To Catch a Creeper (2 page)

‘Ah but that was then,’ I swirled my wine around my glass, ‘and this is now. Things change. People move on. Besides I was merely waiting for the right opportunity. Didn’t want to waste my many talents on menial work.’

‘Many talents, huh? Like super sleuthing for example?’ He arched his left eyebrow in a sardonic pose. ‘So I guess that means you won’t be leaping in to catch the infamous Crouch End Creeper? Made page seven of
The Independent
today.’

‘
The Independent
? Wow. So what did…?’ I caught myself just in time and skilfully changed my mildly interested tone to dismissive-who-cares-a-fig. ‘Haven’t they better things to write about? I mean, what’s happening in the Middle East? How’s Germany’s economy? Besides I’m far too busy.’

‘Tell me again, what exactly it is you do all day?’

‘Think up new campaigns. Write copy. Mostly hush hush. I’m not supposed to talk about it actually.’ I dabbed my lips with a napkin. ‘Client confidentiality, you know.’

‘Oh I see,’ he whispered back, raising his palm between us as a shield from prying ears. ‘I didn’t realise. Heard anything from Gabby or anyone?’

By anyone, he meant half my close friends who seemed to disappear at roughly the same time towards the end of last year. Not exactly a case of one got squashed, one got lost, one had an operation. More one got sent to an asylum, one emigrated and the other disappeared to Cornwall in an attempt to get her teenagers off the weed.

‘Gabby called last week, funnily enough. She’s loving it down in Padstow. Her boys have a collie and a goat and acres of land. And Belinda emailed me from Toronto about a month ago. She started making her jams, and Geoffrey’s furniture is actually selling. Great, eh?’

‘Good luck to them, going after their dreams. I envy them in a way.’

‘Why?’ I stared at him in surprise. Not like Declan to sound wistful. ‘I could never imagine you tugging at goats’ udders or carving sparrows out of tree-trunks. Besides I thought you loved it at Wilson Inc.’

‘Oh I do, I do. Sure and isn’t it the dream of every young Irish lad,’ he mocked, ‘to be employed by an old established manufacturing company with a final salary pension plan and a real gold watch on retirement.’

‘Well, what is your dream then?’

‘Don’t know,’ he sighed and looked thoughtful. ‘But I suspect it’s nothing to do with end of year accounts. Ach, never mind,’ he put on the accent again. ‘Right now, I’m
dreaming of bed with my Irish queen and stripping her of that fine linen blouse. Too la roo la roo la.’

Later that night, I snuggled up against his warm naked body.

‘I think you’ve been in Crouch End too long. You’vethe worst Irish accent I’ve ever heard.’

He wrapped his arms around me. ‘And hard to believe you’re more interested in matters abroad than happenings in your own neighbourhood. Well done.’ He kissed the top of my head.

‘I’m not a small town gal anymore,’ I’d sighed heavily, gloriously content.

Chapter 2

I walk down Oxford Street, take a left, second right, then right again down a narrow side alley, until I come to a black shiny door with a plaque next to it which reads
Younger and Wilding Advertising Agency
.

The polished brass knocker reflects my gleaming beam as I inspect my teeth for lipstick marks and eyes for mascara smudges. I still can’t get over it. Me, with a proper job. Not a doss one like my friend and fellow mother, Henrietta, poor thing, chasing up unpaid invoices in that musty office in Islington for a grumpy old codger who’s still living in the dark ages.

I smile with sympathy at a woman who is pushing a pram while dragging behind her a screaming toddler. Nope. After a dodgy few months middle of last year everything’s just clicked into place. Snap. Marriage on track – Declan proud as punch. Snap. Two children seeing their mother as a balanced and worthy role model. Snap. Top job in Central London where I get to attend action-packed meetings and high-powered lunches with all my superb colleagues.

Colleagues…doesn’t the word just roll off your tongue? In fact, I realise as I deposit my card in the slot and the automatic doors swish aside to let me through, I’m a colleague myself. Another hat to wear. And an employee. And like all the other employees here I’ve a brand new state-of-the-art computer of my very own – which, although admittedly I’m finding a tad difficult to master, is heaps better than our big outdated monster at home which not only takes up a whole desk to handle its gigantic proportions but is slower than a lumbering mammoth. Plus…and this is the greatest bit, I’m working as a team with Rosa. How cool is that? At thirty-seven, she’s two years younger than me, has been my best friend since forever and was the one who got me this gig.

