One Mad Night

by Julia London

  This presentation was more important than he let Zach—or anyone—know. They’d brought him into this firm because he was so good at what he did, and Ian could, with all due modesty, agree that he was one of the best. Grabber-Paulson had approached him several months ago and told him they wanted him to be the guy who took great ideas and kicked them across the Grand Canyon. They wanted him to be a pitch guy, the face of Grabber-Paulson. Brad Paulson and Jason Sung had wined him and dined him, made him some pretty grand promises about fast-tracking to partner, and paid him a hell of a lot of money to leave the Huntson-Jones Agency.

  Over cocktails one night, they’d explained to him that he’d be the “it” guy, that there was only one other person in-house that was good, but still not as good as he was. Her name was Chelsea Crawford. “She’s great at some things but not others,” Brad had said. “And we’re not sure she’s right for cars. That’s where we want to go.”

  “Yeah,” Jason said cheerfully as he popped some nuts into his mouth. “Chelsea’s the type who does all the research and knows what the market is. But when it comes to sex appeal, she doesn’t deliver.” He popped more nuts into his mouth.

  Ian had pictured a middle-aged woman in sensible shoes, someone with thick glasses and a desk lamp to study the graphs and charts of market trends. He knew he could work rings around that faceless woman.

  “You know what we need, Ian?” Brad had asked, leaning across the table to him. “We really need to step it up. Give consumers that thing they’ve never seen, that thing that makes them crazy, that thing that makes them think they have to have it. And we think you’re the guy to deliver that oomph.”

  In the end, Ian had been persuaded to take the job. He’d given no more thought to Chelsea the researcher until he met her, and damn it if the woman didn’t knock his socks off. He wasn’t expecting a dark-haired, green-eyed tall drink of water. He wasn’t expecting her to have enticing curves and a pair of legs that he kept imagining wrapped around his waist. He didn’t get why Jason said she didn’t deliver on sex appeal, because in his eyes, she was oozing it.

  Chelsea had been friendly, but at the same time, she’d given off a vibe of being too busy, too involved with her life to get to know him. That was cool, he understood it. When they first went up against each other to compete for the Zoot Restaurant account, he’d tried to befriend her. Ian didn’t know why—he was competitive, sure, but he didn’t live or die by winning an account. He’d thought Chelsea was of the same mind when she’d congratulated him after he landed the account.

  But things between them changed, he noticed. She’d been a little cooler toward him after that. And then she’d gotten the Canon camera account, and Ian hadn’t liked it. He’d believed his idea to be clearly superior and felt like Jason was throwing Chelsea a bone. It didn’t help that when he stopped by her very neat and orderly cubicle to congratulate her, she’d said, “Booyah! I win!” And she’d laughed as she’d done a goofy little dance around her cubicle.

  The gloves came off when they both went after the Allmen Insurance account. Ian had to hand it to Chelsea—her idea of a day in the life of a hapless American family was good—the family’s accidents had touched on all the key selling points for Allmen. But Ian’s idea was better, sharper, more in tune with today’s society. His idea was to show a teenager who had just gotten his license plowing through a storefront when he forgot to pay attention. It was cute and it hit on that thing that everyone worried about—the cost of insuring teen drivers who were never without a phone.

  He’d taken that account.

  When Chelsea came around to congratulate him—begrudgingly, he noted—he’d given her a taste of her own medicine. “Smoked you,” he said. “Bada-bing, bada-boom.”

  Chelsea had put her hands on her waist and glared up at him. “Nice,” she’d said. “Exactly what I would expect of a guy who plays to the lowest denominator.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Figure it out,” she’d said enigmatically as she tried to make an exit out of his cubicle. But Ian’s wasn’t as neat as hers, and his gym bag and basketball shoes were on the floor. She’d tripped on them and knocked into the wall, hitting her elbow. “Ooouch,” she’d said with a painful wince as she stumbled out of his cubicle.

  “Serves you right,” he’d muttered.

