Adventures of Pebble Beach

by Berger, Barbara

  “Well, I tried…but I was so surprised by the whole thing.”

  “Right. Well, looking back, what do you feel like doing? I don’t care if it sounds immature, irrational, overly emotional or whatever, now’s your chance to have it out with Peter –scot-free.”

  “Well, I’m still mad at him for misusing me two years ago.”

  “Two years ago?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened two years ago?”

  “Well, I did some ghostwriting for Peter; it was just after I split up with Slim and didn’t have a penny to my name. So I worked for Peter on the cheap. God, Irene, I was so naive then. Anyway, I did the entire English language campaign for him for a company called Nordkyst…”

  “Nordkyst? Sure I’ve heard of them. They make those neat clothes for kids, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s them. Anyway, I did all this work for him and the campaign I created was an enormous success. Nordkyst became a booming business in the United States because of me, but Peter got all the credit for it.”

  Irene was silent.

  “He was lauded to the sky in the press – but he never mentioned me. Peter was the creative director at DDB Needham at the time – and basically I think he was rewarded so lucratively for the Nordkyst campaign that he used the money to start Fem-Ads.”

  “You never told me this before, Pebble.” Irene’s voice was unusually stern.

  “Well, I didn’t think it was relevant before now.”

  “Relevant!” Irene almost shouted. Pebble had never seen her so mad. “You help a guy make a million bucks without getting any credit for it – and you don’t think it’s relevant…sometimes I don’t believe what women…” Irene stopped herself short when she saw the look on Pebble’s face.

  “My uncle Mel in New York who’s a big shot at Young & Rubicam was furious when he heard about it. He wanted to go to Nordkyst in New York and tell them it was me who did the campaign, but I was so insecure about myself that I made him promise not to do it. I guess I should have let him.”

  “You guess…” Irene voice was heavy with sarcasm. “So what do you really want to say to Peter Cato?” Irene pointed at the empty chair.

  “Well.” Pebble paused. “I’m not really sure.”

  “Oh come on, Pebble.” Irene made no effort to hide her impatience. “Isn’t it about time you grew up?”

  Pebble blanched. “I don’t need you to tell me what to do.” But instead of confronting Irene, she bit her tongue and walked over to the window. She stood for a while looking at the crowds of happy people enjoying the warm May sunshine.

  Pebble turned towards Irene. “You know,” she said, her face pale and her voice trembling slightly, “sometimes I think you’re just a little too pushy. I know you want me to grow up and take charge of my own life – and I know you’re right. But I’ve got to do it in my own way and not yours!”

  If Irene was pleased, she didn’t show it.

  Pebble walked over to her chair, grabbed her purse and marched out of Irene’s office.

  Chapter 15

  About a week later, when Pebble was all alone in the office, Einar called her from Frankfurt because he’d forgotten to take some highly sensitive market information with him to the Odenweiss & Hauser meeting that day.

  “Pebble, I need the figures from the consumer electronics survey we did for Odenweiss & Hauser.” Einar’s voice rumbled over the line.

  Einar, and his secretary Marianne, had taken an early flight to Frankfurt that morning to negotiate a deal with Odenweiss & Hauser Gmbh, a German high-tech company, who were going to start marketing their pricy camcorders in Scandinavia. The Republic Group was the front-running agency pitching for the account. Apparently, an extra meeting had been arranged in great haste and when Einar and Marianne charged out of the office that morning to catch their flight, Einar forget the results of the market research the Republic Group compiled to pinpoint the possible marketing strategies in relation to the tastes of potential buyers in Scandinavia.

  “Pebble, the figures are in my wall cabinet. Go into my office and I’ll tell you how to find them.”

  Pebble shared a large suite of offices with Einar and Marianne. Marianne occupied the cream-colored front office, while Einar had a large conference room and office (with a breathtaking view of Copenhagen harbor) directly behind hers. Pebble’s small, but bright office – she had a large skylight in the ceiling – was to the right of Marianne’s. Nobody else had access to these rooms on the top floor of the Republic Group townhouse in Nyhavn, the picturesque harbor district of Copenhagen.

