False Advertising (47 page)

Helen made one last-ditch attempt to get out of it as she and Myles made their way around to the presentation lounge. ‘What if I throw up?' she hissed.

‘Pardon?'

‘What if I throw up?' she repeated, under her breath. ‘It's what I do, you know, when I get nervous.'

‘You're not going to throw up,' said Myles, unperturbed.

‘How do you know?'

‘Because I'm psychic.'

Helen looked at him sideways.

‘No, really, I have psychic powers. Haven't I told you that already?' he said, deadpan. ‘I thought I had.'

‘Now you're being ridiculous.'

‘You mark my words, because you'll be eating them later.'

‘That doesn't even make any sense.'

They had arrived at the lift bay and the doors were sliding open. The client might have been a giant of the cleaning products industry, but he was a rather weedy, insubstantial man in person. He came complete with a sidekick; together they resembled a live-action version of Burns and Smithers from
The Simpsons
. Helen had no intention of trying to imagine either of them naked. The fact that the client seemed rather innocuous did help Helen to feel a little less anxious, but on an anxiety scale of one to ten she was currently sitting on seventy-three, so it didn't make a whole lot of difference.

But a strange thing happened to Helen as soon as she took the floor, after everyone was introduced, seated and waiting for her to begin. She stepped outside herself, and the part remaining stepped into Julie's shoes, moving back and forth across the front of the room with ease and confidence, reciting the same words, the words Helen knew off by heart anyway, rattling off statistics, dropping the odd witty anecdote as she worked in tandem with the images on the screen. Helen watched herself, fascinated. She looked around the room. The rest of the team were hanging off her every word, smiling encouragingly whenever she made eye contact. The weedy man laughed here and there, making a rather gross catarrh sound in his throat. The rest of the time he listened intently, nodding now and then. The only thing putting her off in the entire room was Myles, the look in his eye. He'd better not be imagining her naked.

And then Helen realised she was done. The presentation was over. She slipped back inside herself in time for her closing line.

‘So, to finish, Mr Booth, we believe that with this campaign on screens, in print and on billboards around the country, before long everyone will be talking about why they buy Bio-Jet.'

Helen was finally game to glance at Myles. He was smiling proudly at her, giving her a discreet thumbs-up.

‘Well, young lady,' said Mr Booth, ‘that was a very enjoyable little show you put on. I haven't met you before today, have I?'

‘No, sir,' his faithful assistant chimed in before Helen had the chance to answer.

‘I didn't think so,' said Mr Booth, nodding. ‘Anyhow, no offence to you, my dear, but I hate the idea.'

Helen could only stare at him, gobsmacked.

‘What are you saying exactly, Mr Booth?' Myles broke in.

He turned his head away from Helen to look at Myles. Which was just as well because she thought she was going to pass out. She stepped closer to the lectern, leaning on it for support. This was bad. Clearly she'd completely botched the presentation. But she thought it had gone so well. Maybe she was delirious the whole time? She must have been. That whole out-of-body experience was obviously part of her delirium. God only knew what she'd really said.

‘I'm saying I'm not fussed on it, Myles,' Mr Booth repeated. ‘Didn't grab me at all. Thanks for making an effort, people,' he glanced around, ‘but you know what I like? I like all that sciencey-techno stuff, enzymes blasting the stain molecules, wiping them out,' he said, making sound effects like a video game and then laughing to himself, while Smithers echoed his laughter. ‘And those snippy little animations that clever young lad puts together, what's his name?'

‘Charlie Lambert,' said Smithers.

‘Ah, yes. Is Charlie around today?' he asked.

‘No, he's on leave at the moment, Mr Booth,' Myles explained.

‘Pity. Okay, well anyway,' he said, standing up, so they all jumped to their feet as well. ‘Call me again when you've got something along those lines. Stain-fighting enzymes,' he added, making another sound effect.

Myles escorted him and Smithers back out to the lift bay. Helen was still standing in the same spot, dumbfounded. ‘I'm so fired,' she finally managed to say.