  Shortly after that, the Tesla account was dangled before him. Ian was definitely the man for it, and in fact, he wanted it so bad that he’d come up with three spots to show the partners, not just the one they’d asked for. His showpiece was the sex appeal with a conscience, but he also had a how-far-how-fast-can-you-go-on-a-charge spot and another one for the made-in-America spot. He wasn’t going in with just one idea. He was going in with a campaign. A menu of genius for them to choose from, if you will.

  Tomorrow was the pitch to the top dogs at the agency, and on Friday, the partners would announce which campaign they were presenting to Tesla. The word on the street was that this account was Grabber-Paulson’s to lose, so it was assumed in the office that whoever the partners chose would win the account management.

  He didn’t know exactly what Chelsea had planned, but he’d heard some talk around the office that led him to believe he had this in the bag. That hadn’t stopped him from baiting her every chance he got, mainly because he never failed to get a reaction and secondly because he really wanted the Tesla account and was not above a little gamesmanship. It wouldn’t hurt to knock his competition off balance. And he wasn’t going to cut her a break just because she was a woman. He was going to win, and he was going to crush his competition on the way.

  He worked that afternoon on some other accounts, and at about three o’clock, he thought he’d get some coffee. As he walked toward the break room, he happened to notice Chelsea inside one of the conference rooms. All of the conference rooms had glass walls, the theory being that just seeing people be creative would spark creativity. That’s why there were so many big toys lying around too—basketball hoops, pogo sticks, big balls to roll around. Creativity went hand in hand with play, so they said. Ian never had any brilliant advertising ideas when he dropped in on a game of basketball near his apartment, but whatever. He supposed it worked for some.

  Chelsea was pacing in front of a blank projection screen, talking. What she was doing, practicing her pitch? Ian changed direction and headed for the conference room, strolling in through the open door.

  It took a moment for Chelsea to notice him, which gave Ian a moment to admire her. He was going to crush her tomorrow, but that didn’t stop him from appreciating a figure that guys like him dreamed about. Chelsea was wearing a skirt today. It hit about mid-thigh and was tight enough to show off all her curves. She looked a bit taller today too. He glanced at her feet and noticed the shoes. Chelsea was walking on stilts, and her legs, good God, her legs. She was smoking hot in that dress and those shoes.

  “Hey!” she said sharply, her voice full of accusation.

  Ian’s head snapped up. “Hey,” he said congenially. “Practicing your pitch?” He settled one hip onto the conference table.

  “Do you mind?” She gestured to the door in a be-off-with-you way.

  “If you want, I could listen and give you some feedback.”

  Chelsea’s mouth dropped open. And then her green eyes narrowed into little slits. “You have got to be the most arrogant man I’ve ever met.”

  Ian smiled and shrugged.

  “You can go, Ian,” she said, marching around the conference table to usher him out. “I think I’ve got it.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I will.”

  “So hostile,” he said with a wink as he stood up. “I’m just trying to help. It never hurts for someone to hear the pitch, right? You’ve had someone listen to you go through it, right?”

  “Yes, I’ve had—Hey, hey,” she said, poking him in the chest. “Are you trying to
play me?” she demanded. “Because it won’t work. I’m not some junior account person, you know. You can’t intimidate me.”

  “Well, obviously,” Ian said and poked her back. “You wouldn’t be pitching at all if you were a junior account person. I know I can’t intimidate you. It wasn’t a declaration of war, you know; it was an offer to help.”

  “It wasn’t a let-me-help, best-friends-forever offer, either. I’m not playing games with you. This account means a lot to me—”

  “Me too.”

  “Oh yeah?” she said, shifting closer. “Well, don’t get too attached to the idea. I’ve got seniority, you know.”

  “So why are you so afraid to show me what you’ve got?”

  “Because it’s none of your business.”

  “On the eve of the championship, it’s okay to go out and shoot some hoops with your competitor. It’s not going to affect tomorrow’s big game. It’s not like I can go out and change weeks of work overnight if I see you’ve got something better.”

