Hotel Pastis (10 page)

He shepherded the group down the corridor, past secretaries bowed diligently over their keyboards, and into the sombre luxury of the main conference room, windowless, thickly carpeted, silent except for the ruffle of air conditioning. The agency team rose from their chairs around the large oval table as the herd of clients filed in. Names and titles were exchanged and promptly forgotten in a flurry of introductions, attaché cases snapped open in a brisk fusillade, notepads adjusted, orders taken for coffee and tea and mineral water. The senior Rubber Baron accepted a cigar, and Simon stood
up to deliver the preliminary patter that he had delivered a thousand times before.

“Let me start by saying how delighted we are to have the opportunity to make this presentation.” The senior Rubber Baron studied his cigar while his colleagues avoided any chance of eye contact by gazing intently at their blank notepads. “I think you already know, from the material we’ve sent you, that the agency has a consistent record of producing highly visible and effective work across a broad range of products and services. I must say, however, that your business has a special interest for all of us.”

Simon paused and smiled at seven impassive faces. “After all,” he said, “it’s not often we get the chance to work on a product that is so close to every man’s heart.”

Not a flicker from the impassive faces. This was going to be like digging a ditch with a teaspoon. The senior Rubber Baron seemed to be fascinated by the conference room ceiling, and the rest of them continued their communion with their notepads.

While Simon continued his efforts to inject some enthusiasm into his recitation of the agency’s specialised and perceptive methods of problem analysis, he was making an assessment of the degree of attention that was being paid to what he was saying. Years of experience had taught him to gauge the mood of his audience, and this one could have had anaesthetic for lunch. If they had to sit through an hour of research findings and media planning, they’d be so deeply tranquillised that someone would have to set fire to their trousers to wake them up. He decided to alter the prearranged order of the presentation.

“Normally,” he said, “we’d take you through the research and the thinking that led us to our creative recommendations.
But today we’re not going to do that.” The research director, a man who relished his spot in the limelight on these occasions, looked up from his notes with a frown. Simon saw his mouth begin to open and hurried on. “Today, we’re going to go straight into the campaign.” The creative director stopped doodling on his pad and sent agitated signals to Simon with his eyebrows.

“We’re doing this for two reasons. First, so that you can see the campaign as the consumer will see it: no demographic breakdowns, no statistical analysis, no marketing forecasts; just the advertising. And the second reason—” Simon directed a look of enthusiastic sincerity at the senior Rubber Baron, who inclined his head graciously—“well, the second reason is that we believe this is one of the most appropriate and exciting campaigns this agency has ever produced. And frankly, we can’t wait to get your reaction to it.” Simon glanced round the table, and two or three heads rose briefly from their notepads. Thank God they hadn’t dropped off yet.

“There’ll be plenty of time for questions after you’ve seen the work, and of course we’ve summarised the presentation in a document for you to take away.” Simon tapped the pile of bulky, spiral-bound tomes on the table in front of him and hoped that the creative director had had time to recover from his surprise. “So now, I’d like to ask David Fry, our creative director, to show you what we believe to be an extraordinarily powerful idea. David?”

Bottoms were adjusted on chairs, and the attention of the meeting turned to focus on the slight figure in the baggy but clearly expensive suit at the other end of the conference table.

David Fry, a little too old to be wearing his hair in a ponytail, hunched his shoulders as he leaned forward, raising the upholstery in his jacket to just below ear
level, his eyes bright with enthusiasm and the residual effects of an earlier hurried snort in the executive washroom. The product of an ordinary middle-class upbringing and a private education, he had spent many years trying to eradicate all traces of his comfortable background and cultivate what he liked to call “street edge.” He had a fondness for vernacular that was often obsolete by the time he overheard it in the Groucho Club, but nevertheless he managed to give the impression that he was a deprived South London boy made good. His idols were the Cockney photographers and actors, and Nigel Kennedy was his main man in classical music.

