We All Fall Down

by Peter Barry

‘It might win you an award, is that what you’re saying?’

  The young team shrugged, feigning indifference, as if such a thought had never entered their heads. ‘Making people laugh at MS, is that what’s currently winning creative awards? Is that what you’re hoping will get you to Cannes next year?’

  Jason, placing, then holding, a foot on his thigh, and revealing a hole in the sole of his boot as he did so, half laughed, ‘I understood that was the only reason Alpha had clients like this, Russell – to win awards. We’re hardly going to make money out of the Society, are we?’

  ‘We’ve suddenly decided to take on a management role, have we, Jason? In that case, you’ll appreciate that whether or not this particular client is profitable for the agency, you don’t act irresponsibly.’ He glowered at the writer and art director. ‘On top of which, the profitability or otherwise of our clients isn’t any concern of yours, so piss off and write me another ad.’ As they got to their feet, he added, ‘And just for me, do one that Fiona would hate. Because I’m certainly not taking this kind of shit to the client.’ And he flicked a mounted layout that had been resting on his desk across the room, where it spun to a halt at the base of the coffee table.

  Sam and Jason left, possibly – it struck Hugh as they passed him – with their tails between their legs. He’d been listening to all of this standing just inside the room, made to feel like he was gate-crashing a private function and should return later at a more convenient time.

  Russell sat down heavily in his chair. ‘Sometimes I wonder where these kids come from. They amaze me.’

  As he moved into the room, Hugh said, ‘They have a strong point of view. I think that’s good. It shows they care.’

  At that moment, Lynne, Russell’s secretary, brushed past Hugh without any acknowledgement, and half dropped, half threw a document onto her boss’s desk. She left without a word. Hugh wondered what had upset her. He sat down on one of the couches. He crossed then uncrossed his legs, coughed, and started chewing at a loose piece of cuticle. He stared absently at the magazines on the coffee table, and waited.

  Russell, nodding towards the door, said, ‘Have to excuse her. Got my leg over that new woman in HR last week, Kim someone-or-other. And somehow she found out about it – already. Unbelievable, isn’t it?’ He laughed.

  Hugh had long since given up trying to work out what this endless procession of women found attractive in the managing director, but there must be something they could see in him that Hugh couldn’t – or was it simply his money?

  ‘It’s a complete mystery to me. We’ve not had anything going for years, yet she’s still possessive. About the only woman she’ll tolerate is my wife.’

  This was said without any trace of humour or boasting, as if he was genuinely puzzled by the mysteries of the female sex. He stared at Hugh in the same way, as if he also was a puzzle that needed solving, another of nature’s mysteries. Not feeling qualified to comment on the vagaries of the women in Russell’s life, and not even sure that he was expected to, Hugh remained silent.

  Russell jumped up from behind his desk and strode across to the window. Hugh stared at his stockinged feet, and found them incongruous in such a room, but possibly no more incongruous than the Hugo Boss suit which, having been designed in all likelihood for a tall, slim man, looked as if it was working overtime to encompass the frame on which it now found itself. After a few minutes the managing director, without turning round, said, ‘This is what makes it all worthwhile, Hughsy. This is our reward for fucking up our lives and the lives of our nearest and dearest. And most days we don’t even notice it.’

  Hugh decided that he must be referring to the view, but didn’t feel it was wise to raise the fact that his own office, although spacious, had no window at all, let alone a view that he could admire. But feeling that he’d been summoned, if only indirectly, to show his appreciation of what was out there, he rose and went and stood next to his boss.

  The ferries were churning up the waters around Circular Quay, still carrying commuters to work. A fully laden container ship was heading under the Bridge towards the Garden Island docks, and the roofs of hundreds of cars could be seen above the parapet, pouring like blood through the main artery from the North Shore into the city.

