We All Fall Down

by Peter Barry

  Hugh nodded, almost overwhelmed by this vote of confidence in his abilities. At the same time he was sickened by the fact that he hadn’t been confided in, that Murray hadn’t bothered to inform him of what was going on. It was insulting. It was also typical of the agency’s management tactics: secretive, underhand and belittling the worth of employees. He had been totally excluded, treated as if he was of no value whatsoever, and was now being presented with this fait accompli. He needed time to work out his position. The one thing he did know was that he wasn’t willing to breach any client confidentialities.

  ‘How do you see this working, Russell?’

  ‘If we win the account? Well, Dieter will have to live with BMW being in the same agency, or take his account elsewhere. Obviously for us, it would be better if he stayed. I’d put Murray in charge of BMW, put new people onto the Bauer business. They’d be run by separate teams, have to be. Your man Dieter has been slow getting back to us, that’s the problem.’

  ‘It’s only been a few days.’ Hugh didn’t tell his managing director that he’d been phoning Dieter every day, and seen him once too. On that occasion he’d refused, with a dogmatic, emphatic ‘nein’, to say which campaign he wanted to go with. ‘Until I have reached a decision, Hugh, I ask that the agency not proceed with either campaign.’

  Russell, typically, had not said who’d be in charge of Bauer if the car account stayed with Alpha, and Hugh decided not to ask. It wasn’t worth it; that was the way the man operated. But it went without saying, if Russell put someone else in charge of the Bauer account, he’d leave. No one was going to insult him like that.

  Russell was still staring at him, quite expressionless. ‘Happy?’

  Hugh shrugged. ‘I guess it depends …’ But he didn’t really know what it depended on, although Russell seemed to know.

  ‘Of course, no worries. Respect you for that. The thing is, until your client comes back to us with his opinion about Si’s campaign, we need to protect our own interests.’

  Russell dropped his legs off the desk, stood up, then leant forward across the shining mahogany, resting on his fists. Hugh thought he must be in much the same position as when he was fucking his female employees. He did his best to block the image from his mind.

  ‘It’s bad timing. We can’t absolutely rely on winning BMW, that’s the point. We’ve a good chance, but we have to try and keep Dieter happy in the meantime. We’ve lost a couple of big accounts, as you know. We need to make up for those. We have to put on some substantial pieces of business in the next few months in order to get the agency back into profitability.’

  Hugh felt uneasy. He was convinced he was being manoeuvered, but in which direction and why, he wasn’t sure. What hadn’t been said, but was very much front of mind as he strode down the corridor, was how a win or loss on either BMW or Bauer would affect his career. He felt everything was up in the air. He was drifting and unanchored. He was very much at the mercy of the currents and the wind. The worst part was, there was little he could do to influence the outcome.

  Lynne called after him. He walked back down the corridor. She nodded in the direction of Russell’s door, ‘He hasn’t finished with you yet.’

  The managing director was smiling broadly when Hugh went back into his office, and this made Hugh suspicious. ‘Almost forgot why I called you up here, mate. There is something you can do for us, and right now. I mentioned it to you before Easter.’

  Although Hugh had no idea what Russell was talking about, his heart sank. There was something ominous about being recalled like this. He felt Russell was only pretending to have forgotten whatever it was he wanted to say.

  ‘That qualitative research report your client commissioned a few months ago …’

  The sentence hung in the air. Hugh knew the report Russell was referring to. It was the most comprehensive research report Bauer had ever undertaken into the Australian and Asian markets. A complete analysis of the luxury car market, a comprehensive, in-depth survey that covered the attitudes and desires of consumers, their intentions and perceptions, across two continents.

  ‘It would help us to get a look at that report, mate. Make us look like we’re on top of our game.’

  Hugh was stunned. His client had spent thousands of dollars commissioning the research, and was now basing his marketing plans around the findings. ‘I’m sorry, Russell, what are you saying?’

