False Advertising (27 page)

‘Or nervous, inexperienced, clueless,' she said. ‘I don't know what I'm doing here.'

‘Oh?'

‘I was talked into this. Along with the dress, and the shoes.'

‘You don't want the job?'

Helen shrugged. ‘I don't know. Maybe. Yes. I need the money, and the hours are ideal . . .'

‘I hear a “but” coming.'

She looked at him. ‘Never mind.'

‘What? What is it?'

‘You work here; I'd rather not say.'

‘Oh, come on, get it off your chest,' he said. ‘You'll feel better in the interview.' He leaned his hand on the wall beside her head, smiling down at her.

Helen wasn't in the habit of sharing secrets with people she knew, let alone complete strangers. But there was something about his face . . . He would have made a good doctor, at least on appearances. He wasn't strikingly handsome, but he was certainly agreeable enough. People were wary of doctors who were too good-looking: men mistrusted them, and women felt self-conscious around them. It was all very well to have pin-up Dr McDreamys on your TV shows, but not in real life. His face was just right; you would feel comfortable telling him the most intimate details, you could trust him with your kidney stones or your broken limb or your undiagnosed pain, and he would make it all better.

She suddenly realised he was waving his hand in front of her.

‘Sorry,' he said, ‘I don't know your name, and you drifted away for a second then.'

She blushed again. ‘Sorry, it's Helen.'

‘Well, Helen, you were saying . . .'

She smiled. ‘No, I wasn't.'

‘Aah, the girl can't be fooled that easily,' he said. ‘Seriously, if you have any doubts about working here, maybe I can clear some of them up for you.'

She considered him, that face. She only had Gemma's take on the MD – it might be good to get another opinion before she fronted him in an interview. It couldn't hurt . . .

‘Okay,' said Helen. ‘But this is off the record, all right?'

‘It doesn't leave this garage,' he said, holding a hand to his heart.

She took a breath. ‘What do you think of the MD? That's who I'll be working for,' she explained. ‘I'm going to start job-sharing with Gemma, his assistant. Do you know her?'

He nodded. ‘A little.'

‘She rents a room in my house, and she's a little nutty, but she grows on you. Anyway, she was always complaining about him, said he was a pig to work for, but of course now that she wants me to share her job, suddenly she talks as though he's a great guy. I don't know what to believe.'

‘Maybe you should split the difference?' he suggested. ‘The reality is most likely somewhere in between.'

She nodded, thinking. ‘You're probably right . . .'

‘So is that all that was bothering you about working here?'

Helen glanced up at him. ‘To be honest, you might take offence if I told you what else.'

‘Nah, I'm pretty thick-skinned,' he assured her. ‘Go on.'

‘Well, the thing is . . .' She screwed up her face. ‘I don't exactly approve of advertising. I don't like it, I try to avoid it as much as I can. I think it's intrusive, and misleading, and a symbol of everything that's wrong with our society.'

‘Oh.'

‘See, I knew you'd be offended.'

‘I'm not offended,' he told her. ‘I'm not at the coalface, I don't design or write or make the ads.'

‘What do you do?' she frowned, realising she hadn't asked, and he hadn't said.

‘Oh, admin mostly, general office . . . stuff,' he dismissed. ‘That's more or less what you'd be doing too, isn't it? You
wouldn't have anything to do with making the ads or putting them out there.'

‘That's what Gemma said. But isn't it wrong for me to work in an industry I feel morally opposed to? Kind of like a right-to-lifer working in an abortion clinic.'

He looked a little uncomfortable. ‘Don't you think that's drawing a bit of a long bow?'

‘You're right, I'm sorry. That was extreme. It's not the same thing at all.'

‘If you're so against advertising, maybe you can have a little influence, working for the MD?'

Helen shook her head. ‘I doubt it. The way Gemma tells it, he barely notices her: she just files and answers his mail.'

‘Then in that case your morals are unlikely to be compromised.'

She leaned her head back against the wall, smiling at him. ‘You're right. I'm making a fuss about nothing.'

‘Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying your morals are nothing to fuss about. If Bailey's was dealing in weapons, or drugs, you'd be right to be morally outraged. But maybe you should take advertising for what it is.'

