Fire in the Firefly (8 page)

“Guess how much sperm donors get paid?” Anne asks. Clearly, they have looked into this together. Roebuck hasn't a clue what sperm donors get paid.

“Fifty bucks.
Fifty!”

Yasmin draws a look of irritation from his wife, who really had intended him to guess. “There's new legislation,” Anne explains, “prohibiting payment for reproductive cells. It's not like in the old days when a guy with a strong wrist and a high sperm count could put himself through med school. Nowadays, donors only receive a token reimbursement to cover
out-of
-pocket expenses.”

“
Out of pocket, my ass!” Yasmin's tone makes it obvious there is something here she finds offensive. “Fifty hardly even covers lunch!”

Roebuck considers mentioning that there are a lot of things a lot of people will do for a lot less than that, but takes her point. For Yasmin, anyone who'd consider fifty dollars real money ought to be forbidden from producing sperm, let alone providing it for public consumption.

“All right,” he says. “Then it has to be frogs.”

Anne sighs. She is acquainted with her husband's stagecraft. Yasmin offers better satisfaction. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“If we take it as a given,” says Roebuck, grinning at his wife, “that the ultimate goal of all living things is reproduction—and by the way that's at the core of understanding branding, too, in my business—then the question is: How to maximize achievement of that goal? Different organisms use different strategies. Frogs, for example, take what you might call the scattergun approach. Frogs release huge numbers of eggs—flooding the market, if you like. Once the eggs are fertilized, that's the end of their involvement. Frogs place their faith in quantity. Other animals take a more qualitative approach. Elephants, if I'm not mistaken, produce only one offspring every three or four years but dedicate enormous energy to guarding and protecting that investment. On the surface, you'd think that humans are more like elephants, because we devote even more time and energy toward raising our young. But if you look at the differences between men and women, in terms of reproductive capacity, you'll see it's more complicated …”

Anne is gazing at the ceiling again, all but rolling her eyes, though at least she isn't cutting in. Yasmin, on the other hand, is leaning forward, wholly receptive. Roebuck reminds himself to keep his gaze
eye-level
or above. He's enjoying this a little more than he acknowledges is wise.

“Human females produce a very limited number of eggs over their lifetimes, released only one at a time. When one gets fertilized, it can be months, years before the next one come along. Men, on the other hand, pump out enough sperm on any given Saturday night to knock up every female in the county, if only we could nail down the logistics.”

“So men are frogs and women are elephants,” Anne says. “You should write a
sex-ed
guide.”

“All I'm saying, and only because you asked, is that maybe your donor is practising the frog's strategy: availing himself of the sperm banks in order to broadcast his DNA as widely as possible, understanding that his involvement ends right there, but hoping that the sheer number of opportunities will increase the likelihood of spreading his genes.”

“I think he's right!” Yasmin's look gives his own testicles a jolt. “I never thought of it that way. But it makes sense.” She turns to Anne. “He's not stupid, sometimes, your husband.”

“You don't have to live with him. And I'm not convinced. If it's such a good strategy, why don't all men use it? Why don't all men donate to sperm banks? Most don't, I think. Why not? Would you?”

It has all the hallmarks of a trap, but it doesn't matter because the answer—the true and shining answer—is right there in front of him and absolutely danger free.

“No,” he says. He doesn't even have to think about it. “No, I would not.”

“Why?”

“Because my strategy is the elephant's.” He has realized, quite suddenly, how profoundly true this is. “I've chosen a wife—in biological terms, I've selected a mate, who to my extreme good fortune has likewise selected me, and together we have produced our children. That's
my
genetic investment. That's the sum, the
full sum
of my genetic investment. That's all I want. That's all I planned for. My reproductive strategy is, and always will be, to devote all I have to protecting that investment, not diluting it.”

It's a pretty good answer; the kind of statement you'd think any wife would want to hear, and all the better because it's absolutely, unequivocally honest. But Anne is glaring at him, furious, because something in what he's said has tripped a switch in Yasmin.