He adjusted his round, wire-rimmed glasses and addressed the Rubber Barons. “I’ve got to tell you,” he said, “this wasn’t an easy one. What you’ve got here is two problems. You’ve got your product image—slot machines in toilets, packet of three for the weekend, that sort of thing—and then you’ve got the practical side. Product use.” He paused and shrugged his suit. “It’s all systems go, and then it’s hang about for a minute while you do the business. Know what I mean?”

Simon looked down the table. The Rubber Barons were keeping their eyes glued to their notepads.

Fry stood up and eased his thin shoulders under their pillows. “But it’s not all bad news, because we’ve got a couple of things going for us.” He picked up a chart from the table and displayed it to his audience. The Rubber Barons started to pay attention. Charts they liked. Charts were serious.

“Now then,” said Fry, and pointed to the first item, printed in bright red block capitals:
RECOMMENDED BY THE MEDICAL PROFESSION
. “Doctors love us, right?”

His finger moved to item two:
SOCIALLY RESPONSIBLE
. “What does that mean? It means that we’re doing our bit to stop sixteen-year-olds getting in the club.

“And—very important nowadays—the health bit.” The third item read:
PROTECTION AGAINST SEXUALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASES
. “We all know it’s a nasty old world. Say no more on that one.”

Fry put down the chart, and the clients resumed their study of the notepads. He went on, talking quickly, fidgeting inside his suit. “That’s all well and good, but it’s not enough. And you know why?” Nobody volunteered an answer. Fry nodded, as though their reaction was exactly what he had anticipated. “It’s boring. B-o-r-i-n-g. It’s safety, it’s do what the doctor tells you, it’s got about as much sex appeal as a laxative.” He paused for emphasis, and spread his words. “A. Total. Turnoff.” He shook his head, and his ponytail wagged agreement with him. “It’s got nothing to do with what you should be selling. Nothing.”

There was a brief silence to allow the Rubber Barons a chance to reflect on this criticism of their contribution to society.

“What you should be selling,” said Fry, “is the most popular commodity in the history of the world.”

Another silence. Simon could imagine the thoughts going through the collective client brain. Is this maniac suggesting that we re-equip our factories, cancel our latex orders, abandon our impressive quality control systems, 99.9 percent effective except for Friday afternoons?

“But don’t panic. We’re not suggesting you should change this.” Fry produced a foil-wrapped condom from his pocket and placed it, with suitable reverence, on the table. “What we are suggesting is this: Change. The Way. You Sell It.”

The Rubber Barons gazed intently at the condom on the table, as if waiting for it to do something.

Fry leaned forward and placed his hands either side
of it. “The most popular commodity in the history of the world,” he repeated. “Know what it is? It’s love! The irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired! The cosmic tickle! And this—” he picked up the condom and gave it a fond nod of his head—“this is part of it.” He mopped his nose with a silk handkerchief. Either the emotion of the moment or cocaine was causing a plumbing problem in his nasal passages.

“What we’re going to do,” he went on, “is to change the condom’s positioning in terms of product usage. We’re not going to rabbit on about health and safety and doctor’s orders—all the kids know about that already, and they’re not buying it. No, we’re going to make the condom an integral, essential, very, very romantic—yes,
romantic
—part of the old warm-up.”

He noticed a puzzled expression on the face of one of the older clients. “You know. Foreplay.”

“Ah,” said the client.

“And this, gentlemen, is how we’re going to do it. But before I show you, try to imagine this scenario.” Fry lowered his voice. “You’re at the movies, right? By your side is a very tasty young lady you’ve had your eye on for weeks. Tonight’s your big chance. You’ve got your arm round her, within striking distance of her Bristols. This. Could. Be. It.”

Simon glanced sideways at the senior Rubber Baron and wondered when he’d last been in the circumstances which Fry was describing with such breathy excitement.

With a wave of his arm, Fry commanded the room lights to be dimmed. “You’re all set,” he said in the darkness. “And then—wallop!—this comes on the screen.”

