Charlie’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you serious?’
Gemma stood up and walked towards the window so she didn’t have to look at the shock on his face. ‘I’m serious that I don’t know.’
He was right behind her. ‘What are you talking about?’ he said anxiously. ‘You can’t just give your baby away.’
Gemma turned to face him. ‘Why can’t I? It’s Luke’s baby too, but he got to run off and he doesn’t even have to think about it again. I, on the other hand, have to carry it for nine months, stop drinking, smoking, or having any fun, and what do I get in return? Childbirth, stretchmarks, boobs that’ll end up hanging to my waist, stitches where even the sun don’t shine, probably incontinence . . . But wait, there’s more. I’m also supposed to sacrifice everything to bring up a child that I didn’t plan, that I didn’t ask to have, when there are people out there who are desperate to have a baby and would give anything?’
Charlie looked stunned. ‘But it’s yours, Gem. You can’t . . .’ His voice faded away.
‘I might not have a choice, Charlie,’ she said. ‘I can’t look after a child if I don’t have a decent job, some kind of future. If the MD thinks I’m indispensable, I might just manage to keep my job, then I can think about whether I keep the baby.’
Charlie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Come on then, let me show you what I have here.’
2pm
‘Thank you, Ms Atkinson,’ said the MD, in a tone that suggested ‘that will be all’.
Gemma had just shown Charlie and Mel and her perky little assistant into the MD’s office. She had earmarked this meeting for a few reasons, not least because of Charlie being here. But Gemma had a good rapport with Mel as well; she knew she would treat any contribution Gemma made with due respect. It was only to be a brief progress meeting for a particular campaign, which was why the MD was holding it in his office. That gave Gemma easy access, and she was staying put.
‘I have nothing else better to do,’ she said lightly, dragging a chair over to join the group. ‘I’ll take notes.’
‘I usually take my own notes,’ he countered.
‘So, I’ll save you the trouble,’ she persisted cheerfully.
‘It isn’t any trouble.’
‘I know, I’m happy to do it.’
His eyes narrowed as he glared at her, before glancing around at the others. It was becoming awkward. The only way for him to proceed with a modicum of dignity was to allow her to stay.
‘Okay then, let’s get on with it, shall we?’ he said, not making eye contact with her again. ‘What have you got to show me?’
Charlie had been nursing a sleek iBook laptop, and he got to his feet, placing it on the desk in front of the MD.
‘This is still a rough cut, but it should give you a reasonable idea,’ said Charlie, coming around beside him. He lifted back the screen and clicked on a series of keys. The advertisement in question began to play, and the MD sat back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. Gemma couldn’t see it from where she sat, but she’d watched it several times over that morning. It had been an expensive ad to create. It began as a montage of filmed scenes: children climbing on a play structure in a park, a young couple dancing the length of a nondescript suburban street, a family running along the seashore trailing a kite. Charlie’s magic came into play then, as the children morphed into adults looking through a new home, the street unfolded into a rue in Paris, and the kite transformed into an aeroplane. It had been edited like a music video with a nostalgic song by the Mamas and Papas as sound-track. Until today’s meeting the MD had not had much of a clue about what they had been trying to achieve, Gemma had discovered from his notes. It seemed the man was not overendowed with imagination, which was unfortunate considering the industry he found himself in. What he did focus on was the cost, and he hadn’t seen much for the huge production budget so far. Mel had asked Charlie to mock up something quickly to give him an idea of the end result. Of course, they usually had the luxury of working through this stage without someone second-guessing them, but that was another era. Things were different now.
The song faded out. The ad had played through to the end. The MD was still sitting in the same position; he hadn’t budged. Finally he sighed loudly. ‘What’s it for?’
Charlie was speechless. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at, MD,’ said Mel instead.
He brought his hands down onto the desk in front of him, leaning forward. ‘What is it advertising?’
‘Uh, you know, MD,’ said Charlie, ‘the State Bank.’
