Fire in the Firefly (6 page)

“You find this funny?”

Roebuck waves a hand toward the chair, wheezing still. “Daniel, sit down. Please.” He thumps himself on the sternum. “I don't think I've laughed like that since … Alison's! She chose Alison's. A client!”

“That's what I wanted to tell you when I called. She's not a client. Not anymore. Well, she's almost not a client.” Greenwood seems eager to transition over into indignation.

“Clearly …” says Roebuck, reining it in. “Clearly there's a story here. Daniel, honestly, sit down. You know the old song, ‘Alison's Restaurant?' ” Roebuck clears his throat and tries to sing: “… you can get anything you want, at Alison's Restaurant …”

“It's Alice's Restaurant,” says Greenwood primly, “not Alison's. We learned it at camp.”

“You know, I think you're right. Maybe there was a copyright issue. Anyhow, Alison's is known—or should I say the restrooms at Alison's are known—among certain clientele as being deliberately conducive to … ah … well, what I gather you've experienced during your lunch … with a prospective
client
.”

“She's not a prospective client! That's what I've been trying to say!”

“Let's begin there. How is a client not a client, prospective or otherwise?”

“When she submits her resignation. Or at least, when she submits the resignation she has written and is ready to print and hand in this afternoon.”

“An employee in body, as it were, but not in spirit …” Greenwood is up on his feet again before Roebuck can prevent him. “Oh, lighten up, Daniel! I'm just jealous. So you're telling me Zhanna Lamb is no longer product manager at Artemis?”

“She told me she intended to deliver her letter of resignation immediately following our lunch.”

This last statement, delivered deadpan, almost does Roebuck in again. “Some people call their attorneys before making big career moves. Others need a drink. Our Zhanna Lamb bonks clients in the john.” Greenwood glowers, and Roebuck makes a show of studying his watch. “Speaking of drinks,” he says, “this is not the kind of conversation properly suited to the workplace. Let's take it downstairs.” He aims an accusative finger. “You didn't have too much to drink, did you? How many martinis? That
would
be serious. Lechers I can live with, but drunks I won't tolerate. I'm joking, Daniel, relax. Oysters, though,” he says after a pause, “generally do require something to wash them down.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about this place.”

“Today, Daniel, you are the storyteller. I am the audience.”

A pint of Guinness in him and halfway down his second, Greenwood is warming to his narrative. Their
twelfth-floor
suite of offices contains two boardrooms. Roebuck has named them, somewhat facetiously and somewhat not, Matrix One and Matrix Two. A fair amount of business, though, takes place at the brewpub on the ground floor below, which his people have taken to calling Matrix Three. The barmen know to begin pulling a pint of lager when they spot Roebuck coming through the door. Every so often he'll order an ale instead to keep them on their toes. The bartender is obliged to drink the lager, Roebuck nurses his ale, pays for both, and maintains key friendships in important places. He wouldn't have put Greenwood down as a Guinness man, but today is a day of surprises.

“Before I forget,” he says, “don't even think about expensing that. That one's on you. Virtue has to be its own reward. How did you say she was dressed?”

“Black, soft, clingy …”

“And no underwear?”

“But that wasn't until …”

“Sorry. I'm interrupting.” Greenwood has reached the interesting part, but he seems to be turning shy again. “Right.” Roebuck summarizes. “So she meets you at the table in a little black dress. What's she drinking?”

“Gin.”

“God, I love this girl! Pretty soon she's touching your hand, then your arm, then resting her hand on your knee. Once the plates are cleared, she excuses herself to powder her nose. That, I'm assuming, is when she peels off the thong and stashes it in her purse. And all the while you're manfully trying to keep the conversation professional …”

“Okay I'll admit that by this time I'd pretty much given up on shop talk.”

“But at some point she must have told you she was leaving Artemis?”

“That was early on, before the food came. And by the way it wasn't oysters. Or martinis either. At least for me.” There's a faintly ridiculous smugness in Greenwood's tone that has Roebuck struggling to hide his smile. “She said she had better things to do in life than help a bunch of dinks sell rubbers, however creatively promoted.”

Roebuck whistles. “I really do admire this girl. But she couldn't tell you which way they were leaning?”

“All she could say was that there had been no hints so far from management. But she also said she'd pretty much checked out by then, so she wasn't really paying attention.”

He considers implications and decides there are none. “Okay, so now you've paid the bill, you're getting up to leave. She takes your arm and the two of you stroll to the coat check.”

“The restrooms in this place are unisex,” says Greenwood.

Roebuck nods. “Plush, if I recall. Roomy.”

“The coats are hanging in the same alcove as the bathrooms. She's still hugging my arm. Before I know it, we've carried on past the coat rack and straight through one of the doors.”

“Aha!” says Roebuck. “This is where the conversation gets interesting. Damn. Hang on a sec.” His cellphone is going off. Roebuck carries a BlackBerry for business purposes plus an
old-fashioned
clam-phone
he reserves for personal use. Only his wife, his kids, Lily, and a handful of his most important clients have access to this private number.

“Hello.”

