False Advertising (36 page)

Myles paused, remembering. ‘In the school holidays she'd plan these excursions, pack us off with a picnic lunch to find an Aboriginal site on the outskirts of the city, or some other historical place that she'd researched.' He stared wistfully out across the water. ‘She was insatiable. She had a wonderful mind that she never really got to use, at least not for a career of her own. She said we boys were her life's work, her greatest achievement.'

Helen was watching him. She hadn't failed to notice that he only referred to his mother in the past tense.

‘Listen to me,' Myles said suddenly. ‘I'm making her sound like some kind of saint, and making myself sound like a bit of a nancy boy.' He paused. ‘A fancy-pants nancy boy even.'

Helen gave him a faint smile. ‘What happened to her?' she asked carefully.

Myles took a breath. ‘She died just after I was accepted into uni, once she knew I was all set with a scholarship. Hugo had already graduated, Rupe was up at the Conservatorium in Sydney. She collapsed the first time just as I finished my final school exams. Breast cancer. The doctors said it was so advanced they couldn't do anything, and Mum didn't want chemo to prolong her life; she knew that would only make her sicker for longer and we'd have to look after her. She must have been having symptoms for a long time, but she never complained, never stopped, and never did anything about it. She just wanted to see us through. She died eight weeks after she was diagnosed.'

‘She really was a saint,' Helen said quietly.

Myles didn't respond, only stared out at the water.

‘So was your mother's illness the reason you went into medicine?' Helen asked after a while.

He looked at her then. ‘And the reason I quit. After she died, I did one semester of the arts/law degree I was enrolled in, but I wasn't committed any more. I decided I had to do something to help people. I think I had ideas of saving everyone else's mother. But it was so hard, I couldn't handle it,' he said, shaking his head. ‘You don't cure many people in medicine, you just treat them, make them comfortable. I suppose you'd know that. Anyway, I think I had some kind of minor breakdown. I went to Tasmania
to stay with Hugo for a while – he has a property down there – took some time out to decide what I wanted to do.'

‘And you came up with business management? That's quite a leap.'

‘That was the point. I wanted to deal with problems that could be fixed. But it's never that simple. There are always people involved, and they get affected by the decisions you make, sometimes for the worse. I've tried to avoid that, find solutions that work for everybody, but the responsibility feels overwhelming at times.'

Helen sipped her wine, thinking. No wonder he went around with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

‘Okay, that's my quota,' Myles said suddenly. ‘You let me talk too much, Helen. You really need to yawn occasionally so I know when I'm boring you.'

She smiled. ‘But you see, you weren't boring me.'

‘Hmm,' he said doubtfully. ‘So what about you? You said your brother's in England. Are your parents around?'

Helen hesitated. ‘My father passed away, but my mother's still alive: she's in a nursing home, special care . . . she has Alzheimer's.'

Myles shifted on the bench so he was turned towards her. ‘Oh, I'm sorry, Helen. That must be hard.'

She shrugged. ‘It can be.'

‘Does your mother recognise you any more?'

Sometimes the truth hit Helen like a harsh blow. She swallowed. ‘No, not so much these days.'

‘That'd be the worst part, I imagine,' he said gently. ‘Were you close?'

Helen had to think about how to answer that. ‘You know, mothers and daughters have particular issues,' she began. ‘I was going through my teens while she was going through depression after my father died. Eventually she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, so I suppose we never got to work through some of those mother–daughter issues.' Helen frowned, shaking her head. ‘Listen to me, babbling away, I don't know what I'm saying.'

‘I think you're trying to say that you didn't get on so well with your mum,' said Myles. ‘That's not a crime, Helen.'

‘We're just different, I guess,' she shrugged. ‘We look alike, but that's where the similarity ends. Mum was very . . . out there. She had to be the centre of attention all the time, needed constant affirmation that she was attractive and desirable. My dad obliged, till his demons got the better of him.'

‘What do you mean?'

Helen felt a faint twist in her heart. She wasn't ready to tell Myles everything. ‘Oh, he kind of withdrew in the years before he died . . . Anyway, Mum was very close to my brother, but when he went away, and my dad was gone, she lost it completely.'

