The Crunch Campaign (5 page)

Dominic scratched his head.

‘It's just not a fair fight,' she continued. ‘The junk food companies spend about a bazillion dollars on their ads, and the healthy food people don't have that kind of cash.'

‘Parfitt's don't have that kind of cash either,' he pointed out.

‘And that's another reason the ban is unfair.'

Dominic pulled a bean bag over next to hers. ‘Okay, let's think about this differently.'

The night was getting colder. Katie shivered and wished she'd worn a jumper.

‘Do you want my shirt?' asked Dom.

‘No.' She looked away. ‘I'm all right.' The silence was awkward and she rushed to fill it. ‘Maybe – maybe it's about making the fight a fair one.'

‘Like how?'

An idea took shape in her mind, like clay on a potter's wheel and she leapt to her feet. ‘Okay, how's this? Instead of banning ads, the government makes a few changes, just to even things up.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘What if the fruit people and the milk guys and the vegie farmers had more money for
their
ads?'

‘Good idea, but where does the money come from?'

‘Ah, the government –' Why couldn't he keep up?

‘Kato, no one's going to pay higher taxes so pumpkin growers can make better ads.'

Katie shook her head. He just wasn't getting it.

‘Anyway, even if you could get the government to contribute to their ad budgets, the amount would be so minuscule it wouldn't make any difference. Caesar Maxwell and his mates would just spend more on MyFries ads.'

‘No, I'm not talking about the
government
paying for better ads for fresh, good food – I think the junk food companies should contribute.'

A smile crept across Dominic's face. ‘That's smart, Kato.'

Any bit of praise energised her. ‘So this is what happens. The government makes junk food companies pay a tax.'

‘People hate taxes, Kato. You can't call it a tax.'

‘Okay, not a tax – we'll call it a levy.'

‘The Lettuce Levy!' Dominic was enjoying himself.

Katie walked in small circles, thinking fast, getting it clear in her head. ‘Let's say MyFries spends ten million a year on advertising. They have to pay a percentage, say ten per cent, into a fund that goes to help farmers make decent ads for fresh food.'

‘Who makes the ads?'

‘We could – any agency could. The thing is, this idea levels the playing field. Less money for chips, more for chops.'

‘Are chops healthy?'

‘Sure,' she said, ‘as long as you don't fry them with chips.'

‘Okay.' He laughed. ‘I get it.'

‘And they'd be great ads, because they'd be made by people who know advertising – they wouldn't be lame old
eat this because it's good for you
lectures.'

‘It all sounds cool to me. But you know Parfitt's would be classed as a junk food company, so they'd have to pay the levy.'

‘So what? They've got hardly any money for advertising as it is. And they've got a smart agency who can do a lot with just a little. By paying the levy happily, Parfitt's is saying, we want people to eat healthily. Great PR. Companies who object to paying the levy will look seriously bad.'

‘Caesar Maxwell will hate it.'

‘Of course he will. The last thing he wants is to have his budget cut.'

The relief Katie felt was huge. This was a game-changer, as Joel would call it. ‘What do you think the others will say?' she asked.

‘Oh, Joel'll say it's rubbish, but he'll come round. Clementine will like it, because it's smart and unpredictable and Lorraine will start thinking of hats that look like lettuces as promotional giveaways.'

Their laughter filled the tree office and then it stopped. Strangely, they were both suddenly aware that it was probably two in the morning and they were alone. Dominic looked at Katie with an embarrassed smile that made her look out the window.

‘We need to turn this into some kind of presentation. For the prime minister,' she said.

‘Ah, yeah, we do,' he nodded. ‘So, should I tell Joel about it? Or wait and tell everyone together?'

‘Let's tell them all at once. I want to give Joel as little time as possible to work out ways of dumping on the plan.'

‘Okay. Right. I s'pose I'd better go.'

Katie could tell he didn't want to. And she didn't really want him to, either.

‘I'll see you tomorrow, then.'

‘Straight after school.'

As Dominic walked past, he brushed her wrist. The tree office was big and empty and he hadn't needed to do that.

‘Get up, Katie. You can't blame jetlag anymore.' Her mum was standing in the doorway, dressed for work, her keys in her hand.

‘I know.' Katie rubbed her eyes.

‘I'll see you tonight. I'll be home to change, but then I'm going out for a bit with Liam. Won't be late, though.'

‘What? You saw him last night.'

‘A friend of his has an art exhibition opening. We're only going for an hour or so, but if you really don't want me to go, I won't.'