‘I didn’t see a bank.’
‘MD, a bank is an entity, not a building,’ Mel tried to explain. ‘The fact is, more than seventy percent of the banking population never set foot in a bank from one month to the next any more. The growth of internet banking is a phenomenon in the industry, swelling more than four-hundredfold since it was first introduced. But even people who don’t bank online are paid straight into bank accounts and use debit and credit cards to pay for nearly everything, or else pick up the phone to pay the rest. You can even do your banking on your mobile now. People don’t go into a bank if they can help it. It’s not relevant to use a building to represent a bank any more, MD.’
‘I’m not suggesting there had to be a building,’ said the MD. ‘I simply want to know how that ad has anything to do with banking.’
‘It’s a concept ad,’ Charlie blurted. He was still standing nervously beside the desk, like a schoolboy waiting to be dismissed by the headmaster.
The MD turned to look up at him. ‘Why don’t you take a seat, Charlie.’ He paused while Charlie returned to his chair. ‘So tell me,’ he resumed, ‘what is the “concept”?’
‘Freedom,’ said Mel, as though it was obvious.
‘And what has freedom got to do with banking?’
‘Well, MD, money is freedom,’ she went on, throwing him the pitch she’d used for the client. ‘So how we access our money, where we choose to store our money, who lends us our money, all affect our freedom.’
‘But how does anyone get that idea from that ad?’ he said. ‘There’s no information about accounts or borrowing, no details.’
‘You can’t bombard the consumer with a whole lot of info,’ Mel explained. ‘They won’t remember it, and besides, there’s too much advertising clutter out there as it is. People are confused, overloaded. You have to find a way to break through the clutter and hit them hard with the core message you’re trying to convey.’
‘And wouldn’t that include a few pertinent details, some selling points?’ asked the MD. ‘Or else how can the consumer decide if they want it, if it’s any better than what they have already?’
‘Spruiking is outdated,’ Gemma broke in.
The MD glanced over at her as though she were an annoying insect that had just buzzed into the room.
‘It’s not as effective nowadays,’ Gemma sailed on, undaunted. ‘You can’t tell consumers that something is bigger, better, shinier – they don’t believe you any more; they’re too sophisticated.’
‘And yet they get confused if you try to give them details?’ he shot back. ‘You can’t have it both ways – are they too sophisticated or too stupid?’
No one had an answer for that.
‘Whatever,’ he dismissed, ‘I still don’t understand how an image of a child on a beach with a kite encourages people to move their business to this bank.’
‘Lifestyle,’ said Mel. ‘We’re trying to sell them a lifestyle.’
The MD lifted an eyebrow. ‘Last I knew, you didn’t have to take out a loan to go to the beach, thank God.’
‘You’re intellectualising the ad, MD,’ said Mel carefully, ‘but we don’t want people to respond intellectually. We want them to respond emotionally, to link the brand with the kind of life they want to lead, the kind of people they believe they are, or want to be. We want them to make an emotional, even a spiritual connection with the State Ba
nk.’
The MD was listening thoughtfully. Maybe Mel had got through to him at last. He sat back in his chair and sighed again, heavily. ‘So in other words it’s bullshit, right?’
‘Pardon?’
‘This kind of advertising, it’s all bullshit. Started by a bunch of advertisers having a wank, I’m betting to impress each other more than anything.’
Even Mel looked rattled, and she did not rattle easily. ‘They test well at screenings,’ she said in a voice a couple of sizes smaller than usual. ‘People like them.’
‘Sure,’ the MD agreed. ‘They like the music, pretty pictures, colour and movement. But how many of them actually go and buy the product? In fact, how many of them even know what the product is? There must be some research on this somewhere.’
‘I’ll look into it,’ said Gemma crisply, jotting down a note, very indispensable assistant-like.
The MD opened his mouth to say something to her, but must have thought better of it. He looked at Mel and Charlie instead.
