‘We intend, in a nutshell, to specifically target the gay market a full six months to a year early with a stunning tailored campaign to . . .’
I manage to keep this up for a full twenty-two minutes, whilst silently praying for Darren’s return. And, even if I do say so myself, I sound bloody convincing.
But at ten-twenty-two, Peter Bowles interrupts me in typically blunt fashion with, ‘OK, OK . . . Enough of the blah, blah, my lovely. Show me the bloody visuals . . .’
No further stalling possible.
I cough. I glance at Jude. He shrugs discreetly.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but . . .’
And at that second, I see Darren press his nose against the glass partition.
I force a smile, and beckon for him to come in.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, ‘but . . . I didn’t want to show you the visuals until I had explained about the specific market targeting we have planned. The first ad . . .’
Without looking at Darren, I put a hand out to take the sheet from him. If he doesn’t have them, or if these are still the wrong ones, then this pitch will now crash, and I want to make sure that everyone realises that this is not my fault.
To my great relief, like a marathon runner passing the baton, Darren places something, still rolled, into my hand.
I unroll the poster-sized sheet, turn it right way up, clip it to the whiteboard, and then for an instant words fail me. Just for a few seconds, I am so stunned that I could burst into tears there and then.
Because the photo before us – Darren’s reworking of the original concept Jude showed me on Friday, a man in a bar with a sketched-in dog collar, is so – and there’s really only one word for it – beautiful, it takes my breath away.
The original pub location has been replaced by a glitzy London bar with multicoloured neon strip lights behind the bar, and everything about the photo is so lush, so rich, so gorgeously vibrant . . . every expression on every person in the shot, every suit, every drink . . . everything . . . everything about this shot is perfect.
I suddenly remember that this is the moment which makes advertising worthwhile; this is the moment when, sometimes, just occasionally, what we produce is more than advertising. Sometimes advertising meets art. And I’m overwhelmed with pride to be the one presenting it.
‘We . . .’ I stammer, turning back to the group.
I see Jude consciously close his own mouth.
‘We used an incredibly famous gay photographer for the location shots,’ Darren says, nervously filling in. ‘His name is Ricardo Escobar and he’s terribly well known in the gay community and I think it shows: you can really see that this is a photographer at the peak of his creativity.’
‘So . . .’ I say, catching my breath. ‘As you can see, the image shows a fashionable man wearing carpenter pants surrounded by work colleagues . . .’ An hour later, as we spill onto the pavement outside, Peter Stanton, says, ‘Brilliant show, guys. Spot On, as they say!’ He guffaws at this regularly repeated joke.
I nod. ‘Erm, thanks.’
‘I thought the anticipation before revealing the visuals was particularly effective,’ he continues. ‘So well done for that. We should use that more often, I think.’
‘Yes . . .’ I say vaguely, raising an eyebrow at Darren who is beaming at me like a six-year-old who just got given a remote control fire engine.
‘Anyway, gotta go . . . busy day and all that,’ Stanton says.
And then, he, Peter Stanton, our director, slaps my arse, and strides away.
We all stand in silence for a moment, until Jude says, ‘Did I dream that, or did Stanton just slap your arse?’
I shake my head slowly. ‘No,’ I say. ‘That really happened. That all really happened.’
On Thursday morning, I am called into Stanton’s office.
This makes me a little nervous because of the arse-slapping incident.
Though I realise, of course, that this event could be useful in case of future redundancy negotiations (there were, after all, two witnesses to this particular act of sexual harassment), flirtation at Spot On is a tight-rope to be navigated with extreme care.
Stanton, like all four male partners in fact, has always been an outrageous flirt, and fact is, most of the women who have done well at Spot On (as well as a few who have been fired) got where they are today by sleeping with one of them. Or in a few cases, all of them.
That I have managed to climb the corporate ladder whilst avoiding this particular fate is, I think, what annoys Victoria Barclay the most. And if it is this that upsets her so much, then of course one is left wondering what she had to do to get to her top-bitch position.