‘No, no.' The team clustered around her, assuring her she had done a great job it wasn't her fault stuck in a timewarpcrazyoldguy . . . but their words all ran into each other so Helen couldn't understand what they were saying any more.

‘I have to go,' she said, stumbling out of the room. She thought she might be sick; she wasn't sure. But she felt very
strange. When she made it to Myles's office she burst through the door, shedding her jacket on the way to the bathroom. She leaned over the toilet for a few minutes, but nothing happened. She just felt flushed and a little spaced out. She wet one of the cloth handtowels at the basin and held it over her face. That felt better. Helen slid down onto the floor, onto the cool tiles.

She was still there when Myles knocked on the door a little while later. ‘Helen, are you in there?'

A weak ‘Mm' was all she could muster.

‘Are you okay?'

‘Mm.'

There was a pause for a moment.

‘Can I come in?'

‘Mm.'

Myles tried to push the door open but Helen was in the way. She shifted, sitting up with the towel still pressed to her head, as he opened the door right back.

He crouched down, concerned. ‘Were you sick?'

She shook her head.

‘Well, see, I told you you wouldn't be sick.'

Helen lifted the cloth off her forehead and looked at him squarely. ‘Myles, you also said that I could do it, that you had every confidence in me.'

‘I do,' he said. ‘And you did.'

‘And it tanked!' she cried.

‘Not the presentation,' he said calmly. ‘Just the idea.'

‘Myles!' she groaned.

‘It's true. Mr Booth said so himself: you put on a great show. He just didn't like the idea.'

‘It was my idea as well.'

‘No, you can't take the credit for that. It was my idea to take something you said and create a campaign. That's what tanked. You were great. So, can we get out of here now?' He straightened up again. ‘It's a little cramped.'

Myles reached out his hand and Helen took it reluctantly, letting him help her up onto her feet. Out in the office he opened one of the built-in panels to the wet bar and took a bottle out of the fridge. ‘Champagne?'

‘You can't be serious?' said Helen.

‘Why not? Don't you want to celebrate?'

‘Myles, you do realise what actually happened back there?'

He glanced at her. ‘No need to get patronising, Helen,' he said levelly, grabbing two glasses from the rack. ‘Don't be a wet blanket. We've worked really hard for weeks on this. Ah! Don't!' He held up a finger to stop her as she went to protest again.

‘As I was saying,' he continued, ‘we worked really hard and put together a very impressive presentation, which you pitched perfectly. Come on, you must have felt it, Helen, you were fantastic.'

‘But he didn't like it,' she said weakly.

‘He didn't like the
idea
,' Myles repeated patiently.

‘Why doesn't that bother you?'

‘It does,' he said. ‘Obviously I would have preferred that he liked it, but it doesn't wipe out all the good work we did. And it's not going to stop me opening this champagne.'

Helen released a defeated sigh as she trudged over to the couch and fell onto it, fully prone, while Myles proceeded to open the bottle and fill their glasses. He turned around to see her sprawled out on the couch.

‘Well, look at you,' he said. ‘Right back where we started.'

Helen rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand and taking the glass Myles offered. He moved the coffee table out a little and sat himself down on the floor, resting his back against the couch near her.

Helen decided she couldn't really drink lying down like this, so she slid off the couch to join him. He smiled at her, holding his glass up. ‘What are we going to drink to?'

‘I can't think of a single thing,' she said. ‘I can't believe you're not bothered about what happened.'

‘Look, I'm not thrilled, Helen,' Myles admitted. ‘I'm certainly not looking forward to the next time I have to face Justin,' he added with a wry grin.

‘But all that work, all that effort, a whole campaign down the tubes.'

‘Not a whole campaign, just a pitch. There's no guarantee a pitch will be successful: they often have to be reworked or even dumped altogether.'

‘What about all that money? It seems like such a waste.'

‘That may be, but it's par for the course,' said Myles. ‘Don't forget, the idea could be adapted for other campaigns – it's not completely dead in the water yet. Besides, everybody would have learned something from the experience.'

Helen was looking at him dubiously.

