“It’s nice,” I said. “You know, if you like that sort of thing.”
“And what would that sort of thing be?”
My blush deepened; he was looking at me flirtatiously and I suddenly felt like a schoolgirl. If he’d told a crap joke, I would have laughed like anything. “Oh, you know. I mean, it’s busy. Lots of people.”
“I love lots of people,” Anthony said, smiling mischievously. “Don’t you?”
“Sure.” I nodded. “I mean, you know, in moderation…”
The bill arrived and Anthony looked at it for a moment. “You know what?” he asked eventually, his eyes twinkling conspiratorially.
“What?”
“I’m rather enjoying myself. What do you say we get ourselves another bottle of wine? We can sit here and I can smoke and you can tell me all about the people in Islington.”
“More wine?” My eyes widened. “Oh no. No, I couldn’t. I mean, I’ve already drunk far too much. And I’ve got a meeting with Max at two o’clock to go through my project plan. Actually, I should probably get back now really.”
“Max?” Anthony raised an eyebrow. “Max can wait. After all, there’s more to life than work. More to success than work. It’s a little-known secret, Jessica Wild, that the people who work hardest end up working for people who know how to enjoy themselves.”
“They do?”
“You’re looking at the living proof,” Anthony said. “So, more wine? Trust me, it’ll be a better career move than sitting in Max’s office going over the fine print of your project plan.”
I looked at him, biting my lip. I knew I should leave, knew that Max would be waiting for me. But then again, would it be such a bad thing to let him wait? All I ever did was work. Right now I was here with Anthony Milton. I was having fun. And I didn’t want it to end.
“More wine,” I said, feeling the thrill of being badly behaved zip around me.
“Good decision,” Anthony said, winking, and called over the wine waiter.
Chapter 13
MAX CAME OUT of his office just as Anthony and I sloped back in to Milton Advertising. I’d never, to my knowledge, sloped anywhere before, but there was no doubt about it—our eyes were cast down, our expressions nonchalant, we kept giggling for no reason whatsoever, and it felt great. I realized I’d become way too serious. I really had to lighten up a bit. Meeting people was fun. Flirting was fun. Drinking at lunchtime was fun, too.
“So how was lunch?” Max asked. I looked up semi-guiltily; Anthony gave us both a little wave and disappeared into his office.
“Lunch? Good. It was good.” My voice was slurring slightly and I beamed at Max. His hair was messy—it always was by this time of the day because he put his hand through it when he concentrated, pulling it from side to side until it sat almost upright. He was wearing a stripy shirt and navy-blue V-neck that highlighted his broad shoulders. I thought of pointing this fact out, but decided against it. Max was too serious, too, I decided.
“Right,” he said uncertainly. “I thought we were meeting at two, though?”
I nodded vaguely. I wanted to reach out and pat his hair down, to work out whether it sat better on the right or the left. “We were,” I said, instead. “But work isn’t everything, Max. Not hard work, at least. Successful people…” I frowned, trying to remember what Anthony had said. “Successful people don’t work hard,” I concluded.
“They don’t?” Max asked wearily. “Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely.” I staggered toward my desk. I hadn’t felt this drunk when we were in the wine bar. Even walking down the street, I’d felt kind of okay. Sure, I’d bumped into Anthony a few times, but I’d thought that was his fault, and he seemed to think it was funny so I hadn’t really worried about it. “You have to learn to enjoy yourself, Max. That’s the trick.”
“Have you been smoking?” Max, who had followed me to my desk, creased up his face in distaste. “You smell hideous.”
“Smoking…Smoking is…,” I said, then forgot what I was going to say. I hadn’t really been smoking; Anthony had offered me another cigarette and I’d tried it out, that’s all. I only had a few drags. To be honest, I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.
“Right. Well, while taking your advice that I need to enjoy myself more, we do have some work to do I’m afraid. Can we say my office in five minutes?”
I looked up at him, but my eyes were finding it hard to focus; instead I turned to my computer and turned it on.
“Marcia’s not here,” I said, suddenly noticing her absence. “She’s not at her desk.”
“No,” Max said, looking at me strangely. “She’s at a client meeting. So, five minutes?”
“Five minutes would be no problem at all,” I said, concentrating on each word.
“Glad to hear it.”
As soon as he’d gone, I rushed to the kitchen and drank a pint of water. Then I rushed to the loo. After that, I made myself a coffee, drank a bit more water, just to be on the safe side, picked up my notebook, made my way unsteadily to Max’s office, and sat down at his meeting table.
“Right,” Max said, sitting down next to me, “the situation is this: in just under two weeks, Chester Rydall will be here expecting us to have firmed up our proposals. Which means we need visuals, we need a full concept, and we need the target audience analyzed.”
I nodded seriously.
“So?” Max asked expectantly.
“Sounds great,” I said, wondering what Anthony was doing, just the other side of Max’s wall. He had a little crease above his eyes, I’d noticed over lunch, that got deeper when he smiled. “You know, you don’t smile enough, Max, do you?”
“I don’t smile?” Max stared at me in surprise.
“Not enough,” I corrected him. “People like people who smile. Although you shouldn’t show too many teeth.”
