Leftovers (21 page)

He pauses for a whole minute.

‘OK …’ I say. ‘And then?’

‘Write something down,’ he says. ‘Why aren’t you writing anything down?’

‘Because I’m waiting for you to finish the script,’ I say.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The pizzas? I’m waiting for the bit about Fletchers pizzas.’

‘That’s the whole point!’ he says. ‘We don’t mention the pizzas.’

‘Sorry, Nick, you probably think I’m being a bit thick but could you explain that?’

‘The point is, when something bad happens to a woman, she inevitably turns to food. It’s a truism – we don’t need to spell that out. That would be
so
patronising and
so
hackneyed. Instead we show these vignettes and let the viewer do the maths.’

‘OK … I can understand a link between being dumped and eating chocolate, or even a pizza, but I’m not convinced that forgetting your tweezers is one of those occasions where you’d automatically think
must eat pizza
.’

‘It’ll be much more interactive for the viewer. That’s why this script is so powerful. Doggett
loves
it,’ he says.

‘Go ahead with the third one,’ I say, remembering Sam’s advice and trying to enter the Happy Place in my brain but realising I’ve forgotten my keys.

‘This one’s called “The Truth”. We’ve lined up the perfect celeb. Warm yet cool. Earthy yet sexy. Trendy yet relatable. Aspirational yet just like the viewer. We shoot her in her kitchen. And it’s addressing this massive taboo, which is that women claim they’re happy when they’re fat – but actually that’s bullshit, all women want to be thin.’

‘What?’

‘All this Dove stuff, love your flab, accept yourself as you truly are. It’s a crock of shit: women hate themselves if they’re not thin and we’re going to be brave and come out and say it. Like an anti-Dove stance but more feminist.’

‘Is this Karly’s idea?’

‘Do you remember when Kate Moss said “Nothing tastes as good as thin feels”?’

‘Yeah, well, I think she regretted saying that in the end …’

‘But the point is, it hit a nerve, because it’s true. So: the celeb speaks to camera throughout. We see her in her kitchen. Smeg fridge. Large marble-topped island. “Let me tell you the truth about my body. I used to be a whopping size fourteen.”’

‘Size fourteen’s not whopping,’ I say.

‘Just let me read,’ says Nick. ‘She walks across to the fridge, opens it. It’s full of healthy food. Her hand hovers over a chocolate milkshake, then chooses skimmed milk. “The truth is, when I was big I was only pretending to be happy. Secretly I wanted to be thinner. As much as I hated models in magazines, the truth is
I hated myself
. I couldn’t admit I was jealous; we’re not allowed to admit that, are we, girls? But that’s the truth. No one likes being fat. The truth is I love eating and I can’t control myself around delicious food.” We then cut away to her sitting at a banquet table alone in her pyjamas, eating handfuls of doughnuts and burgers.

‘Then she says: “But the truth is I can have it all – with no compromise on taste! With new Fat Bird pizzas I can still enjoy that great pizza taste without worrying about being a Fat Bird ever again. And that’s the truth.” She takes a large bite of Sexy Chick Pizza and finishes with: “Right down to the last slice.”’

‘Well?’ says Nick. ‘What do you think?’

The truth is, it is loathsome, so awful it makes me feel sick. Perhaps the least awful of the three but it is truly awful.

‘I’m not sure what to say.’

‘How about provocative? Brave. Searingly honest. Insightful. Game-changing,’ says Nick. ‘That’s what Doggett said.’

Of course he’d say that. The more worrying thing is, I suspect Devron might actually like these scripts.

I’m going to have to find a way to kill all three of them. (The scripts, that is.)

‘Who’s the celeb?’ I say.

‘Celina Summer,’ he says. ‘She’s a mate of Karly’s, apparently she’d be up for it.’

Celina Summer … Celina Summer … that name sounds familiar … URGH. ‘Celina Summer who’s married to what’s-his-face in that band?’ Who wrote that recipe for a chicken sandwich in the newspaper that was chicken, bread and lettuce? Who knows nothing about food whatsoever?

‘Her new book
Eat Music, Dance to Food
is top of the charts,’ says Nick. ‘She’s going to be the next Nigella, we need to get her now before she hits the big time.’

Top of the charts? How does one even dance to food? I bet my recipe folder’s ten times better than her book and yet here I am, biting my tongue to shreds for fear of saying what I mean in front of this dickwad.

