Seductive Viennese Whirl (3 page)

"Good New Year's Eve?" I say to Sandra while I watch the Haddock swim smoothly across her office and skulk behind a plant with big frondy leaves. She's a few feet away, her breath steaming up the glass. Through a gap in the leaves she narrows her eyes at me.

"I've had better." I glance over at Eva, who's on the phone. Judging from all the hair twiddling and pencil sucking she's doing I'm guessing she's talking to McManus. "We had a little party," drones Sandra. "Mother was dead against it, of course, but I insisted. Mr Grimes from number 36 was there. I told you about him, I think, a very attractive widower. We played all the old hits, the Tremeloes, The New Seekers, and I was just enjoying a little dance, when—"

"Sounds like a riot, but I really should be getting back to work," I say as the Haddock moves towards her door, eyes still trained on me. Sparky moves her mint from one corner of her mouth to the other. "It might have been, it might have been," she says wistfully. "Of course, mother had to spoil it all by choking on a peanut. I'm sure she did it on purpose. Mr Grimes was wonderful. Gave her the Heimlich Manoeuvre. She was still blue so he gave her mouth-to-mouth. The lucky cow."

The Haddock opens her door a crack and bellows, "Kate!" She's wearing ridiculously high Jimmy Choos. She's as short as me, but unlike me, has legs to die for. I fix my face into a smile and go over.

"Yes Miss Craddock?"

"I'd like a word, if it's not too much trouble."

She sits down behind her desk and closes her eyes. She sits there for so long I think she's had a heart attack and died. I'm wondering if I could slip her Jimmy Choos into my briefcase before anyone notices there's a stiff in the office. I'd wear them at parties and be almost the same size as the men. My days of staring at necks and ties and up nostrils would be over.

With her eyes still closed the Haddock says, "We're having a crisis."

"Oh," I say, trying to hide my disappointment that she's still alive.

She opens her ice blue fishy eyes. "It's the Smuckbecker account."

"Frozen Yoghurt?"

"Yes, that advert you scripted. If dogs could talk they'd choose Smuckbecker's." I look through the glass at Eva, laughing and joking on her call with McManus. Why doesn't the Haddock haul her in? Smuckbecker's is her client after all.

The Haddock's jumped up off up her chair and is swaying on her heels. Stemming her fingers firmly on the desk she leans forward so we're eyeball to eyeball. "I warned you it was too risqué. A dog licking yoghurt off a woman's chest."

"Shoulder."

I'm tempted to remind her that her actual comment on the concept was that it was 'refreshing, playful and off the wall,' but I know better than to open my mouth. "Well anyway, complaints have been lodged by animal lovers at the Independent Television Commission. There've even been accusations of dog molestation."

"They'll always be loonies out there with nothing better to do."

She sighs heavily, then collapses into her chair. "Mr Smuckbecker's hopping mad."

Wayne Smuckbecker, head of Smuckbecker's Foods is usually more concerned with his US operations and has a team to run Smuckbecker's UK from London. But I happen to know he has a short fuse, since I once had the misfortune of meeting him. A toad like Texan with a bald sunburnt head, he marched into the agency puffing on a huge cigar and set off the sprinkler system.

"What the heck?" he boomed, as water rained down, reducing his cigar to a sodden mass. "I come to this country so I can smoke a cigar in peace, because I'm sick of cowering outside of my office like some goddamn criminal just because I want to enjoy one of the last few legal pleasures left in this screwy world. The last time I was here they let you smoke on the subway. What the hell happened?"

"For the love of God Wayne," said Shirley, his long-suffering wife. The water had collapsed her white bouffant so it looked like a soufflé exposed to cold air. "That was back in ‘74."

Smuckbecker had cursed until he'd turned puce in the face. I grinned to myself as I remembered the scene.

"I can't believe you're smiling. You think this is a joke? It's deadly serious. He's ..." The Haddock gasps for breath. Good, she's really going to keel over. Old Haddock is actually going to croak it, over some stupid frozen yoghurt ad. She takes another laboured breath and her chest swells with the effort. "He's threatening to pull the account."

