The Story After Us: A heartwarming tale of life and love for modern women everywhere

by Fiona Perrin

  ‘Ami!’ My God, didn’t this alarm clock even include a snooze button? I reached out an arm and tried to find something that would turn off the noise and encountered something that felt very like an Anglepoise desk lamp.

  Blearily, I started to raise my head. My eyes were like sandpaper – the rough kind that rips paint from walls in one rub.

  I let out a loud moan and sat bolt upright in my desk chair. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s eight o’clock,’ said Bridget, who came into view as my aching eyes finally opened.

  ‘I must have fallen asleep here,’ I realised out loud.

  ‘What about the campaign?’ Bridget said.

  My office seemed to be a sea of boards and black marker pens. Over in the corner, I could see the bodies of Luis and Jake stretched out on the carpeted floor underneath the little meeting table.

  ‘You wake up the boys,’ I told Bridget.

  ‘But, Ami, have we got an idea?’

  I thought back to the previous evening: Luis, Jake and I had been desperate through the early hours, searching every photo library we could think of for inspiration. Every so often one of us would look up from our Mac and say, ‘This one?’ but it was always with a doubtful tone.

  We ate pizza while we carried on our search. When our bellies were full but our brains felt as if they were running on empty, we decided to try and brainstorm concepts instead, but our ideas were as bad as they’d been all week. Luis pretended to bang his head on the table in frustration.

  ‘God, I can’t wait till we get it in the bag,’ said Jake with a wink.

  ‘That’s so awful.’ I smiled but I was despairing inside. There was half an hour to go until the clock ticked from midnight into the day of the pitch and we were running out of steam. I couldn’t blow the last opportunity I had to save the agency and provide an income for the kids and me.

  ‘I’m going to make some coffee.’ I stood up and brewed a cafetière of strong French-blended coffee – dark, slightly bitter but packed with energy. I handed out mugs. ‘Let’s go for the pics again. Come on, we can’t give up now.’

  It was the coffee that did it, of course: ten minutes later there was a sudden whisper from Luis: ‘I might have it. You know, I might have it.’

  Jake and I leapt behind his computer and as the image came into view I said, ‘And we add the bag here…’

  Then we all started to shout at once as we built on the idea. Eventually, trembling with the relief of knowing we’d finally managed to come up with something we all thought was brilliant, we set about enhancing the photo and finding more images for the campaign, until I finally passed out at my desk and the boys went to sleep on the floor.

  Now, I looked up at Bridget and smiled: ‘Have we got an idea? Hell, yes.’

  *

  It was 9.30 a.m.: the second floor of Selfridges with Bridget racing behind me. I bought a midnight-blue Reiss trouser suit to put over the top of the cheapest underwear I could buy from the Topshop concession downstairs, sticking the whole lot on my least-maxed-out credit card. I figured if I didn’t save the agency then the outfit would still be good for job interviews. Then I encouraged the shop assistant to cut off all the labels that were hanging from various parts of me. Down one side of my face was still the clear imprint of the diagonal shape of the edge of a keyboard, missing only the QWERTY of the actual keys themselves.

  ‘Paint it away,’ I said to the woman behind the Mac counter, who trowelled a clear inch of foundation onto my cheeks until my skin was immovable and didn’t even try and force me to buy anything.

  *

  ‘Boards? PowerPoint presentation? Handouts?’ Bridget and I stalked towards the grand double old doors of the Campury HQ.

  ‘Check,’ sang Bridget. We signed our names in the leather visitors’ book and the receptionist directed us to the two sofas in the corner of the ornate lobby.

  My phone rang. Liv wanted to ascertain just how ready I was. ‘Hair? Nails? Fantastic new outfit?’

  ‘Well, emergency outfit. But it really doesn’t matter, Liv. I just want this presentation over and done with, so that I can go home to the children and sleep.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said the laughing voice of Ben. I turned round. His face looked more tired than the last time I was there – probably all that shagging Claudia while her MP boyfriend was off voting on important national policy.