When I get to the third floor, Stanton’s door is open so I peer in.
He’s generally pretty dapper in a slightly stuffy upper-crust kind of way, and today is no exception: he’s wearing the trousers and waistcoat of a three-piece grey silky number over a very Apprentice pink shirt/tie combination.
‘Ah!’ he exclaims, looking up. ‘Our star player! Come! Come!’
As he says come, come, he pats the desk, as if perhaps hoping I will perch myself on the edge of it. I choose the chair on the other side of the desk instead.
‘Hello,’ I say, sitting down and pulling my skirt as low as it will go.
‘Stunning performance the other day Ch . . . Sorry! CC.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Bloody good campaign the boys came up with, but your pitch was really quite outstanding.’
I smile and try to look relaxed. But the fact is that being in Stanton’s office is rarely anodyne. It always leads to something, whether that be promotion, demotion, sacking, or, in the case of many, a blow job.
So far I have navigated the pitfalls of my relationship with Stanton like a true professional by being just flirty enough to get on with him, and just cold enough to keep his hands off me. It’s a bit like doing an arm’s-length tango . . . he steps forward, I step back; he steps back, I move in.
‘The thing is,’ Stanton continues, somewhat unnervingly standing and moving around to my side of the desk, ‘that, I have to tell you, Bowles loved the campaign.’
‘Clarissa or Peter?’ I ask.
‘Er . . . both really, but Clarissa particularly.’
Stanton is now perching on the edge of his desk in front of me – which is difficult as I have to strain my neck just to look up at him.
I could stand myself, but that would put me inches from his face . . . Or give in and just look at his crotch, which, I’m surprised to admit, I’m finding almost appealing today, lurking as it does beneath grey silky folds. I have always had a bit of a thing for men in expensive suits.
I slouch back as far as I can in my seat as this makes it easier to look him in the eye and increases the distance between my nose and his genitals. ‘That’s great news,’ I say.
‘Yes, only, here’s the thing,’ he says, scratching the inside of his thigh. ‘And it’s a bit . . . I suppose you would say, political.’
‘Political,’ I repeat.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Political. You see, they have spoken to the Americans about the brilliant campaign we’re putting together.’
‘To Levi’s?’ I ask, incredulously.
‘Yes. To Levi’s.’
‘But I thought, that was just a project . . . I mean, I didn’t know . . .’
Stanton shakes his head. ‘All done and dusted, my dear. They have sold US rights for the entire range to Levi’s for two years. It’s a big old deal.’
‘I’ll bet,’ I say. ‘Well that’s great news, isn’t it?’
‘Sort of,’ Stanton says. ‘Only, of course, Levi’s have their own marketing people . . .’
‘Harper & Baker?’
‘Harper & Baker.’
‘So no crumbs for us.’
‘No. And if Harper & Baker do well on the US account . . .’
‘We could lose Grunge! here in the UK.’
‘Well, yes. Except, a
s I was saying, for the fact that, Bowles, Peter, he spoke to someone or other over there, and they now want to see our stuff. They want to see our pitch. So, to cut a long story short, I want you to go over and flog it to them.’
‘Levi’s wants to see it? In New York?’ I ask, starting to feel a flush of excitement and stress.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘If anyone can pull this off, you can. And if we could get a foot in that particular door . . .’
‘It could be big,’ I say.
‘Very big,’ Stanton says, I hope coincidentally, running a hand across his crotch. ‘Of course, this is where the politics comes in,’ he adds.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes. Because of course Victoria has overall responsibility for America.’
‘But we don’t have any American clients.’
‘Well, no. But if we did, they would fall under her remit.’
‘I see.’
‘So I was thinking maybe if I gave it all to her to organise, and then she could take you along for the actual pitch.’
I swallow. A film of sharing a transatlantic flight with VB plays in my mind. It’s a horror film. I wonder if I can get away with a blindfold and an iPod for the entire flight without provoking her anger.