While I gave up my career almost the minute I got pregnant and took a nose-dive professionally speaking, she worked her way up through the years. And it was only luck and generosity on Rosa’s part that she let me hide under her metaphoric cloak and sneak in via the back door by suggesting the La La campaign. It was so successful it saved her boss’s bacon and to thank me, she insisted on my joining her as her partner. Where I go, Cathy goes, type of thing. Wasn’t quite ‘Shane, Shane, Come Back!’ from that great old Western but it was very moving.

Yes, I ponder as I ascend in the lift to the seventh floor, I’ve a hell of a lot to be thankful for. Compared to being a bored browbeaten housewife, going back to the office is peasy pudding.

Peasy peasy pudding.

***

‘Exquisite cardigan, dearheart,’ Lewis walks past with a pile of folders as I’m taking off my coat.

‘Thanks,’ I say pleased. ‘River Island.’ I bought tons of clothes before I started here – just to make a good first impression. But my extremely generous salary should soon catch up with the credit card bills. Once I’ve paid off the boiler, that is.

‘Yep,’ Lewis doesn’t miss a stride, ‘liked it yesterday. And the three days you wore it last week.’

What? I know for a fact I didn’t wear it more than twice. Friday, I wore that…what was it? Then Thursday, I wore… But he’s not hanging around to let me explain. So maybe I didn’t buy
quite enough
new outfits.

Alice, the receptionist, chatting on the phone, raises her free hand in greeting just as Rosa rushes up to me, all flushed cheeks and smiley mouth.

‘Turks just called a powwow.’ She grabs my arm and her violet eyes crinkle with amusement. ‘Come on, Cath, I’ll fill you in on last night’s big news. If you can catch me that is. Last one to the conference room’s a cockerel’s cock.’

We race down the corridor, giggling and laughing and shoving each other out the way like naughty schoolgirls as we slip and slide round corners on the highly polished floor. If we’re lucky we might find a big plate of croissants and Danish pastries awaiting us – sometimes Alice buys them and sometimes it’s Turks, our boss, who likes feeding our creative juices. Another powwow? Wonder what it’s about this time?

Really it’s amazing any of us get anything done with all the meetings Turks calls. He’s big at brainstorming, team feedback, putting our collective heads together, which means we get to spend a lot of time in the conference room viewing videos and making smart comments – well, other people do. Mostly I just sink deep into my chair so as not to be noticed. I know I’ll be more confident in future, just I’m new to this game and would rather not show myself up by spouting nonsense.

This time it’s Gurlet Mute’s turn to star. He’s the new young blood in Younger and Wilding. Dark haired, skinny, black winged specs, the post-modern ironic look, so they call it, sporting a flash Paul Smith jacket and yellow flowery-patterned t-shirt. Someone said he picked his name from the dictionary and one day I looked it up – Gurlet – meaning a pickaxe with a head pointed at one end. And Mute meaning. Can’t speak. Which he can. Too much so, sometimes.

Turks is standing at the head of the large oak oval table with Vivien, who everyone here calls Vicious Viv. He’s wearing, as always, a Stetson, teamed with a black open-necked shirt and denim jeans; she’s in a tan and teal striped jacket with a tasteful knee-length matching skirt showing off elegant shapely legs, her hair a glossy immaculate copper helmet. From our few interactions, talking to Vivien is like someone gently stroking you with a razor blade. Superficially friendly but slightly terrifying as you never know when they’re going to turn it sideways and nick you. They’re whispering together, leaning over papers, ignoring the other ten or so people in the room, until Turks sits down, crosses one leg over the other and stretches ostentatiously. The cue to begin.

He has this laid back couldn’t care less manner but that’s just a front. Rosa says he’s been known to stay as late as midnight even when it wasn’t to chat up one of the secretaries. He has a bit of a reputation.

To my left there’s Rosa, three inches taller than me at five foot seven, streaked-blonde hair, voluptuous figure. She used to be nicknamed Raz and every now and then I forget and call her Raz. If you look closely at her waistline, you’ll see a bump protruding, product of her relationship with her fiancé, Alec, Declan’s cousin. She’s pregnant, you see. Yes. Yes. I snigger to myself every time I think of it. Rosa with a baby. She has
no idea
what’s going to hit her. Not a sodding clue. Mothers’ most widely kept secret. And people think men are the sneaky ones. Oh I know she’ll be fab at it and heaps better than me, but still… Poor innocent. Every time I look at her, the words slaughter and lamb leap to mind.