‘Alzheimer's is an actual physiological disease, though, isn't it?'

‘Yes, you're right, it is. But just like your mother was able to hold on to see you through, I wonder if my mother didn't let go once she felt she'd lost everything.'

‘She still had you.'

‘Mm, that wasn't much comfort apparently.'

Life was full of perverse ironies, it occurred to Helen. It was almost cruel. There was Myles's mother, so full of life, living for her sons, enjoying every last moment with them. Then there was her mother, her life stuck on pause while she pined for those who weren't around any more. And David's life had been snatched from him with no warning at all, and he'd had so little time with his son. What would have become of their relationship as Noah grew older? What if he'd made choices David didn't approve of, as David had with his father? She wondered if he would have been any more flexible than Jim, really.

‘Tell me something positive,' Helen said suddenly.

‘Pardon?'

‘It's getting too depressing. Tell me something uplifting. Your brothers, are they happy? Well? Successful?'

He smiled. ‘Yes to all three. Hugo's an artist, living a very idyllic life on his farm in Tasmania, with a wonderful partner and three terrific boys. And Rupe's settled down now, after a rough start. He was hit hard by Mum's death, went feral for a few years, dropped out of the Conservatorium, got into drugs –'

‘I want to hear positive,' Helen reminded him.

Myles nodded. ‘I'm getting to it. He had a son during that time, and they've managed to reconnect in the last few years. He's
in a band that's doing all right, they play alternative, blues . . . I don't know what you call it, but they sound good. And he finally found a woman who can handle him. They had a little boy together last year.'

Helen held her glass up to Myles. ‘Here's to your brothers.'

‘To all our brothers,' said Myles, clinking her glass. ‘How long has it been since you've seen . . . was it Tony?'

She thought about it. ‘I think the last time would have been when Noah was born. It was a flying visit though. It's difficult in his line of work, it can be very unpredictable.'

‘What does he do?'

‘He originally went over to break into theatre directing.'

‘Tough field.'

Helen nodded. ‘He stage manages mostly, though he's been a director's assistant on a few productions.'

‘And you never thought of going over to see him this whole time?'

‘Sure I did,' she said. ‘I was supposed to follow him over after I left school.'

‘What happened?'

‘I couldn't leave Mum,' Helen said simply. She drained her glass and held up the bottle. It was empty. ‘I think that might be our cue to go back,' she announced.

As they walked through the streets back to her place, Helen realised she was relieved Myles hadn't raised the subject of Noah's father again. She'd find it a lot harder to lie to him now, though she couldn't help thinking it was a little odd as well, now that he'd actually met Noah. She supposed he'd got the hint the first time and he was respecting her privacy, and she did appreciate that. She liked the ease that had developed between them, she didn't want Myles to start looking at her differently, with pity in his eyes.

‘Would you like to come in for coffee?' she asked as they approached her house.

Myles shook his head. ‘Thanks, but I should really get going this time.'

‘Are you sure? Don't you want to come in and call a taxi at least?'

He took his mobile phone out of his pocket. ‘No need. Besides, I'm sure I'll grab one easily up on the main road.' He stopped outside her gate and turned to face her. ‘I had a really good time tonight, Helen. Thanks for inviting me.'

She felt his hand slip into hers, and she had a sudden, terrifying thought that he might try to kiss her. She dropped her eyes and took a quick step back, but he just gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. When she looked up again he was walking backwards away from her.

‘Good night, Helen. See you next week.'

She watched him as he turned and walked up the street, and suppressed the small but nagging pang of something that could only be described as disappointment rising in her chest.

Myles arrived in the office about an hour after Gemma, though as usual he'd already been to two meetings.

He paused at her desk. ‘Hi, Gemma, did you have a good weekend?'

Oh great, now he decides he wants to be friends.

‘Yes, thanks,' she returned. ‘Quiet, I get pretty tired these days.'

He nodded. ‘Did you finish up late on Friday night?'

Gemma sighed. Could he
be
more transparent? He obviously only wanted to ask after Helen. ‘Helen went almost straight to bed after she came back from your walk,' Gemma reported. And not that he was really interested, but – ‘I was tired too, so Charlie was kind enough to escort my sister home. She was in need of supervision.'

