We All Fall Down (19 page)

Dieter nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, it is true, that is an interesting case.'

As the plates were being cleared, Hugh stared into his wine glass and pondered how little people understood about the advertising business. It was nebulous and hard to pin down, and trying to reach a conclusion as to whether one campaign or another was the right way to go was next to impossible. It was an unscientific business, almost amateurish, but then maybe that was the same with all aspects of marketing? And maybe that's what made it interesting, the scope it offered.

They studied the dessert menu in silence. Russell broke it finally. ‘So tell us, Simon, if you think our advertising's such shit, why did you come out here?'

‘But, of course, he wished to give assistance to companies like mine!' The others at the table, including Simon, laughed at this sudden display of German humour.

‘Not exactly, mate, although I'm more than happy to help your company if I can. I hope I showed that to you this afternoon.' He turned to Russell. ‘I'm not here to further my career, that's for sure. I came to Australia because I want my kids to have a better life. I want them to grow up in a country where young people aren't always drunk and knifing each other, and where no one gives a flying fuck if you're upper, middle or lower class. That's why I'm here, mate – lifestyle, I think they call it.'

‘It's good to hear our country has something going for it.'

Simon leant around the table and patted Russell on the back. Hugh knew he'd never have done such a thing. ‘Mate, you've taken me the wrong way. I didn't mean any harm. I'm outspoken, bit like you, that's all. Just wanted to make clear that I'm not too impressed with the creative work Down Under. But you and me, we're going to change that, right? We're going to make them sit up and take notice of us in London and New York.'

‘Right.' And Russell reached across and reciprocated with his own bit of back slapping. ‘Cannes, here we come!' Hugh tried to gauge what Dieter made of all this, but couldn't. His face was impassive.

No one had desserts. Instead, they all had coffee and double brandies. Russell picked up the tab and insisted they walk across to the Casino. Hugh tried to escape, but was told by his boss that he was forbidden to leave his client. Much to Hugh's surprise, Dieter was keen to continue on. At the Casino, Russell disappeared, while Hugh arranged the drinks. When the managing director returned he gave each of them one hundred dollars in chips. ‘I want twenty per cent of anything you make!'

Dieter laughed. ‘For you, that is very reasonable, Russell.'

Hugh wondered at the expense of the evening. He supposed Russell, who was known to like spending up big anyway, saw it as a worthwhile investment. Later, when Dieter and Simon had been absorbed by the milling throng, disappeared amongst the showy sea of pokies and green-baized tables, everything and everyone gaudy, glittering and glaring, he found himself sitting next to Russell at a roulette table. The managing director almost addressed Hugh's doubts without his having voiced them.

‘You've got to make them feel obligated.'

Hugh nodded. He was feeling distinctly woozy. He tried to focus on the reds and blacks, but was finding it difficult because they weren't the only things spinning. He knew, from experience, that Russell could drink all night. He knew it would be wise to slow down; he didn't want to miss the last train.

‘I think he's having a good time.' He was sober enough to see his small talk as a lie and yet he wasn't certain. Maybe Dieter was having a good time.

‘Is he married?'

‘No. There's a woman back in Germany he's mentioned once or twice.'

‘So he's not a poof?'

Hugh cringed, unsure where the conversation was leading. ‘Wouldn't have thought so.'

‘You can't tell with foreigners.'

They played on in silence. Russell bet big, and lost big. Hugh, not wanting to spend any of his own money, placed only small bets and hoped he could make the hundred dollars last the night.

When they finally left the roulette table, Russell was several hundred dollars up. He slipped Hugh another hundred. ‘There you go, mate. I want you to relax a little. Have fun.' He put a hand on Hugh's shoulder and made one of those rare Russell Grant comments that, being so rare, make their recipients inordinately happy. ‘Appreciate you being here. Know it's not your cup of tea.' As they approached Simon and Dieter deep in conversation on a sofa in a corner of one of the bars, Russell said, ‘Join you in a minute.'

