He’s stalling. He knows he’s stalling. There’s a button in the centre of the page:
CLICK HERE
Roebuck clicks. Precisely as he does, his phone rings. It’s Daniel Greenwood on his mobile, six blocks south, walking back from lunch. “I’m in the middle of something, Daniel. Can this wait until this afternoon?” Greenwood, oddly reluctant, agrees to meet later and disconnects.
The page shows a stilted photograph of a doctor standing at the doors of a clinic: a securely middle-aged man in a lab coat. Roebuck admits to himself that he is relieved it’s not a woman—then wonders why. Again, the stalling …
More bumf about a consultation that will take place prior to the procedure followed by some information about costs and then, below that, the form itself. Roebuck elects to provide his private cellphone number only and decides against submitting an email address. He is given pause, too, over what to divulge about his marital status. If he ticks “Married,” it asks for the name of his spouse. Roebuck is definitely not about to open any lines of communication running in that direction. It’s bad luck to say “Divorced,” so he ticks “Separated” as a kind of compromise, though he doesn’t like this option either. It’s a relief to find that the rest of the form is the usual list of questions about pre-existing medical conditions and health insurance. Before he knows it, he is contemplating the “Send” button at the bottom of the page. Roebuck allows himself a little ceremony: one finger, one crook of one finger, one last moment of teetering anxiety, then he presses the button.
He is working through a backlog of email when Greenwood sticks his head around the door. It’s immediately clear that Daniel would rather be elsewhere; he’s agitated, nervous in a way that Roebuck hasn’t seen before.
“I can come back if this isn’t a good time?”
Roebuck draws the inescapable conclusion. “Really?” he says, slamming his fist on the table. “Damn. Damn. Damn!”
Greenwood shuffles the rest of the way in. He seems not to want to sit. Or know where to begin. “Umm …”
“Bastard! I have to say I’m extremely surprised.”
“Honestly, I thought it was going to be just an ordinary, get-acquainted lunch.”
“So she does the dirty work? I would never have thought …”
“How did you know? Really, I had no idea until … How did …? ”
“Look at you! It’s all over your face.”
Greenwood passes a hand over his chin. “They had towels and everything,” he says, examining his palm. “And very deep sinks, come to think of it.”
“Towels?”
“A big pile of them, just for that. And a hamper to throw them in when you’re done. There was even a copy of the Kama Sutra.”
“Daniel, what are you talking about?”
“Wait a minute. What are you talking about?”
They eye each other quietly. Roebuck is first to break the impasse. “All right, let’s back this up. You phoned an hour ago on the way back from your lunch …”
“Yes.”
“And that lunch was with Artemis?”
“Well, umm, yes. Correct. But only Zhanna …”
“So I’m assuming you were calling to tell me where things stand with our pitch?”
“Well, yes, sort of. I mean, I was … mostly just calling to see whether you wanted me to pick you up a sandwich or something.”
“A sandwich?”
“Or maybe a falafel.”
“Out with it.”
“Like I said, honestly, it was the last thing I expected.”
“Daniel, did we win the account or no?”
“Well, as a matter of fact … That subject never really came up.”
“What! How can …?” But Roebuck has finally assembled the pieces. “Did you say Kama Sutra—at the restaurant?”
Greenwood is backing out the door. “Listen, I think this conversation is based on a complete misunderstanding.”
“You took her to Alison’s?”
Greenwood stops dead. “How did you know? And anyway it was her idea.”
“Never mind.” A welter of thoughts and emotions are surfacing in Roebuck’s brain, but the one that bubbles up above the rest startles them both. He can’t help it. He’ll sort out the elements later, but for now Roebuck is overwhelmed, utterly, helplessly overwhelmed with choking, wheezing, rib-racking mirth. “Sit down,” he says when he is able, rubbing a tear from his eye. He is surprised at himself.
“You find this funny?”
Roebuck waves a hand toward the chair, wheezing still. “Daniel, sit down. Please.” He thumps himself on the sternum. “I don’t think I’ve laughed like that since … Alison’s! She chose Alison’s. A client!”