  ‘I need to go now,’ I told Liv and pressed my phone off.

  I faced my tormentor and begged my poor face to find some semblance of dignity. I just needed the strength to survive the next two hours.

  ‘Right, shall we get going?’ I asked.

  ‘The ever-efficient Ami Fitch,’ he said, leading the way to the lift.

  *

  ‘Can’t wait,’ said Ben when he’d seated himself at the head of the conference table in the panelled boardroom. ‘You’re the last to pitch, Ami.’

  I had never been so simultaneously knackered and wired. I clicked the first slide into view. Then I cleared my throat and began; I could hear my voice gaining confidence as I slid into the familiar rhythms of my professional life.

  ‘Firstly, there are few brands today with as much credibility, history, prestige and style as Campury…’ Ben shifted comfortably in his chair and sat back to listen. ‘So, we were thrilled to be asked to present our ideas to you.’

  ‘Thrilled. Really?’ he said.

  ‘Really thrilled.’ I met his desire to wind me up with pure defiance. He glared back for a second then seemed to laugh under his breath.

  From then on, he let me continue. I walked the small meeting through the statistical research.

  ‘It certainly calls for something unique. British consumers question how Campury fits into their lives: with being a modern woman today. They want to know that they can team it with jeans rather than furs, for example. Above all, this bag should be something they’re more likely to buy for themselves, a symbol of independence; of a woman who stands on her own two feet and occasionally finds time from her job and her life to let them dance.’

  ‘That’s an acute analysis.’ Claudia nodded to Ben and blushed when he smiled back.

  ‘And so, today, we’re going to present an idea that’s very today and, at the same time, it’s all the best bits of yesterday. Bridget, the first board, please.’

  Bridget placed the first mocked-up artwork onto the stand. Claudia gasped: ‘Oh, wow. That’s gorgeous,’ then clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Ben was beside me, next to the board, examining it in detail. The image deserved it.

  A girl in a Bardot bikini of red polka dots, a matching scarf tied across her blonde locks at a jaunty angle, a grin across her golden cheeks, lay on a retro-styled sunbed in the shining hot Riviera sand. In the distance were rows of pink parasols, beneath which were hundreds of pairs of sunbeds just like hers, each two occupied by a honed and toned glamorous couple. It was Club 55; it was Portofino; it was Capri.

  Beside the girl was another sunlounger and instead of a perfect Adonis on it, there was a burnt-orange Campury bag sitting on its own deep-pile white towel.

  Claudia stood up and walked towards the front of the room to join us. Excitement shone in her face.

  I was going to show them another two ideas based around this theme – the same girl in a fabulous restaurant, with the bag opposite her on a chair; the image that Luis had finally found at around 3 a.m. that morning of Studio 54, where we’d shown her dancing, carefree, the bag positioned as the ultimate partner on the shimmering, mirrored floor.

  And, when we’d finally finished, I’d been proud. I’d known that it was as good as any idea that I’d ever presented.

  ‘Here’s a test,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s see if this says the same thing to you as a woman as it says to me. Claudia, tell me exactly what came into your head when you saw it.’

  Claudia laughed and put her hands on her lovely hips. ‘It quite simply says…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It says:
“Who needs a man?”’

  Bridget clapped with excitement.

  ‘Is that what you think, Ami?’ said Ben.

  ‘That’s exactly what the ad is supposed to say, yes.’

  ‘But is it what you think?’

  There was only silence. What did he want me to say now?

  ‘Depends on who the man is, of course,’ I said and then looked away as I heard his piss-taking laugh.

  ‘It turns the whole reverential Campury deal around, makes it about independent women who can…’ Claudia said.

  ‘Look after themselves,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Women with ambition,’ said Claudia.

  ‘Women who don’t need a man to buy them handbags…’

  ‘Women who choose Campury for themselves.’

  ‘Do you want to look at the rest of the work?’ I leapt in before this sisterhood turned into a downright coven.

  ‘Why don’t we?’ said Ben and went back to sit in his chair while I put up the next boards. Bridget oozed pure pride.