Myles gave her a faint smile. ‘Do you like living there?' he asked.

She thought for a moment. Of course she did. Whatever was going on with Helen now, she couldn't want for a better housemate. ‘Yes, I like living there very much,' she said. ‘Helen's been really good to me, and she's a very easy person to live with.'

‘I can imagine.'

‘Very private, mind you,' Gemma added.

‘Yeah, I get that,' Myles said, perching on the edge of her desk. ‘She still hasn't told me about her husband.'

‘And you haven't said anything, I hope?'

He shook his head. ‘I told you I'd wait for her to bring it up. I just wish she felt she could open up to me,' he said wistfully.

Dear God, Gemma groaned inwardly. Did she really have to sit here and listen to his lovestruck angst?

‘The thing is, she's not over it,' Gemma said bluntly. ‘Nowhere near.'

Myles looked at her directly. ‘You don't think so?'

‘I know so,' said Gemma. ‘Believe me.'

He looked thoughtful as he stood up again. ‘Oh, that's right, I wanted to ask you, Gemma, is it okay if Helen works on Wednesday instead of you?'

‘Pardon?' she croaked.

‘Just for this week,' he added. ‘Though you might want to think about gradually reducing your days over the next few weeks – you haven't got long to go, have you? And you said you're getting tired.'

She was about to snap,
That's none of your business
, till she remembered that it was entirely his business. Bugger.

‘May I ask what's happening on Wednesday?' Gemma resumed, trying to keep her cool.

‘There's a meeting I want Helen to be part of. It doesn't concern you: it's a project I'm just getting up and running, and you'll be off on maternity leave. So I thought if Helen could work on Wednesday . . .'

‘It's all right with me,' said Gemma, trying to sound offhand. ‘But I don't know how Helen's going to feel about it: Noah's only in preschool on Thursday and Friday.'

‘I realise that. But after you have the baby, you're going to be looking after Noah then, isn't that the arrangement?'

‘Yes,' she admitted warily. The finer details had never really been ironed out, and lately Gemma had been growing increasingly worried about how on earth she was going to look after a new baby as well as a four year old. Noah was a good kid, easy, but she
didn't think the baby was going to be so easy. She was well aware that women did it all the time, but they had experience by the time they had to juggle two. She might manage after a while, after she'd got used to the baby, but what would they do about Noah in the meantime? Gemma knew it had all been her idea in the first place, but lately she was getting the feeling it was all going to blow up in her face.

‘Gemma? Is everything all right?' Myles prompted, leaning over her desk to get her attention.

‘Yep,' she stirred. ‘Everything's under control. I'll let Helen know about Wednesday.'

‘Sure, you two talk about it,' he said. ‘But I'm about to give her a call now anyway – I have some things I want to go over with her. I'll let her know that it's okay with you.'

‘I don't get it,' said Justin, raising his arm a little as he let the sheet of paper he was holding slide from his hand, free-falling back to the table.

Every account team leader had been called to the meeting this morning in the boardroom, but none of them had been told what it was about. Myles and Helen had been working on the proposal since Monday, tossing it back and forth over the phone and via email. Helen had needed persuading initially: this was getting a little too close to the coalface for comfort.

‘You know how I feel about advertising, Myles,' she'd tried to tell him.

‘But it was your idea, Helen.'

‘Not intentionally,' she'd declared.

‘That's what makes it so good,' he'd said, ‘and why I want you in on it from the beginning.'

‘I don't understand. Why do you even want to get involved at this level? You're the managing director.'

‘My role is to improve the efficiency of the business, and this is one way I believe I can do that. Look, I'm not going to run any campaigns; I only want to get them thinking.'

They knew Justin would be the first person to object; they could have placed odds on it.

‘What don't you get, Justin?' Myles asked.

‘“I buy it because . . .”?' Justin almost sneered, though not quite, he was too shrewd for that. ‘I don't get it.'

‘What's not to get, Justin?' Myles restated, displaying admirable restraint, Helen felt. She'd never really taken to Justin. He was the type of ad exec that gave ad execs a bad name.

‘You want to mount an entire campaign with the catch cry “I buy it because”?' said Justin. ‘I hate to break it to you, MD, but it's been done before.'

