“You would?”
“Yes, well, I mean …”
“Oh, thank you!”
Yasmin has thrown her arms around Anne’s neck. “Thank you! Thank you! Oh, you’ve saved my life! I can tell you now …” She’s still hiccupping, bubbling, panting her breath. Glistening. “Lately, you know, every time I cross the Leaside Bridge, I think to myself: Just climb over the rail, a few seconds … But all that’s over now! Oh Anne, I just can’t thank you enough!”
“What?” Anne says.
Roebuck’s tongue is stuck inside his mouth.
“I must have been somebody really, really good, in my last life, to deserve a friend like you!”
“Yasmin …”
“It’ll be just as if you were a normal donor!” Yasmin has aimed her attention back at Roebuck. “Except you’re you. You donate it, I use it, and now I have a baby whose genes I know I can trust! It’s so simple! Why didn’t we think of this sooner?”
“Um, I don’t think it’s quite that …”
Yasmin is staring at him hungrily. Anne has shifted her focus to stare at him too. Roebuck tries to articulate what he means to say, but his wife’s look tells him to keep his mouth completely shut, so that’s what he does. He clears his throat, picks up a salad bowl, and carries it into the kitchen.
Behind him, he hears the women talking.
7
Men are sperm, women are egg.
One is the wager, the other the stake.
The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck
Sun pours into his bedroom and Roebuck returns to consciousness, slowly, to the sound of Anne in the shower. He blinks, rubs his eyes, and checks the bedside clock. He’s slept in. He draws a breath, puts both hands behind his head beneath the pillow, and feels the pressure of his back against the mattress. There was a time—not so long ago—when he woke aroused like this each and every morning. Not so often now, but still … He hears the water stop and in a little while the door to Anne’s bedroom closing. Roebuck and his tumescence take their turn in the shower. It’s Monday morning.
His car is in the centre lane, moving well for once at a steady 120 klicks. Roebuck knows it’s dangerous fool around with buttons while he’s driving so he activates the hands-free and tells it to connect to his number at the office. He is not what some would call an early adopter, but he appreciates this particular technology. He has just remembered that he wants to make a note; something that came out the other night, just before events began their tilt. Even as he was saying it, he recognized it as the kind of thought he should be writing down. He didn’t, though he can hardly blame himself. Truth be told, in light of everything that happened after, he’s more than a little proud of himself for recalling it or anything at all beyond …
How did it go?
Reproduction. Yes. Roebuck clears his throat as the phone on the desk at his office begins to ring. He waits until he hears his own voice through the earpiece. “This is Julius Roebuck. Please leave a message …”
“Branding,” Roebuck says after the beep, “is not about moving the product on the shelf. It’s about selling the product that isn’t there.” He is being careful to enunciate clearly, leaving space around each word. “Wait. No. Scratch that.” There’s a knot of traffic bunching up ahead; he eases off the gas. “Branding is about selling the product that replaces the product that’s on the shelf today. Good. The focus of branding, like the focus of reproduction, is aimed wholly at the future. That’ll do.”
He disconnects. Not bad. So-so, anyway. He can tighten it later. Roebuck drums his fingers on the steering wheel.
His mind keeps sneaking back, though it knows it’s not supposed to. His intention today is to focus on the intake meeting at Artemis, twenty minutes up the highway if the traffic keeps moving as nicely, as it has until now. Conscientiously, he checks the rearview mirror. There is Greenwood, five or six lengths behind, keeping pace. Roebuck is planning an early departure.
He has loaded all the account folks into Greenwood’s car. That way they can get to know each other; nothing like a long commute for team building. Clients are always located in the suburbs, though Artemis, by a stretch, is farther out than most. For his part, Roebuck aims to avoid as much of this stage as possible, starting with ducking out this morning ahead of schedule. He needs some time alone. He’s not supposed to be thinking about Yasmin; he is meant to be laser-focused on the brand. But his head keeps cycling back.
He has validated his conclusions over days and hours of critical assessment—every conscious moment, basically, between now and that astonishing dinner—sorting through the possibilities; linking up the dots. Roebuck is happy with the soundness of his reasoning. Though he still can’t quite believe where it has led him: Yasmin wants his sperm. Which means, by logical extension, that Yasmin wants him.
It’s the ironies surrounding this conclusion that give him qualms. He just wasn’t thinking. It’s that he finds it hardest to look back on: that his own stupidity could not have been more brilliant. The ringtone startles him. “You just missed the exit,” says Greenwood’s voice in his ear.
“Damn.” Roebuck scans the GPS. “No.” he says. “Next one’s better.” He really had intended them to take the exit they’ve just passed, but the screen is telling him the one ahead is four minutes faster. Everything, lately, is turning out for the better.
Roebuck examines his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Fool,” he says and watches himself smile back.
The morning’s first surprise is Zhanna Lamb, seated primly at the conference table in a pencil skirt and three-inch heels, not a flicker of anything passing between her and Greenwood, who must have known that she’d be there. “Well, now,” Roebuck says shaking hands. “I was under the impression you had left the company.”
