‘I guess he didn’t want Andy on it because the budget’s so massive …’
‘How massive?’ she says, picking up a copy of
W
magazine from a neat stack and flicking through it with an insouciance so practised it seems almost genuine.
‘Four million quid all in. And Fletchers always use celebs …’
‘Yeah, poxy no-name celebs.’
‘Well I’m sure they’d be open to any celebrity, depending on budget.’ And the fact that no one remotely credible would attach themselves to Fletchers in the first place. ‘And Devron will want a big-name director …’
‘We could use TK?’ shouts Nick, still firing at the screen.
‘Doing a feature with Kidman in Tokyo,’ she says, chewing her bottom lip.
‘Chad Breffen?’ says Nick again. ‘Take that, Guido, you little Mexican shithead!’
‘Breffen …’ says Karly. ‘I suppose we could shoot in New York.’ She picks up her iPhone again and starts tapping.
‘“Hey Karlsie, you got such awesome vision, you gotta director’s eye. Get behind my tripod …”’ says Nick, in an attempt at a Brooklyn accent that sounds more like Cardiff.
‘Piss off, Nick. It’s not my fault he thinks I’m transcendental.’ She turns to me. ‘Yeah, alright. Leave it with us.’
‘Great. And just on the brief, the range is called Fat Bird so in the scripts themselves steer clear of anything that’s in bad taste – we don’t want a double whammy of offensiveness. If in doubt err on the side of caution.’
‘We don’t do caution round here, love,’ says Nick. Ah, little Nick, lying there in his ironic trucker cap, with his ironic facial hair.
‘I’ll leave you copies of the paper brief to read through,’ I say. I’ve highlighted that pizzas are a bit like curries – most people assume they’re fattening, and so the
great
thing about Fat Bird pizzas is that they’re not as bad for you as you think. In the Essentials box I’ve put:
Avoid offence. Must have Fletchers logo and pack shot.
‘Did Robbie mention we’d like scripts by Friday week?’ I say.
‘Fine,’ says Nick.
‘Definitely?’ I say.
‘Yeah … Fuck you, die, whore!’ (To the screen, not me, I think …)
All things considered, that went absolutely brilliantly.
Since Jonty returned from his course there’s barely been a moment’s peace in our corner of the office. He’s just come back from an extended pub lunch with his friend who works at an agency round the corner. And now he’s on the phone to his housemate laughing about their Thursday night, during which it appears they copped off with the same girl. Jonty’s Facebook photos consist of glassy-eyed shots of mid-twenties blokes holding pints up to the camera at nightclubs with names such as Bhargeegees and Boubous. They sound like Eurotrash Tellytubbies. Mind you, so do his Facebook friends – he has one in Geneva called Mufmuf Van Lella. I wish he’d stop guffawing. I am trying hard to concentrate on urgent work – Jeff emailed me last night at 9.40 p.m. and I am trying to decipher the meaning in this latest correspondence:
Suzy Q,
Apologies again for running off mid-chat on Monday. I’d have liked nothing more than to stay – far more stimulating talking to you than to the plastic cheese man.
If I can be of any more help for now please call me. Maybe we should have another session? Had a catch up with Devron last night and I think the veggie pizza is moving in an epic new direction.
Next time you’re in ‘The Building’(!!!) give us a shout, we’ll go down and have coffee in the kitchen. I have been thinking long and hard about salted caramel brownies and wanted to show you a tweaked recipe.
Take care,
Jeff
Hugely thought-provoking, this email. And slightly troubling. Polly’s brother works in the City with a nob-end called St John. In spite of having a worse first name (or first two names?) than Tarquin, St John is what’s known in EC1, admiringly, as a ‘swordsman’. He credits his prowess with women (or Rat, as he calls them) on some guide to seduction that recommends scattering your chat-up repartee with sexual phrases such as ‘long and hard’ and ‘go down’. These are guaranteed, subliminally, to make ANY WOMAN WANT YOU. My favourite recommendation of all is to drop in the phrase ‘new direction’: if you say these two words quickly enough, ‘new direction’ sounds like ‘nude erection’; women, rats, even hot twin gerbils will fall at your feet.
And so here in Jeff’s email we have ‘long and hard’
and
‘go down’! And look! Right there! Jeff has slipped in his very own ‘new direction’, and an epic one at that! Barely ten lines of text and we have three rat pellets in a row. That’s a jackpot. This
cannot possibly
be deliberate.
