MondayApparently at the beginning of each year all the staff (Marketing and PR) are gathered into the Board Room and given a presentation on the agency’s objectives and targets for the next twelve months. The actual presentation is given by one of the Senior Directors (on our floor we were praying that it wouldn’t be Ian - otherwise several cases of rigor mortis might set in). In the event it was Val, the newest of the directors (just promoted at the end of last year).
Val is in her late thirties, but looks much younger. She has a very slim (veering to skinny) figure and golden blonde hair which she has in a longish bob. Her clothes are mostly pastel and pale in colour, and she never wears trousers (she makes a big thing of this). Her voice is high and a bit squeaky. Despite her little-girl-lost image she heads up the most successful of the PR account teams - including Rachel, Caroline, Douglas and Aine. She must be very tough to control Rachel and Caroline, both of whom can be headstrong and temperamental.
Anyway, we all crammed in the Board Room at 11 o’clock (most of us standing as the few seats were already taken). Val delivered her presentation competently. Terry (our MD) interrupted at various points to expand on particular issues.
Afterwards, in the hubbub as people were leaving the room, Val came over to Rachel who was sitting with me on the corner of a side table.
“How was my presentation?” Val asked Rachel hopefully.
“You were disappointing” Rachel told her in a flat voice (what could be described as a spiteful monotone).
“I know, I
know” Val said, in an agony of self-doubt.
TuesdayTerry gives us an entertaining budget to spend on our clients, and keeps reminding us to use it up. This is not as easy as it sounds, as not all clients want (or are allowed) to be “entertained”. Anyway, I still had some of 2007’s budget to use up, and went through my client list looking for someone suitable to spend it on.
Eventually I asked Beryl from BQW (Special Projects Division). In the short time I have been handling the client list she has so far remained distant (she always seems to have a slightly supercilious attitude towards me). She works at a BQW site in Northamptonshire, and so on Tuesday I borrowed Ian’s car (he drives into the office every day, despite the Congestion Charge) and drove down the M1.
We met at a big modern hotel on a roundabout just off the motorway junction. Put up in the mid-90s, the building was interesting in that all its external facades were masked by ornamental hedges (this was a deliberate part of the design, so that the hotel looked as if it had living green walls). The electric doors flew open and I walked into an atrium Reception where Beryl was waiting on a leather-upholstered bench.
Beryl is aged about 45, short with black hair (no grey), pear-shaped in black trousers, black silk top, black jacket.
We went into the comfortable bar and had drinks (put on the bill). We talked about our careers. She described her plan to travel round the world - this is a real plan, and she is taking six months off work to do this.
Into the Rotunda restaurant. Only one other table was occupied, which was perhaps a reflection of current doubts about the economy (normally every table would be filled with business people). Ragout of langoustines with tomato concasse and ginger; assiette of lamb with gratin potatoes, Provencal vegetables and rosemary jus; soufflé of Valhrona’s Manjari chocolate with chocolate sauce and toasted coconut ice cream (I chose the most expensive dishes as I wanted to use up the budget).
We were there almost two hours. I kept up a steady flow of questions, otherwise conversation would have lapsed (thankfully it never did, although Beryl wasn’t at all responsive). We talked about BQW special projects, and Beryl prefaced nearly every remark with “It’s a great story, but we can never tell anyone.”
As we were leaving the Head Waiter presented Beryl with a red and white orchid. It was a chunky flower with a beautiful lustrous bloom. In the car Beryl gave the orchid to me, saying she couldn’t possibly take it into her office.
I drove back to London, and parked Ian’s car in the cramped space he has in the mews at the back (I am always afraid of scraping the side when I do this). I didn’t know what to do with the orchid. It seemed too good to throw away, so I left it on the dashboard in Ian’s car.
Ian went down to the car to get his sandwiches, and when he came back he put the orchid on my desk. Again I didn’t know what to do with it. Eventually I put it in a tumbler of water and left it on Angela’s desk (she was out).
“You crawler” Ian shouted at me.
WednesdayAngela flew into a rage with Sheila, Janette and Pete. It was more funny than alarming (this time). Possibly she was feeling humiliated at her exclusion from the Rocket presentation (Rocket is a client she used to handle (on Ian's behalf), but which we have “lost” as the contact there has been sacked - we are having to re-pitch for the business and Kate is adamant that Angela should not be involved).
ThursdayPeter Hain resigns. Terry (our MD) can’t stop talking about this. He has a background in parliamentary lobbying and knows several of the key players, giving us the benefit of his experience:
“The main problem is the power of the journalists. The old hands are all Oxbridge English graduates and have been taught to deconstruct arguments, so whatever line is put out, it gets pulled to pieces. The newer ones have come through the Media Studies route, so they know fuck-all.”
FridayOur floor had the usual monthly meeting. Ian rambled on, mostly repeating what Val had said on Monday. Ben and Pete giggled and sniggered, everyone else sat looking blank.
After half-an-hour Kate and I left to go to the Rocket presentation, both of us glad to get out of the room.
By taxi to Holland Park Avenue. We were far too early and so had coffee and biscuits (in Tootsie’s) and looked into shop windows. Neither of us was looking forward to the meeting.
Into Rocket and a long wait in Reception. Then we were led into a small white meeting room. Sat at the round table in this room was Rosina, our previous contact who had been sacked and had now been reinstated - her presence at the meeting was a complete surprise to us (“I’m not very happy” she told us when we were briefly left alone together).
The General Manager (“Geoffrey”) was an arrogant lean man of about fifty-five, in a broad-striped navy blue suit. He had short grey hair and a handsome face set with deep cruel lines that indicated his expression in repose was a sneer. He was uninterested in what we had to say, and kept leaving the room to take telephone calls (Kate used the c-word the third time he interrupted our presentation - Rosina smiled and nodded).
Anyway, the upshot of the meeting was that the account is back with us. Rosina is our contact again. Everything in the garden is (ostensibly, and if you don’t look too closely) rosy.
“Don’t tell Ian how easy it was” said Kate on the way back. “Let him think we really had to fight. Let him think he owes us big-time.”
