by Adele Parks
‘Have you read that literature I gave you on epidurals?’ ‘Most of it’
‘And you’re happy for me to go ahead if necessary?’
‘Well, it’s up to you. Becca didn’t have anything other than gas and air.’
‘I know.’ I bloody know.
‘I feel sick,’ shouts Kate from the back of the car.
‘Stop looking at your book then,’ I instruct. ‘Here, suck this.’ I pass her some boiled sweets. She doesn’t thank me. ‘What do you say?’ I ask.
‘Thank you.’ She mutters this with all the sincerity of a Big Brother contestant expressing regret that they have to pick a nominee for eviction.
‘Have you given any thought to names?’ I ask Hugh.
‘Have you?’
‘I like Jake for a boy, or Isabel for a girl.’ ‘Not Jake,’ yells Kate. ‘There’s a Jake in my class at school and he’s horrible.’
‘Isabelly,’ lisps Tom, ‘really smelly.’
Hugh laughs and says, ‘Not Jake or Isabel then; you’ll have to think of something else. Now how about some music?’ He turns on the radio and the children let out a squeal of approval as they hear the charts countdown.
Conversation finished.
I lie back and close my eyes. I know it will only be a matter of minutes before the motion of the car and the hum of the various indistinguishable songs will lull me to sleep.
I’ll be asleep before the end of this track.
Or the next one.
I’ll soon be in the Land of Nod.
I sit bolt upright, I’m not even drowsy.
After weeks of battling with killer lethargy, why, when I’m given this perfect opportunity to nap, can’t I sleep?
I wish I’d been more frank with Libby. She appears entirely trustworthy – I should have been more forthcoming. I mean, that stuff about the midwife, whilst true, is only part of the problem. As indeed is the stuff about getting fat and missing fun and flirtation. So what’s really bothering me? Why do I feel so desperate, so defeated, so despondent?
I glance across at Hugh. He’s singing. He’s got a great voice. And beautiful eyes. A wicked grin. His eleven out of ten-ness shines brightly. I look down at my swelling hands and can’t help but think that once a five and a half, always a five and a half. I’ve spent half my life at gyms and beauticians’ trying to drag myself up to an eight. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m vain. I’m not vain. The botox, the designer clothes, the bleached teeth, the diets, the gym, the implants, are not about vanity. The vain ones are the ones who go out without any make-up. I’d never have the confidence to inflict my nude face on the world at large. I admit I am finding the symptoms of pregnancy a strain; I sometimes can’t imagine ever feeling human again, but that’s not the problem. I don’t resent the fatness, the spots, the lank, greasy hair per se. I fear them.
Hugh bought into the size-Io, hard-body me who drank at the right watering holes, wore the correct Christian Blanken garb. He chose the skinny-ribbed, dainty babe. I was sharp, too.
As in funny.
That was what attracted Hugh, and I secured him by making his life as comfortable as possible. Feminists gasp, suffragettes spin, and my friends throw their arms up in the air and use words like ‘mug’ and ‘doormat’. But, the thing is, I know we are meant for each other. I am a better person because I met him. Without him I’d have an average degree and a dull job, I’d shop at Etam, and I’d probably get my hair cut at the local hairdresser’s. I might not even know who Christian Blanken is. Wouldn’t that be awful? So, yes, I fawn and flatter and fall into line. All relationships are compromises.
Things have been a bit wobbly recently. No one said a perfect life is easy to maintain. You need to put a lot of effort in. It is possible that by not going to the gym I’ve ruined everything – I’m not talking jinxes; it’s more scientific than that. If you don’t go to the gym, you get fat, you become unattractive – and your boyfriend leaves you. If you don’t read the newspapers, concentrate at work, you become dull company – and your boyfriend leaves you. If you don’t go out with your friends and keep up with the latest trends and gossip, you become boring – and your boyfriend leaves you. Being pregnant is just another ball I have to juggle. It’s not an excuse. What would I do if he left me? I could not survive. I wouldn’t even want to. Vicious and virtuous circles are entirely the product of the manufacturer. I just need to get back on track. I should have a manicure or read The Economist.