  After that, I tried to wrap up professionally. ‘Thanks so much for taking the time to see us today. Glad to see you liked our initial thoughts.’

  ‘We’ve got to really think about what we’ve seen in the last couple of days,’ Claudia said. ‘Then we’ll let you know in about a week.’

  ‘Well, we look forward to getting the call.’

  There was a silence and then Ben said, ‘I’d like to discuss your agency for a little longer with you, Ami. Claudia, could you take Bridget downstairs and give her a coffee?’

  ‘I certainly can,’ said Claudia and strode towards the door.

  ‘Did you really, really like it?’ I could hear Bridget gushing as they hurried towards the lift.

  *

  I shrugged into the silence and looked at the carpet. All the adrenaline of the presentation was gone – I was like a hot-air balloon when the fire has gone out, hissing furiously towards the ground.

  There was a silence while he poured me another cup of coffee. ‘It’s brilliant work,’ he said. ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘But?’ I tried to smile.

  ‘You know the “but”. Everyone is talking about how you’ve lost Land the Bootmaker. Your accounts for last year show a deficit.’

  ‘That was when we were setting up,’ I said. ‘No business makes a profit in the first year.’

  ‘True,’ Ben said. ‘But you must understand that the safe option for Campury is to go with an agency which is financially secure.’ He was direct and calm.

  ‘Marti is my backer and he owns Goldwyn and he believes in me.’

  ‘Word is that you and he have fallen out.’

  My industry was fed on the failure of others at gossipy lunches in Soho restaurants so I didn’t even bother to think about who would have told Ben this.

  ‘That’s not true,’ I said, however.

  ‘Apparently you were seen leaving The Ivy in tears after having dinner with him.’ I thought back to that evening when Marti – my married boss – had made a pass at me, and my shock and desperation.

  ‘That was just a misunderstanding.’ I took a deep breath.

  ‘What kind of misunderstanding?’

  ‘I really don’t need to tell you that.’ I tried to smile. ‘I can, however, ask Marti to call you and talk you through the finances of the business.’ Ben sighed and played with his coffee spoon and I pressed on. ‘Look, we lost Land through no fault of our own, and that was unfortunate. But I really do feel strongly that we’re the agency to take Campury forward,’ I said.

  ‘Do you want to tell me what’s been happening with Marti? I heard you and he go way back.’

  ‘We do, and it’s nothing.’ I got to my feet.

  Ben was obviously unconvinced. ‘Look, why don’t we have lunch and talk about the campaign some more?’

  God, I was tired. All I wanted was for the hell of the last weeks – and the last twenty-four hours – to have counted for something and, instead, here was someone asking me out for lunch again. I heard myself saying in a high-pitched voice full of anger, ‘What I don’t understand is why you let me carry on with the pitch if you had no intention of giving us the account?’

  ‘Woah, hang on there,’ said Ben, coming towards me.

  ‘I will not hang on there.’ I knew my rage was inappropriate, irrational even, but I’d had enough of this man who thought he could take the piss out of me. ‘I think you’ve made me go through this whole exercise just for your own amusement.’

  ‘Hey!’ he said, his face serious now. ‘I would never do that.’

  ‘You took the piss out of me when you knew I was going through a hard time.’ I could hear my voice rising. ‘You invited us to pitch for your own bloody amusement but you were never going to give us the account, were you?’

  I could hear my shouts as if they were from someone else, wild with irrational anger, but I couldn’t seem to stop. All the pressure of the last few months had turned into fury at this man who saw my life as his latest plaything. Even as it happened, I knew that, in professional terms, I hadn’t just lost the plot, I’d lost the entire works of Shakespeare.

  ‘Woah,’ he said again, stepping back. ‘I think you might need a good night’s sleep.’

  He’d never know how close we came to the wire – and it was all for nothing now. ‘Well, the campaign took some time to get right,’ I said stiffly, trying to control myself as tears welled in my eyes. ‘Look, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. It sounds like you and I have a bit of a misunderstanding going on here.’ His voice was quite gentle but I made for the door. I had no option but to wipe the back of my hand across my face.