“That’s what I wanted to tell you when I called. She’s not a client. Not anymore. Well, she’s almost not a client.” Greenwood seems eager to transition over into indignation.
“Clearly …” says Roebuck, reining it in. “Clearly there’s a story here. Daniel, honestly, sit down. You know the old song, ‘Alison’s Restaurant?’ ” Roebuck clears his throat and tries to sing: “… you can get anything you want, at Alison’s Restaurant …”
“It’s Alice’s Restaurant,” says Greenwood primly, “not Alison’s. We learned it at camp.”
“You know, I think you’re right. Maybe there was a copyright issue. Anyhow, Alison’s is known—or should I say the restrooms at Alison’s are known—among certain clientele as being deliberately conducive to … ah … well, what I gather you’ve experienced during your lunch … with a prospective client.”
“She’s not a prospective client! That’s what I’ve been trying to say!”
“Let’s begin there. How is a client not a client, prospective or otherwise?”
“When she submits her resignation. Or at least, when she submits the resignation she has written and is ready to print and hand in this afternoon.”
“An employee in body, as it were, but not in spirit …” Greenwood is up on his feet again before Roebuck can prevent him. “Oh, lighten up, Daniel! I’m just jealous. So you’re telling me Zhanna Lamb is no longer product manager at Artemis?”
“She told me she intended to deliver her letter of resignation immediately following our lunch.”
This last statement, delivered deadpan, almost does Roebuck in again. “Some people call their attorneys before making big career moves. Others need a drink. Our Zhanna Lamb bonks clients in the john.” Greenwood glowers, and Roebuck makes a show of studying his watch. “Speaking of drinks,” he says, “this is not the kind of conversation properly suited to the workplace. Let’s take it downstairs.” He aims an accusative finger. “You didn’t have too much to drink, did you? How many martinis? That would be serious. Lechers I can live with, but drunks I won’t tolerate. I’m joking, Daniel, relax. Oysters, though,” he says after a pause, “generally do require something to wash them down.”
“You seem to know an awful lot about this place.”
“Today, Daniel, you are the storyteller. I am the audience.”
A pint of Guinness in him and halfway down his second, Greenwood is warming to his narrative. Their twelfth-floor suite of offices contains two boardrooms. Roebuck has named them, somewhat facetiously and somewhat not, Matrix One and Matrix Two. A fair amount of business, though, takes place at the brewpub on the ground floor below, which his people have taken to calling Matrix Three. The barmen know to begin pulling a pint of lager when they spot Roebuck coming through the door. Every so often he’ll order an ale instead to keep them on their toes. The bartender is obliged to drink the lager, Roebuck nurses his ale, pays for both, and maintains key friendships in important places. He wouldn’t have put Greenwood down as a Guinness man, but today is a day of surprises.
“Before I forget,” he says, “don’t even think about expensing that. That one’s on you.
Virtue has to be its own reward. How did you say she was dressed?”
“Black, soft, clingy …”
“And no underwear?”
“But that wasn’t until …”
“Sorry. I’m interrupting.” Greenwood has reached the interesting part, but he seems to be turning shy again. “Right.” Roebuck summarizes. “So she meets you at the table in a little black dress. What’s she drinking?”
“Gin.”
“God, I love this girl! Pretty soon she’s touching your hand, then your arm, then resting her hand on your knee. Once the plates are cleared, she excuses herself to powder her nose. That, I’m assuming, is when she peels off the thong and stashes it in her purse. And all the while you’re manfully trying to keep the conversation professional …”
“Okay I’ll admit that by this time I’d pretty much given up on shop talk.”
“But at some point she must have told you she was leaving Artemis?”
“That was early on, before the food came. And by the way it wasn’t oysters. Or martinis either. At least for me.” There’s a faintly ridiculous smugness in Greenwood’s tone that has Roebuck struggling to hide his smile. “She said she had better things to do in life than help a bunch of dinks sell rubbers, however creatively promoted.”