‘It's okay. I'll be fine.'

She didn't really care that her mum was going out – it would actually be good if she was away from the house. It was the two-nights-in-a-row-with-Liam that bothered her. What if they fell in love? Got married? What if he and the kids moved in?
Ugh
. Katie didn't have a lot of breakable things, but she lay in bed for another five minutes thinking about where she could put them. The top of her wardrobe was the only safe place. But it was jam-packed with old books and clothes. She'd have to tidy it. Double
ugh.

School was a bit better with Ms Whitby as homeroom teacher. She turned a blind eye when Katie was late and intervened when Dr Pang was being unreasonable about the maths assignment. (She explained to him that the modern history essay was due the same day.) She was sympathetic when girls weren't up to PE and even loaned them money for tuck shop. She made a list of everyone's birthdays and promised to bake her special banana bread. Katie's birthday was on the 23rd, three weeks away. She hoped her mum would get her a little video camera so she wouldn't have to rely on borrowing Joel's. For some reason she wondered if Dominic would give her a present.

Despite Ms Whitby's caring enthusiasm, classes dragged, and the bell that marked the end of the day was the best sound in the world. It meant Katie could stop pretending to be interested in things that were irrelevant to her.

Running home, she felt her adrenalin pumping as she prepared herself for the onslaught of Joel's criticism. Even though she knew it would pass, she had to be ready.

She set a bottle of Product Xmas and five glasses on the big table in the middle of the tree office and waited for the others. Dominic and Joel arrived together, then Clementine. Finally, Lorraine appeared at the door. She was wearing a calf-length raincoat – with horizontal lime, yellow, red and blue stripes. She wore matching gumboots and carried a lime umbrella. No one could speak.

‘Well, what do you think?' Lorraine said as she twirled.

‘Ah, there's a storm on the way?' suggested Katie.

‘You got a bargain on eBay?' Clementine was desperate.

‘You've lost your mind?' Joel, of course.

‘You're all wrong, totally wrong,' Lorraine chirped. ‘This is my first product!'

‘Lorraine, please tell us what you're on about,' said Katie, losing patience.

‘I will soon be launching my own line of wet weather fashion. I started working on it before we went to the States, but while we were there I got some contacts with a place that can make them for me.'

‘Riiiight,' said Dominic. ‘And?'

‘And, get this – I've got the best name. Katie, you'll love it.'

‘Okay, I'll love it. What is it?'

‘My exclusive range will be known as ‘Lorraine Wear!' Get it? LorRAINWEAR? Brilliant, right?'

‘Pretty good, Quiche,' said Dominic.

‘Yeah.' Katie was smiling. ‘I like it.'

Lorraine looked at Joel, who was rolling his eyes. ‘And,' she continued, ‘I'd like to offer my first campaign account to Mosquito Advertising.'

‘What?' Joel laughed. ‘
Us
advertise
your
raincoats? Have you got any money?'

‘Joel, our clients hardly ever have any money,' said Clementine gently. ‘I love your raincoat, Lorraine. I think it's a great idea.'

‘Me too,' said Katie. She wasn't sure what she thought of LorRAINWEAR, but she needed to get everyone's attention back – and a big fight about raincoats and gumboots wasn't going to help. ‘I reckon we can do some great ads for LorRAINWEAR, but first, I need to get you all on board with my plan for the prime minister. Dom and I worked it out last night.' She noticed Joel's eyebrows shoot up, but he said nothing. ‘While I'm talking you through it, try some of Parfitt's new Christmas drink.' Katie used the opener fixed to the wall to prise the lids off the bottles. It took a bit of effort, but the cap was a Parfitt's signature of old fashioned values. ‘We're calling it Product Xmas.'

She half-expected Joel to tell her the name was terrible, but he didn't. He held his glass up to the light and whistled at the green and red stripes. ‘That's awesome. I'd hate to think of the chemicals involved, but – cool!'

‘Well, Liam says it's all natural stuff in it. I can't see how that's true, but Parfitts don't lie. The thing is, if the company is going to keep going, we need to get the government to rethink their ban on soft drink advertising.

With Dominic's help, she explained her plan.

Clementine nodded slowly. ‘So, the government takes money out of the junk food companies' budgets and gives it to the fresh food growers so they can make ads too?'

‘Exactly,' said Katie. ‘And really good ads. If they've got some money, they can use decent agencies – like Mosquito!'

‘Well, I love it almost as much as I love my raincoat,' said Lorraine.

