We All Fall Down (8 page)

4

There was an exhilarating buzz about Sydney's central business district that Hugh found very different to the suppressed passion of the City of London. It was how he imagined America must be, possibly like downtown LA. Sparse islands of Colonial, Victorian and Federation buildings huddled almost unseen, certainly overlooked, beneath their arrogant, successful neighbours, the serried ranks of opulent, thrusting skyscrapers. He saw the uncompromising towers of steel, glass and concrete as towers of silver and gold bullion, luminescent, at times almost sparkling, in the bright sunlight. But in the canyoned depths, down at street level where he walked in early morning or evening, they changed into dull vaults of lead and iron. In summer, apart from early or late in the day, there was little shade. It was a business furnace, and the bumper-to-bumper cars and shoulder-to-shoulder crowds that crawled sweatily through the sweltering grid of streets were all there for one purpose: to worship at the altar of Mammon, to make or spend money. And he, Hugh Drysdale, was one of those on the inside, one of the privileged who knew what was going on in these modern places of worship, these shrines. He was an acolyte who assisted in the turning of the wheels of industry and commerce, who fed on the excitement of being at the coalface where decisions were made and actions taken. This was big business and, for Hugh, like so many other young men and women, big business was fascinating. It was exhilarating, involving and important. All right, so Sydney wasn't exactly the centre of the world, but since the Olympic Games almost six years ago, the city had come to play an increasingly important part on the world stage, if only because businessmen in New York and London could now locate it on the world map.

When he stepped through one of the two revolving doors of the skyscraper near the northern end of George Street, down near the Quay, and strode confidently across the giant foyer, heels ringing urgently on the granite floor, Hugh Drysdale felt important. He felt he counted for something; that he was involved. He was an entrepreneur; not a staid, conservative businessman, but creative, quick on his feet, and enterprising. This was the ad business; exciting, fast and very much at the centre of things. When he joined countless others at the bank of eight lifts that serviced the twenty-eight floors, to be whisked towards the heavens, his spirits rose at the same speed. There was a feeling that all was right with the world, that he, Hugh Drysdale, was going places, and not just up to the nineteenth floor.

He greeted Suzie, the receptionist, as he entered The Alpha Agency, and they chatted for a moment about their respective weekends. Then he headed down the corridor off to the right of the reception area (Creative and Production off to the left), to his office. He dropped his briefcase onto his desk, and had just begun to take folders out from its interior, placing them in a neat pile on the spotless surface, when his phone rang.
This is a bit early in the morning,
he thought as he picked it up.

‘Hugh, we need to talk.' It was Russell Grant.

The fact the managing director wanted to see him this early, if only because of the firings on Friday, would have unsettled the most diligent of employees. And it brought Hugh up short. He hadn't even taken his jacket off. As likely as not the call simply meant Russell had been thinking about things over the weekend – if thinking was the right word to use of a managing director who tended to act impulsively. He frequently claimed he was a ‘shoot from the hip kind of guy', a piece of slang he must have garnered from one of the many American books on management he read, but seemingly didn't comprehend. Hugh was more inclined to put his boss's behaviour down to the fact that he had the attention span of a two year old, with the result no one ever quite knew where they stood with him. They were dealing with a child, so were unable to rely on rational behaviour. If Russell knew of this – and it's possible he did – he probably would have been pleased. It was how he wanted his staff to feel. Uneasy was good. Fear fed hunger. Insecurity was an excellent incentive to work. In the circumstances, it was more than likely Russell, when he said curtly into the phone, ‘Hugh, we need to talk,' fully appreciated the kind of reaction his words would arouse. A view that was bolstered by the fact the managing director was not well known for his small talk. The niceties of social discourse were not his forte. He rarely initiated conversations on a Monday morning with a show of interest about a person's weekend or an observation about some sporting fixture that had just taken place, not even a question about one's family or a short, passing comment about the weather. In fact, ‘Hugh, what did you think of the Manly game on Saturday?' would possibly have been more unsettling and more likely to strike panic into the mind of the recipient than ‘Hugh, we need to talk.'