She's still staring. She's still examining him. But now her expression is transforming. Yasmin's eyes are misting over. She sniffles. “You're so
lucky
!” she moans to Anne who—to his astonishment—isn't disagreeing, but instead has stomped his foot under the table.

Yasmin has begun to cry. Her shoulders tremble. “Frogs or failures!” she sobs, “Those are my choices. I'll never be a mother!” A single tear, plump and glistening, rolls past her cheek and lips and begins to trickle down her neck.

“Oh, honey, but you will,
you will!
” Anne gestures angrily at Roebuck to pass a napkin from the stack on the buffet.

“No, no! Julius has said it. If I can't find a good man willing to make a baby with me—and I can't!—my only other option is the sperm banks. But Julius has made all that so clear, too. The only sperm there comes from welfare bums or sneaky frogs … and I can't let the father of my baby be that!” Yasmin's chest is rising and falling; she has thrown herself back into the dining room chair. She's sobbing now so hard the straps of her dress have slipped below her shoulders. He looks over at Anne, but Anne is dabbing Yasmin with a napkin. “You're so lucky!” she moans.

“I know, I know …”

Roebuck is transfixed. He doesn't know which image is the most astounding: his wife
agreeing
with Yasmin's that she's lucky to have him or Yasmin herself, whose sudden grief is so … spectacular. He watches, mesmerized. A tear pauses in the hollow of her throat then trickles down to vanish in the mist between her breasts. Roebuck tastes salt.

“Why can't ordinary guys like Julius donate sperm?”

“Maybe they do …”

“No. He's right! They don't.” Yasmin has settled into a rhythmical, hiccupping pant.

“He doesn't know what he's talking about!” says Anne. “He never does!”

“No. He's right.”

“Julius! I'm sure in your usual way you were just talking to hear yourself speak. I'm sure men like you would be willing to donate to a sperm bank.”

“But I was only saying …”

“Haven't you said enough?” Anne hisses, still fussing with the straps of Yasmin's dress. Roebuck attempts to pass another napkin.

“Well, all right,” he says. “Sure, I guess, given …”

“You would?”

“Yes, well, I mean …”

“Oh, thank you!”

Yasmin has thrown her arms around Anne's neck. “Thank you! Thank you! Oh, you've saved my life! I can tell you now …” She's still hiccupping, bubbling, panting her breath. Glistening. “Lately, you know, every time I cross the Leaside Bridge, I think to myself: Just climb over the rail, a few seconds … But all that's over now! Oh Anne, I just can't thank you enough!”

“What?” Anne says.

Roebuck's tongue is stuck inside his mouth.

“I must have been somebody really, really good, in my last life, to deserve a friend like you!”

“Yasmin …”

“It'll be just as if you were a normal donor!” Yasmin has aimed her attention back at Roebuck. “Except you're you. You donate it, I use it, and now I have a baby whose genes I know I can trust! It's so simple! Why didn't we think of this sooner?”

“Um, I don't think it's quite that …”

Yasmin is staring at him hungrily. Anne has shifted her focus to stare at him too. Roebuck tries to articulate what he means to say, but his wife's look tells him to keep his mouth completely shut, so that's what he does. He clears his throat, picks up a salad bowl, and carries it into the kitchen.

Behind him, he hears the women talking.

Men are sperm, women are egg.

One is the wager, the other the stake.

The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck

S
un pours into his bedroom and Roebuck returns to consciousness, slowly, to the sound of Anne in the shower. He blinks, rubs his eyes, and checks the bedside clock. He's slept in. He draws a breath, puts both hands behind his head beneath the pillow, and feels the pressure of his back against the mattress. There was a time—not so long ago—when he woke aroused like this each and every morning. Not so often now, but still … He hears the water stop and in a little while the door to Anne's bedroom closing. Roebuck and his tumescence take their turn in the shower. It's Monday morning.

His car is in the centre lane, moving well for once at a steady 120 klicks. Roebuck knows it's dangerous fool around with buttons while he's driving so he activates the
hands-free
and tells it to connect to his number at the office. He is not what some would call an early adopter, but he appreciates this particular technology. He has just remembered that he wants to make a note; something that came out the other night, just before events began their tilt
.
Even as he was saying it, he recognized it as the kind of thought he should be writing down. He didn't, though he can hardly blame himself. Truth be told, in light of everything that happened after, he's more than a little proud of himself for recalling it or anything at all beyond …

How did it go?