Katie laughed. ‘You'd love anything at the moment.'

‘Seriously, I think it's smart. And it's different. Even if the prime minister doesn't like it, she won't have heard it before, so you won't be wasting her time.'

Joel was sitting on a bean bag, picking a toenail. Katie wanted to tell him that was disgusting, but bit the words back.

‘Well?' said Dominic. ‘What do you reckon? If you like it, there's a heap of work to do to get it into shape for the PM. We'll need your help.'

Joel stood up and stretched his arms in an exaggerated yawn. His fingertips almost touched the ceiling of the tree office. ‘I think getting involved in politics is a really bad idea.'

‘We're not getting involved in politics!' said Katie, shaking her head, ‘Did you even listen to what we said? All we want to do is make it easy for people who produce good food to make good ads, and harder for the companies who make rubbish food. That's not political; it's good sense.'

‘You start pitching that stuff to the prime minister and it's political. I don't want to be involved. I'm happy to come up with ideas for ads, but not laws. We should stay out of it.'

‘But we'll be
doing
ads!' Katie's voice was rising. ‘The only reason for this is so we can keep working on Parfitt's. And who knows, we could do cool ads for – I don't know – lettuces.'

Joel's laugh was mean. ‘Listen to yourself, Kato. Cool ads for lettuce. You've lost the plot. You're as crazy as Quiche trying to flog her ugly raincoats.'

‘Hey, Joel, come on –' Clementine couldn't stand people being cruel.

‘Nah, I'm over this. Besides, Dad says Clara Whiting's a loser. He says she's bound to get booted out at the next election. Meeting with her would be a waste of time.'

Katie had been standing by the window, but walked over to Joel and tried to eyeball him. She had to look up, though, and it felt ridiculous. ‘Have you got any better ideas?'

‘Going home and watching TV will have just as much effect as your . . . Lettuce Levy, or whatever you want to call it.' He hitched up his shorts. ‘So yeah, that's what I'm going to do. That sounds like an excellent idea to me.' He walked past her and left them in the tree office like debris after a storm.

It was getting dark, so Katie turned on a light. ‘Okay, that didn't go so well.' She tried to smile at Lorraine, whose shoulders slumped inside her stripy raincoat.

CHAPTER FIVE

Viper Advertising occupied an old but slickly renovated warehouse at the end of a wharf on Sydney Harbour. More than 200 people worked there and they all wore red. It was a condition of employment. Red was the company's signature colour. The walls were red, the felt on the pool table was red, so were the glasses they drank from. But it wasn't just any red: it was Pantone 032, specified by the head of Viper Advertising, Tania Mantelle. Tania had ten beliefs and they were printed in white on the red wall behind the reception desk. Caesar Maxwell read them as he waited to see her.

1. The best idea is the most profitable idea.
   
2. If you don't play politics you can't win the game.
   
3. If you can't stand the heat, get out of the agency.
   
4. Profit is our only reward.
   
5. Our clients are not our friends.
   
6. Be where the money is.
   
7. Charity begins at home. Leave it there.
   
8. Loyalty lasts as long as success.
   
9. Advertising is business, not art.
   
10. Coming second stinks.
    

Caesar Maxwell smiled. Tania Mantelle's father Brian had been his best friend, so he'd known Tania since she was born. She was now 31 and had taken her agency to the top. Her father would be so proud. He had started a printing shop in Ipswich as a sixteen-year-old school dropout and had grown it into an international corporation.

When Tania was only thirteen she told her father that he should do more than just print what people wanted him to print – he should offer better designs and smarter headlines. Brian was able to charge more for his services and business increased. Tania left school two years later and headed the creative arm of Paw Print – a small printing company he'd set up to save on his own printing costs. By the time she was twenty, Tania wanted to do more than improve flyers and newsletters, so she talked her father into helping her set up Viper Advertising. It was the easiest sell-job she'd ever done. Brian was proud of his only daughter and wanted to see her succeed. He didn't want her to start small. So he bought the wharf on Sydney Harbour, put a truckload of money in her bank account and told her to hire whoever she wanted.

One department of Viper Advertising was dedicated to doing the creative work for Paw Print, but the rest of the clients were big national manufacturers and retailers. The biggest was MyFries. The second biggest was the Australian Party – they didn't advertise much between elections, but when an election was coming, the money rolled into Viper like a tsunami. Some people who didn't like Tania Mentelle said she only held the Australian Party account because her godfather Caesar Maxwell made big donations, but she didn't care. She was having fun and making money. Anyway, most of those rumours came from people she'd sacked at some point.