"That's ridiculous. His people approved the ad. There were plenty of other ideas they could have run with. The yoghurt igloo with Naomi Campbell dressed as an Eskimo, and the life size blueberry and strawberry waltzing on ice. I mean, why didn't they choose one of those?"

"Don't push me," she says, grinding her teeth together. "This could be the second client you've lost us in six months. Do you know what that means?"

"But I don't see how I'm responsible!" I blurt. "What about Simon?" Simon's the art director I'd worked with on the project.

"Forget Simon. You came up with the concept. You wrote the damn thing didn't you? Convinced them to run with it. I can't, I simply can't afford to lose another account." She's referring to the disastrous samosa campaign I worked on a few months back, showing an Indian woman meditating in front of a huge beef samosa. Hindus jammed the ITC's switchboard, claiming it was an insult to their faith. How was I to know they don't eat cows?

"This is a warning. If we lose one more client, or if there's any controversy about any more of your ads, you're out. Do you understand?"

I stare at her, watching the last remnants of colour drain from her face.

"Do you understand?" she shouts, so loudly the plate glass rattles and Eva looks up from her phone call. All the others look up from their desks and stare at me. I've never been so humiliated in my life, if you discount my sexual encounter with the Weasel.

I nod.

Back at my desk, I desperately want to tell Eva about what happened but I don't dare risk the Haddock's wrath, so I keep my head down and get on with my work. Screw your damn job, I mutter, over and over, like a mantra, under my breath. Once the Haddock's gone out to lunch I figure I can relax a bit. But just as I'm having a stretch I'm hovered over by Ricky, the very tall, olive skinned, black haired post boy. As he hands me my mail his hand brushes mine and I feel a bit flustered.

He stares at me and blushes before turning away and turns back to his post trolley. Eva, who occupies the desk next to mine nudges me in the ribs. "Looks like someone's got a little crush on you."

"Get away with you. I couldn't date Ricky. He's so young."

"And firm, and malleable. I bet he'd do anything you told him to do." She grins at Ricky, who's a few desks down, dishing out the post.

"Oh don't be ridiculous Eva. Having an affair at work is the last thing I need." Or that you need, is what I want to add, because I'm wondering what will happen if the Haddock finds out about her dalliance with McManus? Will she approve? She might, until Eva gives him the shove. And then what? He'll drop the agency like a ton of bricks. The Haddock'll lose a client and I'll lose my job. She won't sack Eva of course, because she can't put a foot wrong where the Haddock's concerned.

"Is it serious, with McManus?" I say, opening one of my letters.

"Pretty serious, he's given me my own personal charge card." She reaches into her purse and pulls out a platinum Amex. "Do you want to go to out for lunch? My treat."

We head down to the Dôme and after a few glasses of wine I approach the delicate matter of the rent and how the platinum Amex could solve all our problems. She doesn't need much persuading. Well, I suppose she wouldn't, it isn't her money after all. By the end of the lunch I'm feeling very good about McManus. Maybe he isn't such a liability after all.

Gotta do some work now I guess.

Yours,

Gherkin

Mrs Laurie Michaels

13 Woollaby Drive

Balmain East

Sydney

NSW 2041

Australia

12 January 2011

Dear Gherkin,

Thanks for both your letters. I've got a spare five minutes before I take Basil to his music appreciation class so I thought I'd use the time productively to answer the question of what is wrong with you. Well, where do I start?

First let's get one thing absolutely straight. I don't buy the fact that you are getting over Ben. So what that he knew how to push your buttons in the sack? Out of it he was always picking holes in the way you looked, the way you dressed, the way you walked too slowly beside him on the street (remember that?) He was no good for you while you were together, and okay it must have been devastating when he ran off with that Pauline or whatever her name is. But that was aeons ago.

Secondly, there's nothing fundamentally wrong with you. As you point out in your resolutions, you could stand to shift fifteen pounds, but I've always loved your autumnal Pre-Raphaelite curls, and your face, all smiley and sparkly eyed, is fucking gorgeous. Raisin eyes and balloon face indeed! Ben messed with your mind, girl. He left you feeling worthless and rejected. But for crying out loud, GET OVER IT.