‘Not exactly like this.'

‘Close enough,' he shot back. ‘I don't get what the big deal is.'

Myles cleared his throat. ‘I think you're all aware that for some time I've been less than delirious about some of the self-referential, arthouse stuff we've been churning out here at Bailey's. If you'll look through the notes provided in the folders in front of you –' Myles paused, waiting for everyone to catch up. He looked directly at Justin. ‘Do you need Helen to help you find it, Justin?'

Justin sniffed, opening up his folder.

‘If you turn over to page four,' Myles went on, ‘you'll find listed some very interesting figures. These campaigns are not achieving what they set out to do. They are, simply put, not hitting the mark.'

‘Excuse me, MD?'

‘Yes, Deb?'

‘You've blacklisted the Pearson campaign. You do realise it won the Silver World Medal in New York last year?'

‘Precisely my point, Deb,' said Myles. ‘Look at the stats for product recognition, product recall, sales on the back of the campaign. This was an ad that won arguably advertising's highest honour, but it was a failure in the marketplace.'

‘The same could be said for a lot of films that fail at the box office, MD,' said Lewis, possibly one of the stupidest executives on staff. Helen marvelled at how he had got to where he was,
and, even more, how he managed to stay there. ‘I mean, they get critical acclaim, they get Academy Awards, but no one goes to see them. Doesn't mean they're not good films.'

‘No it doesn't,' Myles agreed, his frustration beginning to show. ‘But we're not in the film industry, Lewis, that's the whole thing. We're not in the business of making art, yet we're trying to sell stuff to people in an overcrowded marketplace by being obscure and clever and arty. It's not working. Concept advertising was a turn-of-the-century buzzword. Its time has passed. People are cynical and tired, and so overloaded with information they can't see straight. They don't trust anyone, not the government, not police or teachers or doctors, and certainly not people trying to sell them something from behind a smokescreen. I believe if we turn it around and talk straight, using their language, we might just have a chance of getting through to them.'

‘I disagree,' said Justin.

No surprises there.

‘Which part do you disagree with, Justin?'

‘Your basic premise,' he said flatly. ‘People don't want plain speaking. They don't care about the truth. Why do you think they keep voting Howard in? What they want is to believe they're special, they deserve the best, because they're worth it. They want luxury, they want prestige brands. That's the direction all the international agencies are taking. Did you know you can even do a masters degree in luxury goods management in the UK?'

Myles had been waiting patiently for Justin to finish his spiel. ‘That's all very enlightening, Justin, but it's only one side of the coin,' he said. ‘Last week I asked Helen how she chooses toilet paper, for example.'

Every face at the table turned towards Helen, whose own face was like a hot pink beacon, she was sure, shining for all to see.

‘Do you want to tell them what you told me, Helen?'

No, she didn't. Couldn't he see that?

Myles lifted an eyebrow, waiting.

Helen cleared her throat and sat forward in her chair. She took a deep breath. ‘I said I buy it because it's cheap but not nasty . . .'
She glanced down at the introductory sheet for the meeting, where Myles had reproduced her words, verbatim, from the week before. ‘And I buy two-ply because one-ply is false economy – you just use twice as much. And, most importantly, I buy it because it's made from recycled paper; it's a crime to use anything else when you're only going to flush it down the toilet.'

Justin stifled a yawn.

‘Helen also told me that she's not interested in having her toilet paper feeling like silk,' said Myles. ‘But perhaps some people are, like the ones you were talking about, Justin, who want luxury, I don't know. I don't know what people really think, and I'd warrant you don't know either.'

‘This is bullshit, MD,' said Justin, shaking his head. ‘Of course we know what people think, what they want, what they're going to respond to. Don't you know what a focus group is for, what market researchers do?'

Helen noticed Myles's jaw clench. ‘Yes, Justin, I know all about market research, and especially focus groups. And I know how they operate. People are brought into an artificial situation, they're often paid a fee, or at the very least given a nice lunch. Then words and phrases and images are presented to them in a highly contrived and very carefully controlled manner. There is a science to it, and I appreciate that it provides marketers with certain kinds of information. But you're not getting the way people really talk, what they really think when they're reaching for the product on the shelf at the supermarket. And, most importantly, what they might say about it at the dinner table that evening, or when they're having coffee with their girlfriends, or over the fence to a neighbour. Yet what is the best marketing tool by far?'

