The Importance of Being Married (20 page)

“Hard work and getting prostitutes to do you favors,” I said, smiling with what I hoped was a mischievous glint in my eyes.

“Getting prostitutes to do us what?” Max’s eyes widened. “There were no prostitutes doing any favors as far as I knew.”

“No, not you. The guy who was going to sue you.” I rolled my eyes. “Anthony told me all about it.”

“He did,” Max said. “Well, then, he might also have told you, it turned out the girl got it wrong. That we discovered she was talking about someone else. And that the meeting we had with the right man subsequently was one of the low points of Milton Advertising’s existence.”

I frowned. “He didn’t say that, no.”

“Well, he wouldn’t have, because it rather ruins a good story,” Max said, rolling his eyes. “But let’s not digress. I think you were about to talk to me about the research and concept for Project Handbag.”

“I was?”

“Yes, you were. So?”

“So,” I said, realizing crossly that none of Ivana’s tactics was going to work on Max. “So, I suppose I’ve been looking at the concept in the round, really. You know, thinking through the implications to the research…”

“In the round.” Max looked skeptical.

“Yes,” I said defensively, “I mean that I’ve been considering the wider angles. You know, thinking through the key issues.”

“And they are?”

I shifted awkwardly on my chair and took off my cardigan. I suddenly really needed to pee again.

“They are the key elements in this campaign,” I said tentatively.

“I was hoping for a little more detail.” Max’s eyes were narrowing; I could see the frustration in his expression.

“Detail?” I crossed my legs. “What sort of detail?”

Max stood up. “Okay, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I do know that we’re getting nowhere. How about I tell you what I think the issues are, and you tell me if you agree?”

“Good idea,” I said, biting my lip and trying to stay focused on what he was saying.

“Okay,” Max said, his face suddenly serious. “So, we need to get some thorough research done. Desk-based, but also maybe a focus group or two. We need to be clear what the proportion of spend should be on print advertising as opposed to web advertising; whether we’re aiming at direct results or brand awareness; the parameters of the logo; and anticipated take-up…” As Max talked, I found myself counting to ten over and over again, hoping it would make the time pass more quickly.

“…The key is to get people to sign up, right?” he concluded eventually. I nodded uncertainly; my forehead was now covered in small droplets of sweat.

“Right,” I said, uncrossing my legs then crossing them again. I realized I hadn’t opened my notebook, so I picked it up and started to write in it but for some strange reason I appeared to have two right hands writing two different things. Realizing that I was also apparently unable to write in a straight line, I carefully put my pen down again. “Yes. Getting them to sign up.”

“So we need to consider when to advertise in the glossies and how best to reach potential clients post-launch to generate interest,” Max continued, frowning slightly. “Direct mail, sponsorship, that kind of thing. Then we need to work out a strategy for engaging the trade press over the same timescale—we need financial advisers to recommend the fund to their clients, don’t you think?”

I nodded weakly. My pelvic floor muscles were working overtime.

“Good,” Max continued. He evidently wasn’t finished yet, I realized with a thud of disappointment. “So…”

Several minutes later, he stopped and looked at me expectantly. I nodded brightly, having no idea what he’d been talking about—it had taken every bit of my brain power to concentrate on holding out until I got to the bathroom. “Okay, then,” I said. “Well, if that just about wraps things up, I’d better get on with it.”

“What, now?”

“No time like the present. When did you say Chester’s coming in to hear about this stuff?”

“Not next Monday but the one after,” Max said. “You’ve got it in your diary, right? Because this is going to be a very important meeting.”

“Well, then, I’d better crack on,” I said, smiling and clenching my fists.

Max looked at me levelly. “Are you sure everything is okay? You’re acting very oddly,” he said.

“No I’m not,” I said slightly defensively. “I’m just being a bit less serious, that’s all. A little less boring. Life is for living, Max.”

“Life is for living. That’s your new mantra?”

I nodded. “It’s the new me.”

“I think I prefer the old you,” he said flatly.