I can hold this together despite Mother Nature being a class-A bitch.
I’m sure I can.
April
28
‘Let’s cast our minds back to this time last year when you came to us, to share your marketing objectives. Three simple objectives. Firstly, to take a 2 per cent share of the fruitflavoured carbonated-drinks market by the end of year one – bearing in mind that this market is extremely fragmented and crowded, with no one brand taking even as much as a 9 per cent share. Two, to minimize the cannibalization of our clients’ extremely prestigious fruit-flavoured portfolio.’ Karl pauses at this point to flash a winning smile at the young Brand Manager. She smiles back, succumbing to the blatant flirting. ‘And three – ‘Karl pauses again. Yes, and three?
I wait expectantly. Karl looks around the room in desperation and then I remember it’s at this point I’m supposed to interrupt him and say, ‘Karl, I really don’t think we need to teach Ms Carter how to suck eggs; she knows her own brand objectives better than we do.’
Actually, we didn’t achieve the third objective, which was to come in on budget. A fact that we obviously don’t want to dwell on. I manage to jump in just in time. Karl shoots me a look that would sour sherbet; I nearly dropped him in it. Drew is shaking his head, too. Whoops. I don’t know why they are looking so stressed. Ms Carter clearly has the hots for Karl and, if push comes to shove, I’m sure Karl will oblige to keep her sweet, all in the name of duty, you understand. Besides which, Karl has delivered his little intro perfectly. He commands the room and hijacks everyone’s attention. This act is impressive the first couple of times you see it, but recently I’ve longed for him to drop the show; he uses it in his business and private lives alike and it bores me. I imagine that if he ever does decide to propose to his long-suffering girlfriend of nine years he’ll use a PowerPoint presentation.
Point One: why I’m proposing, subdivided into three categories – a, Karl is an irresistible proposition; b, the demographic-trend data detailing average age of those tying the knot; c, financial considerations.
Point Two: why Jenny should accept…
I deliver the next part of the presentation and, luckily, Ms Carter doesn’t notice the fact that we overspent on her budget by about 17 per cent.
I’m torn.
I’d wanted to come clean and explain to the client why we had overspent. The fact is, the repeat fees for the actress who starred in the advert broke the bank. The client was informed of the cost at the time and agreed to it, ‘providing we tried to cut back elsewhere’. We did try, but not too hard. When we were preparing for this annual review, I suggested that we simply remind the client that she did sign this cost off. Karl disagreed and was annoyed that I should want to be so ‘naively transparent’. Drew doesn’t dirty his hands with anything as grubby as money, preferring instead to stay resident of his personal ivory tower, and Brett didn’t support me much either because he’d been the one who had insisted on that particular actress. I hadn’t the energy to argue the point of principle. To be honest, it surprised me how little I cared – it’s only a fizzy drink. So we resorted to the one, two, but not three, set-up. I have to admit Karl was right – we got away with it.
I’m barely concentrating on my part of the presentation, but that’s OK, because neither is Ms Carter – she’s too busy playing eye tennis with Karl, the consummate flirt. I suppose Karl is attractive, in an obvious sort of way and, arguably, what other way is there? He’s just flashed her a smile that regularly causes meltdown in
the West End. He has Ms Carter’s undivided.
I stagger out of the room and am planning to slope off early this evening to the chemist’s to pick up some vitamins, but my plan is brought to an abrupt halt when Dean catches me sneaking out of the door. He calls me into his office. His tone is neutral, but I feel like I’ve been caught smoking behind the bike sheds and have been ordered to the headmaster’s for a big bad bollocking. I wonder what the summons is about. I rack my brains for things I’ve forgotten or failed to do, or have simply done in a fairly inadequate way; I stop counting when I run out of fingers and toes. Therefore it’s a pleasant surprise when Dean turns to me with a smile.
‘Great news that we’re on this pitch, George. High five.’
