Do You Want to Know a Secret? (12 page)

‘Great, fabulous,’ Sophie says. ‘Can you get preliminary budget figures to me ASAP?’ There’s a lot of relieved-looking faces around the table, and you can practically see them all thinking: great, now that that’s out of the way, client’s happy, let’s all go to lunch. But Sophie clearly doesn’t feel she’s got her money’s worth.

‘It’s not that I don’t like it,’ she says slowly, coolly looking out the window and clicking a pen, ‘but I’d very much like to hear what else you’ve got?’

A few barely discernible panicky glances around the room followed by a cacophony of voices from everyone as the brainstorming instantly starts. Or maybe they’re all improvising wildly; these people are all so bloody good, it’s hard to tell the difference.

‘What about a theme revolving around Hollywood musicals?’ one cute guy in the corner throws in. ‘Each commercial could tie in with a signature tune . . .’

‘Yeah, like
Singing in the Rain
to plug . . .’

‘Waterproof mascara!’

‘The Hollywood epic . . .’

‘Yeah, we could shoot in one of those swords-and-sandals locations and tie it in with . . .’

‘The self-tanning products!’

‘Or sunscreens!’

Sophie, I notice, stays very impassive, just jots things down and every now and then throws in, ‘Hmmm. So what else?’ And on they all go, one idea falling over
another
, till my head’s almost swimming from listening to them all. Don’t get me wrong, every idea they’re throwing out is a gem. I mean, these are gifted, talented people clearly at the top of their game, it’s just that . . .

None of their pitches ties in with what I’ve been working so hard on. Not a single one. Shit. Now instead of looking forward to throwing in my pitch, I’m actually beginning to dread it. They’re going to hate what I have to say, and probably hate me too into the bargain . . .

As if she’s picking up on my nervousness, on cue, Sophie slowly turns to me. ‘We haven’t heard from PR yet,’ she says. ‘So, can I have your pitch for the launch itself?’ And whether I like it or not, I’m on. Right then, for better or for worse, there’s nothing for it but to come clean and just admit that I’ve been working off a completely different hymn sheet to everyone else. Bugger it anyway. I wouldn’t mind, but I’d have
killed
to have landed this gig . . .

‘When I first heard the product was called Original Sin,’ I begin, taking the floor and doing my best to sound loud, clear and confident, ‘I thought the name was inspired. Yes, a Hollywood theme for this product is terrific . . . but . . . the thing is . . . my ideas were a little bit different. You see, I was thinking . . . how about we go back a little further? Back to Hollywood’s golden era of glamour, to the age of film noir, to women like
Barbara
Stanwyck and Ingrid Bergman. Women who didn’t have access to a fraction of the cosmetic wonders that we have now, but who never looked anything other than fabulous. I’m speaking, of course about the nineteen forties.’

Sophie raises a single eyebrow, à la Roger Moore, which I take to be a good sign. I include the rest of the room, but primarily address the pitch to her. What the hell, at this stage, I’ve nothing to lose.

‘And the launch party itself?’ she asks, impassive as you like.

‘Should be like stepping back into an old film noir. Think gentle, tinkling Cole Porter piano music, cocktails, models wearing pillbox hats with veils, Dior’s New Look.’

‘Hmmm,’ she says, looking at me keenly. ‘And do you have any thoughts about the commercials? As we’re all here to brainstorm.’

OK, just at the mention of the word ‘commercials’, I’m dimly aware that some of the glances I’m getting around the table are starting to become a bit hostile, and I swear I can practically feel what they’re all thinking. I’m an outsourced PR person, brought in to pitch for a product launch, who’s now in danger of getting seriously out of my depth. But the thing is, I do have ideas about this and, well . . . she did ask . . . Figuring what the hell, I’m in this far, I take a deep breath and plunge deeper.

‘Well, I would suggest,’ I begin slowly, trying not to piss off the whole room. ‘That is . . . I think it would be fabulous if all of your commercials were shot entirely in shadowy black and white, with one exception: the pillar-box red of our model’s lipstick and nail varnish.’

Sophie just nods, so I plough on, getting into my stride a bit.