  ‘It beats living on the other side of the fence, that’s for sure. Don’t want to go back there again.’ This was a vague, self-congratulatory allusion, for Hugh’s benefit, but made regularly to all staff, to the fact that Russell supposedly had it tough when he was young and had only managed to attain the heights he presently enjoyed by overcoming insurmountable odds. He swung round towards Hugh, grabbing him by the arm. ‘Don’t you agree, Hughsy, it sure as hell beats living on the other side of the tracks?’ He laughed, releasing Hugh as he did so, like a child might drop a toy, as if he’d suddenly lost interest. He strode back to his desk, where he threw himself into his executive chair with such force it sounded as if it might break. He started to put his shoes back on – slim, pointed Italian ones, almost the antithesis of their wearer.

  Hugh remained silent. He made do with a smile and a gentle nod of the head. He didn’t believe the view over the Harbour was worth sacrificing your life for, or the lives of your nearest and dearest. He thought it was a beautiful view, but he wouldn’t have ridden roughshod over everyone, as Russell had done, to achieve a position in the building from which he could enjoy it. He was used to Russell spouting clichéd Thoughts on Life when he wasn’t lapsing into impenetrable silences. He also knew Russell prided himself on being forthright, speaking his mind face-to-face and man-to-man, expecting, or so he claimed, his subordinates to give as good as they got. ‘I can’t stand bullshit,’ he’d frequently exclaim, but Hugh knew this to be bullshit. Russell wanted staff to show him respect, kowtow to him, treat him as the boss and, with anything important, agree with whatever he said. He wasn’t a man who liked to back down in an argument, no matter how strong the counterargument. He didn’t like to lose face. Hugh knew that on the rare occasion he did back down, he’d invariably signpost the occurrence to everyone in the room as an example of his belief in the importance of treating subordinates as equals. He considered this a display of, not just his magnanimity, but also his excellent management skills and, as with so much about Russell, Hugh felt it was a charade.

  ‘We’re having a get-together this evening, after work. Lynne’s sending out an all-staff email.’

  Russell, always keen to act like ‘one of the boys’ and be seen to behave like he thought they behaved, threw his feet back on top of his tooled leather, antique desk, the one on which he was reputed to service so many of his female employees, clasped his hands tightly over his privates – possibly safeguarding them for the benefit of future recruits – and stared at Hugh as if he was, most definitely, not one of the boys.

  ‘I want everyone there. Need to talk about where we’re heading, how we’re going to move forward.’ Hugh suspected this would be the closest Russell would get to alluding to the people who’d been asked to leave on Friday. ‘So how’s it going, Hughsy?’

  ‘It’s going well.’ Hugh, used to his boss changing topics in mid-sentence, with no discernible logic, answered the meaningless pleasantry instinctively. He was far more interested to know why he was being asked this question before nine o’clock on a Monday morning, but was reassured by the fact it didn’t sound like a prelude to being sacked. ‘I called you late Friday afternoon, Russell. Remember? I told you Dieter Braun has given us the go-ahead for increased expenditure later in the year.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ He sounded vague, as well as unimpressed. ‘Need to talk about that.’

  Hugh believed he’d done well to sell a bigger campaign budget to a client whose cars were driving out of the showrooms faster than they were being imported. ‘Why do we need to advertise?’ Dieter asked him at regular intervals. Hugh told him it was important to advertise, even when sales were good, to keep the brand in the public eye, so that when times turned bad, as inevitably they
would, Bauer wouldn’t be forgotten. He trotted out what he always thought of as the clincher for reluctant clients, the fact that Proctor & Gamble had advertised throughout the Depression, and come out ahead of their competition at the end of it. ‘You have to keep advertising, remain front of mind, no matter what the economic climate.’ Dieter nodded, but so far as Hugh could tell, only continued to spend money on advertising because his budget was approved by head office in Germany. It wasn’t his money to worry about.

  The phone rang. The only acknowledgement of this interruption was an almost imperceptible raising of the managing director’s eyes. ‘Yes?’ Russell listened to whoever was on the other end of the line, flicked through his diary, jotted down an appointment, and said, ‘Thursday at ten, right.’ He replaced the receiver. ‘Jeez, I need more hours in my day!’ Hugh wondered who the caller had been.

  The managing director threw his diary to one side of his desk. ‘Is it going well enough for me to bring my retirement forward by a few years? That’s all that interests me, Hughsy. I’m sick of this business. I want to head north, go catch some barra, turn my back on these wankers.’