“Well, that’s your prerogative. But actually it’s nothing to do with you. And as for Project Handbag, it’s perfectly under control,” I assured him, little beads of sweat trickling down the back of my neck. If I didn’t get to the bathroom soon, I was going to lose control completely. “Work is all very well, but it’s also important to have fun, Max. Very important indeed.”

“Fun is overrated in my opinion,” Max said, his eyes narrowing. “So you’ll let me know if you need any help?”

I nodded.

“And remember, we don’t have much time.”

“Will do,” I promised as I half walked, half ran out of his room. “I’ll get it done super-quick.”

He followed me to the door.

“Oh, and Jess?” he called after me. I was so close to the bathroom I could almost touch it, but I forced myself to turn around and smile.

“Yes, Max?”

“I think you meant you’ll get it done super-quickly, didn’t you?” he said, a wry little smile playing on his lips. “Grammar, you see. It’s very important.”

Chapter 14

PROJECT: MARRIAGE DAY 10

To do

1. Headache pills. Water. More headache pills.

2. Never be boring again. Fun is your new middle name…

3. Remember, successful people don’t work that hard. Or something like that…

When I woke up the next day with a terrible headache it felt like aliens had moved into my head overnight, taking out my brain and replacing it with a heavy iron machine with nails sticking out of it that pressed into my skull. I’d been too drunk to eat when I got home, and my stomach felt like it was concaving inward; a quick look in the mirror revealed a pallid complexion that suggested I’d been underground for several months. I could barely remember the day before. I remembered having lunch with Anthony—remembered asking questions and watching his eyes light up, remembered feeling little twinges of excitement zip around my body as his eyes twinkled at me, mischievously. But after that my mind drew a bit of a blank. I vaguely remembered having a meeting with Max—although not what the meeting was about or what we discussed. I remembered (vaguely) getting home, remembered Helen whooping when I told her about lunch, remembered clambering into bed…and that was about it.

“You can’t go in,” Helen said firmly. “You look awful.”

“I have to go in,” I croaked. I wanted to go in. I wanted to see Anthony, wanted him to grin at me again.

“But you’re sick.”

“Hungover isn’t sick.”

“Even your hair looks tired.”

“It is tired.” I sighed. “But you can do your magic, can’t you?”

“You mean perform a miracle? Look, don’t go in. Pull a sickie.”

“I have to go in. I want to.”

We continued this circular conversation for forty minutes or so, during which I managed to have a shower, drink two cups of coffee, eat a bowl of milk-drenched Weetabix that seemed to avert the worst of my stomach cramps, swallow slightly more than the recommended dose of paracetamol, and put some makeup on. Actually, Helen did the makeup; my hands were shaking too much.

“Did I tell you about my lunch with Anthony?” I asked her as she brushed concealer under my eyes.

“Several times, yes.”

“Did I tell you that he said I had hidden depths?”

“I think you might have mentioned it, yes.” Helen smiled. “Although you weren’t terribly coherent. I’ve never seen you so pissed. Actually, I’ve never seen you pissed.”

“And I had a cigarette,” I said proudly.

“You said you had two drags and had to put it out.”

I shrugged. “Same thing. The point is to try things. Anthony said that if you don’t try new things, you get nowhere.”

“Interesting. I’d never have thought of that myself.”

I giggled, then moaned as my head hurt. “We had two bottles of wine.”

“Okay, I’m done. And you’re really sure you have to go in?”

“Definitely,” I said, nodding firmly.

“Fine,” Helen relented. “At least you look vaguely human now.”

I managed a little smile and left the flat, tossing my hair then regretting it when my head started pounding. An hour later, having gotten on the wrong tube twice, I finally arrived at work.

Max wandered over as soon as I’d sat down, and I looked up at him unenthusiastically.

“I had another thought,” he said immediately, forgoing such niceties as
Good morning,
to which I would have replied,
No, it isn’t.
It was so typical Max, I found myself thinking. So serious all the time.

“Did you?” I asked, switching on my computer.

“About the research. We need to know the percentage of women with earnings of fifty-thousand-plus pounds a year. Jarvis may already have some figures. But it would also be nice to know the big hitters, too. Women earning over five hundred thousand. It could make some good PR—these are the women that others aspire to be, that kind of thing.”