  ‘Little slow this morning, aren’t we, Hughsy? It’s simple. We want to see that research report. Just a quick squiz. It’ll be the icing on the cake. It could mean we can show BMW stuff they don’t even know themselves. It could seal the deal.’

  Hugh was scrambling to think what he could say. The managing director was staring at him, waiting. ‘I’ve barely seen that report myself, Russell. Dieter’s really paranoid about these things.’

  It was something that had always struck Hugh about agency-client relationships in Australia, how clients rarely trusted their agency with sensitive marketing information. It was very much a master-servant relationship, whereas in the UK it was usually a real partnership.

  ‘He’s been through the report with me, read out some of the findings, but otherwise he’s kept it very close to his chest. There isn’t a copy in the agency, never has been. He simply won’t allow it.’

  ‘It can’t be that hard to get your hands on a copy, Hughsy. Maybe tell Dieter we need to check our new campaign against the findings. I don’t know, you can come up with something.’

  Hugh let out a long breath, shaking his head slowly. ‘It won’t be easy.’

  ‘I’m asking you to give it a go.’ Russell leant even further across the desk, raising himself slightly. ‘A real go.’ Hugh again pictured a secretary or account person squirming beneath him, beneath the flushed face and pulsing veins, their boss seeking deeper penetration, wanting to really fuck them over, about to come. ‘Like I said, Alpha’s going through a tough time right now. We need to get some runs on the board. You can help us do that.’

  ‘I understand that, Russell. But, well, I think I need some time, a little time to … you know, think about it.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Russell was surprised. ‘Well, if that’s how you feel, but you need to get back to me by tomorrow at the latest. We don’t have any more time. And I can’t imagine what there is to think about, anyway.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Murray about this?’

  ‘Yes. Thinks it’s a great idea. Agrees with me, it’s no big deal.’

  This is definitely a big deal, Hugh thought.

  ‘Matter of fact, he was the one who suggested I speak to you. Says you handle the day-to-day running of the account, so you’re best placed to get your hands on the research. Otherwise, he said he’d do it.’

  The wily old bastard. That’s so typical of him – buck passing, dodging his responsibilities.

  It looked as if their talk was over. Hugh started to rise. He felt sick, his legs weak.

  ‘Of course, if you can land the Bauer international business, we won’t have to put ourselves through all of this.’

  Hugh stared at his boss in disbelief. His heart didn’t just sink, it plummeted. ‘Ha! If that’s all you want, Russell, I’ll see what I can do.’ He immediately wondered if he’d overdone the sarcasm.

  ‘I think the Germans might consider our case quite favourably right now. Their international agency – that mob in Mannheim – is doing shit work, and has been for years. It’s time Bauer got some fresh thinking on their worldwide campaign.’

  ‘The problem is, they happen to like the work.’ He wasn’t going to allow Russell to live in some fictitious world of his own making.

  ‘Giving you an option, mate, that’s all. Just saying, if you landed the international business, we wouldn’t have to go after BMW. Save ourselves a lot of bother’

  As he left the room, Hugh was obliged to pause while Russell delivered his parting shot – in plain earshot of Lynne. ‘Do that for us, mate, and your job’s as secure as Fort Knox, or
a nun’s virginity – whichever you prefer.’ He was laughing as he sat down behind his desk.

  Hugh strode down the corridor, past the many empty offices, feeling decidedly empty himself. He was almost back in his own office when he swung around and headed back towards the management section of the floor. The door was half-open, but he didn’t bother to knock. The first thing he noticed, the thing that immediately hit him between the eyes, was the sheer quantity of BMW brochures lying around the office, on Murray’s desk and meeting table.

  ‘I do not appreciate being landed in the shit like this.’

  ‘My dear fellow, what are you talking about?’

  ‘You know bloody well what I’m talking about, Murray. Firstly, not bothering to tell me that we’re pitching for BMW. What kind of position do you think that places me in if Dieter hears about this?’

  ‘Quite right, old chap. Sorry about that. Must have slipped my mind.’ This was said with absolutely no attempt at sincerity.

