Hotel Pastis

by Peter Mayle

  Bottoms were adjusted on chairs, and the attention of the meeting turned to focus on the slight figure in the baggy but clearly expensive suit at the other end of the conference table.

  David Fry, a little too old to be wearing his hair in a ponytail, hunched his shoulders as he leaned forward, raising the upholstery in his jacket to just below ear level, his eyes bright with enthusiasm and the residual effects of an earlier hurried snort in the executive washroom. The product of an ordinary middle-class upbringing and a private education, he had spent many years trying to eradicate all traces of his comfortable background and cultivate what he liked to call “street edge.” He had a fondness for vernacular that was often obsolete by the time he overheard it in the Groucho Club, but nevertheless he managed to give the impression that he was a deprived South London boy made good. His idols were the Cockney photographers and actors, and Nigel Kennedy was his main man in classical music.

  He adjusted his round, wire-rimmed glasses and addressed the Rubber Barons. “I’ve got to tell you,” he said, “this wasn’t an easy one. What you’ve got here is two problems. You’ve got your product image—slot machines in toilets, packet of three for the weekend, that sort of thing—and then you’ve got the practical side. Product use.” He paused and shrugged his suit. “It’s all systems go, and then it’s hang about for a minute while you do the business. Know what I mean?”

  Simon looked down the table. The Rubber Barons were keeping their eyes glued to their notepads.

  Fry stood up and eased his thin shoulders under their pillows. “But it’s not all bad news, because we’ve got a couple of things going for us.” He picked up a chart from the table and displayed it to his audience. The Rubber Barons started to pay attention. Charts they liked. Charts were serious.

  “Now then,” said Fry, and pointed to the first item, printed in bright red block capitals: RECOMMENDED BY THE MEDICAL PROFESSION. “Doctors love us, right?”

  His finger moved to item two: SOCIALLY RESPONSIBLE. “What does that mean? It means that we’re doing our bit to stop sixteen-year-olds getting in the club.

  “And—very important nowadays—the health bit.” The third item read: PROTECTION AGAINST SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASES. “We all know it’s a nasty old world. Say no more on that one.”

  Fry put down the chart, and the clients resumed their study of the notepads. He went on, talking quickly, fidgeting inside his suit. “That’s all well and good, but it’s not enough. And you know why?” Nobody volunteered an answer. Fry nodded, as though their reaction was exactly what he had anticipated. “It’s boring. B-o-r-i-n-g. It’s safety, it’s do what the doctor tells you, it’s got about as much sex appeal as a laxative.” He paused for emphasis, and spread his words. “A. Total. Turnoff.” He shook his head, and his ponytail wagged agreement with him. “It’s got nothing to do with what you should be selling. Nothing.”

  There was a brief silence to allow the Rubber Barons a chance to reflect on this criticism of their contribution to society.

  “What you should be selling,” said Fry, “is the most popular commodity in the history of the world.”

  Another silence. Simon could imagine the thoughts going through the collective client brain. Is this maniac suggesting that we re-equip our factories, cancel our latex orders, abandon our impressive quality control systems, 99.9 percent effective except for Friday afternoons?

  “But don’t panic. We’re not suggesting you should change this.” Fry produced a foil-wrapped condom from his pocket and placed it, with suitable reverence, on the table. “What we are suggesting is this: Change. The Way. You Sell It.”

  The Rubber Barons gazed intently at the condom on the table, as if waiting for it to do something.

  Fry leaned forward and placed his hands either side of it. “The most popular commodity in the history of the world,” he repeated. “Know what it is? It’s love! The irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired! The cosmic tickle! And this—” he picked up the condom and gave it a fond nod of his head—“this is part of it.” He mopped his nose with a silk handkerchief. Either the emotion of the moment or cocaine was causing a plumbing problem in his nasal passages.

  “What we’re going to do,” he went on, “is to change the condom’s positioning in terms of product usage. We’re not going to rabbit on about health and safety and doctor’s orders—all the kids know about that already, and they’re not buying it. No, we’re going to make the condom an integral, essential, very, very romantic—yes, romantic—part of the old warm-up.”

