From The Moment I Saw Him ....

by MacDonald, Catherine

  I hoped that was true, but I would still miss seeing them every day. Agency life wouldn’t be the same without them.

  Then my relationship with Mike began to unravel. I have to admit that this was probably my fault. It had always been second best for me, and neither of us really wanted a full commitment. There was no dramatic ending, but we gradually spent less time together until there was nothing left.

  During this restless period, I was cheered up by two unexpected reunions with friends from university days.

  One was with my American buddy, John. Shortly after his return home, he found the courage to tell his family about his sexual preferences, and after an initial coolness, they had come to accept matters. Being gay was losing the stigma it once held, even for conservative Eastern Americans.

  Life had been much easier for him since then, and he was now the owner of a contemporary art gallery in Washington, along with his partner, Zac.

  John had travelled to London to attend a number of fine art auctions, and we met for dinner one night at an informal Italian restaurant in Soho. We had always exchanged letters and telephone calls over the years, but it was wonderful to see him in person after so long, and we indulged in a good catch up with regard to each other’s lives. I was keen to hear all about Washington, and was delighted to realise that he, at least, had finally found happiness.

  Over coffee, John raised the subject we had been avoiding all evening.

  “Do you ever hear from Nick, Eithne?” he asked bluntly.

  “No. Well, you know that I told him where to go, after that article. As far as I’m concerned, he’s in the past,” I said, more bravely than I felt.

  John sipped his espresso, his expression was thoughtful.

  “You seemed to be so happy together at Oxford. I really hoped things would work out for you,” he mused. His eyes swept over me approvingly. “You’re just as pretty as I remembered, sweetie, even more so, I think. London life suits you. I can’t believe you’re not in demand. Is it so hard to replace Nick?”

  “It seems so,” I replied glumly. “I think I’m attracted to alpha males with commitment issues. They’re far from ideal, but they make ordinary men seem a bit dull in comparison. Perhaps I’ll get over it when I’m older. I hope so, life will be very difficult if I don’t.”

  “Hang on in there,” he advised, smiling. “Look at me and Zac - you never know what’s round the corner.”

  His words were prophetic - however, what was round the corner for Jo and myself was not an exciting new man, but a visit from our old fellow student, Sofia Kinski. She rang Jo at work one day to announce her presence in the UK, and we invited her round to the flat for an impromptu supper.

  Sofia was living and working in Milan, but had returned briefly to London to attend a family funeral.

  We were both very curious to see her again. She was working in PR for a major fashion designer, and her life appeared to be busy and glamorous. Her clothes were little short of fabulous, and we were very jealous. She was still the same breezy, confident Sofia, taking everything in her stride.

  Inevitably, the subject of our love lives cropped up. Sofia was having an affair with an Italian photographer, and neither of us could compete with that in any way. After asking Jo about her latest squeeze, she told me she was not surprised to hear that Nick and I had parted company again.

  “Of course, I knew all about the American job long before you did,” she told me, eyes crinkling at the corner like a satisfied cat. “Nick swore everyone at Cherwell to secrecy; at least he cared enough not to want to upset you before the end of term and your exams. But I’m sorry you didn’t manage to make things work afterwards. I know how much he meant to you.”

  “Yes. Thankfully, I’ve moved on since then,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t press me for details.

  Despite our envy of her glittering world, we enjoyed seeing her. Sofia always brought a sense of invigoration with her. She was someone who took what she wanted from life, and it made me begin to question what I wanted for my own future.

  “You didn’t tell her about seeing John,” Jo said afterwards.

  “No. They didn’t part on very good terms at Oxford, and I thought it better to leave that in the past,” I replied.

  In June, I was asked to accompany Don Rossi, my boss, to a Sales Conference in Manchester for Idaho Foods, the parent company of “Brekkie Brownies”.

  I had never been to Manchester before, so that was a novelty. Neither had I attended a Sales Conference. I couldn’t really see what I was doing there, as I had no part in the scheduled agency presentation, but Don seemed to think it would be a helpful experience for me, and it was good to get out of the office for a change.

  It was pretty dull. The morning was spent in listening to gung ho sales talk, where everyone was exhorted to go out and exceed their targets, and in the afternoon, Don and our creative director Bill presented the Marketing and Advertising Strategy for the national launch of the cereal, and unveiled the launch campaign. Finally, there was a dinner in the hotel where we were staying, where a large amount of alcohol was consumed.

  I did not find it easy to make small talk to a lot of strange salesmen, but I did my best, wishing it was not so necessary for them to feel they had to flirt with me. As soon as possible after the meal, I made my excuses, and retired with some relief to my room.

  I watched some TV, and was just getting in to bed, when there was a knock at the door.

  Putting my coat over my nightie, I opened the door a crack. Don was standing there, a look of concern on his face.

  “Hi, Eithne. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You left really early.”

  He smiled at me, and shouldered his way inside. I stepped back, but only a little, something about his demeanour made me feel uneasy.

  “Yes, fine, I was just tired. Goodnight, Don.”

  “It could be a very good night.”

  He reached out and stroked my hair, then moved swiftly to enfold me in his arms. I recoiled in dismay.