Despite being the managing director and therefore nominally in charge of personnel, management-staff relations were definitely not high on the man's agenda. Once, in front of Hugh, he'd said, ‘I know they spout off all that crap about an ad agency's most valuable assets going down in the lift at the end of the day, but that's exactly what it is – crap. Our most valuable asset is the computer that prints out the invoices at the end of the week. That's what keeps this place going, a machine. I have a friend –' A statement that momentarily startled Hugh – ‘Rob's the CEO of a large software company. And you know what he said to me the other day? “Russell, I don't talk to staff.” That's word for word what he said. “Russell, I don't talk to staff.” I like that. If I could do that, I would. It's a good approach.' So, really there was no need for Hugh Drysdale to – what, panic? Was that too strong a word? – because of his managing director's comment over the phone.

As he walked down the corridor towards the opulent upper management corner of the building, Hugh reminded himself that redundancies had been handed out last Friday, and it was now Monday. But his every affirmation was met by a negation. He'd been out of the agency much of Friday, when many of those employees had been told their services were no longer required, so it was within the realms of possibility that Russell had decided to sack him on Monday instead. But Friday had been a good day for Hugh: his client had signed off on a million dollar plus campaign. He'd phoned Russell after the meeting to give him the good news, so it was more likely he was being summoned by the managing director to be congratulated, to receive a rare Russell Grant pat on the back, maybe a pay rise, possibly a promotion? Now he was allowing his imagination to run away with itself. All right, concentrate on the negation instead, wallow in the scenarios of misery: it was rare for the managing director to congratulate his staff on their achievements. It wasn't in his nature to praise or encourage employees. And a pay rise or promotion, in the current climate, was unlikely. The agency, as they were being constantly reminded, needed to tighten its belt. Frugality was the order of the day: biscuits were no longer available from the kitchen, flowers had disappeared from the reception desk, and single-ply toilet paper had replaced doubleply – this money saving venture causing more consternation amongst the employees than any other. No, it was obvious; he was about to be sacked.

Most people had made it into work by now, and were visiting the offices that lined both sides of the corridor, discussing their weekends, many with the air of having returned from holiday, not simply been out of the office for a couple of days. Some acknowledged Hugh as he went past, and when he apologised for not stopping, saying that he had to see Russell, they either raised their eyes as if uninterested, looked vaguely concerned, or made some comment like, ‘Who's been a bad boy then?'

As he passed the lifts, one of the doors opened to reveal Julian, an account planner. He fell into step beside Hugh. He was a pleasant enough fellow, almost inconsequential, a definite yes-man. Although being very much flavour-of-the-month with management and seemingly incapable of doing any wrong, most of his colleagues thought he was out of his depth in his new job. Russell had recently promoted him over the head of the longest serving member of the planning department, Don Akeman, a brilliant man who neither suffered fools gladly nor bothered to hide his talents for making the managing director look like one. This was unfortunate. When the head of planning had retired a few months earlier, it was taken as a foregone conclusion by everyone in the agency that Don would step into the position. Instead, Julian had received the nod, leapfrogging the more experienced and undoubtedly better qualified man. Don had immediately resigned, with one of his more memorable parting shots – direct to Russell's face – being that a plank of wood had more brains than the managing director.

‘Julian! How was your weekend?'

‘Spent most of it in here, unfortunately.'

‘What was that about?'

‘The usual. My brewery client called me up at five on Friday, just before setting off for his weekender.'

‘Nice.' Hugh was nodding, unsurprised by what he was hearing.

‘He told me he wanted a marketing proposal on his desk first thing Monday morning because his board's suddenly demanded a presentation off him on Tuesday. “Not my fault, mate,” he says. “Sorry.” And he disappears off down the coast.'