“Right,” Max said, his brow furrowing slightly. “I’ll bear that in mind. So, look, I’ve been talking to the creatives about your logo idea.”
“The handbag,” I interjected, pleased to be able to remember it.
“That’s right,” Max said, frowning. “The handbag. And they’ve got some nice ideas. Look.”
He pulled out some mock-ups on whiteboard, and I did my best to focus on them.
“That one’s nice,” I said, pointing to a pink one.
“Jess, are you okay? You’re acting kind of strange.”
“Strange?” I shook my head vigorously. “I’m not acting strange. Anyway, you should have said strangely. Grammar is very important.” I sat back on my chair triumphantly. That would show him how fine I was. How absolutely and completely…I realized Max was looking at me and shot him a quick smile.
“Grammar,” he said. “Right. My apologies. So, anyway, these are just first draft—once we have our concept firmed up a bit more we can get some more work done. Which is where you come in.”
“Me?” I should ask him questions, I realized suddenly. I should act all interested in him and then he’d be flattered and he’d forget all about concepts or whatever it was he was talking about.
“The concept. And the research. Jess, what the hell’s the matter with you? This is your account. You do realize how important this is? For us and for you?”
“Absolutely,” I said. He was looking vexed. Annoyed, even. Perhaps I needed to ask him a few questions. Perhaps I needed to turn on the Jessica Wiiild charm a bit. “I’m just pleased, because that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.” I smiled, pouting as best I could. “The visuals, and the concept. By the way, Anthony was telling me about how the two of you started this company. It sounds amazing. You’re so talented. I’d love to hear your side of the story.”
“What?” Max looked at me curiously.
“You. Starting this firm together. You know, against all the odds, smelling of fish-and-chips, winning over clients…”
“Yes, well, you make it sound very romantic, but really it was just a lot of hard work.�
�
“Hard work and getting prostitutes to do you favors,” I said, smiling with what I hoped was a mischievous glint in my eyes.
“Getting prostitutes to do us what?” Max’s eyes widened. “There were no prostitutes doing any favors as far as I knew.”
“No, not you. The guy who was going to sue you.” I rolled my eyes. “Anthony told me all about it.”
“He did,” Max said. “Well, then, he might also have told you, it turned out the girl got it wrong. That we discovered she was talking about someone else. And that the meeting we had with the right man subsequently was one of the low points of Milton Advertising’s existence.”
I frowned. “He didn’t say that, no.”
“Well, he wouldn’t have, because it rather ruins a good story,” Max said, rolling his eyes. “But let’s not digress. I think you were about to talk to me about the research and concept for Project Handbag.”
“I was?”
“Yes, you were. So?”
“So,” I said, realizing crossly that none of Ivana’s tactics was going to work on Max. “So, I suppose I’ve been looking at the concept in the round, really. You know, thinking through the implications to the research…”
“In the round.” Max looked skeptical.
“Yes,” I said defensively, “I mean that I’ve been considering the wider angles. You know, thinking through the key issues.”
“And they are?”
I shifted awkwardly on my chair and took off my cardigan. I suddenly really needed to pee again.
“They are the key elements in this campaign,” I said tentatively.
“I was hoping for a little more detail.” Max’s eyes were narrowing; I could see the frustration in his expression.
“Detail?” I crossed my legs. “What sort of detail?”
Max stood up. “Okay, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I do know that we’re getting nowhere. How about I tell you what I think the issues are, and you tell me if you agree?”
“Good idea,” I said, biting my lip and trying to stay focused on what he was saying.
“Okay,” Max said, his face suddenly serious. “So, we need to get some thorough research done. Desk-based, but also maybe a focus group or two. We need to be clear what the proportion of spend should be on print advertising as opposed to web advertising; whether we’re aiming at direct results or brand awareness; the parameters of the logo; and anticipated take-up…” As Max talked, I found myself counting to ten over and over again, hoping it would make the time pass more quickly.
“…The key is to get people to sign up, right?” he concluded eventually. I nodded uncertainly; my forehead was now covered in small droplets of sweat.
“Right,” I said, uncrossing my legs then crossing them again. I realized I hadn’t opened my notebook, so I picked it up and started to write in it but for some strange reason I appeared to have two right hands writing two different things. Realizing that I was also apparently unable to write in a straight line, I carefully put my pen down again. “Yes. Getting them to sign up.”
“So we need to consider when to advertise in the glossies and how best to reach potential clients post-launch to generate interest,” Max continued, frowning slightly. “Direct mail, sponsorship, that kind of thing. Then we need to work out a strategy for engaging the trade press over the same timescale—we need financial advisers to recommend the fund to their clients, don’t you think?”
I nodded weakly. My pelvic floor muscles were working overtime.
“Good,” Max continued. He evidently wasn’t finished yet, I realized with a thud of disappointment. “So…”
Several minutes later, he stopped and looked at me expectantly. I nodded brightly, having no idea what he’d been talking about—it had taken every bit of my brain power to concentrate on holding out until I got to the bathroom. “Okay, then,” I said. “Well, if that just about wraps things up, I’d better get on with it.”