Reproduction. Yes. Roebuck clears his throat as the phone on the desk at his office begins to ring. He waits until he hears his own voice through the earpiece. “This is Julius Roebuck. Please leave a message …”

“Branding,” Roebuck says after the beep, “is not about moving the product on the shelf. It's about selling the product that isn't there.” He is being careful to enunciate clearly, leaving space around each word. “Wait. No. Scratch that.” There's a knot of traffic bunching up ahead; he eases off the gas. “Branding is about selling the product that replaces the product that's on the shelf today. Good. The focus of branding, like the focus of reproduction, is aimed wholly at the future. That'll do.”

He disconnects. Not bad.
So-so
, anyway. He can tighten it later. Roebuck drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

His mind keeps sneaking back, though it knows it's not supposed to. His intention today is to focus on the intake meeting at Artemis, twenty minutes up the highway if the traffic keeps moving as nicely, as it has until now. Conscientiously, he checks the rearview mirror. There is Greenwood, five or six lengths behind, keeping pace. Roebuck is planning an early departure.

He has loaded all the account folks into Greenwood's car. That way they can get to know each other; nothing like a long commute for team building. Clients are always located in the suburbs, though Artemis, by a stretch, is farther out than most. For his part, Roebuck aims to avoid as much of this stage as possible, starting with ducking out this morning ahead of schedule. He needs some time alone. He's not supposed to be thinking about Yasmin; he is meant to be
laser-focused
on the brand. But his head keeps cycling back.

He has validated his conclusions over days and hours of critical assessment—every conscious moment, basically, between now and that astonishing dinner—sorting through the possibilities; linking up the dots. Roebuck is happy with the soundness of his reasoning. Though he still can't quite believe where it has led him: Yasmin wants his sperm. Which means, by logical extension, that Yasmin wants
him
.

It's the ironies surrounding this conclusion that give him qualms. He just wasn't thinking. It's that he finds it hardest to look back on: that his own stupidity could not have been more brilliant. The ringtone startles him. “You just missed the exit,” says Greenwood's voice in his ear.

“Damn.” Roebuck scans the GPS. “No.” he says. “Next one's better.” He really
had
intended them to take the exit they've just passed, but the screen is telling him the one ahead is four minutes faster. Everything, lately, is turning out for the better.

Roebuck examines his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Fool,” he says and watches himself smile back.

The morning's first surprise is Zhanna Lamb, seated primly at the conference table in a pencil skirt and
three-inch
heels, not a flicker of anything passing between her and Greenwood, who must have known that she'd be there. “Well, now,” Roebuck says shaking hands. “I was under the impression you had left the company.”

“Zhanna has graciously agreed to stay with us a little longer to ensure a smooth transition,” explains the CEO, shepherding him on to the next introduction. Several times throughout the meeting Roebuck tries catching Greenwood's eye, but Greenwood isn't playing.

It's not until noon that he manages his getaway. He has said everything he needs to say; there's a mountain of material still to go through, but for now the group is scheduled to break for lunch. Roebuck scrambles to his feet, BlackBerry in hand. “Unfortunately, something has come up. But I know that, with Daniel, I am leaving you in capable hands.” He can't help sneaking a final peek at Zhanna, who gazes back with equal innocence, then delivers the morning's second surprise. “Would you mind if I asked for a lift? I'm taking the afternoon off too.”

“I'm not taking the afternoon off!”

“Of course you're not. You have an agency to run. But I am. Can I hitch a ride?”

Generally speaking, these
kick-off
meetings are where the partnership between agency and client finally gets rolling. The analogy, for Roebuck, is like what happens once you've gone to bed together for the first time with a new lover. All that best behaviour leading up to consummation is behind you now—the deed is done—and true personalities are free to emerge. He tells the juniors that from this point forward it's all about the pulse of the relationship itself. It's now that clients reveal their business plans; this is when you see each other truly naked; when budgets are tabled and conflicts start to show. Maybe it's more like a marriage, he says. You've solemnized your vows; the ceremony's over. Now it's time to sort out who pays which bills.