  He noticed a puzzled expression on the face of one of the older clients. “You know. Foreplay.”

  “Ah,” said the client.

  “And this, gentlemen, is how we’re going to do it. But before I show you, try to imagine this scenario.” Fry lowered his voice. “You’re at the movies, right? By your side is a very tasty young lady you’ve had your eye on for weeks. Tonight’s your big chance. You’ve got your arm round her, within striking distance of her Bristols. This. Could. Be. It.”

  Simon glanced sideways at the senior Rubber Baron and wondered when he’d last been in the circumstances which Fry was describing with such breathy excitement.

  With a wave of his arm, Fry commanded the room lights to be dimmed. “You’re all set,” he said in the darkness. “And then—wallop!—this comes on the screen.”

  The projection screen, four times TV size, turned bright white, and Fry’s silhouette, ponytail bobbing in anticipation, hovered at one side. There was a subdued hiss of static, and an image appeared on the screen—a young couple, apparently naked, artfully lit, copiously oiled, glistened together on a bed. From the speakers hidden in the walls around the room came a low thump of bass and the howl of a guitar. And then, as Fry’s silhouette jerked in time to the beat and the oily couple slithered on the sheets, came a moan of youthful concupiscence:

  Let’s … get it on …

  Ooooooh, let’s get it on …

  The young couple on the screen did their best, within the limits of media propriety, to simulate spontaneous passion. The director had been careful with his sliding pans and cuts, avoiding full exposure of the female bosom—nipples, in Fry’s words, were a total no-no—or any hint, however shady, of pubic hair.

  If the spirit moves you,

  Let me groove you,

  Ain’t nothin’ wrong,

  If you believe in love …

  The film cut to a close-up of a female hand delicately extracting a condom from its wrapper, which had been decorated by the agency art department with the Condom Marketing Board’s graphically friendly logo.

  … Come on come on come on …

  —cut to closed eyes, moist lips, shining flesh—

  Ooooooh … Stop beatin’ round the …

  booooowooosh …

  Ooooooh …

  Fry’s shadow capered by the side of the screen, knees jerking, ponytail in a frenzy of agitation, as the singer sighed and oohed and the young couple continued their precisely choreographed writhing. With a final, long-drawn-out gasp of passion spent, the screen went black, and a tasteful title, reversed out in white, beseeched the audience to Get It On, compliments of the Condom Marketing Board.

  The lights went up, and the agency team inspected the client team’s face for reactions—a hint of approval, a nod, an expression of shock, anything. As one, the seven Rubber Barons lowered their heads and made notes on their pads. Apart from that, nothing.

  Fry plunged into the vacuum of silence. “Killer track, isn’t it? Brilliant. It’s an old classic, of course. But, I mean, so fantastically right for today, and in the cinema, with Dolby, well, it’s going to knock their socks off. That’s your market, cinema and MTV. And everything else ties in—posters, point of sale, radio, T-shirts—can we have the slides, please, Terry?”

  For ten minutes, Fry took his mute audience through the supporting material, from radio commercials to redesigned dispensing machines for pubs and service stations and T-shirts—“
You’ve each got one to take away”—and then, with the volume up a couple of notches, there was a second screening of the commercial.

  Fry blew his nose and sat down, and silence descended again on the conference room.

  Simon leaned over to the senior Rubber Baron. “First impressions?”

  The senior Rubber Baron took a considered puff of his cigar and looked down the table towards the most junior member of the Condom Marketing Board, a young man who had taken over the mantle of Hygienic Supplies (Basingstoke) Ltd. from his father. In the time-honoured way of these things, comments were delivered in reverse order of eminence, so that the top man could assess the mood of his minions before committing himself to anything approaching an opinion. “Brian, would you like to kick off?”