  “Don, please stop this. I don’t want it, and you’ve had too much to drink.”

  I pushed him away, hard, and he staggered slightly against the door frame. His eyes narrowed, and in that instant I felt electrified, horrified, I read in his gaze exactly what he was intent on doing, whether or not I was willing. Somehow, I found the strength to shove him away again, and I slammed the door and locked it.

  Trembling all over, I sank down on the bed. How would I face him in the morning? And how could I go on working for him at Marsham and Hunter after this unpleasant episode? I could see that things would have to change yet again.

  Chapter 18

  At breakfast the next morning, Don apologised to me very properly. He said he had been drinking, he didn’t know what had come over him. He hoped it would not affect our working together in future.

  I accepted the apology, and hastened to change the subject. The last thing I wanted was any sort of fuss or recriminations. However, I knew what I had seen in his face, and I wasn’t sure I could forget it. It only strengthened a resolve which I had been pondering for some time.

  Back in London, I called one or two head-hunters, and told them that I was looking for a job with a new agency. It was a good time for the advertising industry, and I was fairly sure I could get another position without too much hassle. With any luck, I’d get a salary increase as well.

  At the same time, I was having another life changing event. My mother was unexpectedly left a large sum of money by an uncle, and she and my father thought it would be a good idea to buy a flat in London as a long term investment. It would also help me in the shorter term, as I could live there rent free whilst I was working in the capital.

  After some searching, they bought a two bedroom flat in a converted warehouse overlooking the Thames at Wapping, a hitherto run down part of London which was beginning to be redeveloped and gentrified.

  I loved it from the start. The flat had a small balcony where I could sit and w
atch the changing tides, and it was wonderful to feel it was mine. Jo agreed to share with me, and I thought we would have a whole new lease of life there.

  As I had hoped, I was invited for interview at a number of agencies, and I eventually accepted a job with a “boutique” agency with a strong creative reputation called Mackerras Mackay. I began work there in September, and within six months, my life changed completely.

  There was a whole different feeling to working at Mackerras Mackay. For a start, it was much smaller and more intimate than Marsham and Hunter. Instead of a board whose members were removed from the everyday running of the business, there was a hands on approach from the top people downwards - we were all involved in working to make the agency as successful as possible.

  Rob Mackerras had started the agency five years before, with a handful of small clients, and had seen the business expand swiftly under his leadership. Charlie Mackay, a fellow Scot, was the creative head, a talented individual with a string of advertising awards to his name. I had been interviewed by both men, and found their enthusiasm and intellectual calibre impressive. I prayed that they would offer me the job, and for once, I got what I wanted.

  In some ways, I was sad at leaving Marsham and Hunter, where I had made many friends, but it was exciting to be starting again with the knowledge that I was not coming in as a raw novice, but as a person who could hit the ground running (favourite agency phrase.)

  My new accounts were Luna Cosmetics, and Adorco, who made a variety of small electrical goods.

  The first few days at Mackerras Mackay were daunting. My account director boss, Robin Thompson, was only a few years older than me, ferociously bright and with a reputation for not suffering fools in any shape or form. In the beginning, I was in awe of him. But after a week or so, especially when we had been to the pub and out to lunch together, I relaxed and began to appreciate his sharp intellect. I realised that as long as I worked hard, we would get on well.

  I also thought that he would not be sleazy enough to make any passes at me, even though he clearly admired my looks.

  “You’ll need to watch out for Owen and Sam in Creative,” he told me when we were having lunch. “They like to work their way through the new arrivals, and I’m sure they’ll be knocking on your door any day now.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  He gave me an appraising glance.

  “Don’t you have a boyfriend, Eithne? Forgive me for asking, but I would have thought you’d be in a relationship.”

  I grimaced.

  “I’ve had a long, on-off affair with someone I adored since I was seventeen. But he works in America now, and it’s all over. I’ve not met anyone special since, he’s a hard act to follow.”

  “No chance of him coming back and starting again then?”

  “I think it’s unlikely.”

  I thought for a moment, and then gave him a potted version of the article in Sphere, and my fury at the invasion of my privacy. He was very sympathetic.

  “Actually, the fallout from the article wasn’t as bad as I feared at first,” I said. “But I still wish it hadn’t happened. I was really mad that it ended up winning an award though.”

  Robin roared with laughter.

  “Yes, I can see that would have been a bit much. Never mind, I don’t suppose anyone here reads it, and even if they did, that’s old news now.”

  At the beginning of my third week at Mackerras Mackay, I was frowning over a Progress report, when Janie, our secretary, came in with an air of gossip to impart.

  “Ian Inglis is back from holiday,” she reported, eyes large and shiny. “And the rumour is he’s dumped his girlfriend. The ladies will be pleased.”

  “Who’s Ian Inglis?” I asked. I didn’t immediately recognise the name.

  “Who’s Ian Inglis? Only the most fanciable man in the whole agency. He’s our group account director, very good-looking, all the girls are wild about him.”

  “Oh.”

  I wasn’t very interested. My experience of men who attracted a lot of female attention wasn’t exactly positive. On the whole, I thought they were better avoided.

