False Advertising (33 page)

Helen had just sat through her sixth meeting of the day, and she felt as though her head was going to explode. Advertising was all colour and movement, gaudy and hyperactive, and it was loud.
Why did it have to be so loud? And why was everyone always laughing all the time? They laughed when they drank soft drink, took a Panadol, washed the car. And they were always in groups. Why did these people always have so many people around them, laughing uproariously? What the hell was so funny?

She was just feeling cranky. She had been bombarded all day with campaigns currently under development for a car, pasta, headache tablets, insurance and toilet paper, involving images of children, firefighters, soccer players, rap musicians and a duck, and Helen was hard-pressed to recall which image went with what product. It was nudging five-thirty on a Friday afternoon and she just wanted to go home.

‘Okay, everyone, I think we've covered enough for today,' Myles said finally, and Helen could feel that collective sigh of Friday afternoon relief. ‘We'll catch up again on this next week, all right?'

Everyone immediately began to shuffle their papers together to a muffled chorus of, ‘Thanks, MD. Have a good weekend, MD.'

When the room had cleared and Helen had got to her feet, Myles leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘So what did you think, Helen?'

He asked her the same question after every meeting, and Helen was beginning to run out of answers.

‘I think I don't care that much about toilet paper,' she said, gathering her notes and files together. When she looked up again, Myles was regarding her with an odd expression.

‘I don't mean any disrespect,' Helen said, ‘but I don't think anyone cares that much, surely?'

‘Everyone has to buy toilet paper.'

‘Yes, and we all know what you do with it, so let's stop pretending it's something it's not.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Toilet paper isn't sexy, or sensuous, and it doesn't need to be silky. The fact that it's on a convenient roll and it's not the texture of newspaper, like our grandparents had to use, that makes it a luxury. But who decided it had to feel like silk? I wouldn't wipe my backside with silk even if I were a millionaire. That's plain ridiculous.'

Myles seemed slightly bemused. ‘That's a good point.'

‘Mm. They're still going to make the crappy ad.'

‘I'd avoid calling a toilet paper ad “crappy” if I were you,' he said with a sly grin as he got to his feet. ‘So, I'll take that as a no, you didn't like the ad?'

Helen shrugged. ‘It wasn't as bad as that one the other day,' she said, ‘with the useless male who couldn't turn on a washing machine. I hate that stereotype: it's demeaning, for men and for women.'

‘But it tests well,' said Myles.

‘With who, other useless blokes I suppose?'

‘No, actually, with women,' he said as they walked out of the room.

Helen looked up at him. ‘I don't believe it.'

‘It's true. They've tried using a competent man before, cleaning, doing washing . . . Women say it's not credible.'

‘But how are attitudes going to change if there are no role models on our screens?'

‘Advertising reflects society, Helen,' said Myles. ‘It doesn't have to change it.'

‘Well, it should,' she frowned. ‘You want to know what really annoys me about the whole thing?'

‘I have a feeling you're going to tell me regardless.'

‘Sorry,' said Helen. ‘I'm ranting.'

‘No, don't get me wrong, I like to hear what you have to say,' Myles assured her. ‘So what is it that really annoys you?'

‘It's the cost. I mean, I always knew there had to be a huge waste of money in marketing and advertising, but now that I see the actual figures . . .' Helen shook her head, cringing. ‘I keep imagining how many schools could be built in Aceh, how many Africans could be treated for HIV.'

Myles grinned. ‘You really are in the wrong industry.'

‘I really am,' she nodded, but she was smiling too.

As they arrived at the lift bay there was one waiting and they stepped straight in. Helen slipped her pass into the slot and pressed the button for the fifteenth floor as Myles leaned back against the opposite wall.

‘Okay, if you had to sell that toilet paper, Helen, how would you go about it?'

She was too tired for this. ‘I don't know.'

‘Well,' he said, changing tack, ‘why do you buy a particular brand?'

‘You want to know what toilet paper I buy?'

‘No, I want to know why you buy it.'

