I kept telling myself it was my first day. I had to tread carefully. I’d left Leeds now. If I didn’t make this work, I’d have to go back home to my parents. Besides, what would my father say? He’d never wanted me to go into advertising in the first place.
At least, now, he’d stopped going on about it. Probably because I was earning almost as much as he was. And I’d got a job that was listed in a national advertisement industry magazine—Campaign. I must have been up against tough competition. He’d never congratulated me, of course. That could never happen.
Right now, though, I wished Stuart had offered the job to someone else. Anyone but me.
“Jane? Do you understand? I’m serious about this. You have to change your name.”
I couldn’t speak. I nodded.
“Good. Let’s meet the team.”
Jane Marshall was welcoming, possessed a firm handshake and a no-nonsense attitude. I liked her.
“Jane’s agreed to change her name,” Stuart said.
Jane’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Oh, is that really necessary?”
“Sure. Don’t want any confusion, do we, Jane?” He looked at me.
I shook my head. “No.”
The monocle caught the sun and dazzled me. I turned away and caught a look of pity from Jane Marshall. My confidence ebbed and finally drained altogether when I was introduced to Rick and Steve.
Rick blinked at me from behind tinted glasses. He didn’t extend his hand to shake mine. Neither did Steve, whose black hair told me Grecian 2000’s profits would be up this year.
“Rick looks after clients in the eastern part of the city and county, and Steve looks after the south,” Stuart said. “Jane will be spending time with each of you. She’ll go out on calls with you and I’m sure will provide you with some valuable input. Coming from a much larger newspaper, her contribution will be just what we need here.”
Rick took his glasses off and his cold stare chilled me. “How long did you work in display?”
I hadn’t a clue what to say. I was never good at lying and this wasn’t even my lie!
Stuart stepped in. “Plenty of time to get to know each other later. I need to take Jane to meet Maurice.”
Halfway down the corridor and out of earshot, Stuart said, “You’ll need to work out a story for that. Make sure you have it in place by tomorrow morning. You nearly landed me in it then.”
The far end of the corridor was shadowy. A fluorescent striplight twitched, then went off. We paused outside Maurice Driffield’s office. General manager and Stuart’s boss. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement.
Why was she here? Why now? I stared at her and she stared back. My angel.
Stuart seemed about to knock on Maurice’s door when he too appeared momentarily distracted by something. Surely he couldn’t see her? No. She was my angel. I had long believed I was the only one who could see her, unless she decided otherwise, as she had with my schoolfriends.
There was no reason for her to reveal herself to Stuart. But he did seem to grow pale, just for a second. And I realized he was following my gaze down to the dark end of the corridor. He said nothing. Then he looked back at the door and gave a sharp rap.
I glanced back. The corridor was empty. The light flickered back on.
I had plenty to think about that evening as I sat alone in my new flat. I also had the strongest desire to pack my bags and leave. Would they take me back at the Chronicle? It would mean admitting defeat and give my father plenty of ammunition to taunt me with. Why did that matter? After all, he was a couple of hundred miles away.
But then I thought of Mum. She still had to live with him.
I poured myself a glass of red wine and sat on the edge of my chair. Too tense to relax. Whichever way I looked at it, I was stuck here for a while. I couldn’t leave without another job and I didn’t know my way around Baileyborough enough to know where the jobs might be. Then there was the problem of Stuart’s ridiculous lie and his insistence that I change my name.
The phone rang.
“Hello, dear.” My mother’s voice brought tears to my eyes. I must fight them back. Couldn’t have her knowing anything was wrong. “How was your first day then?”
I pasted a smile on my face. “Oh, you know first days. Met loads of people and can’t remember who anyone is.”
“You’ll soon get the hang of it.”
“Yes, I’m sure I will.”
I didn’t tell her about the lie. I didn’t tell her about changing my name. I just kept it all light.
As I clambered out of the bath that night, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Disgusting paunchy stomach. I wrapped myself in a towel and knelt down in front of the toilet. My fingers did their job. I was an expert by now.
Stomach emptied, I went to bed and dreaded the next day.
After three hours’ fitful sleep, I hauled myself out of bed and made myself coffee. I never ate breakfast. This morning I would have to tell Stuart what I intended to call myself. I hadn’t a clue. On top of my stereo, I saw the latest Carly Simon LP—Spy. I’d bought it just before I left Leeds.
I picked up my bag and went to catch my bus.
Chapter Six
“Carly.” Stuart Campbell shook his head. “Sure you wouldn’t prefer Fizz?”
“No, Fizz doesn’t feel like a proper name, and it’s not really me.”
He frowned. “No?” He leaned back in his chair. “I used to work with a woman called Fizz. When I met you I saw a lot of her in you. She was lively, bubbly, and she went on to be my deputy ad manager. My second-in-command. At my previous paper, of course.”
A wistful look in his eyes hinted at so much more. I squirmed. Whatever that Fizz had meant to him, I certainly wasn’t following in her footsteps. He hadn’t mentioned a wife, so I assumed he wasn’t married. Even more reason to refuse to adopt her name.