  Hugh snorted. ‘And telling Russell to ask me to get a copy of the Bauer research report, an almost impossible task, as you well know. Thanks a lot. Why don’t you do his dirty work for a change? I really don’t need this.’ And he turned and stormed out of the room. Murray didn’t try and call him back.

  * * *

  She was a little surprised when she heard the front door open. He hadn’t called to let her know which train he was on, which he usually did. She thought, or more likely instinctively felt, that he’d caught the train which could neither be described as early (and therefore a sign of contrition), nor late (which might be interpreted as defiance).

  She was in the kitchen. Tim was in bed, but still awake. ‘Daddy, come and say goodnight.’ He went upstairs. His ‘Hi!’ as he passed the kitchen door sounded, certainly to Kate, unnaturally cheerful. Ten minutes later, he was back downstairs. ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘No. We’ll eat in twenty minutes.’ He went and switched on the TV. She brought him his dinner on a tray a short while later.

  ‘Aren’t you eating?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ She sat down in an armchair and stared at the screen. She took nothing in. She felt sick with apprehension. Uncharacteristically, she didn’t approach the subject full on. ‘Did you have a good day?’

  ‘No. It was a dreadful day.’

  She was taken aback. She’d expected a standard reply to her standard question, nothing meaningful, nothing to which she would have to reply. The only reason she’d asked the question was in the hope that it would lead, eventually, to the subject of this morning – or, more accurately, last night.

  ‘What happened?’ She wasn’t interested in his ‘dreadful’ day at the office, but felt obliged to ask the question now that she’d raised the subject.

  ‘Russell’s asked me to get a research report off Dieter. He wants to use the findings in a pitch for BMW.’

  She could almost see the relief on his face as he spoke, the hope that maybe she wasn’t going to mention last night after all. He started eating.

  ‘What’s so dreadful about that?’

  He was impatient at her lack of understanding. ‘It’s secret information about the car market that Dieter paid for. BMW aren’t entitled to see it.’

  ‘They probably know it all already.’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘And what happens if you don’t get it for Russell?’

  ‘That’s problematic.’

  ‘Would he fire you?’ Now she was half interested. ‘Could he do that?’

  ‘Hardly likely. Mind you, I wouldn’t put it past him. I wouldn’t put anything past that man. But no, it’s not a real possibility.’

  ‘But if there’s even the slightest chance that he might, why not give him what he wants?’

  ‘I don’t believe that’s ethical, Kate.’

  ‘Since when has anything been ethical in the advertising business?’ She was exasperated, impatient to get onto what she really wanted to speak about. ‘Since when have ethics and advertising been comfortable bed partners?’

  ‘You’re not exactly being helpful.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry, but it’s obvious enough to me what you have to do. Get the report for Russell and hang onto your job. It’s what anyone else would do. Most people wouldn’t think twice about it. So stop agonising about it, Hugh, stop being so … so damned high principled.’

  He stared out of the window while he ate. She didn’t know what to say now, how to broach the subject she wanted to talk about – as her husband and his colleagues might have put it, ‘the elephant in the room’. She felt leaden and miserable, that her life had, quite without her being aware of it happening, come down to this, to sharing a house with a virtual stranger. She was unhappy with her marriage on so many different levels, but the foundation of her discontent probably originated in the fact that her husband had more of a relationship with his job than he did with her. He left in the morning, often before she was fully awake, and usually arrived home at night when she was about ready to go to bed. Could that be called a marriage?

  They sat across from each other, silent, not unlike passengers on a train waiting an unexpected length of time at a station. Certainly, they were both waiting, waiting for her to speak, to voice what they both knew she was thinking. But instead of speaking, she listened. The sound of the waves was comforting. The sound, despite what Jodie had said when Hugh picked her and Tim up from Neutral Bay, was peaceful. ‘The waves are a continuous roar,’ Jodie had claimed. ‘You can’t hear individual breakers from your house, Hugh. It’s the same sound you hear when you walk beneath a freeway – exactly the same sound. You had might as well have stayed in Sydney instead of moving down there.’ She’d spoken with barely hidden aggression, wanting to stick up for her friend, but Hugh had only laughed. ‘I like that, Jodie. Makes me feel I have the best of both worlds: the coast and downtown Crows Nest.’ Now she could feel herself being lulled by the sound, rocked gently, as if lying in a dinghy on a summer’s afternoon.