‘The thing is, Australians love to send things up and they can’t stand bullshit. Ads like these are entirely bullshit, and they take themselves too seriously. They might work in Europe, but think about it, what have been the most successful campaigns in the last few years here, in Australia?’ He paused. He was actually waiting for an answer. ‘Anyone?’
‘The big beer ad,’ Charlie said finally, wistfully. Like everyone else in the industry, he wished he’d come up with that one.
‘Perfect example,’ said the MD. ‘Irreverent, hilarious, it actually sent up the idea of taking things too seriously.’
‘But that was a hugely expensive ad to produce,’ Mel pointed out.
‘Which achieved hugely successful results,’ he countered. ‘The client won’t mind spending the big bucks if it gets the big returns.’
‘So what do you want us to do about this campaign?’ asked Mel tentatively. ‘I should point out, the client liked the concept, and we’ve spent a lot of money already –’
‘We have to go with it now,’ he dismissed. ‘But let’s see if we can’t come up with something better, something different, next time. I don’t want Bailey’s to be arthouse any more. Let’s start making ads that sell stuff.’
Gemma held the door open as the trio filed out of the office. Charlie looked shattered. Mel looked frustrated. The perky little assistant who hadn’t said boo the whole time just looked bewildered. Gemma was about to follow them out when the MD stopped her.
‘Ms Atkinson?’ he said firmly.
She turned back to look at him.
‘Close the door.’
She did as she was asked.
‘Don’t do that again.’
Gemma was tempted to ask him what it was exactly that she shouldn’t be doing again, but thought better of it. He didn’t seem to be the kind of person who would tolerate pleading ignorant, or even a little humour. She had to take a risk, meet him at his own game, get him to respect her for being as bloody-minded as he was.
‘Are you saying that I shouldn’t sit in on meetings any more?’ Gemma asked.
‘Not unless you’re invited.’ He began to shuffle papers on his desk, indicating that she was dismissed.
‘Well, maybe you should start inviting me,’ said Gemma.
He looked at her over the top of his glasses. ‘Pardon?’
‘I think you need a second chair.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Someone to smooth the way, give you feedback,’ she went on. ‘You’re not going to win many allies with your approach.’
‘And tell me, Ms Atkinson, when you were running an ad agency, what was your favoured approach?’
Gemma ignored the sarcasm and ploughed on. ‘As you know,’ she said, walking further into the room, ‘I was here when Jonesy was in charge, and, fair enough, he almost took the place to the wall, but at least the staff were happy.’
‘I’m not in the business of making people happy, unless they’re the ones paying me. When I’m paying them, and losing money doing it, well, they can bite me.’
Gemma was aghast. ‘Whatever Jonesy was doing or not doing with the books, that had nothing to do with the rank and file. They were working hard, doing their best for a boss who nurtured and encouraged them. Did you see Charlie at the end then? He was devastated. The guy is brilliant. Have you even seen any of his work? Do you know how many awards he’s won for the agency?’
‘Awards don’t sell products,’ said the MD, unfazed. ‘They only impress other agencies.’
‘And potential clients. You get an award, suddenly you get a whole load of new accounts.’
‘But if all you get is awards and no results, the clients will march, and all you’re left with is a very attractive trophy case.’
Gemma plonked down on a chair. ‘It wasn’t the staff’s fault that Jonesy screwed up. They were all working hard. And you walk in here like an auditor and everyone’s suddenly scared of losing their jobs.’
MD lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘No one has lost their job.’
‘Yet,’ she muttered.
‘Right, I’ve had this,’ he said, standing up and leaning over his desk. Gemma shrunk back in the chair, looking up at him. ‘I moved heaven and earth so that not one job was lost. There were two, no, three people who left in the months after I came, and we didn’t replace them, that was all. Where are you getting this information?’
Gemma was trying to remember where she had heard that jobs had been cut, and then she realised she hadn’t heard it anywhere. In fact Lauren had just said that there had been talk of staff cuts but that instead they’d brought this guy up from Melbourne . . .