‘One theme I would suggest is “the seven deadly sins”: seven commercials, seven products, broadcast over seven months. The buzzwords would be elegance, old-world style and the cool sophistication of women who never have to try too hard. But, the way I see it, this wouldn’t just be any commercial, it would be a mini-movie, and when it’s broadcast, it’ll be almost an event, just like when Chanel asked Nicole Kidman to advertise their No. 5 perfume, with Paris as the backdrop; except this will be more like a little piece of
Casablanca
. In fact, that movie has very much been a touchstone of mine for this project; I’d suggest Original Sin to evoke an era when femmes were fatale, just like Ingrid Bergman was in that iconic scene where she . . .’

‘Hey, anyone here care to see me do Bogey?’ asks a guy from across the room, doing a pretty decent Humphrey Bogart impression actually, upper lip disappearing into his top teeth and all. Everyone giggles, and I give him a polite but firm ‘I’m touting for work here and fighting for my professional reputation, so
do
you mind shutting up for a minute please?’ look.

‘Sorry,’ he says, grinning cheekily at me. ‘It’s just that
Casablanca
is my desert island all-time favourite film.’

I smile politely and am about to get back to pitching when Sophie suddenly brightens and says, ‘You know what? Mine too. Wasn’t Ingrid Bergman just exquisite?’

Next thing this guy pipes up again, breaking into a full chorus of ‘As Time Goes By’. Then he takes a mock bow as the whole room give him a polite ripple of applause, then stuffs a mocha kiss into his mouth and sits back, arms folded behind his head, grinning.

Oh, OK, I think I know what’s going on here.

There’s one in every company: the office messer. The comedian. You know, the one who reckons that all he need do is put on a one-man show at the Edinburgh Festival to be snapped up by the BBC, given his own sitcom and hailed as the next Ricky Gervais.

‘Everyone thinks that’s the only song in the movie,’ Messer Man goes on, ‘but it’s not. Sam sings “Knock on Wood” too. Now the day will come when you’ll all thank me for sharing that with you. Useless trivia like that comes in very handy at pub quizzes, I’ll have you know.’

More polite laughter, which I barely wait to die down, before I get back to the pitch.

Don’t get me wrong, this guy’s cute: thick unruly dark curls, and black twinkly eyes. Imagine Heathcliff if
he
just fell out of bed and put on the first thing that came to hand. He’s actually the only person in the room wearing jeans and trainers, and seems so laid-back, he’ll probably have his feet up on the boardroom table in a minute and start passing around a six-pack.

But I can’t afford to let the messing get to me, whether Sophie loves or hates my ideas. I need the PR for this gig too badly.

I wrap up, then pass around the budget costings for the launch, along with some suggested venues I was all day yesterday working on, and mentally remind myself to make particular eye-contact with Sophie as I wrap up. She gives me a half-smile as she takes the presentation pack from me, which I interpret as a positive sign. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ is all she says, as the meeting breaks up and everyone scatters to the four winds.

‘Way to go, girl,’ Amanda whispers to me, squeezing my arm encouragingly on her way to the door. ‘That stuff about
Casablanca
. . . pure genius. I could tell the boss loved it. Oh, better escort this one downstairs,’ she says, indicating Posh Spice, who’s packing up her briefcase with a face on her like a bulldog sucking a wasp. ‘Talk to you later, Vicky, and congratulations. Fab, as usual.’

‘Great, thanks.’

The boardroom’s almost completely cleared out by now, and I’m just packing up my stuff when Messer
Man
saunters back over, like he’s all the time in the world. The only person in the room who’s in absolutely no rush whatsoever to get back to work.

‘So are you a black-and-white movie buff then?’ he asks, arms folded, twinkling down at me, taller than I’d have guessed.

‘Definitely,’ I say, a helluva lot more relaxed now that it’s all over bar the shouting, so to speak.

‘Did you know
Casablanca
started out as a stage play?’ he asks, plonking himself down on the boardroom table, one leg crossed over another. No kidding, if this guy was any more laid-back, he’d probably be dead.

‘You’re kidding, really?’

‘Hand on heart. Called
Everybody Comes To Rick
’s. “Now not a lot of people know that.”’

‘You do a great Humphrey Bogart.’

‘Eh, thanks, but that was actually Michael Caine, that time. “You’re only supposed to blow the bloody doors off.” Go on, name that movie.’

‘Ehh . . . oh hang on, I know this. Yes, got it,
The Italian Job
.’

‘Well done, you know your stuff. I’m impressed.’

‘Not really, I just have two brothers who make me watch that film every Christmas.’

‘I’m told I do a mean Sean Connery as well, do you want to hear it?’

‘Fire ahead.’

‘It’s better if you close your eyes.’

‘What?’