But I am clever enough to spot when I have no choice. And so I slip into my best, chocolatey sales smile.
The trick about smiling when you don’t really want to is to scrunch your eyes up as if there’s too much sun. Sarah-Jane taught me that years ago – she saw it on telly, and I must say, it’s been incredibly useful.
‘Sounds like a plan,’ I say. ‘Sounds like an excellent plan.’
Peter beams back at me. ‘Well then,’ he says. ‘I’ll get Victoria to sort it all out.’
Two for the Price of None
I arrive in Clapham at the tail-end of the seven-to-nine invitation that Cynthia, understanding my work schedule, generously conceded.
It’s always a bit hard, as a single, to fit in to these evenings anyway, but arriving late, when people are already on a G&T roll really doesn’t help.
Cynthia takes my coat and leads me into the dining room where everyone is already seated. ‘Tada!’ she declares, as she leads me in.
Multiple conversations around the table cease and I’m met with a hubbub of, ‘Hiya.’
‘Sorry about the hour,’ I say. ‘Hellish at work at the moment.’
‘Still working you into the ground then?’ Carl, Cyn’s husband asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, taking my seat. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Are you still with whatsits – the ad agency?’ Betina asks.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Still there. Still at Spot On.’
‘Spot On – that’s the one,’ she laughs. ‘I always forget it. Always sounds like an acne cream to me.’
‘I think there is an acne creme called Spot On,’ her husband Pete says, as if this is an original revelation – as if we haven’t had this conversation a thousand times.
‘Indeed, there is,’ I say. ‘And there’s also an advertising agency.’ ‘Still working with a load of poofs then?’ Martin, ever boorish, asks.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Everything is exactly the same.’ I’m hoping that this will head off the next, inevitable question, but of course it doesn’t.
‘And still no chap in tow?’ he asks.
I look around as if I might have mislaid the boyfriend. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Apparently not.’
‘So what’s that all about?’ he asks.
‘I’m damned if I know,’ I reply, holding out my glass so that Betina can fill it. I take a large gulp.
‘I expect you single girls get more, you know, than we married folks do these days, anyway, don’t you?’ Martin asks, a distinct lecherous tone to his voice. He sounds slightly drunk already. ‘I mean, it’s all OK now, isn’t it? It’s all anything goes these days, isn’t it?’
‘Actually, I forgot to wash my hands,’ I say, standing. ‘I won’t be a tick.’
Quite why my sex life is considered public domain just because I’m single, I can never really work out. But experience has taught me that by the time I return the conversation will have moved on. Apparently their need is far more to do with asking the questions, than having any answers.
Indeed, when I return everyone is talking about house prices, and are they artificially high or can they continue to rise? Pete, who works in some big City brokerage firm, is explaining that one of their top analysts has been sacked for warning that the housing bubble is about to burst and drag the western world as we know it, down with it.
‘It’s all very worrying,’ Cynthia says, sipping her wine and shaking her head.
‘Yes,’ Pete agrees. ‘For those of us who remember the eighties,’ and here, he winks at me, ‘it’s most worrying. Most worrying indeed.’
Why me? I think. We’re all the same age here.
‘I think all of us remember the eighties in some form or another,’ I say.
‘I don’t,’ Carl laughs. ‘I blew all my brain cells out with E.’ ‘Carl!’ Cynthia admonishes. He winks at me and shrugs. ‘Well, I did. All I remember from the eighties is the strobe lights.’
‘Anyway,’ Pete says. ‘According to this guy at work, it could be even worse this time around.’
‘Well, we all survived,’ I say. ‘No one actually died because of the recession . . . I mean, it was awful for some people, but let’s be honest, not really for people like us. That’s what was so unfair about the Thatcher years. But my dad made a mint during the eighties.’
‘Well, they may have been unfair,’ Peter says. ‘But where would we be now without old Thatch? Lord, we’d be like France, walking around in wellies and growing our own cheese.’