‘Sorry, I must have got it wrong.’
‘You do everything you can,’ he went on, apparently not hearing her, ‘and people are still going to think what they like. They make things up, they actually make things up.’ He raised his arms and walked away from the desk. ‘You know, it wouldn’t matter what I did. I could double their wages, put on free drinks every Friday, have staff meetings in a luxury resort, and they’d still complain because I’m not Jonesy. But what none of them seems to realise is that Jonesy nearly cost them their jobs. I saved them, but do you think that’s the way they see it?’
‘MD!’ Gemma blurted, standing up. He turned around to face her. ‘I got it wrong, okay? I was mistaken. Someone did mention the possibility of staff cuts, but that you were brought in instead.’
He just stared at her.
‘No one said anything bad about you,’ she half lied.
He breathed out, nodding faintly.
‘You should really lighten up,’ she said under her breath.
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’
He frowned at her. ‘Well, I’ve got work to do. That’ll be all, Ms Atkinson.’
‘Oh, would you stop calling me that?’ she groaned.
‘What?’ he blinked. ‘Ms Atkinson?’
‘It’s so patronising. My name is Gemma. Please call me Gemma.’
He had an odd look on his face, almost as though he was embarrassed.
‘I wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean to be patronising. That . . . wasn’t my intention . . .’ He cleared his throat. ‘Gemma.’
‘Okay,’ she said, a little bemused.
He nodded. ‘We’d better get back to work,’ he said and sat down at his desk. ‘Please close the door on your way out.’
When Gemma returned to her computer an email had arrived in her inbox. It was from Mel. More of a summons really:
Meeting down at DryDock at 6:30.
DryDock was one of the team’s favourite watering holes, down at east Darling Harbour. When Gemma arrived she spotted Mel straightaway, along with the entire team. Even Charlie was there, and he had never been much of a ‘drinks after work’ kind of guy, at least not with this crowd. The creatives and the ad execs were a little like oil and water: they tended not to mix socially.
The group
had commandeered a couple of tables and already had a round of drinks in front of them. The mood, however, could hardly be described as jovial. Sombre was more like it, even grim.
Mel saw her coming first and immediately got to her feet. ‘Hey, Gemma. I’ll get you a drink – your usual?’
‘No,’ Gemma blurted without thinking.
Mel looked at her oddly. Gemma glanced at Charlie and he leaped up from his seat.
‘She has a different usual now,’ he said. ‘That is, her usual is not the same as it was before.’ He gave up trying to explain himself. ‘I’ll get it.’
Gemma threw Charlie a relieved smile, which he returned, before heading for the bar.
‘Pull up a roost, Gemma,’ said Justin. He was sprawled in his customary fashion, one leg hooked loosely across the other, arms spread out along the backs of the chairs beside him, regardless of the discomfort or otherwise of their occupants. He seemed to have a need to take up as much space as his lanky limbs afforded him.
Gemma walked around the table to where Charlie had been sitting; she knew he wouldn’t mind her taking his chair.
‘So what did you make of the MD’s dummy-spit this afternoon?’ Justin asked her.
She shrugged. ‘Typical.’
‘So he’s said this kind of thing to you before?’ asked Mel.
‘Oh no,’ Gemma assured her. ‘He doesn’t say much of anything to me.’
‘What do you mean? You’re his assistant,’ said Justin.
‘In name only. He’s a one-man show. I just answer the phones.’
‘We were hoping to get some inside information from you,’ said Mel. ‘Let us in on what makes him tick, or see if you know something we don’t.’
Gemma shook her head. ‘Sorry, he’s not an easy person to get to know. He really keeps to himself. That’s the first meeting I’ve been to since I started, and I had to push my way in.’
‘The guy’s an arrogant arsehole,’ Justin declared, oblivious to the irony of him of all people making that remark.
Charlie returned to the table with Gemma’s drink, trailing another chair behind him.
False Advertising Page 13