Hugh sat down next to Dieter. Simon was saying, ‘You can't teach me anything about cars, mate. Been advertising them longer than I care to remember. And I'll tell you this for free: everyone knows what a Bauer looks like. Even my maiden fucking auntie knows what your car looks like. That's why I refuse to show it in your commercials. Simple as that.'

Hugh thought it would be a good time, while the other two were talking, to call Caitlin Davies, but decided he'd drunk too much to know what to say to her. Better leave it until tomorrow. The steady humming in his head made it hard to concentrate. Dieter was saying something. He frowned at his client, trying hard to catch some of the words. ‘Your creative director is telling me why he won't put my car in his commercials.'

Simon leant forward. ‘He doesn't understand. Hugh, explain to him about branding. Explain why we don't have to show his effing car. Clients need to be educated about things like this.'

‘Maybe he knows it already.' He tried to sound conciliatory, but was having a problem getting his tongue around his syllables. Looking for the correct tone of voice on top of that was beyond him. He couldn't think straight, not right now. ‘Don't be offended, Dieter. He's creative. They're all rude.'

‘Yes, I understand that. I am not offended. He does not understand my market, that is all.'

‘But I do, mate, I do. It's you who doesn't understand. I'm going to have to teach you about the car market.'

Hugh winced at this statement, but the discomfort was second-hand, like being hit by a soggy towel, and he couldn't be bothered to interfere in their discussion, even if it did disintegrate into an argument. He no longer felt responsible for his client. Let them do whatever they wanted. At that moment, Russell returned. ‘I've ordered us another bottle of champagne. I'm thirsty again.'

Dieter laughed. ‘And what are you celebrating this time, Russell?'

‘This time I am celebrating my winnings.'

‘You have won a lot?'

‘I have won enough to buy us a bottle of champagne.'

‘That is not so much.'

‘How about you, Dieter?'

‘I am neither ahead, nor behind.'

They were all, apart from Russell, a little the worse for wear by now. Dieter was beginning to sound more and more like a German, and Simon, despite having only been in the country a few weeks, was sounding as if he was Australian born and bred. As for Hugh, he found it hard to keep his mind on anything for longer than a second or two, and his only two real thoughts consisted of his undying love for Kate and Tim, intermingled with confused thoughts about Fiona.
They're all precious to me
, he told himself,
all important in my life. Everything else is meaningless, especially work. Love and friendship, they're the only things that count. Nothing else is of any value
.

He wanted to tell Russell about Fiona, but was sober enough to appreciate that it was neither the time nor the place. Fiona would have been disgusted to see him at the Casino, that was for sure. She loathed the place. ‘It's even uglier and more unpleasant than the gambling organisation that owns it. It's vulgar. That's why Russell's always going there.'

Russell was proposing a toast, which Hugh recalled the next day as being something about the long and enduring friendship between Bauer and Alpha. Their glasses were poised in mid-air when two young women approached their corner. Russell sprang to his feet and flamboyantly kissed both of them on the cheek. He addressed his work colleagues, ‘Guys, I want you to meet two good friends of mine, Emma and Suzanne. And be warned, these two ladies are serious fun.' He had his arms round both women, his bald head bobbing and glistening against their bare, shining shoulders. He hugged them, and whispered something to each in turn. Then he ordered a second – or was it third? – bottle of champagne and two more glasses from a passing waiter. ‘Ladies, you must join us. I insist.'

Hugh didn't have the feeling either was about to refuse. Emma sat down between Russell and himself, Suzanne next to Dieter. Hugh wondered about the women who were joining them. He'd heard rumours that Russell sometimes employed escorts, and it certainly explained how Russell managed to attract such beautiful women into his life. He was a five foot four midget, could only talk about work and sport, yet had women falling at his feet – but surely they couldn't all be escorts? Then it must be power, he thought, but immediately disagreed with this verdict: Russell wasn't all that powerful.

He tried to concentrate on the conversation between his boss and Emma in the hope of joining in, but Russell was being flirtatious in an outrageously clichéd way, and despite feeling very drunk, Hugh found it difficult to get on, or sink to, the same wavelength. It struck him that they must be in some kind of sub-basement of social intercourse. He grinned at this clever witticism, and thought how much Fiona would have appreciated it, before realising that Emma was making the mistake of thinking that he was grinning at her.

