Getting Even (2 page)

“Oh, Orianna, hi.” It was Esme, the production assistant. “I know you're about to leave, so I'm sorry to bother you.”

She was a good deal younger than Orianna and she sounded anxious. Orianna's heart went out to her. “It's OK. What's the matter?”

“I wondered what time you think you'll be back.”

“Midday-ish, I guess.”

“It's only an urgent brief's come in…”

Orianna's heart sank.

“On
Burroso
, the olive oil spread, and I was hoping you and Ivy would have the chance to take a look at it.”

Orianna was drained. She'd been planning to take it easier for the rest of the day—catch up on some admin. She was sure Ivy wouldn't relish the prospect either. Yet she liked Esme and wanted to help. “When's it needed by?”

Esme hesitated. “Tomorrow, first thing.”

“What is it?”

“The July mailer.”

“Ah, yes.” Compared to a pitch, this was simple. Orianna and Ivy knew the brand inside out—they should be able to sort it fast. And she was still basking in the glow of that morning's lovemaking with Dan, so well-disposed toward the world. “We'll look at it when we're back.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” It would mean working through lunch again. But tonight she was going out with Dan and Rob—at least
then
she'd have the chance to unwind.

*   *   *

“Taxi's here,” said Clare.

Damn, thought Ivy, I could do with a coffee. Oh well, we're bound to be offered one by the client. She pulled on her coat again, picked up her bag, and followed Orianna and Clare into the elevator and out of the building.

But when they entered the meeting room at Bellings Scott Inc., Ivy was dismayed to see that there were four clients sitting around a large glass-topped table, and all of them appeared to be drinking
That Sunshine Feeling
. Not a drop of coffee in sight.

Bugger! she thought, scanning the room.

They sat down; Clare at the head of the table—as the new business director it was her role to take the lead—Ivy and Orianna together so they could present their creative work in tandem.

“Have a glass of our finest?” offered the guy nearest to them, holding out a jug of near-luminous orange liquid. The other three clients smiled and nodded, as if
That Sunshine Feeling
were the best thing on earth.

Creeps, thought Ivy.

“Yes, please,” said Orianna. She gently pressed her foot against Ivy's to signal she should follow her lead.

“Thanks,” muttered Ivy.

Clare opened the meeting with an introduction to Green Integrated. As she did so, Ivy, who'd heard the spiel before, found herself contemplating how Clare's mouse-like appearance belied her tenacity. Once Clare got her claws into a new business prospect she was ferocious in her pursuit; she was one of Green's greatest assets, the only woman on the board. Then, as Clare recapped on the brief, Ivy couldn't resist the temptation to typecast each client. It was a game she often played to amuse herself in presentations. The one who'd served their drinks was an East End barrow boy (wider than wide). There was a used-car dealer (fat, balding, probably the boss). Next to him, a department store assistant (a dire case of mutton-dressed-as-lamb), and finally the token female totty (a frizzy-haired twentysomething).

At last it was time to present the creative work. Orianna rose to her feet.

“I'm not surprised you're all drinking
That Sunshine Feeling
this morning.” She beamed. “Because as Ivy and I discovered when we began working on the brand, it really gets you going first thing.”

You liar, thought Ivy. She and Orianna had agreed it was revolting—way too sweet, watery and, according to the list of ingredients, full of preservatives. Still, Ivy had to admire her colleague's diplomacy.

Orianna continued. “Talking of ‘getting going' set us thinking—what is the most obvious symbol of stopping and starting, getting going?”

The clients shook their heads, clueless.

“Traffic lights,” said Orianna, as if there was no question.

They all nodded.

She turned to Barrow Boy. “And what's your product made of?”

“Fruit.”

Doh! thought Ivy.

Orianna was more patient. “What kind of fruit?”

“Oranges,” he said.

Not that you can taste them, thought Ivy.

Orianna turned to Used-Car Salesman. “And, I know it may seem obvious, but what color's your product?”

“Orange.”