  I turned my thoughts back to the knotty problem of copy dates for a forthcoming press campaign.

  Later that day, I saw a tall man with thick brown hair, very smartly cut, standing in conversation with another director outside the board room. He gave me a swift look as I passed, as if trying to assess what I was doing there, but I was in a hurry to get to an internal creative meeting and didn’t return his gaze.

  However, two days later, I was walking down the directors’ part of the corridor, when a deep voice hailed me from one of the offices.

  “Hi there, new girl. I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

  I stopped in my tracks. The brown haired man was sitting behind a huge, shiny desk, his office was furnished with a low coffee table and easy chairs, and the walls were hung with what I assumed to be expensive - and original - modern art.

  He got up, and came round the side of the desk, extending a hand.

  “Ian Inglis - and you are?”

  I murmured my name, feeling suddenly rather shy.

  “Eithne..... what an unusual name, it suits you.”

  He had a very attractive smile, not a devastating flash like Nick, but engaging and confident. His skin was tanned after his recent holiday, and I noticed that he wore an expensive and beautifully tailored pale grey suit. He was every inch the quintessential adman.

  “Sit down and tell me what you’re doing at Mackerras Mackay.”

  He pointed to one of the easy chairs. I perched on the edge, and recited the brief tale of my life in advertising to date, while he took another seat.

  I was conscious that he was sizing me up as I spoke, and it made me slightly irritable. At this stage, I just wanted to blend in with the rest of the agency until I found my feet.

  “Marsham and Hunter - sound enough, but very dull compared to here,” he pronounced, when I had finished.

  “Yes, well, it’s not easy when you start looking for jobs at university, and you have no knowledge of the commercial world,” I replied.

  He laughed.

  “I mean that you’ll find life a lot more interesting with us.”

  He surveyed me with thoughtful grey eyes. Despite my attempt at nonchalance, I found myself growing a little pink under his calculating gaze. He was very good-looking, and projected a certain self-confident sexuality. I began to understand what Janie meant when she said he was extremely fanciable, I imagined that there was a long queue of ladies hoping for his attention.

  “Well, Eithne - I’d like to talk to you for longer, but I have a meeting.” He glanced at his watch. “Are you free for a drink after work tonight?”

  This took me aback, but I couldn’t think of a reason not to go.

  “Er - yes, I suppose so.”

  “Good. Shall we say six o’clock?”

  I got up, smoothing my skirt.

  “Will I meet you in the pub, then?”

  He laughed, as if I had suggested something faintly outrageous.

  “No. I’ll see you in Reception.”

  “Your Ian Inglis has asked me for a drink,” I said to Janie later. She raised her eyebrows.

  “God, you lucky thing. Wait till I tell the others.”

  It was clearly an honour to be singled out, and I felt I should try to be more grateful.

  At ten to six that evening, I stood in the Ladies, checking my make-up and brushing my hair, which, luckily, was clean. I was glad I was wearing a new dress. Now I did not have to pay rent, I had a little more money to spend on clothes, and I had treated myself to some fashionable outfits when I changed job.

  I strolled into Reception in what I hoped was a woman-of-the-world way at about two minutes to six. Ian Inglis was already there, laughing and chatting with the glamorous afternoon receptionist, Claire, who was just going off duty. The receptionists were very important to the agency image, and were selected entir
ely for their stunning looks and ability to charm waiting clients.

  “Ah, Eithne - come along.”

  He shepherded me through the door, and I noticed Claire’s surprised face. Then he took my arm, and walked with me the few paces to the Edgware Road.

  “Taxi!”

  He was the sort of person who never, ever found it difficult to get a cab, I thought to myself, as we climbed inside.

  “Savoy Hotel,” he told the driver, and then sat back and regarded me with a little smile.

  For a moment, I remembered Don Rossi and the hotel in Manchester, and had to repress a shudder. Then I told myself not to be silly, there was no way that unsavoury episode would be repeated here.

  As the taxi chugged its way through the dusky streets, he asked me about myself - where I lived, which university I had been to. If anything, he reminded me of my dear friend John from Oxford days, he had a similar air of maturity and self-possession.

  Arriving at the Savoy, we walked in to the bar, where we sat in an alcove, and he ordered champagne.

  I had to admit that he was a very smooth operator - I had grown up with one in Nick, so I knew the signs. As I sipped the sparkly bubbles, I asked him about his own background, and how he had begun to work in advertising.

  “Very much the same way that you did.”

  Ian told me that his family had been keen for him to become a lawyer, but he wanted something more creative and exciting. He had started life as a trainee in a top ten agency, and rapidly worked his way up to the position he now held at Mackerras Mackay.

  “It’s a very good life for those who make it,” he said, smiling that confident smile. His grey eyes rested on my face.

  “I’ve been trying to work out how old you are,” he confessed. “You can only be early twenties, but you seem older. Oh, I don’t mean that you look older,” he added hastily, seeing my face grow blank, “But you have an air of being grown up that many people your age seem to lack.”

  “I’ll be twenty four next spring,” I said. “And I suppose you’re in your thirties?”