“Julius Roebuck?”

“Yes.”

“This is the No Fuss Vasectomy Clinic calling.”

“Oh.”

“We have an appointment available for you.”

“I see. Um.” Roebuck stares
wide-eyed
at Greenwood, who politely looks elsewhere.

“We can schedule you for next Thursday at 10:00 AM.”

“Next week? Next week! But that's … soon!”

“I understand. You'll need to make arrangements with your place of employment. Would the following Thursday be preferable, same time?”

“That is also … very soon.”

“When would be a good time for you, Mr. Roebuck?”

He's aware of Greenwood picking up a menu, furrowing his brow in manifest preoccupation. “Look, can I call you back?”

“Often, we find that clients' first impulse is to delay the procedure. But that of course just lengthens your worrying time. And I assure you, Mr. Roebuck, there's absolutely nothing to be anxious about. Have you visited our website?”

“I have. Yes. Absolutely.”

“I'm happy to answer any questions. Some clients are concerned …”

“Can I call you back?

“Of course, Mr. Roebuck. Take your time.”

“What was that all about?” asks Greenwood, waving at the waiter for another pint.

Advertising is psychology monetized.

The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck

O
ver the years, Roebuck has developed a reliable sense of how things are moving along. When he weighs the pros and cons objectively, he has to conclude that the odds are in favour of landing the Artemis account. He has carefully evaluated the merits of each agency on the short list. Young & Rubicam will give him a run for his money, so will Chiat Day. But Y & R have just lost their creative director and the new guy they've moved in from Hong Kong isn't meshing. Chiat has failed to win three pitches in a row; something there is misfiring. There's a hot new digital agency that had him worried, but by good fortune they were hacked last week and are now fending off a data-leak investigation. All things considered, especially in light of that remarkable pitch—and it was remarkable, no matter how Greenwood sees it—he figures they're the top contender.

The call comes in as expected, ten days after expiration of the deadline. The CEO wastes no time in small talk. Roebuck knows what will be said before it is spoken.

“Congratulations, I am pleased to be informing you …”There's a case of Dom he keeps in the storeroom for occasions like these. It's good for staff morale to pop some corks and pass around the flutes. Many of his competitors are cutting back on the perks, clients have been slashing advertising budgets, and agencies are feeling the squeeze, but Roebuck considers
moxie-boosters
an essential cost of doing business. In a minute, he'll see about sending someone out for a side of smoked salmon and some canapés. He will also need to issue an All Staff announcement. It's Friday, a perfect note to end the week. Matrix Three will be humming tonight. But somehow Roebuck can't work himself into the mood. It's his own morale he knows is suspect.

He's jealous. He would never admit it, even to himself. But he knows it. Greenwood has let on, a little casually, a little understatedly, that he and Zhanna are now going out on regular dates: dinners and movies and such. Roebuck is happy for him. He harbours no ill will—of this he
is
certain. But he wishes it were him, not Greenwood, grazing Zhanna's ankle in the unlit zone beneath the table. On the call with Artemis he had made a point, just to hear it spoken, of mentioning how much he's looking forward to working with that insightful marketing team, particularly that bright young product manager. “Regrettably, Zhanna Lamb has left the company …” Foolish, asking openly like that.
Slap-to
-
the-side
-
of-the
-head stupid.

Even so, he can't seem to shake it, so when an email from Lily appears with “A Proposition” blinking in the subject line, Roebuck pounces on the keyboard. He hasn't heard from Lily all week.

“Darling …”

When did she start saying
darling
? He never calls her darling. Maybe time to start.

Congratulate me! I've just won a juicy little contract at McCann. The specs won't be ready until next week so I'm thinking … why don't you come over for lunch Wednesday? After Wednesday I'm slammed, but before … Can you free yourself up? I'll cook.

I know your preferences.

Roebuck hits “Reply.” He doesn't even bother looking at his calendar. He's in the middle of composing a gleeful response, when his fingers halt and retreat from the keyboard. When Lily takes a contract, she goes at it full tilt. After Wednesday, she'll be beyond reach for a week at least. Roebuck drums his fingers; then opens up the No Fuss Vasectomy Clinic's website. Yes, he has remembered correctly: Eight weeks.

In all fairness he deserves a last hurrah. Roebuck picks up the phone.

“This is Julius Roebuck. You contacted me earlier about an appointment. Is that slot still available?”

“What was the date you wanted, Mr. Roebuck?”

“I believe it was next Thursday, 10:00 AM.”

A pause. “I'm sorry. That appointment is booked.”

“Damn. What about the next day, Friday?”

“The clinic is closed Mondays and Fridays.”

“I see.”

“We do have a cancellation. Let me check. How is Wednesday afternoon, same week?”

“
Wednesday?
No, definitely not Wednesday. Wait! Did you say
afternoon
? How late in the afternoon?”

“It's the last appointment. Four o'clock.”

Roebuck excels at rapid calculation. “Fine,” he says. “Book me in.”

Darling,

You're just what the doctor ordered. But can we make it early?

I have a 4 PM I can't afford to miss.