‘Trust me.’ I do as I’m told, half-exasperated, half-grinning and half-wondering if anyone in Best’s gets anything done with this messer around. Mind you, he does fit in beautifully with the company ethos: be good-looking, and at all times have a laugh.

‘“Now, now, Moneypenny, I’d offer to take you to dinner, only I’d probably get court-marshalled for interfering with government property.”’

‘Fabulous. I’d have sworn there was a Scotsman in the room with us, and I’m only amazed you’re not in a kilt.’

I give him a round of applause and he grins, then I half-glance at my watch. Not being rude or anything, but I really have to get back to my office.

‘You’re rushing?’ he says.

Shit, I thought I looked at the watch subtly.

‘Yeah, you know yourself. Mad morning ahead. I have to get back to work, sit by the phone and then pray very, very hard that somehow, miraculously, I land this contract.’

I badly want to ask him whether I overstepped the mark in the meeting, but my instinct tells me it’s probably not a good idea to ask the office messer. Chances are he may not even have been awake for half of it. He nods and twinkles down at me.

‘OK, well, here’s my card. I’m sure we’ll be in
touch
with you very soon. Great ideas, by the way.’

‘Thanks for the encouragement, but I’ll be starting a novena the minute I get into my car. Nothing like hedging your bets, is there?’

‘Don’t forget these,’ he says, handing me my oversized bag of Choca-Mocha kisses as he walks me to the lift. Well, I stride and he ambles would be nearer the mark.

‘Freebies and celebrities,’ he says, pressing the lift button for me. ‘The twin pillars of the advertising industry. Fond of chocolate, then, are you?’

‘It’s the single girl’s best friend. Are you a betting man?’

‘Only on monumentally important stuff. You know, like who’ll be the first housemate evicted from
Big Brother
, or how long celebrity marriages will last, that kind of thing. What, are you suggesting that I’m some kind of timewaster?’

He grins and I notice he has the cutest dimple under his chin, like one of the Douglases, Michael maybe, or the dad who played Spartacus.

‘Well, you see this pack?’ I say, waving the bag of kisses under his nose, mock-threateningly. ‘I can confidently bet you, that by the time I hear back about this contract, I’ll have worked my way through the whole thing. A sugar high is the best recipe in the world for beating stress, in my book. If I do land this gig, I’ll probably be four stone heavier next time you see me.’

He laughs. The lift doors open and I hop in and make a ‘fingers crossed’ gesture. Just as the door is gliding shut he says, ‘It was lovely to meet you. I’m Daniel, by the way. In case you didn’t catch my name.’

‘Nice to meet you too, Daniel.’

The lift glides down and I roll my eyes, thinking, yes, he’s sweet, yes he’s a laugh and no, he’s not married. (No ring, I checked; I
always
check.) But I know right well that if I worked with someone like that, I’d never get anything done. Fellas like that are just too much of a distraction.

I get back to the security of my car and check myself for dribbly mascara in the mirror and it’s then that I make two horrifying discoveries: a) All around the edge of my mouth is the remains of the Choca-Mocha kiss I wolfed down before the meeting, so as I was pitching and doing my best to come over all businesslike and assertive, I must have looked like the girl who ate all the pies, but that’s nothing to point b).

It’s only as I’m putting Messer Man’s card into my wallet that I get a look at his full name and title.

There it is, in dirty big black-and-white italics.

DANIEL BEST

CHAIRMAN AND MANAGING DIRECTOR

BEST ADVERTISING AGENCY

Chapter Eight

GOD BLESS GOOGLE
, that’s all I can say. It really is the single girl’s best friend. I mean, I just don’t know what any self-respecting desperado like myself did before it came along, short of hiring private detectives to get the ‘911’ on a guy. (Excuse the Americanism; I watch a lot of crime dramas in the
Law and Order
vein.)

OK, so it may not give the really vital information we all need about guys, you know, like star sign, annual income or marital status, but you’d really be amazed at some of the things you can pick up. The minute I get back into my office, I switch on my computer and look him up.

Yes, bingo, there he is in glorious Technicolor, and I’m not messing, there’s only about forty entries.

DANIEL BEST, BEST ADVERTISING, CHANCERY ST. Cutting edge advertising agency, founded in 1998,
winner
of the 2007 IMA creative award for excellence . . . company annual turnover well in excess of twenty-five million (WHAT!!!) . . . extensive client list including Guinness, blah, blah, blah . . .