‘But there is evidence that advertising can be harmful. They're saying that junk food advertising is at least partly responsible for the obesity epidemic, especially when it's aimed at kids. And the credit blow-out is all because people keep wanting more and more of what is thrust in their faces every day through advertising.'

‘Advertising doesn't make people fat, or broke, or greedy, Helen,' he returned. ‘Aren't you getting a little sick of this culture of blame we hide behind these days? Don't you think people need to take responsibility for their own choices, and stop passing the buck? Or in this case, stop shooting the messenger?'

Helen had to admit he had a point. Maybe it was not entirely convincing, but then again, perhaps it was enough for her to at least consider working here.

‘Or maybe I should get off your case and let you make up your own mind?' he said, watching her.

She turned to look at him directly. ‘No, not at all, you've actually given me some food for thought.'

‘Then my work here is done.' He glanced at his watch. ‘And you
should probably start making your way up.' Before she realised what he was doing, he'd crouched down in front of her and she could feel his hands on her feet again, and the accompanying tingle.

‘It's okay, you don't have to . . .'

But he was already gently slipping the shoe onto her injured foot. ‘It's swollen up a little,' he said.

‘Oh well, maybe the shoe will fit better,' she said wryly, taking the weight onto that foot as he went to help her with the other shoe. It was a little painful, and she had to lean on him again for support. When he stood up straight again he was right in front of her, their faces close.

‘Thank you,' she said.

‘My pleasure,' he replied, stepping back. ‘Come on, I'm assuming you have to sign in at the ground floor?'

She nodded. ‘I'll be right from here, you've done enough.'

‘I'm going up anyway. Let me at least help you into the lift.' He held his arm out to her, and she took it gladly for the few steps into the elevator. He pressed G, the doors closed and the lift began its ascent.

‘Good luck,' he said.

‘Thanks,' said Helen. ‘I might see you around, if I get the job.'

‘More than likely.'

The lift had come to a stop again and the doors were opening. Helen stepped forward gingerly.

‘Are you sure you're going to be okay?' he said.

‘I'll be fine,' she said bravely. ‘Thanks again.'

‘You know, Helen, whatever happens . . .' He hesitated, he seemed to be searching for words. ‘It'll be okay.'

Helen nodded faintly. She wasn't sure what he meant by that. But the doors were closing again, and then he was gone. She turned and limped across the floor. Her ankle was beginning to throb. This was a disaster. She was going to look like an idiot hobbling into the interview.

At the reception desk she gave her name to another jovial security man, and he issued her with a visitor pass to wear on a lanyard around her neck. He walked with her back to the lifts to show her how the card worked.

She stepped into the waiting lift, and the man slipped a card
in and out of a slot on the panel just below the buttons. ‘That's all there is to it, then you can access nearly all the floors.' He pressed number fifteen. ‘I'll call up to Ms Atkinson and let her know you're on your way.'

‘Thank you.'

When the lift doors opened on the fifteenth floor, Gemma was there waiting for her. Helen walked out, trying not to limp too obviously, but Gemma frowned at her.

‘What's wrong with you?' she asked. ‘The shoes can't be that uncomfortable, surely?'

Helen sighed. ‘My heel got caught in a grate in the carpark and I twisted my ankle, and dropped all my stuff . . .'

Gemma winced. ‘Are you okay? Was there anyone around to help you?'

‘Yeah, there was, in fact,' she said. ‘This really lovely man got me unstuck, and stayed with me till I was okay.'

Gemma took her arm to give her some support. ‘The security guys are wonderful around here.'

‘No, he wasn't security, he said he was in admin.'

‘Oh? What was his name?'

What was his name? Did he say? He must have said when he asked for her name. Whatever, she obviously didn't remember it now. ‘I don't know, I didn't catch it.'

Gemma shrugged. ‘Well, the MD is waiting for you. He said to send you straight in as soon as you get here. Are you going to be all right?'

‘What choice do I have?' said Helen. ‘You don't think it's a bad omen, do you?'

‘No,' said Gemma firmly, ‘it's just bad luck. It was an accident, Helen, you of all people should know that sometimes accidents just happen.'

‘Okay, you're right.'

‘Besides, it might be a good omen.'

‘How is that?'