He has also reminded the creative team that they'll need to brace themselves because, odds are, all that lovely work they've done so far is headed for the toilet. “In the courting stages, clients love you when you're bold and daring. But once the contract is signed, they'll expect you to settle down and see things exactly the way they do.”

He and Greenwood have been planning for eventualities. Daniel's been in the business long enough to know the drill, still Roebuck has been surprised—pleasantly surprised—to see how firmly Greenwood is standing up, how determined he's become to make this campaign fly. Fire in the belly and all. That's the other reason he's decided to take an early leave and let this afternoon be the Greenwood Show. Later, if necessary, he can play the seasoned veteran, reigning in that youthful energy. But for now his gut is telling him that it's Greenwood who should be pushing things along.

“Any chance they'll keep the creative?” he asks, buckling up.

Zhanna all but snorts. “Are you kidding? It's a
condom
company. Daniel's in for major disappointment.”

Roebuck sighs. They've left the parking lot and turned on to the service road that links Artemis to the highway, where they are waiting for the light.

“
You
really believe that stuff, though, don't you?”

“Sorry?”

“Your trademark shtick: ‘Only women count.' Daniel thinks you really do believe it. He says that with you it's more than just a posture.”

“As postures go, it's one you can take to the bank.”

“He says he's never known anyone who tries so hard to think like a woman.”

The light turns green; Roebuck accelerates toward the ramp. He doesn't know quite how to answer this. He's not sure, either, if he's enjoying having Greenwood's pillow talk served up secondhand. “I don't know if it's so much thinking
like
women as it is thinking
about
them. But now it's my turn. I have a question for you.”

“All right.” Her knees are pressed against the gearshift. She has turned as much as possible to face him. “Ask.”

“How would you describe the sound of your shoes?”

“My
shoes …
?”

“When we took our break this morning and everyone went off to get coffee, I could
hear
you walking back. Before I could see you, I knew it was you. Everyone did. It was a clear, acoustical signature. There's a certain sound that high heels make that says ‘beautiful woman approaching.' What I'm wondering is how to describe that sound.”

She doesn't answer, though her body language tells him that she is not displeased. Roebuck refines the probe. “We all know what high heels do for a woman: Your legs get longer and your hips move forward and your butt pushes back and everything wonderful moves in all that mesmerizing magic. Everybody gets the visual. But there's an
auditory
appeal that might possibly be more interesting still. I've never had a shoe account, but if I were representing Christian Louboutin, say, or Manolo Blahnik, or Drogonie Claude, I think I'd seriously consider branding my client by
sound.”

“Clever.”

He's not sure if she is commenting on the subtleness of his compliment or the concept itself. In either case, Roebuck agrees. “You haven't answered my question.”

“You know there are classes you can take. Loads of websites, too, all about walking in heels. There are actual courses with practical lessons.”

“Interesting. That i
s
interesting … I wonder if they'd accept applications from men.” Again he drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Just between you and me,” he says—because this last bit
has
startled her—“there
is
a
high-end
shoe company that is rumoured to be unhappy with its present agency. If the account comes up, I'm considering a pitch.”

“So learning how to walk in high heel shoes would be …?”

“A glittering example of
resumé-building
. Clients eat up that kind of initiative. And by the way, I'm trusting you not to pass any of this on to your old friends at Artemis. They prefer to think our hearts belongs to them and no one else.”

“Okay. I get how important it is for you to make your clients think that you believe it. That only women matter. But, really, do you?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“In every way.”

This disappoints. “Nevertheless,” he says, “it's true.”

“We both know that claiming something is true is just a way of neutralizing
counter-truths
. That's another of those things they teach in biz school.”

So the exchange of information goes two ways between Greenwood and Zhanna. “Hmm,” he says. “Remind me to write that one down.” He thinks about it seriously for a second, but doesn't want to break the flow. “So what's the truth I'm neutralizing?”