“Zhanna has graciously agreed to stay with us a little longer to ensure a smooth transition,” explains the CEO, shepherding him on to the next introduction. Several times throughout the meeting Roebuck tries catching Greenwood’s eye, but Greenwood isn’t playing.
It’s not until noon that he manages his getaway. He has said everything he needs to say; there’s a mountain of material still to go through, but for now the group is scheduled to break for lunch. Roebuck scrambles to his feet, BlackBerry in hand. “Unfortunately, something has come up. But I know that, with Daniel, I am leaving you in capable hands.” He can’t help sneaking a final peek at Zhanna, who gazes back with equal innocence, then delivers the morning’s second surprise. “Would you mind if I asked for a lift? I’m taking the afternoon off too.”
“I’m not taking the afternoon off!”
“Of course you’re not. You have an agency to run. But I am. Can I hitch a ride?”
Generally speaking, these kick-off meetings are where the partnership between agency and client finally gets rolling. The analogy, for Roebuck, is like what happens once you’ve gone to bed together for the first time with a new lover. All that best behaviour leading up to consummation is behind you now—the deed is done—and true personalities are free to emerge. He tells the juniors that from this point forward it’s all about the pulse of the relationship itself. It’s now that clients reveal their business plans; this is when you see each other truly naked; when budgets are tabled and conflicts start to show. Maybe it’s more like a marriage, he says. You’ve solemnized your vows; the ceremony’s over. Now it’s time to sort out who pays which bills.
He has also reminded the creative team that they’ll need to brace themselves because, odds are, all that lovely work they’ve done so far is headed for the toilet. “In the courting stages, clients love you when you’re bold and daring. But once the contract is signed, they’ll expect you to settle down and see things exactly the way they do.”
He and Greenwood have been planning for eventualities. Daniel’s been in the business long enough to know the drill, still Roebuck has been surprised—pleas
antly surprised—to see how firmly Greenwood is standing up, how determined he’s become to make this campaign fly. Fire in the belly and all. That’s the other reason he’s decided to take an early leave and let this afternoon be the Greenwood Show. Later, if necessary, he can play the seasoned veteran, reigning in that youthful energy. But for now his gut is telling him that it’s Greenwood who should be pushing things along.
“Any chance they’ll keep the creative?” he asks, buckling up.
Zhanna all but snorts. “Are you kidding? It’s a condom company. Daniel’s in for major disappointment.”
Roebuck sighs. They’ve left the parking lot and turned on to the service road that links Artemis to the highway, where they are waiting for the light.
“You really believe that stuff, though, don’t you?”
“Sorry?”
“Your trademark shtick: ‘Only women count.’ Daniel thinks you really do believe it. He says that with you it’s more than just a posture.”
“As postures go, it’s one you can take to the bank.”
“He says he’s never known anyone who tries so hard to think like a woman.”
The light turns green; Roebuck accelerates toward the ramp. He doesn’t know quite how to answer this. He’s not sure, either, if he’s enjoying having Greenwood’s pillow talk served up secondhand. “I don’t know if it’s so much thinking like women as it is thinking about them. But now it’s my turn. I have a question for you.”
“All right.” Her knees are pressed against the gearshift. She has turned as much as possible to face him. “Ask.”
“How would you describe the sound of your shoes?”
“My shoes …?”
“When we took our break this morning and everyone went off to get coffee, I could hear you walking back. Before I could see you, I knew it was you. Everyone did. It was a clear, acoustical signature. There’s a certain sound that high heels make that says ‘beautiful woman approaching.’ What I’m wondering is how to describe that sound.”
She doesn’t answer, though her body language tells him that she is not displeased. Roebuck refines the probe. “We all know what high heels do for a woman: Your legs get longer and your hips move forward and your butt pushes back and everything wonderful moves in all that mesmerizing magic. Everybody gets the visual. But there’s an auditory appeal that might possibly be more interesting still. I’ve never had a shoe account, but if I were representing Christian Louboutin, say, or Manolo Blahnik, or Drogonie Claude, I think I’d seriously consider branding my client by sound.”
“Clever.”
He’s not sure if she is commenting on the subtleness of his compliment or the concept itself. In either case, Roebuck agrees. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“You know there are classes you can take. Loads of websites, too, all about walking in heels. There are actual courses with practical lessons.”
“Interesting. That is interesting … I wonder if they’d accept applications from men.” Again he drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Just between you and me,” he says—because this last bit has startled her—“there is a high-end shoe company that is rumoured to be unhappy with its present agency. If the account comes up, I’m considering a pitch.”
“So learning how to walk in high heel shoes would be …?”
“A glittering example of resumé-building. Clients eat up that kind of initiative. And by the way, I’m trusting you not to pass any of this on to your old friends at Artemis. They prefer to think our hearts belongs to them and no one else.”
“Okay. I get how important it is for you to make your clients think that you believe it. That only women matter. But, really, do you?”