I take the letter he’s waving and read it. It’s from the AAR and says that a well-known luxury-car brand has decided to allow us to pitch for their advertising business. I would tell you the name of the car brand, but then I’d have to kill you.
‘Make Project Zoom your priority,’ Dean insists.
‘Project Zoom.’ I chortle at the unimaginative code name.
‘My code name. Cool, don’t you think?’
‘Oh great.’ I conceal my snigger and cynicism under a pretence of enthusiasm.
For some reason that I am yet to fathom there is always a dark veil of secrecy around pitches. The bigger the account the more tightly that veil is drawn. And this is big business. We’re talking a multinational account with a media spend of £8o million, which is worth £8 million in revenue for the agency. My target this year is to grow the agency income by £3 million. Wow. Even in my half-baked-pregnant-mind-for-mush state I can see the importance of this pitch.
‘I’ve already met the Marketing Director. Nice Chap,’ says Dean. ‘He mentioned you. Apparently you met at the Marketing Forum last September and then again at the IPA ball. Frank Robson. Does the name ring any bells?’
‘Yes, I remember.’ A shrewd enough guy. I was pleasant to him and did talk at length about the advertising strategy he is currently pursuing. I made him laugh with my summary on product life cycle. One, development: an expensive time that generates small revenues and little profit (we rarely muddy our hands at this stage). Two, a period of growth with rapidly rising sales and profits (count us in). Three, maturity, and then four, decline. I told him to call me when his brand hit Stage Two, but not a minute before. He laughed a lot and said he appreciated my honesty. It just goes to show it’s worth being nice to everyone; you never know when your hens might come home to roost and it seems that this time the hen may be laying the golden egg. I feel almost excited. I almost feel like the old me.
‘Well, apparently, he remembers you. You made a big impression, George.’ Dean sniggers, he can’t help himself, he just has to repeat, ‘A big impression, although I dare say you’d make a much bigger one now.’
I glare at him and he tries to rein in his buoyancy. ‘Well done. Attagirl. Just when I was beginning to think you’d lost your edge, you pull the rabbit out of the hat.’ He chuckles to himself and starts to root through his desk drawer for a cigar. ‘I needn’t spend so much time wondering about your severance package now, ha, ha.’ He smiles, but part of me knows part of him isn’t joking.
Lost my edge! Lost my edge! I want to say something cutting, but then I consider that the criticism is fair enough. A fact confirmed to me when I notice that at the bottom of the letter from the AAR there is a paragraph noting that they’ve been trying to discuss this pitch with me for over a month and I’ve failed to return their calls. Presumably Dean has overlooked this passage in his euphoria at Q&A actually having made it on to the pitch list. I hastily gather up the letter and say, ‘I’m all over it like a rash already, Dean. It’s all under control.’
‘The client’s insisting on absolute secrecy with regard to who’s made it on to the pitch list. Even within the agency we should only discuss this with those who will be directly involved.’
‘Well, that code name will be a tough nut to crack,’ I comment. Luckily, Dean takes himself far too seriously to suspect that anyone else would do otherwise.
‘We don’t want to come across as a leaky ship. I want Chinese walls, not bloody Chinese whispers. See to it, George.’
‘Will do.’
‘Thought of a team yet?’ he demands.
No. ‘Yes. Obviously, with such an important piece of business we need some heavy management guys. Karl, Drew and Brett should all be very much involved.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Karl and I will discuss the finer points of who we should draft in to make up the best account-management team; we’ll get back to you with details.’
‘Go get ‘Em, George.’
Lost my fucking edge.
I’ll show him. It will be the best pitch in advertising history. I’ll wow them with the strategy; I’ll schmooze the client to within an inch of his life; I’ll pull together the sharpest, keenest, brightest the agency has to offer; I’ll use the most innovative media yet – we’ll advertise on waterfalls if we have to. I’ll be galvanized, I’ll be energized, I’ll be motivated.
I better go and buy those vitamins.