  Brian cleared his throat and shuffled his notes. “Yes. Well. I must say that the agency has come up with a very … ah … striking approach. Very striking. Obviously, I have one or two questions—indeed, a couple of reservations—and it might be premature to express a final judgment without seeing the detailed background which I understand is contained in the presentation document.” He paused for breath.

  Here we go again, thought Simon. Why don’t the bastards ever say what they really think? He kept his voice bright and sympathetic. “I’m sure you’ll find we’ve covered just about everything, but it would be most interesting to hear your reactions to the advertising.”

  “Yes. Quite.” Brian searched in his notes for an exit line that would maintain his position on the fence. It wouldn’t do to be the odd man out when the committee’s decision was made. Balance, that was the thing—balance and a line of escape in case the majority vote went against the agency. Committees, like boats, shouldn’t be rocked. Consensus was the key. Hygienic Supplies (Basingstoke) should be a team player. “Well, as I said, a striking approach, and I shall be fascinated to see from the document how the agency arrived at it.” Brian took off his glasses and polished them with brisk, decisive movements.

  And so it went on up the ladder of corporate importance, more than two hours of tap-dancing, faint praise laced with cautious qualifications. Simon had to make a conscious effort not to yawn. Why was it always the same? An immediate no would almost be better than this interminable cud-chewing; at least the meetings would be shorter. But he smiled and nodded and appeared attentive and said of course when the senior Rubber Baron told him that the committee would have to go away and consider the agency’s proposals in detail—and what interesting proposals they were too, deserving of many another meeting back at Rubber House—before making a decision of this importance, and, well … yes. The same old vapid and inconclusive waffle.

  And the same old postmortem in the conference room after the clients had been bowed out of the agency. Recriminations from the research director, who had been denied his moment of glory; David Fry in a postcoke depression at the lack of response to the creative work; anticlimax spread thick among the rest of them.

  It was a relief when Liz came in and handed Simon a note, but a relief that was short-lived: “Mrs. Shaw is in reception. She says she has to see you.”

  Simon arrived in reception to find his ex-wife fluttering her eyelashes at Jordan, who was pawing the ground and smoothing his hair flirtatiously. He was known for his roving hand under the table at dinner parties, a habit that Caroline and Simon used to joke about in the days when they made jokes. “The thigh creeper,” they called him, and always tried to avoid seating him next to a client’s wife.

  “Hello, Caroline. How are you?”

  The eyelashes stopped fluttering and the smile faded. “Hello, Simon.”

  Jordan suddenly remembered a pressing engagement. “Nice to see you again, old thing,” he said. “I’d better run.” He shot his cuffs in farewell and sauntered off towards the lift.

  “Shall we go into my office?” Simon followed the long legs and short skirt out of reception and past Liz’s discreetly averted head. He shut the door.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  A superior shake of the head. “It’s a little early for me.”

  Simon shrugged and went over to the small bar in the corner. He hesitated over whisky, sighed, and poured a glass of Perrier. Caroline arranged herself at the far end of the leather couch and puffed on a cigarette—short, cross little puffs with a toss of the head when she exhaled.

  “When did you start smoking?”

  “I’ve had a terribly upsetting time. Those bloody builders every day.” She tapped ash from her cigarette with a red-tipped finger. Her nail varnish was an exact match for her lipstick. Her crocodile shoes matched her crocodile bag. The dark tan suit of fine wool set off her lighter brown hair, and the silk shirt picked up the distinctive pale blue of her eyes. Simon thought she’d probably spent a hard morning getting dressed for a three-hour lunch at San Lorenzo before an exhausting session with her hairdresser. He was surprised and rather pleased that he no longer found her at all attractive.

  He sat down at the other end of the couch. “Well?”

  “I thought it was more civilised to come and see you instead of going through the lawyers.”

  “We’ve already been through the lawyers.” Simon sipped his drink. “Remember? Or do you want to see the bills?”

  Caroline sighed. “I’m trying to be reasonable, Simon. There’s no need to jump down my throat.” She looked at him and pulled at her skirt until it almost covered her knees. Don’t think you’re going to jump anywhere else, either.