  She laughed. “Good try, Rafferty, but I think maybe the reason you want to see my pitch is because you’re worried about the strength of your pitch. Is it a little rough? Maybe I should listen to you.” She winked, and her green eyes shone with pleasure at her comeback.

  “I’m definitely not worried about my pitch.”

  “No? Seems to me if you’re presenting three,” she said, holding up three fingers and wiggling them at him, “then you must be uncertain which one is the winner.” Her smile broadened into sheer triumph, as if she thought she’d really zinged him.

  She hadn’t zinged him, but Ian did wonder how she knew what he had…Zach. Of course. That rat bastard. “Have you been talking to Zimmerman?” he asked accusingly.

  She shrugged and studied her manicure. “Maybe. Does it matter? I thought we were doing the let’s-help-each-other thing. But if we’re not, would you mind toddling off? I have a lot of work I need to do before tomorrow. I plan to hit the ground running with this account on Monday.”

  She was amazingly and annoyingly confident. Ian was generally a confident guy, but she was making him a teensy bit nervous. “You really think you’re going to get this, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think, I know,” she said, looking up.

  He tilted his head to one side to study her. “Isn’t it obvious to you why they brought me in?”

  “I don’t know—I haven’t given it the slightest bit of thought.” She lifted her chin, and Ian realized she lied about as well as she engaged in verbal volleyball. “I’ve been promised that this account is as good as mine. Didn’t they tell you that when they brought you in?”

  A bit more of Ian’s confidence leaked out of him. He’d been in New York advertising long enough to know that the industry was full of snakes. He wouldn’t put it past anyone to feed him a bunch of half-baked promises to get him to commit. “Who told you?”

  She grinned. “None of your beeswax.”

  “Come on, tell me—” His phone rang, distracting him momentarily. He fished it out of his pocket and noticed the number was the Grabber-Paulson main number. That was weird. “Listen, I’ll just say this,” he said, clicking off the phone. “Don’t be so sure of things. People say things they don’t mean, especially in this industry.” He started for the door.

  “Uh-huh, I know. And I would offer you the same advice, Mr. Rafferty,” she said in a singsong voice, and she flashed a dazzling smile, full of straight white teeth.

  “Cocky too. I like that about you,” he said. “I’ll keep it in mind when I make partner.” He winked at her, smiled as if he was completely unbothered, and went out of the conference room. He paused just outside the door and hit the button to return the phone call. Hadeetha, the receptionist, picked it up. “Hi, Hadeetha,” Ian said. “Did someone call me from this number?”

  “Hi, Ian,” she said, her voice a little giggly. “Yes, you had a call. Just one moment.” She cut over to another line before Ian could ask her who had called. It rang five times before hitting the message box. “You’ve reached the voice mail of Brad Paulson…”

  Brad was the managing partner, and Ian’s pulse ticked up a notch when he heard his voice. He left a message in Brad’s box that he’d returned his call and then went back to his cubicle to ponder why Paulson would be calling him on the eve of the presentations. And in the midst of wondering, Ian was suddenly struck by the vision of Chelsea’s sparkling green eyes. Was she right? Paulson could be calling about any of his accounts, but Ian quickly thought through them—there was nothing going on in any of them that would rise to the level of partner. Had Chelsea really been promised this account? Had they lured him over here only to give a big car account like Tesla to someone else? Why else would Paulson be calling him? It wasn’t as if they were working together on any particular thing.

  Ian couldn’t concentrate with that hanging over his head, so he detoured and went by Paulson’s office and caught his assistant as she was donning her coat.

  “Oh hey,” he said. “Is Brad around?”

  “He’s in a meeting.” She glanced over her shoulder, and so did Ian, to the windows. The snow was really coming down.

  “Could you please tell him I understand he’s looking for me and that I dropped by?”

  “Sure, I’ll leave him a message. But I’m getting out of here before it gets too deep.”

  “Thanks,” Ian said. “I appreciate it.”

