Girl 99

by Andy Jones

  ‘Maybe it’s because she was crying on the frigging phone to Sophie for an hour last night while I was trying to watch the footy.’

  I can’t help but smirk. ‘So now we get down to it. You’re in a big Hugh Huffner because Sophie gave you an earful about that awful friend of yours. Right?’

  ‘And that if you’re such a shit, maybe I am too,’ says Ben.

  ‘A shit?’

  Ben shrugs and starts in again on his pie.

  ‘Mate,’ I say. ‘I’m no psychologist—’

  My friend laughs a staccato and mirthless ‘Ha!’ at this manifest truth.

  ‘But,’ I persist, ‘if Flo was crying on the phone last night, it was because of something bigger and deeper than me. We barely spent five hours together – during which time she bemoaned her job, her flat, London, her ex-boyfriend, her sister’s children and the sodding pizza we were eating. I’m the absolute least of her problems. And me calling her now isn’t going to change any of that. If anything, it’ll make matters worse.’

  The corner of Ben’s mouth tightens in an expression of reluctant agreement.

  ‘Mate,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry if Sophie’s giving you a hard time. But Flo’s . . . you know . . .’

  Ben nods. ‘Hard graft.’

  ‘Exactly. And you and Soph set me up with her. If anyone has the right to be in a strop, it’s me.’

  ‘Thought you might like her,’ Ben says petulantly.

  ‘Why? What exactly did you think I’d warm to? Her boundless optimism? Her wacky sense of humour? Her joie de sodding vivre?’

  Ben smiles apologetically and mimes a pair of gigantic breasts.

  ‘They were pretty spectacular,’ I agree.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ says Ben, laughing.

  ‘So’ – I indicate my cooling fish and chips – ‘can I eat my lunch now?’

  ‘Sorry, mate; I’m exhausted. Sammy was up at two and again at four, and then I had Soph going on about private-school fees until five in the frigging morning. He’s not even six months. Do you know how much it costs to put a nipper through private primary school?’

  I shrug. ‘Grand a month?’

  ‘Hah! Try three.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, sensing my opening and reaching for my bag, ‘this little lot will get him though the best part of three years.’

  I place the scripts on the table between us. Collectively, the campaign is called Little Horrors – four scripts in which children behave like brats, are given sweets and settle down.

  Ben puts his head in his hands, leaves it there for a second, then – with the look of a man cornered – peers at me from between his fingers.

  ‘Have you read them yet?’

  Ben nods. ‘Bit derivative, aren’t they?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘There was a campaign just like it last year. Little Devils, I think.’

  I act like this means nothing to me.

  ‘For Maltesers,’ says Ben.

  ‘Well, there you go; these are Skittles, entirely different. And anyway, who cares? Six months from now, no one will remember them anyway.’

  ‘Is that supposed to motivate me?’

  ‘Look, of course it’s been done before, and it will be done again. And again. Like Shakespeare, but you don’t hear Branagh going, “Hamlet? Sorry, love; it’s been done”, do you? No, we embrace the challenge and imbue it with our unique artistic vision.’

  Ben shakes his head, but despite himself, he’s smiling. Of course he doesn’t buy my shtick, and if he did, I’d be disappointed. But his defences, I can tell, are weakening.

  ‘Ben, they asked for you specifically. Big agency, big brand. One thing leads to another, right? Make some money now, win some awards later. I can call Kaz right this second’ – I pick up my phone – ‘and you can buy a bottle of champagne on the way home. Who knows, maybe Sophie’ll be up for an early night.’

  ‘Well, let’s not count our . . . you know.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘Buy her some flowers. Chocolates too, go the whole nine yards.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ Ben says. ‘What I mean is, I’m not necessarily one hundred per cent sure that I want to do them.’

  ‘What are you on about? How necessarily sure are you? Ninety per cent?’

  Ben screws up half of his face in a deliberative wince.

  ‘Eighty?’ I try.

  ‘It’s hard to be mathematically precise.’

  ‘Seventy? For God’s sake, it’s got to be at least seventy.’

  ‘Ish. Maybe.’

  ‘Jesus, Ben, you’re set to make more here than a junior doctor makes in a year. What the fuck is there to be ish about?’