Myles paused, looking around the table. No one was willing to hazard a guess.

‘Word of mouth,' he said simply. ‘Everyone knows that until you get good word of mouth going, it doesn't matter how much money you throw at marketing, it won't matter a jot.'

‘MD,' Julie broke in, leaning forward on the table, ‘isn't there a risk that we'll just end up with something like those cringy ads with celebrities sitting around talking about headache tablets?'

Deb laughed. ‘Yeah, which actor is it rolling around on the
floor with his kid? Like he ever gets up in the middle of the night . . .'

‘Okay,' said Myles. ‘Stop for a sec and listen to what you're saying. Those ads are “cringy”, Julie, because we don't believe them. And why don't we believe them? Because they're celebrities and they're falling over themselves to gush about the product.'

‘So now you're suggesting that celebrity endorsement doesn't work?' Justin said, barely containing his contempt.

‘Celebrity endorsement works fine when they act like celebrities, not when they pretend they're just like the rest of us.' Myles took a breath. ‘I would like to see honest endorsements from ordinary people who pay for the products out of an ordinary wage. Take Helen's toilet paper spiel. It's a straight list of facts that's meaningful to a consumer, but it isn't dry or scientific, nor does it make out that the brand of toilet paper has changed her life. It shows Helen is intelligent and thoughtful, and not easily duped. I would suggest that's how most consumers would like to be treated.'

He gave everyone some time to absorb that while he took a sip of water.

‘So what do you want us to do, MD?' asked Julie.

‘I would like you to go back and look closely at upcoming campaigns, not anything that's in development already, and see if there aren't some that would work with this approach. I realise this won't suit every product, and I'm also not suggesting it can't be done with some creativity, some wit, some flair. In fact, obviously, I'd encourage it. But I want “I buy it because” to be the philosophy that drives a series of campaigns in the coming months.'

Everyone was jotting notes while he spoke. Except Justin.

‘Okay,' said Myles, checking his watch. ‘That's enough for today. I'd like each one of you to report back, most likely the same time next week, but Helen will confirm that. I want at least one suitable test case from each team.'

‘What if we don't believe any of our accounts are suited to this particular approach?' asked Justin.

‘Well, Justin, if you don't think you're up to the task –'

‘That's not what I said.'

‘What you did say earlier, however, was that you already know
what people are going to respond to,' said Myles. ‘But if that's true, how come your last campaign failed spectacularly and you lost the account for the agency?' He paused, allowing Justin to feel the full weight of his rancour. ‘I think if you look real hard, Justin, you might find something suitable. If not, then write me a detailed report on each and every one of your team's accounts, outlining your argument. And have it on my desk twenty-four hours before the meeting next week.'

Justin stormed rather petulantly from the room, while the others followed without the histrionics. When they were eventually alone, Myles looked across at Helen. He didn't need to ask the question.

‘You sold it to me,' she said.

He smiled. ‘I think I might have had you on side already.' He pushed back against his chair and stretched his arms out above his head, sighing loudly. Then he dropped his arms again and looked at Helen. ‘Come on, I'm taking you to lunch. We've earned it.'

He got to his feet and began gathering up the papers in front of him. After a while he glanced over at Helen. She hadn't moved; she appeared to be deep in thought.

‘What's wrong?' Myles asked.

She stirred, looking at him. ‘Oh, sorry. It was just, well, it was about lunch.'

He frowned. ‘You're not going to argue with me, are you? I've had enough arguing for one day.'

‘No,' said Helen. ‘I was just going to suggest . . .'

‘What?'

‘Well, can we go somewhere a bit less . . . you know . . .?'

Myles was looking at her, intrigued.

‘I always feel so intimidated in those swanky restaurants,' she tried to explain. ‘I mean, the food's gorgeous, everything's gorgeous, but I just feel like I shouldn't be there. Couldn't we maybe get a sandwich down at the Quay, sit in the sun?'

He smiled broadly. ‘I can't think of anything I'd rather do.'

*