  ‘I should never have pitched,’ I said as I pulled open the door.

  ‘Of course, you should…’ his voice came after me as I started to run down the hallway. ‘Stop a minute. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  I just shook my head as I ran. No one could give me back the old me, where nothing like this would ever happen.

  Instead of taking the lift, I dashed down the stairs and out through the oak doors without bothering to look around to see if Bridget was still there.

  Ten minutes later, on the Victoria Line, all I knew was that I had blown it. Not just blown it but resolutely and absolutely buggered my career. Perhaps it would be better to call Marti and resign before he had the chance to sack me?

  I stomped my way up my street then stared at the front steps of my house. No job meant no house and more change for the children.

  Lars opened the door and surprised me by smiling. He seemed to ignore the streaks of tears down my face; maybe he was just used to it. ‘I hope it went well?’ he said, leading the way to the kitchen. I didn’t have the energy to tell him what had happened or to see the disappointment in his face when he realised quite how abjectly I’d failed. ‘The children and I had a great morning. I’ve been showing them my websites. We went to the supermarket to buy some food.’

  Tessa and Finn were sitting at the table with their faces shining with pleasure. ‘Daddy didn’t know what kind of things to buy but we told him,’ Tessa said.

  ‘And we’re going to go and stay with him next weekend at Grandie Sweden’s when she gets back so we can teach him more about how to look after us,’ went on Finn.

  ‘You are?’ I tried to smile brightly although I thought that my heart might break all over again.

  ‘Well, you don’t mind, do you, Ami?’ Lars asked. ‘I mean, the lawyer says we need to practise the childcare arrangements. Might as well start as we mean to go on.’

  20

  2014

  ‘It’s so gorgeous here,’ I said, leaning over the wall and gazing down at the little coloured boats bobbing on their moorings surrounded by the reflection of the harbour lights. ‘I’m really glad we came.’ The air seemed packed with extra ozone; the May evening was balmy.

  Lars smiled back at me. ‘Me too – even if it was a bit of a schlep.’

  The schlep – Lars’ curre
nt favourite word – had involved a couple of hours stuffing the car with all the unbelievable crap that small children needed to go away for a few days, and then six hours jostling with all the other motorway traffic until we finally swung into the little Cornish village where I’d rented a cottage for a week. Finn had slept most of the way and was now – even though it was eight at night – wide awake in his pushchair. Tessa was tugging at my hand as she wanted to carry on walking and go to the beach.

  ‘We’ll go tomorrow, darling. We can’t build sandcastles in the dark.’ We were on our way to the village pub where I was determined to annihilate the stress of the journey with a decent Sancerre and a plate of fish and chips. I was knackered as usual – Tessa had never been a great sleeper and when Finn arrived he just seemed to be awake when she was asleep and asleep when she was awake. Most nights in our house were a case of musical beds – as kids climbed in with us, Lars and I would escape to their small single beds instead, our feet poking out of the end of a duvet covered in cartoon characters. I was desperately hoping that – now I’d managed to get Lars to come on a whole week’s holiday – he might use some of his considerable energy to give me a lie-in.

  We wandered along the harbourside, past a war memorial where some local comedian had chiselled off the upward stroke of the ‘G’ from ‘God’ so it read: ‘To the Glory of Cod’. This made us both snigger and Lars held my hand briefly before we set off at a decent pace in search of the wine that would provide a fast-track to forgetting about our busy working lives in London and some much-needed romance.

  *

  That first morning when I came into the kitchen, refreshed from a whole ten hours’ kip in a row, I smiled at the children, who were seated at the pine table eating cereal, having probably been up for a couple of hours. I was so grateful to Lars that I tried to ignore the brief stab of anger I felt when I saw he was fiddling with his laptop. He quickly shut it, saying, ‘No Wi-Fi’, got up, gave me a hug and poured me some coffee.

  ‘Thanks for letting me sleep,’ I said.