And yet how can it be mere coincidence? Definitely going to have run this one past Rebecca in forensics. What else is there to analyse … ‘Take care’ at the end. That’s annoying and patronising, that’s what you say to an old person. But ‘stimulating’ is good, that’s a compliment and I’ll take it. And he’s been thinking about me and wants to show me more baked goods. Encouraging, though of course that could be merely professional interest … Am I supposed to follow up on his offer of another session?
‘Susie,’ says Jonty, coming to stand behind my desk. ‘Can you come do this conference call with me on Fletchers?’
I quickly switch back to the status report on screen. ‘Right now?’
‘Yeah, Tom’s calling in to Boardroom Six, I’m not sure how to set up the system.’
‘Couldn’t you have sorted this earlier?’ I say. I am beginning to sound like Berenice. ‘I’ll help you this time but try and be a bit more prepared in future.’
He nods. Nodding equals thank you for Jonty.
We sit by the triangular phone pad in the boardroom waiting for Tom to call in.
‘What’s the brief then?’ I say.
‘Piece of piss, new store opening at Marble Arch, small posters for the tube.’
‘Busy station. Besides, even if you’re just talking to one person, you do the best work you can.’
‘Because of awards?’ Jonty asks.
‘Because your name is on the paper.’
‘But there are always
so
many other things going on. I’m learning to prioritise. That course I went on said to focus on the big things, don’t waste time on the little.’
‘I think they meant don’t spend a whole week pondering what type of moustache to grow for Movember … Show me this ad then.’
‘I haven’t got it in front of me.’
‘Wouldn’t it be a good idea to have it?’ I say gently.
‘I left it on my desk.’
‘Do you want to run down quickly and fetch it?’
‘But if Tom calls when I’m gone I’ll look incompetent …’
‘Would you like me to get it for you, just this once?’
‘Good idea.’
I find the ad on Jonty’s desk with a coffee stain on it that fails to cover up the name of the creative who did it: Andy Ashford. My favourite! One of the few old-timers left at NMN. He’s early fifties, a relic in this industry where you’re either running the show or in The Priory by forty.
The poster has an image of Marble Arch. Andy’s filled in a bar across the middle and made the right-hand pillar pale so that what stands out is an ‘F’. At the bottom it says: ‘Fletchers – now open at Marble Arch’. It’s clear and smart. Fletchers will hate it.
‘Ah, finally!’ says Jonty, as I walk back in. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’ He winks at me. ‘So yah, the ad, you seen it, Tommo?’
‘Yes,’ says Tom nervously down the line.
‘Good or what?’ says Jonty, giving me the thumbs up.
‘I did actually like the ad,’ says Tom.
‘Great,’ says Jonty, punching the air. He doesn’t realise, because he’s not really listening, that Tom is about to blow out the poster.
‘I thought it was very clever,’ says Tom, working up the courage to reject it. There’s a long pause. ‘I just want to understand the
insight
behind it.’
Jonty rolls his eyes. ‘Absolutely, Tommo. Your brief was simple: announce “We are open”. Londoners are a savvy bunch, we thought we’d make it smart.’
‘I think that’s the problem,’ says Tom. ‘I’m not sure that
smart
is right for our brand.’ Another long pause. ‘Also, I’m not sure about Marble Arch. It’s not the Eiffel Tower. It’s not that famous. Could you use the London Eye instead?’
‘The new store is
at
Marble Arch, Tom,’ I say. ‘That’s why it’s on the poster. If the new store was near the London Eye we’d use the Eye.’ And if Parisians are ever foolish enough to let you into their marketplace we’ll use the Eiffel Tower.
‘The poster needs to say who we are, be more
strategic
,’ says Tom.
‘Everyone
knows
who Fletchers are, Tommo,’ says Jonty, making a wanker sign with his fist. ‘Don’t go changing the brief on us, mate.’
‘Tom,’ I say, ‘commuters rush past these posters. They need to be concise.’
There is a long pause, during which Jonty mimes head-bashing the desk while I try to think of a solution to this painfully common scenario.
Tom breaks the silence. ‘It needs to say “Fletchers. The best supermarket, is now open at Marble Arch in London, selling groceries, magazines, alcohol and toiletries. And flowers. See in store for details” and then it needs to have our website. And our 0845 number. And loyalty card info and logo. And Facebook and Twitter. And then look at a different, better known landmark. I’ll leave it to you though, you’re the experts.’