Hugh suspected Julian felt a degree of guilt over his promotion, and was going out of his way to be friends with everyone in the agency. It was a subtle thing, but it was definitely there, and he felt some sympathy for the planner's predicament. They were approaching Russell's office, so Hugh attempted to end the conversation, ‘That's advertising.'

But the disenchanted planner had other ideas. ‘No it's not, it's inefficiency. These people seriously could not organise the proverbial piss up in their own brewery. Their idea of long-term planning is the end of the week.'

Hugh felt for him, still surprised at how easily he himself became upset by what he perceived as business incompetence, even when it didn't directly affect him. He disliked the way clients were reactive rather than proactive, and regularly attempted to stem floods rather than show a little foresight and channel events. He shrugged to show Julian how hopeless he found the situation and turned away.

Hugh had been working at The Alpha Agency for almost four years now, but was still struck by the dichotomy between the managing director's office and its occupant. The room was as large as three or four ordinary offices, with a meadowlike expanse of grey carpet, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Harbour. A large Victorian desk was centred at one end of the room while, at the other, was a circular table with six chairs. Between the desk and the conference table were two large black leather sofas with a glass-topped coffee table between them. Original abstract paintings hung on two walls. Opposite the windows was a fake antique wall cupboard with a fridge behind one of its doors. Shelves, full of books on management – the theories, necessary skills and modern-day gurus of – rose to a modest height next to it. Some had Post-It-Notes protruding from between the pages as if to provoke clients and colleagues into thinking that the books had been closely studied.

The occupant of this room resembled a successful steamroller: small, muscular, overweight and prosperous, with the air of someone who had flattened most of the people and events that had crossed his path in his forty-five years on the planet. There was a raw energy about the man that made it obvious he was still – to use the expression he used every day –
moving forward
, probably with shoulders down and elbows out. In his own small way, Russell Grant was larger than life. He looked up when Hugh came to the door, but his only acknowledgement was a scowl. A young creative team, Sam and Jason, dressed in the obligatory denim, trainers and untucked shirts, sat on the edge of one of the sofas with as much confidence as two shipwrecked mariners clinging to the same flimsy piece of flotsam.

‘You've turned the disease into a joke. Is that how you see it, as a joke?'

‘We're trying to get people's attention, Russell, that's all.' Jason was usually the spokesman for the team, Sam being the more introverted of the two (which probably amounted to ‘normal' outside of the agency world). ‘We have to stop the reader in his tracks in order to make him buy.'

Russell looked up, mock startled. ‘You don't say?' He closed his eyes in disbelief, opening them a moment later. ‘Don't give me a fucking marketing lecture, Jason. I was doing this job before you were even a glint in your father's eyes.' The two young creatives and Hugh watched him in silence. Russell was frowning. ‘It may get their attention, but it's certainly not going to make them want to donate. And that's the whole fucking point of this ad: to get people to reach into their pockets. We want people to cry, not laugh.'

‘Fiona approved the ad, Russell, before she …' Hugh could see him trying to work out which was the best word to use. ‘… before she
left
.' Hugh winced in the doorway. Dropping the name of the departed creative director was definitely not the right approach to take with Russell.

‘I actually don't give a flying fuck if she approved it or not. She isn't here now in case you hadn't noticed, so her opinion's not going to help you. Nor would that woman have recognised a good ad if it had been rammed up her nether regions.'

Hugh stirred in the doorway. ‘Russell, that's hardly fair. Fiona –'

The managing director turned and looked at him as if he'd forgotten Hugh was in the room, and was none too pleased to discover that he was. ‘We all know how palsy-walsy you two were, but that doesn't get away from the fact she wasn't any good. She'd still be here otherwise.'

Hugh knew the futility of pursuing the point, but at the same time felt backing down would be a betrayal. However, he did.

There was a brief silence during which Russell stared at the young creative team, contempt and impatience on his face, almost daring them to open their mouths again. One of them was foolish enough to accept the challenge. ‘Russell, we think it's a good ad.' This comment, a desperate last throw of the dice delivered with little hope, came, unexpectedly, from Sam.