Adventures of Pebble Beach

by Berger, Barbara

  She still didn’t know what Mel had done to get her in the door, all she knew was she’d gotten in – inside the holy sanctuary – and now one thirty and Monica Soderland were approaching very fast. The keepers of the gate – all of whom seemed to wonder who in the world she could be, because obviously a woman alone couldn’t be an entire ad agency and also because nobody had ever heard of Pebble Beach before, except of course one of the sporty gatekeepers who knew Pebble Beach was a famous golf course somewhere in California. Still, magic words must have been spoken because they bowed and allowed her to enter the inner sanctum about 15 minutes before her appointment to get organized. She used the time to arrange Steffen’s figures in just the right order and spread out the smaller comic strip sketches and primitive storyboards, while eying her watch nervously. I’m no ad agency – so how in the world am I going to pull this off? If she doesn’t like my comic strips, I’m dead. She looked at her primitive storyboards for the hundredth time. Jerk, they’re wonderful. She smiled to herself. And so funny. Monica’s going to love them. Everyone’s going to love them. They’re perfect. She’d already tried some of her ideas out on some of the kids she knew.

  She had no idea how many people Monica would bring with her. God, I hope it’s not a whole entourage. Presentations are usually like that. She felt tiny beads of sweat forming under her arms.

  All the pretty words in the world will get you absolutely nowhere if you haven’t got the chutzpah to stand up and deliver it, sister. Pebble prayed for power.

  Monica entered suddenly, with no band or fanfare whatsoever. She was all alone, too, and much taller than Pebble expected her to be. Her bright, red hair had grown a little since the last picture Pebble had seen of her, but otherwise she looked just like she was supposed to. She’s powerful, alright. Monica strode firmly over to Pebble and stuck out her hand. Pebble grabbed it and pressed it resolutely. God help me. Pebble knew she was face to face with a true Viking.

  Steffen’s comic-strip sketch of the 11-year-old kid with braces and freckles caught Monica’s eye. She smiled.

  “I don’t know who you are, Pebble Beach, or why you’re here, but Richard Davis can be very persuasive when he wants to. He said I wouldn’t regret giving you an hour of my time.” She stood very still before the 11-year-old cartoon kid. In the bubble over his head, Steffen’s comic-strip figure was saying, “Emily is going to love me when I let her borrow my new iPod.” Monica’s eyes flashed, and when she did, Pebble forgot her carefully planned introduction.

  “Can’t you just see him – his name’s Luke – wearing your clothes?”

  When Monica didn’t reply, Pebble rushed on. “Of course, I couldn’t put your new clothes on Luke yet because I haven’t seen them. I only know they exist and knowing you I’m sure they’re a lot like your kiddie line. I figure you just developed your basic concept a little further and modified the designs to fit the pre-teeners. It’s such a brilliant idea. It really is. The Americans are going to love your new clothes – just as much as they love your kiddie line. But you’ve got to present it to them just right, in just the right language, with just the right slant. And I figure, creating a family of characters who look and act and talk just like kids do in America would be the perfect vehicle. Can’t you see it? Even the kids will like to read your ads and your catalogue. It’ll be a whole lifestyle thing. That’s why you’re so terrific over there to begin with. You’ve got to capitalize on that…the whole mystique you’ve built up in the last two years…you know the purity thing.

  “Do you realize how much those Americans need you? When I say those Americans, I mean the urban professionals. Because those people, that whole group, are really quality hungry. And quality is something you can give them. You and your products are synonymous with quality to these people. And sanity, too.”

  Pebble rushed on, without taking a breath or waiting for Monica to answer. “You can believe me, Monica, because I know what I’m talking about. I’m an American myself, so you can take my word for it. Quality, the kind of quality we have here in Scandinavia, is something so many American professionals long for. It’s like a blessed antidote to all the hype they have to put up with over there. But they need a clear image of what real quality is; what it looks and feels like, and what it means – also for their kids. And when you consider the almost totally unethical consume and discard attitude that is so prevalent over there, you can understand why they need it so badly. Do you have any idea of the amount of junk that gets produced and sold at a profit over there every year? People are just so much more down-to-earth here. And real.