“And traffic lights?” she turned to Mutton-Dressed-As-Lamb. “What color are they?”

“Orange,” she said obediently.

What, all three lights? protested Ivy silently.

But Orianna had them eating out of her hand. “Exactly. Red,
orange,
and green.”

Credit where it's due, acknowledged Ivy. Orianna's a wow at presentations. I might have come up with the overall concept, but when it comes to talking others through an idea, Orianna is in a class of her own. Her enthusiasm is infectious, her open and friendly manner a real advantage. That she's so damn sweet looking with those wide brown eyes does no harm either …

Orianna coughed.

Ivy, prompted, got to her feet. She picked up the first board from the stack she had propped against the legs of her chair and flipped it around. It was a plain piece of card, covered in an amber-colored paper.

“We thought we'd
own
orange,” she explained. “But not just any old orange—that's been done before, as I'm sure you all appreciate.” She smiled.
Or perhaps the mobile phone company passed you all by
. “No, we'll own the orange of traffic lights. The orange that says, ‘Get ready to go.'” She reached for the second board and pointed at the image of traffic lights with a large orange in the center. “So the amber light becomes our icon. And to go with it, our copy line…” She read from the caption, “‘Get up and go with
That Sunshine Feeling
!'” She stopped and waited for them to take it in, then elaborated. “But that's not all. We don't want to just own orange. We don't want to just own ‘get up and go.' We want to own
the entire journey to work.
”

Now it was back to Orianna. “And this is where we really begin to have fun,” she said, hauling a third, larger board from the floor onto the table. “We have orange buses. Ads at traffic lights. Bus stops. Subway cards. Cross tracks…”

“Ads in the morning papers,” interjected Ivy, showing a fourth board. “And not just ads but promotions and competitions on breakfast radio shows. We could sponsor the weather…”

Orianna raised a fifth board. “‘Come rain or shine—get up and go with
That Sunshine Feeling
!' Traffic reports: ‘When you're in a jam—get up and go with
That Sunshine Feeling
!' Or come to that, mailers that arrive in the post before you've even left for work.”

But as she was about to reach for their final piece …

“And what happens when we introduce a lime version of
That Sunshine Feeling
later this year?” interrupted Used-Car Salesman.

Ivy was stumped. Typical bloody clients, she thought, throwing a wrench in the works. They probably withheld this information deliberately.

“So, you're planning on a lime flavor?” asked Orianna lightly.

“Not
planning
,” said Used-Car Salesman. “It's a definite go.”

“When?”

“September,” he said. Ivy could swear he sounded smug.

“We could always run this campaign before that,” suggested Clare.

Yet Ivy knew they'd be hard-pressed to get everything produced by then—it was only three months away. In a flash it came to her. “I see no problem with a lime version,” she said, struggling not to sound smug in return.

“You don't?”

“No. We use the amber for the orange drink. Green for the lime. Green means go, after all.”

Orianna added, “It would just be a simple alteration to the visual. We put a giant lime instead of the green light.”

“Easy,” said Ivy.

“And cheap,” said Orianna.

They were good at this: swiftly gauging the client's mind-set. Ivy looked directly at Used-Car-Salesman, held his gaze. Slowly he started nodding. “Hmm … Fair enough. I'll buy that.”

“So, moving on,” said Ivy, thinking,
phew, what a near miss.
“Here's our final item, which we've executed for this orange flavor, but in fact—now that we're talking about it—would work equally well with lime.” She reached for a large yellow envelope and handed it to the frizzy-haired girl, aware she was the only client who hadn't yet been involved specifically in the presentation. Ivy read out the line on the outside: “‘Don't be a lemon.'” She paused while the girl removed the contents. Inside was what looked like an enormous birthday card. The girl opened it and—
ping!
—out popped a giant cutout orange on a spring.

“Brilliant!” said Frizzy.

“‘Spring into action,'” Orianna concluded. “‘Get up and go with
That Sunshine Feeling
!'”

“Nice.” Mutton-Dressed-As-Lamb nodded.