  Hugh had heard it all before. For a man who claimed he had no time for bullshit, Russell spoke enough bullshit for everyone in the agency.

  ‘Was Murray with you?’

  ‘On Friday, you mean?’ Playing for time. It wasn’t in Hugh’s nature to stick the knife in a colleague, but nor was it in his nature to lie. He also appreciated how easy it was for Russell to discover the truth.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘Tied up in a meeting, I believe. He was happy enough for me to see Dieter on my own. In fact, I took Sarah along. Good experience for her.’

  ‘What was more important than getting this contract signed?’

  Russell probably guessed that Hugh was trying to hide the fact Murray had been out for his usual Friday lunch, an event that didn’t finish before at least four or five o’clock, even though he no longer drank.

  ‘You have to keep the lid on this account, Hughsy. Murray’s OK, but he’s slowing down. We both know that. He’s good for the lunching, the smooching, giving clients the reassurance of his age and experience, but you’re the one I expect to run the business.’

  If Russell understood that he was running the German car account, why didn’t he make Hugh a board director, and give him a hefty salary increase too? Was he expected to go on bended knee for the promotion? The younger man didn’t believe that should be necessary. Good management should recognise good employees, and reward them accordingly, or so he’d always understood.

  Murray Wheeler was Russell Grant’s friend. The two men went back a long way, to the days when the managing director first got into the business. About ten years ago, Russell had footed the bill for Murray to go into some fashionable clinic to receive treatment for his alcoholism. Hugh had heard this from Murray, and had been impressed by such generosity and kindness. But he also knew what such an action implied; that he’d only ever become a board director if Murray was kicked upstairs, or if he retired. He wasn’t ever going to be fired.

  ‘I’m relying on you.’

  Hugh knew this was the closest he’d get to being praised for persuading Dieter to increase his budget. His reward would doubtless be extra hours behind his desk and even more sleepless nights. He tried not to appear disappointed. He stared at the shaved head before him, the dark shadow around the crown betraying how little hair would have been present even if it had been allowed to grow. He knew the face well, seeing more of it than that of his own wife. He knew the permanent furrow between the eyes adding to the intensity of the gaze and making it appear as if the man was always concentrating on something. He knew the smallness of the face, almost stuck on the front of the vast, naked, battering ram of a head.

  After a minute’s silence, Russell suddenly grinned, ‘Did you watch Big Brother last night?’

  ‘No, Russell, I missed it.’

  ‘Course you did!’ He chuckled. ‘You’re far too intelligent to watch rubbish like that. I forgot.’

  Hugh was aware that Russell was of the opinion that he, Hugh, wasn’t in touch with ordinary people, that he wasn’t in the least inclined to watch popular, commercial television programmes. And what could he say in his own defence? His boss was correct, although Hugh always did his best to hide the fact. ‘There were things I had to do. Too busy to watch, but I’ve seen it before.’ Which was barely true: he’d seen five minutes of the show once, in the early days, when he’d felt obliged to see what all the fuss was about. He’d never felt any desire to view it since. ‘Why?’

  And Russell went on to tell him, with great enthusiasm, all about what happened on the show the previous night. The managing director was proud of having ‘the common touch’, being up to speed on how the man-in-the-street felt about life. ‘I’m one of them,’ he’d declare. ‘Used to live among them. Used to share their dreams and aspirations. It’s important in our business to keep your finger on the pulse of our target market.’ He took his feet off the desk, stood up, fiddled briefly with his crotch, and returned to staring out of the window. Hugh sat on the sofa, feeling as if he’d been left high and dry. Over his shoulder, his boss asked, ‘How’s Kate and the kid?’

  Taken aback by this unexpected interest in his personal life, Hugh was slow to respond. ‘She’s well, thank you. Busy with our son.’ He found it hard to know what to say.

  ‘She’s one of us, isn’t she? Not a Pom, I mean.’ This was said as if he’d just discovered Hugh, being an Englishman married to an Australian, was possibly not quite as bad as he suspected.

  ‘You have a good memory.’