Cynthia leans over my shoulder and hands me a plate. As she moves on around the table, I say, ‘Ooh! What’s this? Looks lovely.’
‘Red-pepper crostini,’ she says. ‘It’s Jamie Oliver.’
‘Well I still think it could happen,’ Martin says. ‘And if house prices crash, we’ll all be stuck in negative equity. And that’s a nightmare. You wait and see.’
‘Well, I’m not worried,’ I say. ‘Honestly, I refuse to worry about the value of my house . . . As long as I can live in it, I really don’t give a damn.’
‘Good for you,’ Carl says.
‘Your place is all paid for anyway, isn’t it?’ Pete asks.
I wrinkle my nose. Apparently, tonight, everything about me is public domain. ‘Nearly,’ I say. ‘I paid most of it off when my grandmother died.’
‘Well that’s one thing you got right, at least,’ Martin says. ‘Because people don’t realise it, but debt will cripple us all in the end.’
‘Says the man who just bought a new car on credit,’ Cheryl, his wife, says, holding her pregnant belly and laughing.
‘What about yours, Pete?’ Carl asks, winking at me again. ‘How much do you owe on that bloody mansion of yours?’
‘I don’t think I want to tell you,’ Pete answers.
‘No,’ Carl says with a grin. ‘No, I thought not.’
I sit and eat my crostini, which turns out to be a delicious type of cheese on toast, and let the conversation drift around me, and wonder what the ‘one thing you got right,’ was supposed to mean. I suppose it’s something to do with the fact that I’m single, and that being a sign of ultimate failure on my part. But you would have to have one hell of an imagination to decide that my separation from Brian, for example, was my fault, was an error of my judgement . . .
And then I slip into my own little bubble, and imagine how different my life would be if I had met a different guy instead, different guys . . . And I wonder why Brown Eyes hasn’t phoned, and then what it would be like if he were here tonight. Would I suddenly feel at ease with these people? Or would they suddenly feel more at ease with me? Perhaps a single girl is a threat . . . perhaps that’s why I always sense so much latent aggression in these get-togethers. I look around the table at Cynthia, mother of two, and her witty f
ashion-obsessed husband Carl. I look at smug banker Pete and his dull Surrey-wife Betina, who looks somehow not from my generation at all, but from my mother’s instead. I bet she even listens to Radio Two. Of course, we all listen to Radio Two these days. They play Oasis and Blur. I wonder what station people of my mother’s generation do listen to.
I look at lecherous, drunken Martin with his pretty air-head wife Cheryl, and wonder if Brown Eyes would fit in with these people, and if he did, would I like him at all? For, in the end, though they are supposedly my friends, I wouldn’t want to be any of the women present, and other than Carl, I doubt I could tolerate any of their husbands for a weekend, let alone a life.
And all of this leaves me wondering if this dream of mine – that out there, somewhere, hiding, there exists a guy who is cultured and calm, and smiley and faithful, who wants to escape the rat-race with me and, apparently like the French, wear wellies and make cheese . . . Well, I wonder if it can possibly exist.
I don’t want much . . . just someone who would lie flat on his stomach next to me in the garden watching ants carrying crumbs through the jungle of blades of grass. I wonder if that can ever exist, anywhere, for anyone.
Personally, I blame The Good Life. My father was obsessed with it, which is strange really, as it bore so little resemblance to our own lives. Perhaps that was the appeal. My brain developed in a white, aseptic box in deepest most comfortable Surrey, filled – by TV – with images and dreams of something different, something better: pigs and chickens, greenhouses and piglets.
My family life was Margo and Jerry, only with two extra kids and a TV showing The Good Life. And all I ever really wanted was to move next door to live with Tom and Barbara.
I refocus on the room and realise that some time has passed and that our numbers have dwindled.
‘Go and chivvy them along would you?’ Betina, who is somewhat trapped in the corner, asks. ‘I would go myself, but . . .’
The Case of the Missing Boyfriend Page 6