She stared at the ceiling, thinking aloud. ‘I buy it because it's cheap but not nasty, it's two-ply because honestly, one-ply is false economy – you just use twice as much. And most importantly, I buy it because it's made from recycled paper: it's a crime to use anything else when you're only going to flush it down the toilet.'

The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened.

‘That's not bad,' said Myles thoughtfully.

They walked in silence back to the office as Myles scribbled notes on a pad. As they came to her desk, Helen unloaded the stack of files and papers she'd accumulated throughout the afternoon. She'd have to sort it all and put it away before she left; she liked to leave things neat and organised for Gemma on Monday. Myles still had his head bent over his notepad, writing furiously, till finally he stopped and looked up, watching Helen as she cleared her desk.

‘Listen, Helen,' he said, ‘I'd really like to talk about this some more.'

‘Talk about what?'

‘This idea, getting to the heart of why people actually buy the things they do . . .'

Helen wasn't really listening. She'd moved to the filing cabinet, sorting files and popping them away.

‘I know you probably want to get out of here,' Myles continued, ‘so what if we do this over dinner?'

Helen stopped abruptly. ‘I'm sorry?'

‘I'd like to discuss this some more – we could do it over dinner if you like,' he repeated.

‘Sorry, Myles, I have to get home to Noah.'

‘But Gemma's there for him, isn't she?'

Helen pushed the drawer of the filing cabinet closed and leaned back against it. ‘But I want to be there for him myself.'

He sighed. ‘Of course you do. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking.'

She eyed him dubiously. ‘It's Friday night, Myles. You know
what they say about all work and no play. You must have something better to do on a Friday night than work?'

Myles gave her a sheepish smile. ‘I have a feeling that what I'm about to say is going to make me sound like a sad loser, but no, I don't have anything better to do. In my defence, remember I come from Melbourne. That's where my friends are, my family, or half of it. I came up here to work, and that's about all I do.'

Helen didn't know what to say, at least not without making him sound like a sad loser.

‘But, as luck would have it,' he continued on a brighter note, ‘I have plenty of that to keep me going.' He tapped the stack of files under his arm for emphasis. ‘I'll let you go, Helen. Have a good weekend.'

Helen watched, frowning, as he walked towards his office. She thought about all the nights she'd spent alone before Gemma came to live with them. All the bottles of Spray'n' Wipe she'd gone through . . .

‘Myles,' she said as he got to the door. He turned around. ‘Would you like to come back and have dinner with us?'

He smiled, shaking his head. ‘Oh no, it's come to this. The pity invite.'

‘It's not pity,' she chided. ‘It's Friday night. You can't work on a Friday night. Friday nights are for throwing away routines, and for toasted sandwiches in front of the telly.'

‘You're inviting me over for toasted sandwiches in front of the telly? Is there anything good on tonight?'

Helen smiled. ‘What do you say?'

Myles stood there, gazing across at her. Helen was beginning to feel a little self-conscious.

He finally broke the silence. ‘Will I have to eat vegetarian?'

‘Now you're getting picky?'

‘It's just that I am a carnivore –'

‘No, you're an omnivore, actually. But don't worry, you don't have to eat vegetarian . . .' Her face creased into a frown. ‘But you will have to eat Gemma's cooking. It's her night.'

‘That bad, huh?'

‘Let's just say it's not one of her strengths.'

‘I tell you what,' said Myles. ‘Why don't you call Gemma and
tell her she's got the night off, and we can pick up something on the way?'

‘That is an excellent idea,' said Helen.

‘Of all the stupid ideas,' Gemma growled as she walked back into the kitchen, where Phoebe was tucking into her Friday night bottle of wine. ‘What the hell was she thinking?'

‘What are you so worked up about?' Phoebe asked.

‘That was Helen on the phone. She's bringing the friggin' MD home for dinner.'

‘Goody!' declared Phoebe, picking up her glass. ‘I finally get to meet him.'

‘You can have him,' said Gemma in disgust. ‘What am I supposed to do? She knows we don't get on; she could have checked with me first.'

‘You're forgetting something, sister.'

‘What's that?'