Please don't beat yourself up about this Weasel. I'm sure your assets or lack of them weren't the influencing factor as to why this coke-guzzling low life fell asleep on the job. But forget about him for a second. You're no less an addict than he is! Your addiction to clothes, shopping, cake, drinking and insane men. It's all part of a pattern. You just don't see it.

This flingette with the Weasel was convenient, wasn't it? When it all went wrong you could blame yourself for not being attractive enough. And why were you attracted to him? Have you asked yourself that? I'll tell you shall I? Because compared to this nutball you are emotionally stable. You got want you wanted from the 'relationship' - your little helping of ego gratification. And now everything's gone pear shaped you'll be sniffing around for the next loser who will make you, very temporarily, feel better about yourself. When you are ready to get over Ben you will be attracted to men who have fewer inadequacies. Don't just dismiss this as 'psychobabble' as you usually do. It's the God's honest truth. I worry about you. Someone has to. Actually, mum's concerned about you too. It wouldn't kill you to call her once in a while.

On a lighter note. I enclose a drawing of Basil's from his 'Introduction to Cubism' class. He tells me it's a drawing of you darling. I can't quite see it but the Picasso influence is startling, don't you think?

Much love,

Egg

Ms Kate Pickles

96B Trumble Road

Camden

London NW1 3BX

England

26 January 2011

Dear Egg,

Whew, you don't pull any punches do you? I'm not sure I agree with your assessment of my state of mental health. So I enjoy a glass of Chardonnay and a helping of apple pie a la mode once in a while. I hardly think that qualifies me as an addict! And I also dispute what you said about Ben. I've thought long and hard over this and have decided that I am definitely getting over him. Cut me some slack. The Weasel seemed like a nice guy, okay? He wasn't. The rest is history. I've started the new year with a clean slate and am now dating a very nice, very sweet guy called Ricky (from the postroom). Well, dating might be rather a strong word. We actually first got off with each other in the cloakroom during Gail's leaving party last week. Since then we can't seem to keep our hands off each other! We had a fumble in the tea room and also at a bus stop during lunch break yesterday. We're taking it slow. I don't want to rush into anything. Not after that debacle with the Weasel.

Well, things are going great guns with Eva and McManus. He's certainly a generous man and I'll be eternally grateful to him for paying off our rent arrears. Alas, he's also a slob. I can't tell you the amount of times I've stepped over his damp monogrammed bathrobe to get to the shower. He drops it in a heap as if he expected a valet to whisk it away to be washed. And he has this habit of stubbing fags out on saucers and leaving them about the place. It's a wonder she puts up with it.

Hang on a sec, I think I can smell burning. I jump out of bed and rush down the hall to find smoke billowing out of the kitchen. As I wave the smoke away to open a window I note that black toast crumbs litter every surface, an effect that beautifully complements the coffee stained wall. Note to self: I must finish cleaning the stain off some day soon.

"I'm not having much luck with the toast," says a voice. As the smoke clears I see Eva, dressed in a purple wrap with marabou trim. She's poking at something in a pot on the stove.

"Any idea how long it takes to cook an egg? He wants it somewhere between hard and soft. This one's been in fifteen minutes. Is that long enough, do you think?"

I fish the egg out with a spoon and dump it in the trash. "The yolk tends to go green if you overcook it." I put fresh water in the pan and add an egg. "Hmm, medium boiled. That's five minutes." "Five minutes? That's all?" Eva's mouth twitches and soon she's laughing, a deep full bellied laugh.

"What's so funny?" I look at her incredulously. "Now, since we don't have an egg timer I'll use my watch." I place the pan on the stove.

Eva lowers herself into a chair and leans forward onto the table, her face scrunched up as if she's about to burst with the hilarity of the situation. Eventually she says,

"I was just thinking, McManus would make a great egg timer. He only lasts five minutes when we do it. Nerves I expect." She bites her knuckle to stop herself laughing. "Five minutes McManus."

Not knowing quite how to react to this bit of information I lapse into Nigella Lawson mode. "Yes, five minutes is all it takes. I don't know how you could have forgotten something as simple as that. We used to boil eggs all the time when we were kids, when you stayed over at my house."

She scrunches up her nose. "I can't remember that far back."