Jonty’s voice verges on panic: ‘Oh mate, that would be a totes dull poster.’
‘But I don’t want dull, I want you to strategically fun it up. That’s what our brand is about. Listen, team, I’m seeing new shelf wobblers in five. Can you go again?’
‘No problem, mate.’ Jonty flicks the off switch on the phone. I press it again to double-check the line has cut off.
‘Shit for brains,’ says Jonty. ‘Why don’t we just use the Statue of fucking Liberty.’
I say nothing.
‘This isn’t my fault, Susie!’ he says, turning on me in a sudden panic.
‘Calm down, Jonty, I wasn’t saying it was. I’m just thinking how to fix it …’
‘Couldn’t
you
have done something more?’ he says. Aaah, bless him,
he’s
becoming more like Berenice every day. He’ll probably make it to the board before me at this rate.
‘None of that, Jonty, we’re a team.’
‘What are we going to do?’ he says. ‘I’m going to have to rebrief another team. Andy Ashford’s too old for this game.’
‘You will
not
brief another team. We’re lucky to have Andy on this. Our job is to try to convince Tom to buy this ad. You can give Tom what he wants and still keep the visual. Add some copy, meet him half way. The idea itself is strong.’
‘Tom said it’s a rebrief.’
‘Listen to what Tom actually said: get the ad mocked up with more words on it – first part solved. Then see what people think, go over to Marble Arch and show some Londoners.’
I can see a flicker of inspiration pass through Jonty’s brain.
‘And don’t lie to me – or Tom – about the results. If the public like it, then Tom has no argument. And if they don’t then maybe Tom’s right and it is too clever. Only then can we brief in a new ad. With Andy.’
He sticks his bottom lip out. I’m not sure that there’s anything less attractive in this universe than a boy who sulks.
‘Come on, Jonty, stop pouting. It’s nearly the weekend.’ Two hours and twenty-one minutes to go. Not that I’m counting.
Dalia feels bad about blowing me and Polly out the other week, so she’s coming round later to help tidy my flat.
It was actually Marjorie who triggered the idea. I still feel guilty about walking out on her, but frankly I get enough abuse at work without her giving me extra. Yet the thought of her sitting, bitter and lonely in that dark flat has lingered in my mind all week. Am I going to turn into Marjorie one day? That would be horrific. Surrounded by nothing but junk …
All those magazine articles claim that the less physical clutter you have, the happier and calmer your state of mind. Maybe there’s some truth in that – though I’m perfectly happy with the organised chaos that surrounds me. Still, Dalia’s been itching to help me purge my flat for years, she says I live like a student. She’s one of those super-organised neat-freaks whose kitchen counters are entirely bare – not even a bottle of olive oil is allowed to loiter. Her flat weirds me out – there’s no stuff, anywhere. Aren’t most serial killers minimalists?
I’ve agreed we’ll tackle the kitchen only – small steps. There’s no way I’ll let her loose on my books, papers or clothes, but I have no emotional attachments to kitchen stuff.
I’ve promised her dinner at the end of it, but she texted last night to say she’s on the Dukan diet and wants only protein and greens. I suspect the tidying session will be relentless and painful with no time for me to cook, so I’m making her Muriel’s Chicken. No idea who Muriel is but I found the recipe on this great French blog and it’s the easiest thing in the world. Stick a lemon up a chicken, stick the chicken in a pot with the lid on, stick it in an oven – then turn to a hundred and fifty degrees and leave for three hours. You don’t have to pay it the slightest attention and it will still reward you with the most delicious, tender, fall-off-the-bone chicken that ever crossed the road.
I’m considering getting a cardboard box, putting half the contents of my kitchen in it, and hiding it under my bed, so that Dalia won’t try to make me throw it away, when my doorbell rings. She’s never normally on time, why today?
She breezes into my flat looking like she’s walked straight off the pages of
Vogue
, wearing a beautiful teal belted wool coat, black skinny jeans and an expensive cream silk shirt. Her dark hair is looking even glossier than usual and she has perfectly applied eyeliner on. I’m in a pair of Jake’s old paint-stained jeans and a purple Gap t-shirt that’s lost its Lycra after eight years of wear.
‘Why are you so dolled up?’ I say.
‘What? This? It’s nothing,’ she says, dumping her bag on my sofa and heading straight for my kitchen.
‘Have you been at Mark’s?’ I say, following her through.