‘You met a cute guy from admin.'

Helen blushed, elbowing her as Gemma led her slowly down the hall past the executive offices and all the way around to the province of the managing director.

‘This is it,' she announced. ‘What do you think?'

Helen gazed at the clean minimalist space, the white walls adorned with postmodern artworks, the intimidating glass and steel desk where she would be working, perhaps. ‘It's very . . .'

‘It sure is,' Gemma agreed. ‘They have an image to maintain. That's what it's all about, after all.'

Helen sighed. ‘Great, and I'm going to look like the maiden aunt come to mind the shop.'

‘Cut it out,' Gemma chided, walking around the desk. ‘You look totally fabulous, the MD will be very impressed. I'm just going to buzz him now.' She held a button down on the phone and a moment later a slightly hollow ‘Yes?' came over the intercom.

‘Helen Chapman is here.'

‘Send her in,' he said. ‘On her own, please, Gemma,' he added in his best, ‘he who must be obeyed' tone.

Gemma pulled a face at the phone. ‘Of course, MD,' she said sweetly. She released the button and looked across at Helen. ‘Will you be all right?'

Helen took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Wish me luck.'

‘I won't say break a leg,' Gemma said wryly. ‘Let me walk you to the door at least –'

Helen shook her head. ‘No, stand there and tell me if I look like a freak when I walk.'

She headed towards the door to the MD's office, taking slow, measured steps, trying not to wince as she took as much weight as she could handle on the affected ankle. As she reached the door she turned to look at Gemma, who gave her the thumbs-up. Helen smiled stoically and took a firm hold of the doorknob; then, after one more calming breath, she opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her. She looked across the vast office as the MD got to his feet. Helen blinked, and her heart lurched in her chest.

‘What are you doing here?' she breathed.

He looked awkward. ‘I didn't get the chance to introduce myself.'

She stared at him. She couldn't speak. It couldn't be. He couldn't be . . .

‘I made up an icepack for you.'

‘I'm going to be sick,' she blurted.

‘Helen, it's okay –'

‘No, really, I'm going to be sick,' she insisted, a little frantic now. ‘It's what I do.'

‘Okay,' he said coming towards her, ‘there's a bathroom through here.'

She began to hobble in that direction as he made it to her side, taking hold of her arm.

‘Don't!' she said, snatching it away.

‘Helen,' he tried to placate her, ‘you can barely walk. Take those shoes off at least.'

He was right. She kicked them off, dropped her bag and folder on the spot, and hopped straight for the door he'd indicated, closing it firmly behind her. She looked around, breathing hard; it was a pretty bloody palatial bathroom for an office. For that matter, who had a bathroom in their office anyway? The managing director of an advertising agency, that's who. Not some nice guy from admin.

Helen went and leaned over the toilet, but her nausea seemed to be subsiding. She still felt hot, clammy, breathless, embarrassed, mortified, betrayed, tricked and misled. What kind of a show was he running here? Pouncing on unsuspecting job applicants in the basement carpark and tricking them into giving up personal secrets?

Shit! She'd told him what Gemma had said about him. If he used his ill-gotten gains to threaten Gem, or worse, fire her, well, Helen was going to . . . well, she was going to do something. She'd take it to the union, if there was one in this industry. If not, she'd go to one of those shoddy current affairs shows and expose him. See how far his threats and deception got him then.

Helen closed the lid of the toilet and sat down on it. An overwhelming sense of disappointment was creeping up on her. For a brief moment she had ventured out into the big wide world, where no one knew her circumstances, where no one would have to feel sorry for her, where she could stand on her own two feet . . . perhaps she hadn't managed that part so well, but . . .

She hadn't even wanted this job in the first place, and now she felt strangely sad that she wouldn't get the chance to work here,
with all the happy security men, and the nice guy from admin. Or rather, the big fraud who ran the place. Gemma had been right about him all along. And now Helen had probably completely screwed things for her as well. A quick, sharp pain suddenly shot through her ankle, as if to remind her she also had that to deal with. Helen peered down at her foot. The swelling was quite obvious now. She really should put some ice on it as soon as possible, get it elevated, but first she had to get back down to the garage and drive herself home. And she wasn't exactly sure how she was going to manage that.