29
Chemists’ are awful places. The smell – a noxious mix of suffering and sanitation mingling to create the most unwelcoming aroma possible – is worse than fishmongers’ or even pet shops. In addition the queues are always endless and, like doctors’ waiting rooms, there is a serious possibility that standing in line will turn out to be lethal. I try to avoid the other customers’ eyes and illnesses by studying the produce on sale – incontinence underwear, support tights and powders for athlete’s foot. How can a chemist’s be a pleasant retail environment if the nicest thing on sale is TCP throat pastels? I shuffle to the front of the queue and hand over the prescription.
OK. The pitch is just another ball to juggle. I can do it. The vitamins will help with the pregnancy and I’ll cook for Hugh tonight. Something special. Although I think he mentioned that he’d be late tonight. Never mind, I can use the time to read the brief for Project Zoom. I can do this.
‘You can buy these over the counter,’ the assistant yawns. What does she mean? That’s what I’m trying to do. ‘They’re all the same.’
‘Whatever.’ I shrug non-committally.
‘Well, which ones?’ she demands. The rest of the people in the queue begin to groan impatiently and glare angrily because I don’t know the system.
‘I’lljust have whatever it says,’ I comment, nonplussed.
‘Over the counter or from this prescription?’ she pursues.
What’s the difference? Do I care?
‘Over the counter is cheaper if you pay for your prescriptions. Do you pay for your prescriptions?’ she stalks her point.
‘Yes.’ I’m shocked that she’d ask me. The rest of the customers seem shocked that I pay and tut their disapproval.
The pharmacist scrutinizes the prescription and then glares at my bulge. ‘Oh no, you don’t. Not now that you are pregnant,’ she sneers.
Why does her tone suggest that she thinks she’s caught me trying to defraud several governments so as to provide illegal funds to terrorists? My only mistake is that I tried to pay for a prescription that she wants to give me for free.
‘Sit.’
Her Barbara Woodhouse tone is extremely effective. I grab a seat and wonder when life became so complicated. I know the answer. I can date it back to the two blue lines on the baton. The lines that broke the camel’s back. My surge of confidence at hearing we are on the pitch list begins to wane. What if I can’t pull it off? What if being pregnant really has mushed my mind? After all, I can’t seem to manage efficiently the simple task of buying vitamins. Has Dean really been thinking about my severance package? Damn, I’ve spent so much time worrying about how ugly and lonely this pregnancy has rendered me that I haven’t been paying attention to the big stuff. If twenty-second jingles can be considered the big stuff, that is. I’ll simply have to try harder. Try ha
rder to be more efficient and effective at work. Try harder to be more pleasant company around Hugh. And try harder to be better presented.
I have a dull headache starting just above my right eye; it’s irritation that I’m sat in a chemist’s and yet there’s no chance of any medical intervention. I look around to find something to distract me. There’s not much choice – leaflets and posters about treating acne or demonstrating the correct application of an ankle bandage. The leaflet on acne makes me itch so I opt for the one on ankle-bandage application.
Although I’ve offered no encouragement, the woman sat next to me, who has a double buggy and a bump, decides to strike up conversation.
‘When are you due?’
‘August,’ I reply and return to the fascinating topic of ankle bandages. I’m not in the mood for chit-chat.
‘Really? I thought you were further gone,’ comments the bump woman.
I’m halfway through my pregnancy and, although this morning I marked the milestone on my calendar and I felt OK about it all, suddenly I simply feel like a fat failure again. If only I could stop eating – I reach for a packet of breath-fresheners (the only ‘food’ on sale in the chemist’s), and start to munch them.
‘I’m due in June,’ she tells me, although I didn’t ask. ‘You must be having a girl as your bump has spread everywhere, even your arms,’ she chuckles. I shift uncomfortably in my chair. I have no idea if I am having a boy or a girl. I haven’t given it much thought beyond the fact I’d like a healthy one, preferably with Hugh’s eyes. I try not to become riled by the fact that this complete stranger has noticed that I have enough fat stored under my arms to feed a starving family of five for an entire drought season. I try and see it as something that could come in useful if, say, I find myself in Africa.