  Pebble went into Einar’s office and sat down at his black lacquered desk. “Are you sitting at my desk now?”

  “Yes,” said Pebble and almost sighed. This was the first time she’d ever surveyed the world from Einar’s point of view. Wouldn’t it be nice to sit on a power spot like this?

  “Okay, now open the third drawer on the right-hand side of my desk and in the middle of all my odds and ends, you’ll find a little silver box.”

  Pebble opened the drawer and saw the box in the jumble of paperclips, rubber bands and fountain pens.

  “Open the box.”

  She did and found four slender silver keys inside.

  “Do you see the key that’s slightly larger than the other three?”

  “Yes.” She picked it up.

  “Well, that’s the key which belongs to the black cabinet on the wall to your right. Now go over and find the file marked ‘Hauser’ and come back to my desk with it.”

  Pebble opened the cabinet (it was more like a vault) and quickly found the Hauser file. She brought the thin file back to Einar’s desk.

  “Okay, now find the papers marked ‘consumer electronics’ on top. I want the figures from the test we ran in the Stockholm area.”

  All in all, it took about 20 minutes. Einar had an exacting mind and an eye for detail. He’d obviously studied the Hauser file carefully before, so he knew exactly what information he needed to close the deal with them. By the time Einar was finished, he’d made Pebble flip back and forth between the various sections of the survey so rapidly, that she was all hot and sweaty. After she said goodbye, she kicked off her shoes, leaned back in his comfortable ergonomic chair, and promptly put her feet up on his desk. While she was relaxing, she scrutinized Einar’s office carefully, taking in every detail. I must say – the man’s got marvelous taste. There was a huge, fiery Jackson Pollock-like painting on the opposite wall, and polished wooden beams stretched across the ceiling of the restored top-floor office space. The burnished tan leather sofa arrangement in the corner had a splendid view of the harbor. I wish I had an office like this. That was when Pebble remembered Irene’s words: “Why does somebody else have to give you the opportunity all the time? Why are you always servicing others?”

  Pebble put her feet down and started collecting all the Hauser papers she’d scattered all over Einar’s desk during their conversation. Then she placed them carefully in the file and walked over to the open wall cabinet. Without thinking, she put the folder under H and started to close the sliding door, when something caught her eye. No, it can’t be right. The door was already closed by the time her brain processed the information. She stood staring at the black wall cabinet, debating what to do. It wouldn’t be ethical. She turned and started to walk towards Einar’s desk to put the key back in the little silver box. So what if it’s not ethical. Was Einar ethical when he let everyone believe it was me who told him the date of the WonderLift launch? Pebble stood still before Einar’s awesome desk and stared at the silver box in the open drawer. I’m sure I saw my name on a file. I’m sure. She turned slowly and walked back to the black cabinet. She opened it again, only this time her hands trembled slightly. I’ve never done anything like this before. She flipped through the folders, and sure enough, there was a file entitled Pebble Beach.

  Pebble raffled rapidly through the pages in her file. Einar had jotted down various notes about her background,
age, talent, her uncle Mel at Young & Rubicam, etc. Not particularly interesting for a secret file! Then Pebble’s eyes stopped dead in their tracks. So Einar knows I did the Nordkyst campaign two years ago! She couldn’t believe her eyes. How did he find out?

  She rushed back to the wall cabinet. There must be a Nordkyst file, too. There was. She pulled it out and hurried back to Einar’s desk, hands trembling. There was a brief history of the company and some basic data about Monica Soderland, the designer who started Nordkyst seven years earlier by sewing kids’ clothes in her Hellerup basement. Plus all kinds of figures tracing the company’s explosive growth from a tiny Mom-and-Pop enter- prise to an aggressive, upmarket Scandinavian clothing manufacturer which was doing phenomenally well in the United States. There was brief mention of the DDB Needham campaign which launched Nordkyst on their road to success in the U.S. On the last page of the file – Pebble could see from the date on the top of the page that it was added recently – there was some startling information. Nordkyst was developing a new product line of bright-colored cotton sportswear for pre-teens. The line, which was very similar to their existing signature line for smaller kids, was intended to capitalize on the fact that the kids who’d been wearing Nordkyst clothes for years were now growing up. What a brilliant idea! And so obvious! Einar had already run a pilot survey in the New York area to ascertain the market potential for a pre-teen line. The results were promising. On the basis of these initial figures, Pebble could see that Einar had already allocated generous funds to develop a new Nordkyst campaign. At present, the Republic Group pitch that Einar sketched in his notes was to include a sample storyboard, some initial copy and layout. The Republic Group presentation was tentatively scheduled for June 29th at Nordkyst headquarters in Hellerup.