  He went back to his desk. He could see Chelsea across the room, still in the conference room, still walking back and forth, reviewing her pitch.

  Okay, Ian could at least admit to himself that he was a little worried now. It just seemed a little too coincidental that Chelsea was feeling so confident and the managing partner was trying to get in touch with him on the eve of the presentation. He decided to take a look at his pitch again.

  Chapter 3

  Farrah stuck her head in the conference room door. “I’m going home. It’s snowing.”

  If Chelsea hadn’t been so laser focused on getting her pitch just right, she would have mentioned to Farrah that it snows a lot in New York and that most people didn’t leave at three in the afternoon because of it. But she didn’t have the energy or the patience to explain it this afternoon. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, if the trains are running.” Farrah was also an eternal pessimist.

  Chelsea looked toward the window and noticed the snow was coming down pretty thick. Great, just great. She didn’t have boots with her, only a pair of raggedy tennis shoes. The right one had a hole forming in the big toe. She had the pumps she’d worn to work, but those were cheap and would not hold up in the snow. Why couldn’t she remember to leave some boots at the office, for heaven’s sake?

  And speaking of shoes, an hour of wearing the insanely expensive ones she’d bought for the presentation had made her feet numb. She kicked them off and turned the page of her notes. She was ready. She’d reviewed her pitch many times and had practiced saying it all aloud. The best use of her time at this point was to review her ad once more and see if there were any last-minute refinements she could make in the pacing.

  She left the conference room and noticed that the floor looked deserted. She could see Caden Trent, his head bent over a light board. Sarah Fedrovsky was still at work too, probably on her new paper products account. Across the floor, the light in Jason’s office was on, and Chelsea assumed he was there, tossing that damn Nerf ball around. Just outside his door was Ian Rafferty’s cubicle. It seemed like every time she’d walked by Ian’s cubicle in the last few months, he was leaning back in his chair, his suit jacket off, his tie loosened at the throat. He generally had one leg propped up on his desk and was gabbing away into the telephone. It didn’t seem to Chelsea that Ian worked as much as he talked.

  The other thing Chelsea had noticed about his cubicle—in addition to the papers and books and spor
ts bags everywhere—was the award on his desk. It was a flying magazine in bronze, won for some print campaign. Yeah, well, it wasn’t a Clio, which was what Chelsea was after. She was determined to win one and put it in her new corner office.

  Chelsea moved on to the media room and queued up her ad.

  Good-looking man with silver-streaked hair and a woman with fashionable gray hair and equally attractive come out of a restaurant and wait for the valet to bring their car around. It’s a Tesla. They drive off into a starry night. Camera cuts to images of their life—grandkid’s car seat in back, tennis rackets, a ski pass hanging from the rearview. They drive up the Pacific Coast Highway, talking and laughing. An approaching car swerves around behind a truck; driver reacts quickly and veers out of the path. Woman looks back, her hand on the man’s arm. They exchange a look, a shared lifetime flashing before their eyes. Camera pans out, Tesla zipping down the highway. Tesla: Superb handling. Because you expect it.

  It was a good ad, a great ad, and Chelsea was excited about presenting it. But she thought that the ad could use a tiny bit of tightening in the middle and spent a bit of time with that until she was satisfied it was perfect. And because she believed no one could overprepare, she ran through her presentation and ad one last time.

  It was rock solid, and Chelsea smiled to herself, very happy with her work. She would definitely get this account; there was no question in her mind. She’d done everything she could possibly do to prepare. There was nothing else she could do to improve it—it was the perfect ad for a perfect car.

  She’d lost two out of three accounts to Ian in the last few months, but that was not enough to pull her spirits down. Jason had told her this was her account. No one could argue that her idea didn’t hit the sweet spot of advertising. How could they not give it to her?

  Full of optimism, she fairly bounced out of the media room, surprised to find the floor almost completely deserted at only four o’clock. The only lights she could see were coming from Ian’s cubicle and from Sarah’s.