“What, now?”
“No time like the present. When did you say Chester’s coming in to hear about this stuff?”
“Not next Monday but the one after,” Max said. “You’ve got it in your diary, right? Because this is going to be a very important meeting.”
“Well, then, I’d better crack on,” I said, smiling and clenching my fists.
Max looked at me levelly. “Are you sure everything is okay? You’re acting very oddly,” he said.
“No I’m not,” I said slightly defensively. “I’m just being a bit less serious, that’s all. A little less boring. Life is for living, Max.”
“Life is for living. That’s your new mantra?”
I nodded. “It’s the new me.”
“I think I prefer the old you,” he said flatly.
“Well, that’s your prerogative. But actually it’s nothing to do with you. And as for Project Handbag, it’s perfectly under control,” I assured him, little beads of sweat trickling down the back of my neck. If I didn’t get to the bathroom soon, I was going to lose control completely. “Work is all very well, but it’s also important to have fun, Max. Very important indeed.”
“Fun is overrated in my opinion,” Max said, his eyes narrowing. “So you’ll let me know if you need any help?”
I nodded.
“And remember, we don’t have much time.”
“Will do,” I promised as I half walked, half ran out of his room. “I’ll get it done super-quick.”
He followed me to the door.
“Oh, and Jess?” he called after me. I was so close to the bathroom I could almost touch it, but I forced myself to turn around and smile.
“Yes, Max?”
“I think you meant you’ll get it done super-quickly, didn’t you?” he said, a wry little smile playing on his lips. “Grammar, you see. It’s very important.”
Chapter 14
PROJECT: MARRIAGE DAY 10
To do
1. Headache pills. Water. More headache pills.
2. Never be boring again. Fun is your new middle name…
3. Remember, successful people don’t work that hard. Or something like that…
When I woke up the next day with a terrible headache it felt like aliens had moved into my head overnight, taking out my brain and replacing it with a heavy iron machine with nails sticking out of it that pressed into my skull. I’d been too drunk to eat when I got home, and my stomach felt like it was concaving inward; a quick look in the mirror revealed a pallid complexion that suggested I’d been underground for several months. I could barely remember the day before. I remembered having lunch with Anthony—remembered asking questions and watching his eyes light up, remembered feeling little twinges of excitement zip around my body as his eyes twinkled at me, mischievously. But after that my mind drew a bit of a blank. I vaguely remembered having a meeting with Max—although not what the meeting was about or what we discussed. I remembered (vaguely) getting home, remembered Helen whooping when I told her about lunch, remembered clambering into bed…and that was about it.
“You can’t go in,” Helen said firmly. “You look awful.”
“I have to go in,” I croaked. I wanted to go in. I wanted to see Anthony, wanted him to grin at me again.
“But you’re sick.”
“Hungover isn’t sick.”
“Even your hair looks tired.”
“It is tired.” I sighed. “But you can do your magic, can’t you?”
“You mean perform a miracle? Look, don’t go in. Pull a sickie.”
“I have to go in. I want to.”
We continued this circular conversation for forty minutes or so, during which I managed to have a shower, drink two cups of coffee, eat a bowl of milk-drenched Weetabix that seemed to avert the worst of my stomach cramps, swallow slightly more than the recommended dose of paracetamol, and put some makeup on. Actually, Helen did the makeup; my hands were shaking too much.
“Did I tell you about my lunch with Anthony?” I asked her as she brushed concealer un
der my eyes.
“Several times, yes.”
“Did I tell you that he said I had hidden depths?”
“I think you might have mentioned it, yes.” Helen smiled. “Although you weren’t terribly coherent. I’ve never seen you so pissed. Actually, I’ve never seen you pissed.”
“And I had a cigarette,” I said proudly.
“You said you had two drags and had to put it out.”
I shrugged. “Same thing. The point is to try things. Anthony said that if you don’t try new things, you get nowhere.”
“Interesting. I’d never have thought of that myself.”
I giggled, then moaned as my head hurt. “We had two bottles of wine.”
“Okay, I’m done. And you’re really sure you have to go in?”
“Definitely,” I said, nodding firmly.
“Fine,” Helen relented. “At least you look vaguely human now.”
I managed a little smile and left the flat, tossing my hair then regretting it when my head started pounding. An hour later, having gotten on the wrong tube twice, I finally arrived at work.
Max wandered over as soon as I’d sat down, and I looked up at him unenthusiastically.
“I had another thought,” he said immediately, forgoing such niceties as Good morning, to which I would have replied, No, it isn’t. It was so typical Max, I found myself thinking. So serious all the time.
“Did you?” I asked, switching on my computer.
“About the research. We need to know the percentage of women with earnings of fifty-thousand-plus pounds a year. Jarvis may already have some figures. But it would also be nice to know the big hitters, too. Women earning over five hundred thousand. It could make some good PR—these are the women that others aspire to be, that kind of thing.”
“Absolutely,” I said, rummaging in my bag for some more painkillers. “Sounds great.”
“You’re okay doing that?”
I looked back up at him irritably. “Sure. No problem,” I said, tersely. I needed coffee. Lots of it.
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