  On the next page, Einar had scribbled some wry comments on the likes and dislikes of Monica Soderland. Why does the woman always come across sounding like a cross between a kindergarten teacher and a racing-car driver? Pebble chuckled thinking of all the stories in Danish press about Monica with her bobbed red hair and her white Porsche. Danes sure do have a strange way of treating their fellow countrymen when they’re successful abroad – they like nothing better than picking them to pieces.

  Pebble continued to flip through the file, her mind racing crazily. Why didn’t Einar tell me about this? It doesn’t make sense. Pebble couldn’t figure it out. If he knows I did the first U.S. campaign…you’d think he’d want me in on this one, too. That was when she noticed that Einar had scribbled “Pebble” in the margin of one of the pages where he was jotting down random ideas about the campaign. Wonder why he wrote my name there? Maybe he is going to involve me after all. She read on. Another bit of interesting news popped up. So Peter Cato is pitching for the new account, too. A chill ran up and down Pebble’s spine. I wonder how Einar found that out? Maybe Birgitte told him that, too? Nothing would surprise me now… Peter Cato and Einar Bro locking horns again…The feud between the two seemed to overshadow everything Pebble touched.

  Peter Cato, Peter Cato. Einar’s probably got a file on him, too. Pebble almost ran back to the cabinet this time. Sure enough, there was a file on Peter, too. She raced back to Einar’s desk with it. Suddenly she thought of what would happen if somebody found her in Einar’s office looking through his files. Nobody’s going to come in here…but what if somebody does? She felt uneasy and apprehensive. What am I doing…going through my boss’s files like this? Furtively, she crept out to the empty front office where Marianne usually sat and locked the door.

  She went back to Einar’s desk. Reading the Peter Cato file was like reading a cheap novel. Somehow or other, Peter had wrangled his way into Nordkyst – Einar seemed to think Peter was some kind of secret (or silent) partner in the Nordkyst emporium. The whole murky business was quite beyond Pebble’s grasp, or else Einar’s notes were incomplete. Maybe Einar doesn’t know either. Whatever the case, Pebble gathered from the bits and pieces in Einar’s file, that Peter had some undisclosed ties to Monica Soderland’s empire. For example, Peter’s sky-blue BMW roadster was apparently a gift from Monica. Amazing isn’t it – the only hold Peter seems to have on Nordkyst is the campaign I developed and the copy I wrote. Monica’s probably convinced Peter has golden fingers – when the fingers are really mine! Pebble was astonished at the amount of power and influence Peter had managed to gather as a result of her work.

  Mel was right – I was a jerk. And Irene’s right, too – I’m still a jerk! It wasn’t pleasant to realize she’d given up a unique shot at fame and fortune because she wasn’t gutsy enough to grab the chance when she had it. But Peter’s got to be in desperate straits now. Pebble chuckled. What a heart-warming thought. It was obvious. Nordkyst is going to expect him to deliver more of the same – in the same style – and he won’t be able to! Peter could hardly write a complete sentence in English, let alone create a whole advertising campaign! He’s going to have to find somebody else to do it. And without me, who in the world is he going to use? Who will be able to copy my style? Pebble hurriedly reviewed the styles of the other copywriters she knew in Copenhagen who wrote in English. Their styles are so different from mine – and most of them are men anyway! The copy Pebble had created for Nordkyst had a definite feminine touch. Nordkyst’s going to be wanting something similar – something with the same tone and style… Pebble smiled. Poor Peter…looks like his chickens are coming home to roost…

  Chapter 16

  As soon as Pebble got home from work that afternoon, her phone rang. The reception was lousy, but there was no mistaking the voice. It was Albert – from far-away Greenland.