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
“In every way.”
This disappoints. “Nevertheless,” he says, “it’s true.”
“We both know that claiming something is true is just a way of neutralizing counter-truths. That’s another of those things they teach in biz school.”
So the exchange of information goes two ways between Greenwood and Zhanna. “Hmm,” he says. “Remind me to write that one down.” He thinks about it seriously for a second, but doesn’t want to break the flow. “So what’s the truth I’m neutralizing?”
“That only you count.”
“Men, you mean?” Roebuck laughs. “That’s so last-century. Three-quarters of the people losing their jobs in this recession are male. We’re in a post-industrial economy, and those jobs aren’t coming back. For the first time ever, women outnumber men in the workforce. Way, way more women graduate from college than men, and every year the discrepancy gets bigger. Men are falling behind. Did you know that parents who choose the sex of their children are choosing to have girls more often than boys now? That’s another first in human history. The new economy is female.”
Zhanna waits him out. “I read your deck, remember? It’s not men, plural, I’m asking about. I’m asking about one who’s doing all the talking.”
“Me? Me in particular? Well, of course it’s true in my case!”
“And don’t you think the same applies to other men?”
“Funny, my wife just asked the same question.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I don’t speak for other men. Men are not my interest. My sole preoccupation is with women.”
Zhanna brings her hands together in picturesque applause. “I’m sure that went over well.”
“It’s my job.”
“And you think she believed that?”
“But it’s true!”
“We were just talking about how conveniently one truth disguises another …”
“Fair enough. So what am I disguising?”
“That your interest in women is not a function of your job. It’s the other way around.”
There’s a snarl of traffic up ahead, and Roebuck is glad of it. “Here’s what I think.” They’ve come to a full stop, bumper to bumper; he powers down the window. “You’re right. Absolutely. But I believe the same is true for all men. I think the grand truth we’re disguising is that everything men do, we do for women. I think we’re hard-wired to value nothing on earth more than we value women. All of us. I also think we spend enormous social energy trying to convince ourselves this isn’t true, which is bullshit, in my opinion, and why I don’t like to think about men. I prefer to do what I’m programmed to do, which is focus on women.”
“Intently, by all accounts.”
“Listen, you and I know as marketers that we’re living in a culture that sanctifies everything female. Little girls go to school dressed in outfits hookers wouldn’t have dared wear in their mothers’ time. The rules for male comportment, meanwhile, have never been tighter. The only thing absolutely guaranteed to end a politician’s career is to be caught cheating on his wife. They can embezzle, they can steal, they can lie; they can go to prison and still get themselves re-elected. But God help them if they’re ever caught unzipped with an admin assistant.”
“I’m guessing that’s why you decided not to go into politics.”
“It’s not just politics! It’s religious leaders, marquee athletes, movie stars; never mind the Bill Clintons, it’s any guy at the top of his game. The interesting thing about them is all the editorializing that goes out afterwards. ‘He worked so hard, he sacrificed so much to get to the top, and then he threw it all away!’ It all so misses the point. The point of being an alpha male is that alpha males get females. There is no other point. We don’t gather riches and power and fame in order to gather riches and power and fame. Only psychopaths are into power for power’s sake. We work our asses off to get all that stuff because that stuff gets us women. The prize is always women. There’s no game worth playing if the prize isn’t women. That’s why politicians are always so pathetic—the male ones, I mean—they have t
o be geldings to do their job, but politics is no game for geldings.”
“Then why are most of them still men?”
“Ah. Now we’re back to my area of expertise. Good. I’ll tell you why. Because politics—contemporary politics, at least—doesn’t give women what they want. So most women sensibly avoid it.”
“I’m afraid to ask. What do women want?”
Roebuck hesitates and then ploughs ahead. “Stuff. Goods. Hard assets. Securities. That, and the validation that they deserve the things they get. Which is, by the way, the central premise of the advertising industry. But you know that part already.”
“For a second, there, I was thinking you had a romantic streak.”
“I’m in advertising. Of course I’m a romantic. It’s you guys on the client side who take the darker view.” He falters, but rallies again. “Want to know the real deal between the sexes? It’s this. Throughout human history men have used stuff to get women, and women have used men to get stuff. That’s the deal. That’s the human equation. That’s what’s been the basis of our relationship since we climbed down from the trees. Since before we climbed down from the trees. What’s new, though—and for the first time in history—is that human females don’t need males to get stuff anymore. Now they can get it all on their own and—more importantly—spend it, which is where my professional interest comes into play. Yours too.”
The brake lights on the car in front blink off, and traffic starts to move. Roebuck veers into the other lane to get a better view, but there is nothing to be seen. A little while goes by in silence. Too bad.
She reaches into her handbag, opens up her phone, stares, and puts it back. “I was class president, you know, in high school.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. Funny, my wife ran the council at her school too. She’s a great debater.”
“Also at university, I was into student politics. In those days I gave some serious thought to a career in politics. Tell me then, why didn’t I?”
Fire in the Firefly Page 6