  “Your first campaign hit pay dirt because you were right on target. You had the right product, you developed the right image, at the right time – your copy even had the right tone. You spoke to these people in their own language. You understood them.”

  “How do you know so much about me and my product?”

  Oh no, did I say too much? thought Pebble, almost panicking. “I’ve been following your career and Nordkyst for a long time. You’re a pretty interesting person, you know.”

  Monica laughed and it eased some of the tension her question raised. She moved from Luke towards the next figure. “Umm…” she said and tilted her head to one side and as she stood before the drawing of this most astonishing little girl with bright, orange curls. She was an absolute bundle of energy, radiating mirth and mischief. She could have been a cross between a London punk, a Spice Girl and Monica Soderland. Monica laughed. “She looks just like I wanted to look when I was 10.”

  “Yeah? Well, I can tell you, you’re not the only one who’s ever wanted to look like her. Millions of pre-teens in America do, too. Her name’s Emily. She lives on Long Island, as you can see from her school bag.”

  “Manhasset Junior High?”

  “Yeah, that’s on Long Island. You see, I think we’ve got to make her real. The way I look at it, Luke and Emily and the whole crew, whoever they turn out to be, can go everywhere, in your catalogue, in your ads, however you want to do it. But they’ve got to tell a story, too, wherever they go. They’ve got to relate. And amuse, at the same time. I want them to explain to their moms, who are still paying for the clothes, that even though they’re growing up, they’ve still got this quality thing – this quality consciousness – the one their parents tried to instill in them. After all, that’s why they buy your clothes. And that’s why now – when these kids are starting to be old enough to pick out their own clothes – they still want to wear your stuff. ’Cause your stuff is not only ecologically sound, your clothes are neat, too, and cool and awesome. And all that other stuff kids want them to be. And they have that special look the kids want – and still they feel as good as their old kiddie clothes did.”

  “What’s Emily saying?”

  “She’s saying – awesome, man awesome. That’s one of those words over there among kids. We’ve got to get it right and use the right words – their words. I’m in New York enough, I was born in New York, and my family still lives there.”

  “Oh really?” Monica seemed to think it was important.

  “Sure, I’m a true-blue New Yorker, so I know how people talk over there. But language is something which changes constantly, so I listen to people talking wherever I go whenever I’m over there. That’s the only way you can create real, living, meaningful images and copy. You’ve got to get inside people – you’ve got to know them.”

  I can’t believe the way I’m talking to this woman, thought Pebble. I’m talking like me and not like the uptight person I used to be at meetings. For whatever reason, Pebble let herself go, blabbering away, a mile a minute, off the cuff, her carefully thought out strategies gone and forgotten. She knew Nordkyst in and out and was telling Monica not only what it was she loved about Nordkyst, but what it was she knew she could deliver. She only forgot one thing – Monica Soderland had no way of knowing how or why Pebble Beach knew so much about her company.

  “You see we could create these comic-strip characters, d
ress them up in your clothes, and have them doing the quirky little things every kid, from the kind of background we’re talking about, does all the time. And whatever they say, or do, whatever, your clothes will be an intricate part of them – of their image – of their lifestyle. I want to get where they won’t even question it or notice it. Their moms will automatically take them to the boutiques that carry Nordkyst if they don’t already buy your stuff online. It’s almost got to be something they take for granted – that you – that Nordkyst – understands them. Knows them – and their needs and can deliver just the right quality, with just the right touch, to make them feel right.”

  Monica continued surveying the figures on her walls. “Who did these drawings?”