  “Okay, let’s be reasonable.”

  “It’s the house. They just haven’t stuck to their estimates, none of them. The curtains, painting, the kitchen—God, the kitchen!—it’s been an absolute nightmare. You’ve no idea.”

  “Sounds just like last time.”

  Caroline stubbed out her cigarette. “It’s not funny. Every tiny thing has been more than they said it was going to be. I mean, lots more.” She widened her eyes as she looked at Simon, a sure sign, he remembered, that news of extravagance was about to follow. “And now they’re all wanting to be paid.”

  “Well,” said Simon, “it’s one of those irritating little habits they have.” He wondered how long it would be before she mentioned a figure, before the veneer of strained politeness would wear off to be replaced by threats or tears or hysterics. He felt oddly detached, and bored. It had all happened dozens of times since they’d been separated.

  Caroline mistook his calm for acceptance and smiled. She did have nice teeth, Simon thought, even and beautifully capped by some bandit in New York for $25,000. “I knew it would be best to come and see you,” she said. “I knew you’d understand.”

  “What are we talking about?”

  “Well, it’s difficult to say exactly, because there are still one or two—”

  “Roughly.”

  “Well. Thirty thousand. Thirty-five at the most.”

  Simon went back to the bar and refilled his glass. He looked at Caroline, who was lighting another cigarette. “Thirty-five at the most,” he said. “Let me just get this clear. I bought you the house. You and your lawyers suggested a budget for doing it up. I agreed to the budget. You agreed to the budget. Am I right so far?”

  “It was only supposed to be—”

  “It was supposed to be a budget. You know what a budget is, don’t you? It’s a finite amount of money.”

  Caroline mangled her cigarette in the ashtray. “There’s no need to talk to me like one of your dreary little executives.”

  “Why not? You talk to me as if I was a cash dispenser.”

  “Thirty-five thousand is nothing to you. You’re rich. My lawyers said you got off lightly. They could have—”

  “Your lawyers are a bunch of greedy, dishonest bastards who pad their bills and expect me to pay for their bloody children to go through Eton.”

  They stared at each other in silence. Caroline’s face was tight with animosity. Later on, if Simon allowed the conversation to continue, animosity would dissolve into sobbing, and i
f that didn’t work there would be abuse.

  He glanced at his watch. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve got a meeting going on.”

  Caroline mimicked him. “I’ve got a meeting.” She pushed back her hair as if it exasperated her. “God, you’ve always got a meeting. Our marriage was fitted in between meetings. I wasn’t married to you; I was married to an advertising agency.” She sniffed. “If you could call it a marriage. Too busy to take a holiday, too tired to go out, too tired to—”

  “Caroline, we’ve been through all this before.”

  “And now, when all I want is a home, you resent it.”

  “I resent thirty-five thousand pounds being thrown away on bloody cushions.”

  Caroline stood up. With quick, angry movements she put her cigarettes into her bag and smoothed her skirt. “Well, I tried. I’m not staying here to be shouted at. Go back to your precious meeting.” She walked over to the door and opened it so that Liz could hear her exit line. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”

  Simon thought about going back to the wake being conducted in the conference room, but decided against it. What was the point? Either they’d get the business or they wouldn’t, and the way he was feeling he didn’t particularly care. He put on his jacket, said goodnight to Liz, and walked through the early evening bustle of the streets to the flat in Rutland Gate.

  Ernest came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron, his eyebrows raised in exaggerated surprise. “Fancy seeing you before eight o’clock. What happened? Has the factory burned down, or did those little rubber people have a puncture and not turn up?”

  “No, Ern. They came and went. So did Caroline.”

  “Oh dear. I thought you looked a tiny bit ruffled. I expect you’d like a drink.” He continued talking as he put ice and whisky in a tumbler. “What was it this time? Danger money for living in Belgravia? Say what one may about that young lady, she’s never short of ideas.”