linc whose side he was on. ‘What are your thoughts, Markus?’

  Markus was brightening. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve still got a stack of black drones from the bird flu campaign in my shed up at the farm.’ (‘The farm’ was five acres in the Hunter Valley, mostly scrub.) ‘This might be the moment to dust them off and press them back into service. With some fancy CGIs, we’ll scare the shit out of everyone. Isn’t that the go, Linc? Wholesale death and destruction?’