‘It's true. Like I learned that I don't know shit about advertising.'

She laughed then.

‘You know, Helen, if we only attempted the things that were guaranteed to succeed, we wouldn't get very far.' He shifted to face her. ‘What about you, huh? You didn't think you could do it,' he said, ‘and you nailed it like a pro.'

Helen shrugged.

‘I really didn't think you'd go through with it today.'

She looked up at him. ‘You didn't give me a choice.'

‘You always had a choice.'

‘Now you tell me.'

He smiled. ‘You know you're a pretty amazing woman, Helen. And I'm being serious, I'm not just flattering you,' he added, seeing her blush. ‘You came into this job cold and look how well you've done. What do you think you'll do after this?'

‘I'm sorry?' she frowned.

‘Well, you're obviously not going to stay in advertising forever. But I reckon you could do pretty much anything you set your mind to. So what do you want to do, Helen?'

She thought about it. ‘You know, I don't think anyone's ever asked me that before.'

‘Then that's definitely what we should drink to,' said Myles, raising his glass. ‘To you, Helen, and to your future, whatever you want it to be.'

Whatever she wanted it to be . . . It was true: Helen could decide that now, reinvent herself. Perhaps she had already started the process. She clinked her glass against his, and then drank the entire contents down in one go. She put the empty glass on the coffee table and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Myles was just watching her. ‘Okay, you're on. Let's get drunk.' He got up again to fetch the bottle. ‘I reckon we're entitled after today.'

‘No, Myles, I can't,' Helen protested. ‘I have to get home for Noah, and I'm driving, so that's my limit.'

He turned around to look at her. ‘Who has Noah today?'

‘His grandparents.'

‘Can't they keep him for the night?'

Helen shook her head. ‘I don't really like him staying there overnight. Besides,' she checked her watch, ‘they've probably already dropped him home.'

‘So who's with him at home?'

‘Gemma, and Charlie as well, most likely. And Tony later on. I told Gemma I wasn't sure what time I'd get home and she said that was all right, they'd be there.'

‘Okay then,' Myles said, dropping back down on the floor beside her. ‘So you don't have to leave so soon.'

‘They'd still expect me by dinner, and I still have to drive,' Helen pointed out as he went to refill her glass.

‘We'll see about that.' He put down the bottle and took his phone out of his pocket.

‘What are you doing?'

He ignored her, pressing buttons on his phone and holding it to his ear. ‘Charlie,' he said a moment later. ‘It's Myles here, the MD . . . No, Helen's still here with me. Is Noah home yet?'

Myles covered the phone with his hand. ‘They just dropped him off. He said there's no need to hurry.' He spoke into the phone again. ‘Well, here's the thing, Charlie, Helen might not make it home till quite late. I'm going to take her out and get her drunk –'

‘Myles!' she exclaimed.

‘– so is Noah okay there with you guys?' He listened before covering the phone again. ‘He says it's fine,' he told Helen. ‘And that we should have a good night.'

‘Can I talk to him, please?' she said archly.

Myles handed her the phone and proceeded to refill her glass.

‘Hi, Charlie?' said Helen.

‘Hey, Helen.'

She could hear the tone in his voice, see the knowing smile, the raised eyebrow. And wait till he told Gemma. ‘Are you sure this isn't a problem?' Helen persisted. ‘Were you planning to
hang around there tonight? I'm not sure when Tony will get home.'

‘Doesn't matter, I'll be here anyway,' he said. ‘Go out, have a good time, Helen.' There was that tone again.

‘Thank you. Um, is Noah around, can I speak to him?'

‘Sure, hold on.
Noah?
Your mum's on the phone.'

A few moments later Noah's voice came on the line. ‘Hi, Mummy, guess what?'

‘What, sweetheart?'

‘Lola smileded at me! And Gemma said it was the first time!'

‘Oh, that's wonderful, you must be her favourite,' said Helen, and Noah giggled in response. ‘Listen sweetie, are you okay if I don't come home till later tonight? It might not be till after you're in bed.'

‘That's okay, Mummy,' he chirped.