“Let's have a look,” said Barrow Boy, snatching.

“Me first,” said Used-Car Salesman, evidently pulling rank. He pinged open the mailer again. “I love it!” he said. Seconds later, “I love it all.”

Orianna glanced at Ivy, jubilant. Ivy gave her a surreptitious wink.

If my instinct is right, we've won the business, thought Ivy. Clare's presentation might have warmed the clients up, but ultimately it was our quick thinking and creativity that cracked it. What a great team we are.

 

2. Embrace together

Back at their partitioned section of the office later that morning, Orianna and Ivy were midway through the
Burroso
mailing, when Ivy said, “You all right if I go out at lunch? I wasn't expecting this brief and I've got an appointment.”

“Of course.” It was hardly up to Orianna to object. “Doing anything nice?”

“Going to the gym.”

“The gym?!”

“Yup.” Ivy nodded. “I'm seeing that personal trainer guy—Rob something-or-other. The chap Dan goes to, you know.”

Orianna felt herself flush at the mention of Dan's name and tried to control it. “Let me get this straight.
You're
going to see Rob?”

“Indeed I am. Thought it was time for a new regimen. It being well into spring and all.”

“But you don't need to,” said Orianna. “You're thin enough as it is. And you've already got a man.”

“It's not about being thin,” Ivy corrected. “It's about being
toned
. And as for having a man, it's even more reason to take care of myself. Ensure he doesn't wander into pastures new.”

Orianna wasn't convinced; Ivy's husband, Ed, hardly appeared the wandering type. “
Everyone's
going to the gym. You were my last hope. Pretty soon I won't have anyone left to go shopping with at lunchtime.”

“Darling Orianna. Panic not. I am the woman for whom the term
shopaholic
was invented. I will
never
abandon retail therapy.” A consummate mimic, Ivy put on her
Ab Fab
voice. “It's just we'll have to cut back a little, sweetie; go maybe three times a week, not five.”

Orianna was consoled. “What time are you meeting him?”

“I've got a few minutes.”

“Better crack this concept then.” Orianna refocused on her layout pad. Thanks to the natural goodness of its Mediterranean ingredients,
Burruso
purported to be an elixir of youth. Now they'd been asked to produce a piece of direct mail designed to woo consumers who preferred to eat butter.

Olive groves, Italy … It came to Orianna at once. “I know! Let's give them the chance to win a trip to the Med. Something about leaving it all behind…”

Ivy was quick to sharpen up the line. “You mean like ‘Take a holiday from butter'?”

Orianna clapped her hands. “Perfect! And we could send them coupons too—that would encourage people to switch.”

“Nice one. There's nothing like the old escape-from-your-mundane-life incentive to get all those suburban housewives hurrying along to the supermarket. That's it. Job done.” Ivy got to her feet, and with a swish of designer raincoat, was gone.

*   *   *

Rob wasn't sure what to expect of Ivy. She'd phoned and said she'd noticed a transformation in Dan Cohen recently, so Dan had given her his name, but this, and that she worked at Green Integrated, was all Rob knew. He was hoping, however, that if she was a close colleague of Dan's, she'd be able to shed light on his availability. Rob thought Dan was
probably
straight, but wasn't 100 percent certain. And even if he was, Rob hoped he might be converted. He'd converted a few straight men before, if only short-term—Chloë used to joke that it was his speciality. But sometimes he wondered if it was really because he feared commitment, and his love life would be more rewarding if he went for more available guys.

Ivy was sitting on the sofa in reception, waiting. He guessed which one she was at once. Long, straight red hair with subtle blond streaks that appeared expensively dyed, scarlet lipstick, emerald eyes with a dash of expertly applied eyeliner—she had Agency Type written all over her. And unless he was mistaken, she was a creative. In a sharply cut, mint-green raincoat, suede hipster trousers, and an exquisite pair of strappy beaded sandals, she was more luxuriously dressed than most of his other creative clients, but her style was a tad too eclectic for her to be an account handler.

“Ivy?”