  ‘Well, it’s the scripts, isn’t it?’

  ‘From where I’m sitting that’s the good thing,’ I say. ‘There’s four of the buggers.’

  ‘I know, but they’re not very . . . good buggers.’

  ‘I’ll let you in on a secret, shall I?’

  ‘Spare me the lecture, Tom.’

  ‘No can do. You see this isn’t art, love. This is ads. This is a job. And you haven’t earned a penny in nearly three months.’

  ‘Something will come up.’

  ‘Hello,’ I say, rapping the scripts with my knuckles. ‘It already has. Four scripts with a sodding great budget.’

  ‘But the budget doesn’t make the scripts any better, does it? You can’t polish a turd.’

  ‘No, you can’t. But you can sprinkle glitter on it. And you can get paid a fortune to do it.’

  ‘Let me sleep on it.’

  ‘You don’t get any sleep, remember? On account of your son, who is going to languish in a crappy state school if you don’t earn some money fast.’

  ‘I’d hardly say la—’

  ‘If the poor boy learns anything at all it’ll be how to climb drainpipes and pick locks. He’ll probably end up on drugs, and when he does you’ll look back on this day and kick yourself hard. And if you don’t, I will.’

  ‘You’re hysterical.’

  I pour salt into my palm and sprinkle it across the table. ‘Bit of glitter, yes? Little bit of Ben’s fairy dust?’

  Ben throws his hands in the air. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Get paid lots of lovely money? Yes? Little bit of cash?’

  ‘Okay, you can stop now.’

  ‘Make some dosh, chunk of change, fat stacks, big slice of cheddar, filthy lu—’

  ‘I’ll do it! I’ll do it! Just please stop, before I change my mind.’

  ‘You’re sure? I’d hate to pressure you.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Nice one. I’ll let ’em know. Now, have you met the agency producer before? Kaz?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘Great. There’s a party tonight in the N—’

  ‘No way. I shoot the films, you kiss the arse. And be nice, yeah?’

  ‘Nice is my middle name. You cheeky bastard.’

  Chapter Seven

  The party is in the basement of a private members’ bar in the middle of Soho; it’s cramped and dingy and any space not filled with bodies is filled with noise. The sun is still out above ground, but down here it could be midnight. Ben took the liberty of inviting Rob along on my behalf, saying it would be good for him to network. But I suspect he was actually hoping our junior director would function as a kind of unwitting chaperone.

  Rob meets someone he knows at the bar, and I smile and nod and excuse myself to the toilets. I can’t have been gone more than four minutes, but when I return there are twice as many people crowding the bar and there is a corresponding increase in noise and decrease in available oxygen. Whether or not Rob and my drink are still at the bar is impossible to tell from this vantage point, and I’d require a crowbar and a flashlight to get close enough to find out. I have neither, so I weave a reconnaissance circuit, following the path of least resistance through the tangle of bodies, but I see no sign of Kaz – the person I’m supposed to be schmoozing and the only reaso
n I’m here instead of at home, catching up on much needed sleep. All at once, last night catches up with me like a punch in the back of the head and if I don’t leave soon I might just pass out on the spot. Hauling myself forward like a thing undead, eyes locked onto the oblong of yellow light at the far end of the room, I have almost reached the exit when someone pinches me on the backside.

  Kaz, the agency producer on Little Horrors, emerges from a shadow. And this must be how that guy felt in The Great Escape.

  ‘Tom,’ she says, inclining her cheek upwards. ‘It’s been ages.’

  I catch a strong whiff of wine as I lean in to kiss the proffered cheek. ‘Too long,’ I say. ‘But you’ll be sick of the sight of me after the shoot.’

  ‘So glad Ben’s up for it. I’ve had my eye on him for a while, you know.’ Kaz flutters a little wink.

  ‘I’ll let him know,’ I tell her. ‘And he loves the scripts, by the way. Loves them.’

  Kaz flaps her hand dismissively. ‘I think they’re a bit derivative, TBH, and the creative is a twerp. But what’s new?’ She’s not exactly slurring her words, but she is running them dangerously close together.

  ‘Ben here?’