Roebuck whistles. “I really do admire this girl. But she couldn’t tell you which way they were leaning?”
“All she could say was that there had been no hints so far from management. But she also said she’d pretty much checked out by then, so she wasn’t really paying attention.”
He considers implications and decides there are none. “Okay, so now you’ve paid the bill, you’re getting up to leave. She takes your arm and the two of you stroll to the coat check.”
“The restrooms in this place are unisex,” says Greenwood.
Roebuck nods. “Plush, if I recall. Roomy.”
“The coats are hanging in the same alcove as the bathrooms. She’s still hugging my arm. Before I know it, we’ve carried on past the coat rack and straight through one of the doors.”
“Aha!” says Roebuck. “This is where the conversation gets interesting. Damn. Hang on a sec.” His cellphone is going off. Roebuck carries a BlackBerry for business purposes plus an old-fashioned clam-phone he reserves for personal use. Only his wife, his kids, Lily, and a handful of his most important clients have access to this private number.
“Hello.”
“Julius Roebuck?”
“Yes.”
“This is the No Fuss Vasectomy Clinic calling.”
“Oh.”
“We have an appointment available for you.”
“I see. Um.” Roebuck stares wide-eyed at Greenwood, who politely looks elsewhere.
“We can schedule you for next Thursday at 10:00 AM.”
“Next week? Next week! But that’s … soon!”
“I understand. You’ll need to make arrangements with your place of employment. Would the following Thursday be preferable, same time?”
“That is also … very soon.”
“When would be a good time for you, Mr. Roebuck?”
He’s aware of Greenwood picking up a menu, furrowing his brow in manifest preoccupation. “Look, can I call you back?”
“Often, we find that clients’ first impulse is to delay the procedure. But that of course just lengthens your worrying time. And I assure you, Mr. Roebuck, there’s absolutely nothing to be anxious about. Have you visited our website?”
“I have. Yes. Absolutely.”
“I’m happy to answer any questions. Some clients are concerned …”
“Can I call you back?
“Of course, Mr. Roebuck. Take your time.”
“What was that all about?” asks Greenwood, waving at the waiter for another pint.
5
Advertising is psychology monetized.
The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck
Over the years, Roebuck has developed a reliable sense of how things are moving along. When he weighs the pros and cons objectively, he has to conclude that the odds are in favour of landing the Artemis account. He has carefully evaluated the merits of each agency on the short list. Young & Rubicam will give him a run for his money, so will Chiat Day. But Y & R have just lost their creative director and the new guy they’ve moved in from Hong Kong isn’t meshing. Chiat has failed to win three pitches in a row; something there is misfiring. There’s a hot new digital agency that had him worried, but by good fortune they were hacked last week and are now fending off a data-leak investigation. All things considered, especially in light of that remarkable pitch—and it was remarkable, no matter how Greenwood sees it—he figures they’re the top contender.
The call comes in as expected, ten days after expiration of the deadline. The CEO wastes no time in small talk. Roebuck knows what will be said before it is spoken.
“Congratulations, I am pleased to be informing you …”There’s a case of Dom he keeps in the storeroom for occasions like these. It’s good for staff morale to pop some corks and pass around the flutes. Many of his competitors are cutting back on the perks, clients have been slashing advertising budgets, and agencies are feeling the squeeze, but Roebuck considers moxie-boosters an essential cost of doing business. In a minute, he’ll see about sending someone out for a side of smoked salmon and some canapés. He will also need to issue an All Staff announcement. It’s Friday, a perfect note to end the week. Matrix Three will be humming tonight. But somehow Roebuck can’t work himself into the mood. It’s his own morale he knows is suspect.