The projection screen, four times TV size, turned bright white, and Fry’s silhouette, ponytail bobbing in anticipation, hovered at one side. There was a subdued
hiss of static, and an image appeared on the screen—a young couple, apparently naked, artfully lit, copiously oiled, glistened together on a bed. From the speakers hidden in the walls around the room came a low thump of bass and the howl of a guitar. And then, as Fry’s silhouette jerked in time to the beat and the oily couple slithered on the sheets, came a moan of youthful concupiscence:

The young couple on the screen did their best, within the limits of media propriety, to simulate spontaneous passion. The director had been careful with his sliding pans and cuts, avoiding full exposure of the female bosom—nipples, in Fry’s words, were a total no-no—or any hint, however shady, of pubic hair.

The film cut to a close-up of a female hand delicately extracting a condom from its wrapper, which had been decorated by the agency art department with the Condom Marketing Board’s graphically friendly logo.

—cut to closed eyes, moist lips, shining flesh—

Fry’s shadow capered by the side of the screen, knees jerking, ponytail in a frenzy of agitation, as the singer sighed and oohed and the young couple continued their precisely choreographed writhing. With a final, long-drawn-out gasp of passion spent, the screen went black, and a tasteful title, reversed out in white, beseeched the audience to Get It On, compliments of the Condom Marketing Board.

The lights went up, and the agency team inspected the client team’s face for reactions—a hint of approval, a nod, an expression of shock, anything. As one, the seven Rubber Barons lowered their heads and made notes on their pads. Apart from that, nothing.

Fry plunged into the vacuum of silence. “Killer track, isn’t it? Brilliant. It’s an old classic, of course. But, I mean, so fantastically right for today, and in the cinema, with Dolby, well, it’s going to knock their socks off. That’s your market, cinema and MTV. And everything else ties in—posters, point of sale, radio, T-shirts—can we have the slides, please, Terry?”

For ten minutes, Fry took his mute audience through the supporting material, from radio commercials to redesigned dispensing machines for pubs and service stations and T-shirts—“You’ve each got one to take away”—and then, with the volume up a couple of notches, there was a second screening of the commercial.

Fry blew his nose and sat down, and silence descended again on the conference room.

Simon leaned over to the senior Rubber Baron. “First impressions?”

The senior Rubber Baron took a considered puff of his cigar and looked down the table towards the most junior member of the Condom Marketing Board, a young man who had taken over the mantle of Hygienic
Supplies (Basingstoke) Ltd. from his father. In the time-honoured way of these things, comments were delivered in reverse order of eminence, so that the top man could assess the mood of his minions before committing himself to anything approaching an opinion. “Brian, would you like to kick off?”

Brian cleared his throat and shuffled his notes. “Yes. Well. I must say that the agency has come up with a very … ah … striking approach. Very striking. Obviously, I have one or two questions—indeed, a couple of reservations—and it might be premature to express a final judgment without seeing the detailed background which I understand is contained in the presentation document.” He paused for breath.

Here we go again, thought Simon. Why don’t the bastards ever say what they really think? He kept his voice bright and sympathetic. “I’m sure you’ll find we’ve covered just about everything, but it would be most interesting to hear your reactions to the advertising.”

“Yes. Quite.” Brian searched in his notes for an exit line that would maintain his position on the fence. It wouldn’t do to be the odd man out when the committee’s decision was made. Balance, that was the thing—balance and a line of escape in case the majority vote went against the agency. Committees, like boats, shouldn’t be rocked. Consensus was the key. Hygienic Supplies (Basingstoke) should be a team player. “Well, as I said, a striking approach, and I shall be fascinated to see from the document how the agency arrived at it.” Brian took off his glasses and polished them with brisk, decisive movements.

And so it went on up the ladder of corporate importance, more than two hours of tap-dancing, faint praise laced with cautious qualifications. Simon had to make a
conscious effort not to yawn. Why was it always the same? An immediate no would almost be better than this interminable cud-chewing; at least the meetings would be shorter. But he smiled and nodded and appeared attentive and said of course when the senior Rubber Baron told him that the committee would have to go away and consider the agency’s proposals in detail—and what interesting proposals they were too, deserving of many another meeting back at Rubber House—before making a decision of this importance, and, well … yes. The same old vapid and inconclusive waffle.