  “Steffen, he’s a good friend of mine. I briefed him in detail because I knew he could get it just right. He’s a Dane, but he’s lived in New York for a while, so he knows the scene. I couldn’t afford to get him to invest a whole lot of his time on this, but I wanted you to be able to get a glimpse of what I’ve got in my head. I know I’m not an ad agency or anything, Monica, but I know I’m the right person to develop your new campaign.”

  Monica went over and sat down. She started flipping through Pebble’s fat portfolio.

  “An impressive amount of work you’ve done. I like the fact that you’re an American, too. It really makes sense. Actually, that’s why I agreed to meet you in the first place. Richard and I have been talking about the possibility of using an American agency for this campaign anyway, but I wanted someone who was here who I could work with on a daily basis. I don’t want to have to fly to New York every time I get a new idea. But Richard keeps telling me a Dane won’t be able to get it right. He says it’s got to be more New York, more American. Apparently somebody from Young & Rubicam recommended you highly to Richard.”

  Pebble smiled.

  “But what I still don’t understand, Pebble, is how you know so much about me and my products. And your language sounds so familiar – almost like it grew out of my last campaign – the one Peter Cato did. It doesn’t make sense, it just doesn’t. The way you talk about my work, you’d think you’ve known me for years. I have the feeling you almost know my strategies better than I do.”

  At first Pebble didn’t know how to answer, but then she made up her mind, “I used to do a lot of work for Peter Cato. In fact, I should be driving a sky-blue BMW roadster now.”

  * * *

  On her way out, in the parking lot, Pebble met Einar’s people, unloading a truckload of stuff for their three o’clock presentation. They were surprised to see Pebble there, but she didn’t care.

  * * *

  The next day at the office, Einar was furious. “Just tell me what you were doing there, Pebble – that’s all I want to know.” He called her in as soon as she arrived at work, and was now pacing up and down the polished wooden floors of his office, hunched over, his hands buried deep in his pockets. The striking view of Copenhagen harbor, jammed with sailboats of every description and powerful motorboats and hydrofoils, was right behind him. Pebble could see flags from all over the world flying from the masts of countless sailboats. Einar’s toad-like face was all puffed up in anger. Pebble preferred looking at the fiery painting on the wall, the one that reminded her so much of Jackson Pollock, to looking at Einar’s face.

  “Don’t try to intimidate me, Einar, because I’m not going to let you get away with it anymore.”

  “Intimidate you? What are you talking about, Pebble? Jackie and Bert told me they saw you leaving Monica Soderland’s yesterday just before they went in to do their presentation. Did it slip your mind that you happen to be my assistant? My assistant? That I happen to pay your salary and that you work for me?” When she didn’t answer, he continued in a slightly more friendly vein, “You’ve been acting mighty strange since you came back from your vacation, and I’d like to know exactly what’s going on.” Pebble was relieved that at least some of the steam seemed to have gone out of him.

  “I guess it’s about time I tell you that I don’t want to work for you anymore, Einar. I’m through with you.”

  “Through!” he almost shouted, smelling deceit. “I know you told Monica you wrote the first Nordkyst campaign, didn’t you?” He was livid. His eyes bulged in his head. He wasn’t a pretty sight.

  “You know why I’m mad at you, Einar; you know why I’ve been mad at you all along –because you never cleared my name.”

  “What are you talking about?” His mind was full of Nordkyst; everything else was either forgotten or irrelevant. WonderLift didn’t even exist as far as he was concerned.

  “You know what I’m talking about,” Pebble shot back. Just listen to me, she thought, you’d think ‘conviction’ was my middle name. She was proud of herself. Keep clear, sister.

  “I’m talking about WonderLift, Einar, or did you forget all about it already? Ever since your little party at Skovriderkroen, I’ve known the truth. You probably don’t even realize you told me. But you did. You were so drunk that night I’m sure you don’t remember a thing.”

  She could tell by the look of surprise on his face that she’d caught him off guard. So he doesn’t remember telling me.