‘I’m not finding your silence hugely motivating,’ says Nick.

‘I’m thinking …’

I’m thinking that this campaign will bomb and I will never get promoted and I won’t escape. If I don’t escape I’ll still be here in my forties. I’ll become so bitter and angry that I’ll turn into a fully-fledged alcoholic rather than a trainee alcoholic. What remaining physical attractions I have left will rapidly diminish. No one will go out with me again, I will never ever have sex again, and then one drunken Saturday night in five years’ time I will crawl upstairs on my hands and knees to Caspar’s flat after drinking two bottles of white wine to proposition him and he will probably say no and then that truly will be the end of me. So you see, Nick, these scripts are a much bigger problem than you could possibly realise.

‘If you don’t like them speak to Doggett,’ he says, closing his folder and standing up.

Bollocks: I thought he might say that. I absolutely have to send something to Devron this afternoon, there’s no time left to waste, so I have no choice but to speak to Doggett. I look past Alexis’s shoulder and see that he’s in his office talking to Berenice. It never rains … Mind you, I should grab them while they’re together – Berenice at least should be sympathetic. She won’t want awful headlines about sexism and misogyny for NMN. Plus she has zero sense of humour and won’t know where to insert her pretend laughs when she sees the scripts.

But how to get past the Rottweiler … Alexis will make me wait till Monday for an appointment on point of principle. There’s only one thing to shift her from guard but I can only pull this trick once a year or she gets suspicious …

‘Alexis,’ I say. ‘I think Sam said there’s a massive parcel for you from Space NK downstairs.’

And she’s off! Faster than you can say Touche Éclat …

I knock on Robbie’s door. ‘Sorry to interrupt but …’

‘Be quick,’ says Berenice. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere in two.’

‘OK. I’ve just seen the Fletchers scripts and …’

‘Amazing, right?’ says Robbie.

‘Have you seen them, Berenice?’

‘Robbie and I were just talking about how taboo-breaking they are.’

‘They are both singular and multiple,’ says Robbie – a point I can’t argue with because I don’t understand what it means.

‘I agree about the taboo thing,’ I say. ‘I am concerned that they push it just a bit too far …’

Robbie nods his head, making slow forward circles with his neck. ‘Such as?’

‘OK. Well the Cruz one is potentially going to cause offence to Catholics.’

‘Go on …’ says Robbie.

‘And the CGI one … it’s just a bit unsavoury talking about bodily fluids on a food ad. Plus, it doesn’t even say the words Fletchers or pizzas, it just has a URL at the end …’

Robbie smiles benignly at me. Berenice looks at me as if I’ve just used her favourite orchid vase as a toilet.

‘And the Celina Summer Truth one … personally I’m a size twelve to fourteen and I don’t find her message very … endearing. And I just wondered if we could tone anything down a bit or whether there are any other scripts I could show?’

‘Fascinating,’ says Robbie. ‘You appreciate that the Cruz script is incredibly witty? And you are aware that comedy is binary?’

I open my mouth but all that comes out is a small puff of confusion.

‘As for sticking the client’s name or logo on a script, that’s
so twentieth century.
’

Berenice is nodding so fast and hard I’m surprised she doesn’t slide off her chair.

‘We live in an attention economy,’ says Robbie. ‘We are battling with thousands of brands to win the consumer’s heart and mind, and what do consumers want?’

‘Killer end lines,’ says Berenice.

‘Killer end lines,’ says Robbie. ‘And lucky you! Because we’ve given you three scripts with three killer end lines.’

‘I’m worried Devron will buy them but that customers will complain,’ I say.

‘Ah! So you think you know better than me, your creative team and your client? I suggest you endeavour to sell your scripts. Brave and fearless, Susie, brave and fearless.’

I feel almost sick with loathing as I close Robbie’s door on my way out. My face is still scarlet when I bump into Martin Meddlar in the lift on my way back down.

‘What’s wrong, darling, you look troubled?’

It is entirely inappropriate to discuss one’s day-to-day work problems with a man of Martin Meddlar’s ranking, in a lift. Then again, it is entirely inappropriate for a man of Martin Meddlar’s ranking to have grabbed my hand and to be swinging it now, gently, like we’re on some weird adult play date.

‘It’s nothing, Martin …’

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Talk to me, Susie, I’m here to help.’

Alright then: if you’re going to squeeze me then I’m going to share some of this pain with you.