‘Uncle C!' Tania finally emerged from behind the red wall. She was wearing leather pants that made her long legs look like black pencils, a black top and a red scarf. Her hair was jet black and cropped short. The makeup had failed to cover the freckles across her nose and forehead.

‘Tania, my love, wonderful to see you.'

She had to bend so she could kiss him on both cheeks. ‘You're looking well, sir!'

He laughed and patted his big belly. ‘You mean I'm looking rich!'

‘Well, that too!' She grinned. She put her arm around his shoulders. ‘Now, come into the boardroom and stop wasting my time with small talk. Have you eaten? I'll have Cheryl here get us some food.' She indicated the receptionist. ‘Cheryl, can you call The Knife and get them to send over a roasted eye fillet of beef and a bottle of Mr Maxwell's favourite wine?'

Caesar grinned. He always ate well when he came to Viper.

‘I'm sorry, Ms Mentelle,' said Cheryl nervously, ‘but The Knife will have finished lunch service. It's past two o'clock. You have to place delivery orders before twelve. I can get something in from Raymond's, though. They deliver anytime and their lobster's supposed to be great.'

Tania Mantelle pivoted on one stiletto and took three steps. She leant across the reception desk and spoke in warm, low voice. ‘Cheryl. I had high hopes for you. You seemed to be one of the brighter girls I interviewed. But it must have been one of my rare off days, because you are clearly a fool. Please collect your things and leave. But before you do, kindly tell Annalise in accounts that I would like roasted eye fillet and a bottle of '96 Grange Hermitage from The Knife served in the boardroom within the hour. And then tell her that you are leaving – and why. Thank you.' She turned back to Caesar, ‘Come on, Uncle C. We can talk before we eat. Sorry about that.'

Together they walked down the corridor, arm in arm.

The boardroom table was a five-metre slab of stainless steel. It reminded Caesar of those benches he'd seen on TV shows like ‘CSI', where they laid out the dead.

‘I wouldn't have minded something from Raymond's,' he said.

‘I know, but how else will these people learn? She's been annoying me for a week, that one. It was time she went.'

‘Of course, of course. Brilliantly handled. Want to come and work for me? I'm sick to death of namby-pamby executives.'

‘I
do
work for you, Uncle C. But I might write a book on my management style. I think there's a market for it.'

‘I'll buy the prime minister a copy. That's what that woman needs. A few lessons in getting tough.'

‘Oh, she'll learn soon enough. Wait until you see the ads my crack new team have come up with.'

‘New team? I thought you'd be doing this anti-ad ban campaign yourself.'

‘You know I'm across everything that happens in this agency. Same with this. I've just got a couple of extra heads thinking about it – that's all. They're young and smart and they work cheap!'

‘Sounds good to me.'

Tania reached for the telephone on the table and pressed a button. ‘Annalise? Is our food on its way?'

‘Yes, Ms Mentelle. It will be here in twenty minutes.'

‘Excellent. In the meantime, could you call the creative department and have Kip and Toby sent to the boardroom?'

Watching the ad, Caesar Maxwell laughed so hard his red wine nearly came out his nose.

‘Are you right?' Tania bit her lip. ‘Careful, Uncle C.' She smiled. ‘That cost $400 a bottle.'

‘Absolutely!' he said, catching his breath. ‘I love the concept just as much as Whiting will hate it. Well done, boys! Good job.'

Kip and Toby weren't particularly proud of the ad they'd made, but felt relieved at Caesar Maxwell's words. They had been out of work for months after they were fired from Pettigrew Lewis TBLC, and Tania Mentelle had thrown them a lifeline.

‘The pay will be terrible and the conditions awful until you prove that you're worth more,' she'd said. ‘I have no time for pretty-boy posers and no jobs for them, either. So you come here and do exactly as I say, or you go to a different kind of agency.'

They'd been to every other agency in Sydney and no one would hire them. The disasterous ad they made for Parfizz had ended up on YouTube but Tania Mentelle didn't care. She never entered award competitions or looked online and had a reputation for down-and-dirty advertising that worked. No one could deny that she had a knack for winning business and making money. A job at Viper was their only option.

But at least the campaign to fight the ad ban was high-profile. Kip and Toby had thrown themselves into coming up with an idea no one could ignore.

‘Run me through it again.' Caesar Maxwell leaned back in his chair.