  Russell shrugged as if to say it was no big deal, but Hugh could see that he thought it was. He was never at ease when Russell was chatty, when he acted out what he considered to be friendliness or, more likely, mateship. It was a camouflage. Behind that façade, the smile, the jokes, the slap on the back and the banter, lay the brutal, exploitative reality that was only hidden because it suited the managing director to keep it out of sight. He was the modern management man.

  At that moment Lynne knocked on the door. She entered without waiting for a reply. ‘Jack’s on the phone. Says he has to talk to you urgently.’ She didn’t look at Hugh, and behaved as if he wasn’t even in the room. He never felt comfortable in her presence, never quite trusting her, always wondering what power she might still wield having once lain beneath the thrusting hips of the trouserless managing director.

  ‘Put him through.’ Russell picked up the phone without any hint of an apology. Hugh remained sitting on the sofa trying to work out if their talk, their meeting, though he still had no clear idea what it was about, had now finished. After a few minutes, with the phone conversation seemingly not heading for an immediate conclusion, he moved forward to the edge of the couch. A moment later, he rose tentatively to his feet. Russell spotted the movement out of the corner of his eyes and, pointing at him with one hand and flicking his index finger downwards, twice, indicated that he should stay where he was. He could have been training a dog. Stay! Hugh sank back into his seat. He thought of the week ahead, of all the work he had to do. He wanted to clear his desk before the Easter break. He didn’t have time to sit around Russell’s office all morning.

  At that moment Murray Wheeler entered the room. He was a rundown bear of a man. His clothes appeared to have been pulled out of the laundry basket and thrown on as he rushed down the street. If Hugh didn’t know the man never touched alcohol now, he’d have suspected that he was suffering from a hangover. He sank into the sofa opposite Hugh as if it was the end of a long week, not the beginning of a fresh one. ‘Good weekend?’ he growled.

  ‘Thanks, Murray. And you?’

  Hugh liked Murray, despite the fact he didn’t rate him as a group account director. There was a laconic, cynical air about the man that was appealing. He had the business in perspective, and was obviously not taken in
by all the razzle-dazzle. Unlike Russell, Murray didn’t believe his own publicity. Hugh also suspected that, although fond of Russell, Murray saw him quite objectively: he wasn’t taken in by the self-aggrandisement.

  While making a conscious effort not to look at the black matted, vividly white stomach flaunting itself between the struggling buttons of Murray’s shirt, Hugh was concerned that Russell would say something about Murray not being at the meeting on Friday afternoon. But when the telephone conversation ended, it was obvious Russell had lost interest in both the meeting on Friday afternoon and Hugh’s wife because he launched straight in with, ‘We know why we’re here.’

  Hugh didn’t, but he chose to say nothing. Murray, on the other hand, allowed the smallest movement at the corners of his mouth to show that he did know. Only then did Hugh appreciate that he and Russell had been filling in time waiting for Murray to arrive, that there was a reason for his being summoned to the managing director’s office before 9am. And it wasn’t to be fired after all.

  Russell was playing with his new iPhone. Without looking up, he said, ‘Our new creative director – you’ve met him, Murray – starts next week. And he’s declared his lack of love for the new Bauer campaign. In fact he’s described it as a crock of shit.’ He closed his eyes as if overwhelmed by the new creative director’s insight. ‘The long and the short of it is, he refuses to let it leave the agency with his name on it.’

  Neither Murray nor Hugh said anything. From long experience, both men knew silence was always the safer option when dealing with Russell, certainly until one could ascertain where he stood on the issue at hand. Also, this was the first Hugh had heard about Fiona’s replacement. She’d been right: Russell obviously did have someone lined up and ready to take over her position.

  ‘We’ve paid a lot of money to persuade Mr. Hogg to join us. He’s a name creative director from a hot UK agency, and his number one priority is to raise our creative profile – whatever that means. That’s what we’re paying him for: to turn our crocks of shit into gold pencils – or wanky statuettes or whatever it is they hand out to creatives nowadays. Which means it’s in our interests to give him free rein to come up with a new campaign, a better one. And, let’s face it, that shouldn’t – But let’s not go there.’