  “Come on, Pebble, let’s stop shouting at each other for a minute and sit down.” Realizing that something serious had happened, or was about to happen (Einar wasn’t sure), he motioned towards the tan leather sofa in the corner of his office. She accepted his invitation, pleased with this sign of respect on his part. But she was still determined to get it right. Whatever you think, I promise you, you’re not going to manipulate me out of what I know. Pebble sat down.

  “What did I tell you that night, Pebble?”

  So, suddenly everything’s coming up roses? she thought. He was acting too rational, too innocent all of a sudden. She knew he was as sly as a fox.

  “You told me,” Pebble said, hesitating slightly, “that…well…we were sitting on the bench down by the sea…and you told me that your wife, Birgitte, was the one who told you the launch date of WonderLift. You were pretty drunk at the time – do you remember?”

  Pebble paused, waiting for Einar’s response. “No,” he said and shook his head, “I don’t remember what I said, though I remember sitting with you there and…feeling absolutely miserable…”

  His quiet manner, the way he curled up like a hurt animal, was like a red flag. Pebble rushed on, afraid to lose her momentum. “Well, you started telling me all kinds of things, sometimes you can be…so…” She didn’t want to say pitiful, so she hurried on, “and well…I tried to get you to go back to the party, but you just went on and on Einar, about your life and your marriage. Then you told me about this awful fight you had with Birgitte and that you discovered she was seeing Peter Cato again. God, Einar, I didn’t want you to tell me all that stuff, but you did. But there was one good thing about it all. In the process, I found out that it was your own wife who gave you the information about WonderLift.”

  Thinking of the injustice of it gave Pebble, who previously did everything possible to avoid a confrontation, even more courage. “How could you do that to me, Einar? How? Peter Cato thought it was me, and everybody else in this town thought it was me. You were the only one who knew all along it wasn’t me. You knew, and yet you never said a word. How could you do that to me, Einar? How …?” Pebble’s voice shook with anger. “You even got me to work for you because you knew for sure nobody in this town would ever give me an assignment again.”

  She had to stand up, unable as she was to contain her anger any longer. “It makes me sick, it really does…You make me sick. The way you manipulated me, Einar. I just can’t believe it.” Now she was the one pacing furiously up and down the polished, hardwood floors. “I just can’t believe it. How could you do that to me? I mean, you could have cleared my name. Why didn’t you?” She almost spat the words in his face. And when he didn’t answer, she rushed on, “Was it because you were afraid I wouldn’t go to work for you unless I was sure I’d neve
r survive as a freelancer? Was that it?”

  “Pebble,” he tried, wanting to calm her. But he couldn’t get through to her.

  “Well let me tell you something, Einar. If that’s what you thought, you had it all wrong. It would have been so much better if you’d been honest with me and with everyone. Just think if I had become your assistant because I wanted to – out of my own free will, instead of the way it happened. Because I had no place else to go…” She was silent for a moment because the rest of what she had to say was even more difficult to say. But I want him to know the whole truth, she thought.

  “It might surprise you to know this, Einar, but the truth is I really have loved working for you. You’re one great boss and I’m going to miss working for you. Why did you have to be such a jerk?” She laughed. “Funny isn’t it, especially considering the fact that you’re almost brilliant, Einar.”

  “You know, Pebble, you’ll probably never understand how it is to be me…” he said slowly. “I wish you knew how fond I am of you.”

  But Pebble didn’t want to know, didn’t want Einar’s feelings for his wife or for her to cloud the picture. “I’m not interested, Einar, really. And you ought to know better than that. We’re not talking about your unhappy marriage or mine. We’re talking about ethics here, plain and simple. Not about how your wife treats you. That has absolutely nothing to do with the way you manipulated me. So don’t try to sidetrack me.” Pebble knew that being mad was the only way to deal with Einar, now that her cards were on the table. “If you treated the people around you with a little more respect, if you were a little bit more honest and straightforward, God, people would do anything for you. I know I would. It makes me sick that you can’t see it yourself.”