  Finally she spoke. ‘I’ve given this a lot of thought, Hugh.’ She could see him coming back into the room, from wherever it was he had drifted off to. Yet he still looked preoccupied. She thought, He’s so caught up with that damned research report, he’s forgotten all about last night. She was astonished. How dare he! ‘I want a trial separation.’

  She watched him close his eyes, as if in pain, but he didn’t say anything, he didn’t protest. She was surprised. She’d expected him to argue.

  ‘If that’s what you want …’

  ‘It’s not what I want. But I think we need some time apart. We need to give each other more space. Just to see if we can get through this.’ She worried about the logic of what she’d just said. Surely they should be together if they were to get through this? ‘I’ve asked my parents if I can stay in the beach house for a while.’ She wanted it to sound as if it had already all been arranged.

  ‘You’ve talked about this with your parents?’

  She could hear the disapproval in his voice. ‘I told them that Tim and I would like to go there for a short break, that’s all.’ It seemed to her that he’d slumped a little further into the sofa. She thought how sad he looked, and that made her feel uncomfortable, as if she was to blame. ‘It’s a temporary measure, to give me time to get my head back together.’

  And without mentioning her suspicions about the previous night, as she’d intended to do, without any further discussion, leaving so much unsaid, unfinished, like a juggler with knives suspended in mid-air, she went up to bed. As she walked behind his armchair, she paused and said, ‘You’re not the man I married, Hugh. You’re no longer mine. You belong to Alpha. I want the old Hugh back.’ In the doorway she turned round, ‘I think you should sleep in the spare room again.’ Then she left him alone to ponder what she’d said.

  She lay in bed, and was afraid. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to have to bring up Tim by herself. She wanted them to be together, as a family. She had only told Hugh she
wanted to separate in the hope that it would make him understand how important it was to hang on to what they had. They mustn’t lose that. She’d also wanted him to fight for what they had, to argue against a trial separation, but he hadn’t done so. And that filled her with dread. Was there someone else? She lay, frightened, in the white sheeted, queen-size bed like a seal in the middle of a vast crumpled ice floe.

  * * *

  Kate was still in bed when he left home the next morning, and Tim was either not yet up or had climbed into bed with his mother. On the train into the city, his mind was in turmoil. Trying to minimise what Russell had asked him to do, trying in his own mind to make it seem unimportant, and neither approach helping. He knew it was the wrong thing to do. He couldn’t attempt to get hold of Bauer’s research report, even though, as Kate pointed out, no one else would hesitate. Anyway, what did she know about his work situation? She had no idea what he had to put up with, no idea of the sacrifices he made for her and their son. Why couldn’t she try and be a little more understanding? Why couldn’t she be more supportive? What a time to choose to leave him, so she could get her head back together or whatever it was she’d said. What the hell did that mean? It must be one of her madcap notions about being an artist or something. Jesus, she was really letting him down.

  And from there, his mind skipping randomly from one memory to the next, millions of neurotransmitters working overtime, somewhere out there on the periphery and without doubt superfluous in the greater scheme of things, was Alison. Fey, spiritual Alison, the young woman in Media, the gentle, tender soul who, when they were together, always made it hesitatingly obvious that she liked him, and who was always telling him that the life everyone is leading now, in the West, is about to end and mankind is on the threshold of a spiritual age.

  ‘How can you say that, Alison, with this kind of thing going on?’ They were in the office watching the aftermath of the Bali bombing, the rescue workers stepping through the remains of Paddy’s Bar and the Sari Club, the cameras jammed into the faces of survivors or lingering over bloody articles of clothing lying amongst the rubble, while the dirge-like announcements by the newsreaders wrung every possible drop of emotion from the scene.