Next to her is Alice, receptionist but also a bum model in her spare time. Mid twenties, good skin, she’s really rather pretty when she lets down that long golden ponytail of hers. Skinny, no chest to speak of, but her bum’s to die for. I know because I’ve seen it so many times. She’ll come in and say, ‘Hey did anyone watch Holby City?’ or ‘Did you catch Corrie last night?’ And we’ll say, ‘Oh no we missed it’ and she’ll say,‘Don’t matter, I have it here’ then show us clips on her iPhone with her backside in the starring role. She’s not fussy what she takes on. Dead bodies, sex shots, lap dancing stuff, anything. She even once had a dagger protruding from her left buttock. I think that was a Miss Marple.

On the other side of me is Lewis – not certain exactly what he does but he’s at all the meetings – and beside him – well, there are media buyers, production assistants, marketing executives, research people, interns. To be honest, they’re mostly men, some scruffy, some smart, almost all young. It’s hard keeping track of all their names.

‘OK, let’s start,’ Turks drawls. ‘Now you all remember our dazzling Vivien here recently managed to win us our biggest account so far this year. We’re talking nationwide, print, prime time TV, even some big budget cinema slots. Anyway I threw it at Gurlet and he’s played around with a few ideas. Thought we’d shoot them past you. Just an informal trial run, get some team feedback. OK, Gurlet, you’re on.’

‘Right.’ Gurlet stands up and rubs his hands. ‘Well, for those of you living on another planet these last few months, the Government’s pushing a big campaign for a healthier Britain, trying to get us to clean up our acts, get off our couches, out of the fast food chains and away from NHS hospitals. So what we’re talking about today is part of a Government-sponsored programme for healthy eating – in this case bread, baby. We’re thinking keep it visual, minimal copy, target the fifteen-year-old Nintendo junkies, and their kid brothers will come along for the ride, making it cool, chic, masses of youth appeal. So farewell to Dvorak’s New World Symphony, liquorice and knickerbockers and hello to let’s catch some air on the half-pipe, dude.’

‘Sounds like he’s been smoking his own half-pipe,’ Lewis says cattily under his breath.

‘Who’s Dvorak?’ I whisper to Rosa.

‘Largo. Hovis bread. We walked down to the shops me mam and me.’ She puts on a thick Yorkshire accent. ‘And there was real boota for ma tea.’

‘Ridley Scott 1973 classic. Once polled the favourite commercial of all time,’ Lewis informs me. ‘But of course Gurlet the God can do better.’

Gurlet scowls at the three of us. ‘Incredi-Bread Gradual Brown loaf.’ He pulls out a board with a sketch of a wrapped loaf, ‘Whole wheat white flour, but ordinary enough not to scare the kids, who’ll see your regular sliced white with sexier packaging and a sassier image. Aha, but wait…’ Another board. Same loaf of bread, different colour wrapper. ‘Incredi-Plus. Phase Two, we up the fibre and so on and so on, until, drum roll please, we present Mega-Incredi. By this time the kids are hooked. We’ve got them eating one hundred percent stoneground, packed with vitamins, seeds, Omega 3, Seratone 5, whatever the hell they want to throw in there.’

‘And the little darlings won’t even notice,’ Lewis mutters under his breath.

‘Josh and Sophie would,’ I reply. ‘Can’t even sneak a Go-Buys lemonade past them.’ Rosa and I both begin to giggle until we’re stopped by another glare from Gurlet.

‘Actually the kids will think it’s mega-cool. Graduate to Gradual Brown, are you hip enough to dare the next level…? We’re calling it Gradual Brown because it slowly darkens as we change the nation’s eating habits step by step. So, here’s the pitch.’ He smoothly zips over to the pull-down screen and picks up a remote. ‘We’re fat, flabby and pasty – why? Because of our terrible diets and couch potato culture. But as that changes, so do we. I’ve created a rough mock-up to give you the general gist. Of course, the real thing will be high-tech, sleek, very expensive. We’re talking with the guys from Pixar. Think Toy Story or maybe – if we want to go that route – Japanese anime.’

‘Blimey,’ I hiss in Rosa’s ear as the screen comes alive with a few Pillsbury doughboy kids slumping on a sofa, Playstation controllers in one hand, sandwiches in the other. ‘He made this himself?’

‘Oh yeah, Gurlet’s a tech genius, all right,’ Lewis says in a low voice from my other side. ‘Did he forget to tell you?’

The little doughboys have pushed their TV aside now and rolled up the carpet, bringing out skateboards, donning baseball caps, busting out hip-hop moves, all the while munching on a never-ending stream of sandwiches. As they get thinner and their antics
wilder, their skin darkens in conjunction with the bread. By the time Mega-Incredi flashes on the screen, there’s a bunch of muscle-bound teens on a tropical beach, jigging round the campfire, playing volleyball and flaunting long dark locks and six packs that’d make Arnie jealous.