  ‘New baby,’ I say. ‘He’s gone home to try and get some sleep.’

  Kaz drifts into my personal airspace. ‘And what about you?’ she says, taking hold of my left hand and inspecting the fingers. ‘Is there a Mrs Tom?’

  Kaz and I know each other in the same way that most of Ad-Land knows each other. Superficially – via industry parties, mutual acquaintances and dubious gossip. I don’t know the word on me, but the word on Kaz is she’s a good producer and a terrible flirt.

  I shake my head. ‘Single.’

  ‘Not even a girlfriend?’

  ‘No one’ll have me,’ I say.

  ‘You’re sweet,’ says Kaz, taking a sip of her wine. She blinks lazily as if the booze has gone straight to her eyelids. ‘Have to see if I can fix you up with one of my friends,’ she says. ‘I’m sure we can find someone for a good-looking boy like you.’

  I laugh modestly.

  ‘Seriously,’ says Kaz. ‘I’d definitely fix you up.’

  Kaz looks like there’s something Asian in her recent ancestry: sharp eyes, ink-black hair hanging to her shoulders. She looks like she gets great value out of her gym membership, and if it’s true that birds of a feather flock together, then it’s a good bet Kaz has some very sexy friends. But before my smirk spreads too wide, I flash back to my earlier conversation with Ben in the Fishbone café. I don’t exactly have a great track record with friends of friends, or friends of anyone for that matter. A date with a friend of Kaz could be disastrous professionally.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ I say. ‘But I wouldn’t wish me on any of your friends.’

  ‘Confirmed bachelor?’ says Kaz.

  ‘Not at all,’ I say with faux-defensiveness. ‘Just haven’t met the right girl yet.’

  ‘Are you flirting with me, Thomas Ferguson?’ She squeezes my hand and stares at me for maybe half a second too long – just long enough to be unnerving.

  ‘No. God no.’

  Kaz scowls, feigning offence.

  ‘Not that I wou— I mean . . . I was just . . . you know, saying.’

  ‘Joking,’ she says, widening her eyes to make the point. ‘I envy you. Being single.’

  ‘God knows why.’

  ‘Thrill of the chase,’ she says, and still she is holding my hand. ‘When you meet some cute guy in a bar . . . and you’re not quite sure which way it’s going to go?’

  Kaz looks up at me from under her fringe, a hint of a pout on her lips. There are flecks of glitter on her cheekbones; cracks in her lipstick.

  And then, over the top of her head, I spot Rob grinning like a ventriloquist’s dummy. He gives me two thumbs up.

  ‘You know what I mean?’ says Kaz, tugging on my hand.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, and when I look up again, Rob has vanished. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

  Kaz nods, slowly and sincerely, as if we’re old friends sharing a deep insight into the ways of the world. ‘You know what you are, Tom? You’re a nice bloke.’

  ‘Some people might debate that,’ I say. ‘But it’s nice of you to say so.’

  ‘I’d pull you,’ says Kaz. ‘If I was single.’ Her thigh is flush against mine now, and my cock pulses reflexively.

  ‘Story of my life,’ I say. ‘A day late and a dollar shor—’

  ‘Hold on a second.’ Kaz takes her hand from mine, slides it into her jeans pocket and produces a ringing phone. ‘Hold that thought,’ she says to me before answering the call.

  What the fuck am I doing? From Holly to Kaz within the space of a dozen hours. Shitting on one’s doorstep is inadvisable enough, and here am I, attempting to dump in the back garden while the mess on my front porch is still steaming.

  Kaz twirls a lock of black hair around her index finger. Into her phone, half under her breath, she says, ‘Do you now?’ She smiles at me; I smile back: Hello. ‘Tell me more,’ Kaz says to her caller. ‘Uh huh . . . mm hmm . . . yes, you know I do.’ Kaz angles her body away from me, breaking eye contact, making me look even more like a six-foot-three-and-a-half-inch lemon. I sip my beer but it’s lost its fizz.

  ‘Where are you now?’ Kaz says. I tap her on the shoulder, gesture towards the door, wave and mouth the words Got to go. She places her hand on my wrist, grips it, says into the phone: ‘What? Oh, nothing . . . mm hmm . . . love you too. Kiss kiss. I’ll get a taxi.’ And she hangs up.