  “Albert?” Pebble’s heart thumped loudly in her breast.

  “Ma chérie.” His voice was husky with emotion, too. The letter he’d sent her over two weeks ago lay open on her desk. When she received it, she read it promptly; then crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. Five minutes later she fished it out again and lovingly pressed it flat against the surface of her desk. Since then she must have read the letter at least 100 times.

  “I’m coming to Copenhagen on Friday,” he said between the long-distant echoes of himself on the line, “and I want you to go with me to an island off the coast of Croatia for a week’s vacation.”

  “Oh, Albert…” Pebble still hadn’t recovered from the shock of his letter. After visiting him, she’d written him as kindly and honestly as she could about how she felt about his drinking. He’d written to her several times since and said in this last letter – the one still open on her desk, “I know you worry about my drinking, darling, but you worry needlessly. I am not an alcoholic, I promise you.” Then he underlined, “I am sure of it. Perhaps I drank a little too much when you were here – but I guess the joy of being with you made me forget myself. I promise you it won’t happen again.” Pebble hadn’t answered his last letter yet simply because she didn’t know how to. What can you say to a drunk who doesn’t believe he has a drinking problem? She wished she could free herself from him, but she couldn’t – strangely enough he was still the fleeting star in her life. My impossible love. At least her new job didn’t give her much time to think about combining impossible love with the business of life.

  “Ma chérie, are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here.” But she didn’t answer his question. Instead she sat at her desk smoothing out his crumpled letter with her free hand. His handwriting was fine and gentle for so strong a man. “I don’t know what to say, Albert.”

  “What do you mean? Say yes! I’m not asking you to marry me – I‘m just asking you to go to an island paradise with me for a week!”

  “Be serious, Albert, please.”

  “But I am serious; I just want you to go with me. We’ll have plenty of time to talk then…” And when she still didn’t answer, he added, “I need you, Pebble, you must know that.”

  “But, Albert,” she tried to formulate her fears, “I can’t handle your drinking…you know that…I told you that…it scares me.”

&
nbsp; “Didn’t you get my last letter, Pebble?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But what, didn’t I explain it to you. I’m not an alcoholic if that’s what you’re worried about…” He sounded almost hostile. “Okay so I drank a little too much…I admit it, I did…but what’s a man supposed to do? I was so happy when you were here…it’s so lonely up here without you.”

  “Oh, Albert…”

  “Would you feel better if I promised never to drink again? Is that what you want?”

  “Well…I don’t know…well…yes. I guess I would,” she stumbled, trying to say what she felt. “I don’t mean you can never drink again, but I don’t want you drinking so much…it scares me…”

  He laughed. “How much is too much, Pebble? Is too much a couple of beers at a party – two or three glasses of wine when we go out to dinner?”

  “You know what I mean,” she shot back, irritated at his pigheadedness.

  “No, what do you mean, seriously? How am I going to know when you think I’ve had enough? What you’re really saying is you don’t want me ever to have a drop to drink again.”

  “I didn’t say that…I just meant…”

  “Ma chérie,” he laughed, “you don’t know what you’re talking about, you little goose. You’ve never lived in the wild places I’ve lived in. Men drink a lot – they do – it’s completely normal – and perfectly harmless. Don’t you remember Martin’s party?” Unfortunately, Pebble remembered all too well. “Did I drink anymore than anyone else?”

  “Well…no.” As if that’s any comfort. The man just doesn’t understand.

  “Listen, Pebble, I’m sure this is all one big misunderstanding. If you love me, you’ve got to believe me and trust me. You’ve got to give me one more chance. Okay? Just one more time. You do love me, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” She did, but she felt uneasy about it.

  “Well, if you love me, you must believe in me, too. I mean what kind of love is it if you don’t trust me?”