‘It's her house.'

Gemma pulled a face. ‘So you're staying?' she asked Phoebe as she dropped back down in her chair.

‘Is that all right?'

‘Sure, you can be a buffer, then I won't have to talk to him.'

Phoebe had taken to staying late most Friday nights, but she had never referred to Cameron's vasectomy threat again; in fact, she never referred to Cameron much at all.

‘What's Cameron up to?' Gemma asked her.

Phoebe shrugged. ‘Um, I think he's in Melbourne, or Adelaide . . . God, it could be Brisbane. Anyway, he wasn't sure if he'd make the last flight, so, I'll see him when I see him.'

Gemma regarded her, frowning. ‘Is everything all right, Phee?'

‘Yeah,' she dismissed, taking a swig of her wine. ‘We're having a bit of downtime, it happens after you've been married a while.'

Despite her devil-may-care attitude, Gemma knew there was more to it than Phoebe was letting on. But her sister was not in the habit of broadcasting her woes, especially if they looked like failures. Phoebe was not allowed to fail. She'd already shown too
much of her hand that night when she'd stayed over, and Gemma had realised, even at the time, that her quick exit the next morning had had more to do with emotional avoidance than exercise addiction.

‘So, do you reckon the MD –' Phoebe hesitated. ‘What am I supposed to call him anyway?'

‘Helen will do the introductions,' said Gemma, ‘so I guess you'll be calling him Myles.'

‘Why don't
you
call him Myles?'

Gemma screwed up her nose. ‘It doesn't feel right. He's the MD.'

‘You called the last MD Jonesy,' Phoebe reminded her.

‘Chalk and cheese,' Gemma dismissed.

‘So anyway . . .' Phoebe returned to her original point. ‘What do you reckon about Myles and Helen?'

‘Is there something I should be reckoning?'

‘Well, he is coming over for dinner . . .'

‘He probably wants to discuss work. He's beyond workaholic, that man, he's like a machine.'

Phoebe took another slug of her wine. ‘I don't know . . .'

‘Well, I do. Believe me, Superman and Lois Lane have more chance of getting it together.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘He's married to his work, and she's still married to her dead husband.'

‘Still?'

Gemma nodded. ‘Do you remember when that dad from the preschool asked her out? Well, he pounced on me the first day I went to pick up Noah. He wanted to know what the story was with Helen, and we got to talking. He seemed like a really nice guy, and he's cute as well, so I gave him her number, and he called her up.'

‘What happened?' asked Phoebe.

‘She freaked. She went on again with all that creepy stuff about still being David's wife.' Gemma sighed. ‘It's so morbid. The guy's dead and buried . . . or cremated anyway.'

‘Gemma?'

She jumped, turning around to see Noah standing bug-eyed
in the doorway. How long had he been there? ‘What's up, mate?'

‘There's nuffink for me to watch.'

‘There must be something.'

He shook his head. ‘Only the news lady talking and talking and talking.'

Gemma knew there had to be a perfectly good episode of
The Simpsons
playing on another channel, but that was off limits. ‘What about a DVD?'

He screwed up his face, thinking about it. ‘Which one but?'

‘Well, it depends on your mood, Noah. If you're after a classic road movie,
Finding Nemo
has all the elements, albeit underwater. But
Shrek
is the obvious choice if you're looking for old-fashioned romance, and a rather fabulous rendition of “I'm A Believer”.'

Noah was looking blankly at her.

‘But for my money, I think it's hard to go past
Toy Story
.'

He smiled a small, contained smile, and nodded his head in approval.

‘Okay, I'll come and set it up for you,' said Gemma, getting to her feet.

He gave her a plaintive look. ‘I'm hungry but, Gemma.'

‘Well, Mummy's on her way home with dinner. Can you wait, or do you want a carrot?'

He threw his arms up in the air. ‘Carrot!' he cried.

‘I've never seen a kid get so excited about a carrot,' Phoebe remarked, watching him dance a little jig.

‘Me neither,' Gemma agreed. ‘But you've got to admit, she must be doing something right.'