‘It’s these Fletchers scripts. I know you said be provocative, and I know it’s great to get PR, but I’m concerned they might alienate our female shoppers.’

‘I’m sure they’re fine, darling.’

‘There are three routes and they all feel too extreme, but Robbie and Berenice disagree.’

‘If you’re that worried, stick them into research. No point losing sleep over it.’

‘Devron’s not the biggest fan of listening to his customers. Plus Robbie and Berenice will be pretty unimpressed with me for even suggesting it.’

‘Tell them all I said to do it. How big’s this campaign?’

‘Four million pounds.’

‘Fine, do one group, that’s a couple of grand, say the agency will pick up the tab. I’ll get Finance to tuck it on another client’s job number.’ That’s the reason Martin runs this place – he’s as wily as they come.

‘Thank you,’ I say, sincerely. ‘This is a big project for me. I appreciate your advice.’

‘You know you can call me any time,’ he says, as we reach the ground floor. ‘Have you got my mobile, darling?’

‘I don’t think I do.’ I take my phone from my pocket. And it is my sheer bad luck that at the exact moment he is giving me his number the lift next to ours opens and out walks Berenice.

Still, there’s no time to worry about her reaction. I have to get these scripts off to Devron before 5 p.m. I email them over, writing a soul-destroying spiel about how strong the ads are; ‘how powerful, how original, how hard it must be to have to choose only one …’

And then I sit back and cross my fingers that he will hate them all, and insist on moving the airdate back three months and then I can get another team on the job who will do an award-winning script. And then Ryan Gosling will turn up at the awards ceremony with the world’s largest tub of chocolate mini-bites and when I say ‘But Ryan, won’t these make me fat?’ he will reply, ‘No Susie, they will make you even thinner and younger and prettier than you already are.’

And who says I’m not an optimist?

Dalia has suggested an early evening drink at Boccarinos in Mayfair before she heads off to meet Mark for dinner.

Boccarinos is one of those places where silver-fox titans of industry go for breakfast, to eat two poached eggs for fourteen quid. In the evening there’s a real scene: you could be in Italy in 1985, the amount of gel that’s slathered on the men’s hair. Over there in the corner is that miniscule billionaire who’s always in
Hello!
with what looks like his nurse but is in fact wife four. And across the counter from me at the bar are two high-class escorts, all tits and teeth, Choos dangling off heels.

Dalia loves it here – she loves Eurotrash-watching. She doesn’t love it quite enough to be punctual, and when she does arrive, twenty minutes late, she immediately announces she can only stay for fifteen minutes, as she totally got confused about her timings and thought dinner with Mark was at 9 p.m., when it’s actually at 7.30 p.m. Third time in a row she’s mucked me about because of him. Three strikes and she’s still not out …

‘I’ve bought us a bottle!’ I say, secretly cursing the fact that this wine cost thirty quid and I’ll either have to drink the whole thing alone here at the bar, or ask for a cork so I can take it home on the bus. Which is totally unacceptable behaviour at Boccarinos, even if it is sort of acceptable on the top deck of the number 13.

‘I’ll neck a glass with you now,’ she says, sitting and taking her coat off to reveal a scarlet silk dress with a plunging neckline.

‘Wow, beautiful, is that new?’ I say, as I notice the man next to her do a double-take.

‘Thanks – it’s Issa,’ she says.

‘Not cheap!’

‘Well it’s an important dinner for Mark. He asked me to make an effort.’

‘Did he buy it for you?’ I ask, staring at my glass to avoid her having to lie directly to my face.

‘… I had a voucher for Selfridges from work for my birthday … it wasn’t that expensive …’

‘And what’s this dinner you’re off to?’

‘Some charity gala, Mark’s mother’s on the committee.’

‘You’re finally going to meet the mother?’ After two years of not being allowed anywhere near family members.

‘No,’ she says, taking a large sip of wine and immediately fishing in her clutch bag for a mirror to check her lipstick. ‘She’s in Venice, some arts thing …’

‘Do you think he’ll introduce you to her one of these days?’ I say.

‘I don’t want to meet her,’ she says unconvincingly. ‘She sounds like a complete dragon. Besides Mark and I are … you know … we’re trying not to put too much pressure on our relationship at the moment … keeping it open, you know … We’re just hanging out.’

‘You’re just hanging out …’ I say, smiling, and re-adjusting her black lacy bra strap that’s slipping slowly down her shoulder.