She was leaning across Russell to speak to Hugh when Russell looked down and exclaimed, ‘Now that's a seriously beautiful view.' He was slapped playfully for his trouble, and this encouraged him to say, ‘Do that again, Emma, oh please do that again,' which she did, laughing. At the same time, she was asking Hugh, ‘And what do you do for a crust? I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name.'

‘It's Hugh. I work with Russell – no, for Russell.' He thought his voice sounded not only distant, but distinctly hollow.

Emma did not seem impressed by this answer, finding it neither amusing nor entertaining, and so immediately turned her attention back to Russell. She ignored Hugh for the rest of the evening.

He listened to Russell rabbiting on about how successful his agency was and the great campaigns he'd personally been responsible for, and he thought slurred thoughts about money talking, his boss's voice sounding like the kerching of cash registers, and about how he should do the right thing and call Caitlin back right away. But it was late now, and he was worried he might become incoherent and weepy.

He tried to drink more slowly and, at the same time, keep his eyes open. Maybe he needed food, something to absorb the alcohol, so he asked the waiter to bring some nibbles. Russell stared at him briefly, as if, by this modest display of independence, he'd overstepped the boundary and performed some action above his station in life. Hugh pretended not to notice, and turned away. Simon's back was towards him; the creative director was talking across Dieter to Russell's other friend, Suzanne. She was resting an arm on Dieter's shoulder, in fact leaning on him – in quite a familiar manner. Hugh wondered if his client realised who these women were. On the positive side, however, like her friend, she was revealing an extremely interesting and alluring chasm, a topographical feature between her breasts of such a precipitous nature that Hugh was concerned Dieter was about to topple over the edge and be lost to the agency forever. That would be a shame.

Hugh wondered if this was the way to run a business. The absurdity of the question almost made him laugh, but he was too drunk to consider the answer in any depth, so he told himself it must be an excellent way to run a business. His client certainly seemed happy enough, sitting on the edge of a chasm and staring down into the comforting, beckoning depths. It would be a good way to kill yourself, Hugh thought, leaping off there. Better than the Gap at South Head.

He wanted to leave, but wasn't too confident about standing up and trying to manoeuvre his way out from behind the coffee table, and he didn't want to trip over anyone's feet, or fall over – possibly straight into one of the chasms on either side of him which made him giggle, then cough and become embarrassed. It would be a terrible thing to fall over, so maybe he should wait until someone else stood up because this surely couldn't go on all night? What if he missed his train, the last one? It wouldn't be the end of the world, and he was tempted to close his eyes, just for a minute, because it wouldn't matter if he dozed off for a short while, no one would probably even notice. But then he noticed that Dieter was already standing up, and was protesting to Russell that he had to go. ‘Thank you for a wonderful evening, but that is sufficient. I have drunk my annual allowance of champagne in one evening. It is not good.'

‘It is very good, Dieter. Having an allowance, that's not good. What about Suzanne?'

She was standing next to Dieter, making meaningful eye contact with her friend. Hugh wondered what they were colluding in.

‘Suzanne and I are going to share a cab. We are going in the same direction, it seems.'

Russell smiled. ‘Always like to hear of a man and a woman heading in the same direction.'

Everyone was shaking hands, and making pleasant farewell statements. Hugh had stood up to say goodbye and was concentrating hard on not falling over.

‘Now don't do anything I wouldn't do, you two,' said Russell, throwing clichés around with as much abandon as he did champagne.

‘That gives us plenty of scope,' said Suzanne, obviously unaffected by Russell's grammatical commonalities.

Hugh fell back onto his seat. He should have left. While he was still standing, he should have left. He shouldn't have sat down again. Russell appeared to be about to embrace Emma, and possibly more. They were certainly close enough together. He turned to find Simon talking to him, or at least he found Simon staring at him as if he was waiting for a reply to some question. He couldn't remember having said anything, so what could the creative genius from the mother country possibly want with him? He tried to focus – either his mind or his eyes, it didn't matter which.