‘Sure.' Toby ran a hand through his hair that still felt uncomfortably short. Tania had made him cut it. She said her clients were neat-hair people, so hers was a neat-hair agency. ‘We have a whole heap of beach balls printed with kids' faces on them,' he said, ‘so the kids look bloated. We see them rolling around on a shiny floor. Then we see a woman's legs – from the knees down, wearing cheap high heels. In slow motion we see she's preparing to kick one of the balls. The voice over says, “
No one likes fat kids. Kicking the problem around won't solve it. That's exactly what Prime Minister Clara Whiting is doing. Just like her government, the ad ban won't work. Say no to the ad ban and yes to freedom of choice
.” Then the woman, who we assume is the prime minister, kicks the ball. The kid's face winces . . . we can do that with animation.'

Toby sighed with relief at the look of satisfaction on Tania's face.

‘I love it,' Maxwell said. ‘Absolutely love it.'

‘I knew you would,' said Tania. ‘How are you going with raising the money to run it?' She dismissed Toby and Kip with a nod. ‘The ad itself is cheap to make, but you'll need big money for media. You want to play it on all commercial channels, all the time.'

‘Going okay.' Maxwell shrugged. ‘All the burger chains have paid up. The chicken people have been generous and there was no argument from the pizza companies. The soft drink guys couldn't transfer their funds fast enough. Not surprising, as they'll be the first hit. There's only been one that's less than enthusiastic. But I'm not worried.'

‘Who's that?'

‘Parfitt's from Brisbane – pathetic little outfit. Probably doomed, anyway.'

‘If Parfitt's isn't with us, we have to assume they're against us.' Tania placed her fingertips on the edge of the table as if it were a keyboard. ‘They need to sign on for their own survival.'

‘Come on, Tania, we can manage without an insignificant bunch like them. And what are we meant to do, anyway? We can't force them.'

She burst out laughing. ‘Of course you can! You're Mr MyFries. You can force anyone to do anything.' She patted his hand and filled his wine glass.

Toby and Kip sat in the room Tania had said would serve as their office until they earnt somewhere better. It wasn't really a room – just a space behind the kitchen, where old printers, phones and unidentifiable boxes of CDs were dumped. Their desk was a yellowing plastic table that had once been used for barbecues on the terrace adjoining Tania's office.

‘That went well,' Toby tapped his knee with a pen.

‘I suppose,' Kip said glumly.

They looked at each other and both knew the truth. The ad they had presented to Caesar Maxwell was a dog.

‘What are we doing here?' Toby shook his head. ‘How did this happen?'

‘I don't know.' Kip closed his eyes.

A year ago, they'd been flying high on the success of an ad they'd made for a chain of barber shops called Clippers. Their work won them a Bronze Turtle award and everyone was saying they were the next big thing in advertising. They were offered a job at Pettigrew Lewis TBLC, once the biggest ad agency in Brisbane. The money was great and their office had its own fridge and coffee machine. Not that they were there much – they felt more creative outside the office and most of their day was spent in cafes and bars. But then they made an ad for Parfizz that cost too much and wasn't right and they were fired. So it was back to Sydney, broke and embarrassed. Kip moved in with his parents. Toby had the attic at his nan's place.

There was no disappearing to bars or cafes at Viper, though. Tania expected them to be behind their desks all day and most of the night. They were expected to wear their shirts tucked in and they had to wear proper shoes – no Vans.

At the interview, Tania had lowered her eyes to Kip's footwear. ‘Are you a professional athlete?' She inhaled. ‘In training for something?'

‘Ah, no.' He tried to cover one shoe with the other.

‘Well, we don't wear sports shoes in this office. We work with extremely important heads of industry and they relate best to people who dress as they do. Leather. Polished.'

‘But – I don't have any.' Kip hoped he didn't sound as pathetic as he felt.

‘What about you?' She nodded at Toby's feet.

‘Sorry.'

‘And no money to buy any I suppose.' Clearly Tania Mentelle was enjoying her power.

‘We'll get some with our first pay,' Kip said, too quickly.

‘No.' She scribbled a note. ‘You'll get some today. Give this to Annalise in Accounts. She will advance you $500 each for shoes.'

Kip and Toby were stunned.

‘And don't buy them on special and pocket the change. I want receipts.'

They had spent an afternoon shopping for shoes they didn't want. Tania Mentelle hadn't just paid for their shoes – she had bought
them
and it was a lousy feeling.