He’s jealous. He would never admit it, even to himself. But he knows it. Greenwood has let on, a little casually, a little understatedly, that he and Zhanna are now going out on regular dates: dinners and movies and such. Roebuck is happy for him. He harbours no ill will—of this he is certain. But he wishes it were him, not Greenwood, grazing Zhanna’s ankle in the unlit zone beneath the table. On the call with Artemis he had made a point, just to hear it spoken, of mentioning how much he’s looking forward to working with that insightful marketing team, particularly that bright young product manager. “Regrettably, Zhanna Lamb has left the company …” Foolish, asking openly like that. Slap-to-the-side-of-the-head stupid.
Even so, he can’t seem to shake it, so when an email from Lily appears with “A Proposition” blinking in the subject line, Roebuck pounces on the keyboard. He hasn’t heard from Lily all week.
“Darling …”
When did she start saying darling? He never calls her darling. Maybe time to start.
Congratulate me! I’ve just won a juicy little contract at McCann. The specs won’t be ready until next week so I’m thinking … why don’t you come over for lunch Wednesday? After Wednesday I’m slammed, but before … Can you free yourself up? I’ll cook.
I know your preferences.
Roebuck hits “Reply.” He doesn’t even bother looking at his calendar. He’s in the middle of composing a gleeful response, when his fingers halt and retreat from the keyboard. When Lily takes a contract, she goes at it full tilt. After Wednesday, she’ll be beyond reach for a week at least. Roebuck drums his fingers; then opens up the No Fuss Vasectomy Clinic’s website. Yes, he has remembered correctly: Eight weeks.
In all fairness he deserves a last hurrah. Roebuck picks up the phone.
“This is Julius Roebuck. You contacted me earlier about an appointment. Is that slot still available?”
“What was the date you wanted, Mr. Roebuck?”
“I believe it was next Thursday, 10:00 AM.”
A pause. “I’m sorry. That appointment is booked.”
“Damn. What about the next day, Friday?”
“The clinic is closed Mondays and Fridays.”
“I see.”
“We do have a cancellation. Let me check. How is Wednesday afternoon, same w
eek?”
“Wednesday? No, definitely not Wednesday. Wait! Did you say afternoon? How late in the afternoon?”
“It’s the last appointment. Four o’clock.”
Roebuck excels at rapid calculation. “Fine,” he says. “Book me in.”
Darling,
You’re just what the doctor ordered. But can we make it early?
I have a 4 PM I can’t afford to miss.
6
Civilization sacrifices parents for children.
Barbarism, the other way around.
The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck
There’s a level of synchronicity they have managed to achieve, he and Anne, which Roebuck has for many years admired, an interdisciplining of agendas. It is one thing they’ve agreed on since the start, since before their first pregnancy, even: that they will make a habit of sitting down together as a family to eat. Admittedly this is not always feasible. Roebuck has his business meetings, and Anne, too, her own affairs. But more often than not, the dinner hour will find the five of them at the table all together, passing the salad and news of whatever has been happening since breakfast.
When he contemplates old age, there isn’t much hilarity in view. But the prospect of talking politics and abstract religion with his adult children is a pleasure Roebuck anticipates with what for him are the very highest of his hopes.
For now, though, they are still in the stage when no line of reasoning survives for more than three minutes before complete annihilation by some unrelated train of thought. It’s a challenge when company comes, but a rule is a rule and the kids eat with them even when guests are being entertained. Yasmin is holding up her end of things quite well. But then again, she’s practising.
Morgan has been at pains to tell them how she’s doing all the work on her science project, while the other girls aren’t doing anything, anything, especially Ginny Moragani, that bitch. Anne and Roebuck spin heads in parallel reproach while Zach keeps cutting in asking if he—Dad—would rather fight a grizzly bear or an adult Siberian tiger? Also he wants to know what Yasmin would do if an Albertosaurus poked its head through the window. Forsaking the last of her manners, Morgan hurls a mussel shell, aiming at Zach but missing on account of aerodynamics and nearly grazing Yasmin, who bats it down with catlike reflex. Roebuck has been given to understand that the topic for later is likely going to be the lonely womb. He admits a certain level of curiosity.
Fire in the Firefly Page 4