I smiled, but said nothing. An old sales ploy. The first person to speak in that sort of situation is the one who gives ground.
“Well okay then,” he said at last, “Carly it is. Do a memo letting everyone know. Then we need a press release for Campaign. I’ll take care of that. One of the photographers will shoot the accompanying photo. I’ll have a word with Chris.”
Chris McKenzie was the forty-something Scottish editor of the paper. I’d met him on my first day and liked him. His handshake was warm and firm and his blue eyes sparkled. From the laughter and buzz in the newsroom, I could tell his staff enjoyed working for him. Quite a contrast to the advertising office where the exclusively female telephone-sales staff whispered in small clusters at breaktimes and clammed up every time I walked past.
Two days later, I opened our paper to find a headline, my photograph and an accompanying work of fiction.
Carly Powell Joins the Evening Telegraph
Twenty-seven-year-old Carly Powell has recently been appointed Deputy Advertisement Manager with the Baileyborough Evening Telegraph. A former advertising executive for the Yorkshire Chronicle, Carly brings ten years’ experience and is looking forward to her new role.
“I’m really excited to be here,” she said. “Baileyborough is such a vibrant and upcoming town, and I can see great times ahead for my team and for the people and businesses in the area. Everyone has been so welcoming and I’m delighted to have been given this opportunity.”
The only thing I recognized was my photograph. He’d even managed to add two years to my age, and exaggerate the number of years of experience I brought with me.
Stuart saw me and came out of his glass-paneled office. He sauntered over to me. “Like it?”
“I don’t remember saying any of that.”
“A little poetic license never did any harm.”
I skipped over that, the inaccuracies and the downright lies. I had something much more serious on my mind. “You’ve changed my
name.”
The frown appeared again. His forehead wrinkled, and when he spoke this time, his voice had dropped a few tones and decibels, “No, Carly, you changed it.”
“But I thought that was just for around the office. To avoid confusion, you said.”
“Well there wouldn’t be much point in that, would there? Carly sometimes, Jane other times. People would get very confused. No, you chose Carly, so that’s who you are.” He wandered off, out of the office, leaving me staring after him.
“Nice photo,” Rick said. He set his briefcase on my desk and leaned on it.
It felt like an invasion of my personal space and I wanted to shift my chair back. I nearly did so too, but a voice in my head stopped me. If I did that, he’d win a small but significant victory over me. I couldn’t let that happen, so I stayed put.
His lips twitched in a slight smile. “Ten years’ experience, eh? And there was me thinking it had only been five. At ten years, you’ve one more year on me, and Steve, come to that. He and I both started at the same time.”
“Oh?”
“Yep. Of course he’s ten years older than me. At least.” He paused. “Advertising executive.”
“Pardon?”
He tapped the article. “You were an advertising executive. Sounds very grand.”
My slight laugh sounded vaguely hysterical. “Oh, they went in for fancy titles at the Chronicle. I was basically just a rep.”
“Who can’t drive.”
That bloody lie again. I swallowed. “The Chronicle covered a much bigger area than the Evening Telegraph. We worked in teams. Not all of us drove, and those who didn’t went out with those who did. It was all a matter of organizing our schedules to make sure there was someone going nearby when we had an appointment. Then there was always public transport.”
He maintained steady eye contact throughout my improvisation. For the spur of the moment, it wasn’t bad. Of course, now I would have to stick with that and credit the Yorkshire Chronicle with a method of operation unheard of in any other newspaper. Did Rick believe me? He wasn’t letting on either way.
He picked up his briefcase. I remembered I hadn’t yet arranged which day I would be going out with him on his calls.
“Is Thursday of next week a good day to dual call with you?”
“I’ll sort it out with you later. I’ve got to get to an appointment.” He strode out of the office and I felt heat rush to my face, swiftly followed by resentment. Less than two days into the job and I had never felt more uncomfortable or lost.
The next days and weeks saw no real improvement on that score. And a growing catalog of reasons why I needed to find another job.
Stuart had promised me training. Both for my role as deputy advertisement manager and in the area of display, which remained a mystery. Instead, he repeatedly put me in situations where I had to make decisions for which I was hopelessly underqualified. He topped it off by arranging a meeting with an important advertising agency account executive and then, mysteriously, had to be somewhere else.
“You can do this for me, Carly. Just stand firm on the thirty percent discount and don’t budge from that, understand? No matter what, don’t budge from that.”
“But I’ve never dealt with ad agencies before. How do I handle it?”
“You’ll be fine. Just listen to what they say, offer thirty percent—less, if you can get away with it—and seal the deal. I’ll look forward to hearing how you got on when I get back the day after tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving me in charge for the next two days?”
He sighed. “Yes, Carly. You’re my deputy. That’s what you do.”
I was floundering, flustered, hot and scared. “Sorry. I thought you were going to train me first.”
He sighed as if he were dealing with a recalcitrant child. “Jumping in at the deep end is the best way to learn. Sure, you’ll make mistakes, but in the long run, you’ll thank me for not spoon-feeding you.”
Spoon-feeding? Not much chance of that. Not much chance of even an hors d’oeuvre of information to work on.