  ‘Wrong number?’ I ask.

  Kaz punches me on the arm. ‘Kidder.’

  I widen my eyes, pull a jolly face.

  ‘Well, I must fly,’ says Kaz. ‘Nice bumping into you, Tom.’

  ‘Likewise,’ I say. ‘And I’m looking forward to working together.’

  Kaz tiptoes up and pecks me once on each cheek. ‘You bet,’ she says. ‘Give my love to Ben.’

  I give Kaz a three-minute head start, then take myself and my wilted hard-on into the fading evening to find a taxi.

  Fridays aren’t what they used to be.

  Usurped by Thursdays as the default night for a drink with your colleagues and a chance of getting one of them into bed, Fridays are now days of painful mornings, protracted lunches and early exits. The office is quiet as the remaining staff watch the clock, watch online videos and try to stay awake long enough to go home. Ben has already gone and I’d go myself but Kaz is keeping me busy, firing off a succession of brusque businesslike emails challenging every line on the budget for Little Horrors. A far cry from her flirty demeanour of nineteen hours ago; as if, in fact, she is punishing me for it. She is butchering our margin and asphyxiating the schedule. Faster, cheaper, thank you very much. She tried to cut Ben’s fee by five grand, but I threatened to pull out. Kaz didn’t reply for over an hour, and I was beginning to think she’d called my bluff. But we’re still on, albeit on rather frosty terms. Up until now Kaz was at least signing off her emails with a pair of kisses, but these, like so much of our budget, have now vanished. But hey, it’s not like I have anything better to do.

  ‘Coffee,’ says Holly, appearing at my side.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’

  Holly glances at my left hand. Written on the web of flesh between my thumb and index finger are the words Call Sadie.

  It’s been over four months since Sadie walked out, and in that time our jointly owned car has clocked up hundreds of miles doing little more than crossing the Thames as it shuttles between my flat in south London and Sadie’s in the north. In addition to the inconvenience of it all, Sadie has racked up a couple of hundred pounds in parking fines, and as the car is registered in my name at my address, the buggers end up hanging out of my letter box. We had agreed to figure out what to do with the Mini ‘once the dust has settled’. Whether it has or not, I’m not sure, but another sixty-quid fine settled on the doormat yesterday, and the situation needs resolving before I get another.

&
nbsp; I cross my arms, tucking my hand and Sadie’s name beneath my armpit. ‘Got anything left to do?’ I ask Holly.

  Holly shrugs, shakes her head.

  ‘Why don’t you head off?’ I tell her.

  ‘You sure?’

  Holly’s natural exuberance makes her hard to read, and I can’t tell if she wants to go home or if she’s hoping I’ll suggest we go for a drink. I’d much rather have someone to hang around with than go home to an empty flat, but, slow learner that I am, I know it’s a lousy idea.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Start the weekend early.’

  ‘Cool, okay then. Well, you have a . . . you know, great weekend.’ Holly turns to leave, stops, goes to kiss me on the cheek but lands it on my ear, then walks off to collect her things.

  With Holly gone, the office is almost empty, so I go into one of the meeting rooms, close the door and call Sadie. It’s the seventh time I’ve tried today, so I’m a little surprised when she answers immediately.

  ‘Tom, what a pleasant and unexpected surprise.’

  ‘As opposed to an expected surprise?’ I counter.

  One exchange in and my softly-nicely game plan’s already out the window. I backtrack into the silence. ‘So, how are you?’

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Yes, work. It’s what normal people do at four thirty on a Friday afternoon.’

  ‘Right, yeah. Still, better than being bored, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘And how’s everything else?’

  ‘Listen, Tom, I’m up to my eyes in it. If I’m lucky I’ll get home before midnight. So, much as I’d love to chat, could we move it along?’

  ‘I’ve got another parking ticket.’

  Intake of breath. Pause. Sigh.

  ‘Highbury Terrace,’ I say. ‘Islington.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘The usual. But if it’s not paid in the next two weeks it goes up to a hundred and tw—’

  ‘I’ll send you a cheque for sixty quid, okay?’

  ‘I thought if I gave you the number you could ca—’