Five minutes after Stuart left, a cloud seemed to lift off the office. The telesales staff became more animated as they chatted with clients on the phone. Rick marched back into the office. The property rep—Sylvia—said something to him and they both looked over in my direction as I sat in Stuart’s goldfish bowl of an office. Rick laughed.
I looked down at the file Stuart had just handed to me. It contained a portfolio of full- and half-page advertisements placed on behalf of various clients by the agency I would be meeting in less than ten minutes’ time. Clearly this company was worth a lot of money to the paper. Interesting they should choose to visit us, rather than the other way around.
At the very least, I should offer the account executive coffee. And biscuits. And it would help if I knew his or her name. A business card for Martin Stanton was stapled to a full-page advertisement for a gleaming, new Jaguar. Would he want a tour of the building? God, I hoped not. I wouldn’t offer it, anyway. If I took him round the rabbit warren of offices, the chances of getting hopelessly lost were just too great.
The door opened and Jane Marshall showed in a smartly suited man with a dazzling-white smile and collar-length, brown hair. “Martin Stanton to see you, Carly.”
He extended his hand and I shook it. “Could we have coffee and biscuits, please, Jane?” I kept my voice steady.
Behind my visitor’s left shoulder, I caught a flash of indignation on her face. “I’ll tell Donna,” she said. Donna was the telesales supervisor. Jane closed the door with a smart click. Not a slam, but I’d definitely put a foot wrong there.
That set the scene for the entire meeting. In front of me sat a man who must be a similar age to me, but was way ahead in terms of seniority and self-confidence, bordering on arrogance. Especially when I wouldn’t budge from our offer of a 30 percent discount.
“You know, I hate to mention this, Carly, but the Evening Telegraph isn’t the only newspaper in the area. The Journal is offering forty percent.”
I kept my hands out of sight under the desk. I knew they were shaking. The man had offered a really good deal. At least, it sounded like one. He had offered to virtually double their already fairly substantial contractual requirement for the minimum of a year, but all I could offer was an extra 5 percent on their current discount. Even to inexperienced little me that sounded piss-poor.
But Stuart had forbidden me to offer any more.
Martin Stanton left an hour after he arrived, no new deal done and just the previous arrangement still in place, but with an extra 5 percent discount. I breathed deeply for the first time since he arrived. I’d survived. But then the worry demons kicked in.
They were still kicking me two days later, when Stuart returned. At ten o’clock he summoned me to his office. By the look of thunder on his face, it wasn’t to tell me how well I’d done in his absence.
“I can’t believe what I’ve just heard. Is it true that Martin Stanton offered to double their contract and you turned him down?”
All of a sudden I was my seven-year-old self again, back in that dining room, facing my father’s wrath. Keep calm, I told myself. Don’t lose it, and for God’s sake don’t burst into tears. I blinked hard and clasped my shaking hands behind my back.
“He wanted forty percent. He said the Journal had offered them that—”
“Then why, in God’s name, didn’t you match their offer? He wasn’t asking you to better it. For fuck’s sake, he was handing you all that business on a plate, and you turned him down. And on top of that, you never offered to buy him lunch or show him around the building.”
“I didn’t know that was required of me.” It sounded as feeble as I felt.
Stuart thumped his fist down on his desk. Two pens jumped out of their holders. “Why did you think he came here? Didn’t t
hat say something to you? He wanted to be given the red-carpet treatment and you just sent him away with a flea in his ear.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m new at this. And you told me not to go over thirty percent.” Now I really had to fight back the tears. I gritted my teeth and hoped he wouldn’t notice. I forced my head to stay up. I couldn’t afford to look downcast, especially as I sensed the whole office watching the exchange. Hell, his voice was loud enough. They’d probably heard every word as he lay into me.
“You’re supposed to use your common sense, Carly. Fizz would have done. Fizz would have matched the Journal’s offer, or she would at least have offered some other incentive to entice him.” He stopped short of going into detail as to what the incomparable—and, no doubt, sexy—Fizz would have offered, but the inference was obvious. If I hadn’t been so dependent on that job right then, I would have walked out.
Stuart blinked a few times. Rage still filled his eyes, along with disappointment. “Maurice was having a drink with George Gresham, my opposite number at the Journal yesterday. He took great delight in telling my boss how my deputy let thousands of pounds worth of guaranteed advertising slip through her fingers because she wasn’t prepared to offer an extra ten percent. Martin Stanton went straight from here over there and signed the deal with Gresham. It could have been ours, Carly.”
My anger boiled over. “If it was so important, why weren’t you here?”
He glared at me and an apology lurked in my throat. I forced it to stay there.
“I left you in charge.”
“You ordered me not to go above thirty percent, so I didn’t. The Journal had their top man there. He had the power to authorize any increased expenditure. I didn’t. You gave me the maximum I could go to. I stuck within those parameters. I obeyed your orders.”
He blinked and stared at me.
Inwardly I felt proud of myself. I’d stood up to him. He didn’t like it. Not for one second. But I had done it. And I could do it again.
Dark Avenging Angel Page 5
