Seductive Viennese Whirl (26 page)

From: [email protected]

Subject: do yourself a favour

Date: 19 November 2011

Shit Gherkin,

You've no idea what kind of a mother I've become. I'm looking out the kitchen window right now at the kids in the garden. Basil's got Blair in a headlock and Blair's wailing away. I should really go and separate them. It's just that these days even getting up out of a chair is such an effort. Maybe I'll wait and see if they sort it out for themselves.

Ah, crisis over. Basil's released Blair. Now they're heading back into the kitchen. I'm going to let them watch cartoons. Frankly I can't be bothered to drive them to any of their classes anymore. I just slob around on the sofa all day feeling awful. The only think that keeps me going is knowing my little girl will be here soon (can't remember if I told you we're having a girl? My brain seems to have turned to mush these days).

Since I know how your mind works I'm assuming the trip you mention will be one to visit Alex. Bad idea Egg. Visiting him will do you no good at all. He is Eva's chap, not yours. Do yourself a favour and put him clean out of your head.

Love,

Egg

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: toenails

Date: 20 November 2011

Dear Egg,

When I get in this morning the AGFURA people are outside again. The posh blonde is among them, still in the Karen Millen jumper. She still looks immaculate even though she's been protesting for two days running.

Eva got in before me for once, and now she's sitting at her desk, chewing on her hair and looking all guilty about something, but before I can ask her what she's been up to, Sparky comes up waving a copy of today's
Sun
in my face. There's an interview in it with the old woman in Aberdeen. Apparently someone informed the paper about the toenail in the pie incident. I look over at Eva, who is now doing pretend typing on her computer. I have a feeling I know the identity of the informant.

The Haddock is, of course, furious about the toenail article. She comes over to my desk and starts waving the paper about and frothing at the mouth. It's a very sad display. Even so, I feel sorry for her. She's obviously desperately ill or why would she be taking all those pills? And a few times recently I've heard her throw up in the toilet. Make no mistake, the Haddock's on her way out.

As she asks me to follow her to her office, the horrid reality crowds in on me that
I'm
responsible for her demise. I'm sweating now as I think of the voodoo doll beneath my bed— the doll I should have got rid of the moment I realized it was working its awful magic.

Once I'm seated opposite her I try to tune in to what she's saying. But all I can think about is the fact that the Haddock's dying, and that it's my fault.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, yes of course."

"Damage limitation, that's what's needed."

I look at her blankly.

"For what?'

"Well, this toenail scandal for a start."

"I wouldn't get too worked up about one measly toenail if I were you."

"One toenail is one toenail too many," she says, wagging her finger. "In any case, I didn't ask you in here to talk toenails. I need you to help me get these AGFURA people off our back."

"Surely McManus' PR people can deal with this?" I say. All I can think about is that the Haddock might be dead this time next week, because of me.

She shakes her head. "They're pretty useless, from what I can gather. Besides, we need to move fast before this thing explodes in our faces. I need you to go on London Metro Radio and defend McManus. And to defend this ad they're so worked up about. The one you created."

"I'd really rather not. Why can't Eva do it?" I say, regretting the words as soon as they leave my mouth. I mean, okay the Haddock's a bitch, but these are bad times for her. She's got some deadly tumour sucking the life out of her as we speak. Don't I have a responsibility to make her last days as peaceful as possible? I make a mental note to destroy the doll as soon as I get home.

"She'd fall apart in seconds. No, you're the only person who can handle this."

"What about Briony?"

"She's got it up here all right," she says, tapping her forehead. "But you've definitely got the gift of the gab. Don't mess it up."

"Right," I say, feeling oddly flattered and drowning in guilt. "I'll do it. You can count on me."

I go down to reception to find she's actually got a limo waiting for me, with a chauffeur in a peaked cap and soft leather seats. It makes me feel very self important. I feel like Lola Hemmings on her way to a premiere as we cruise through the traffic to the studio.

As the car draws up outside a big white building on the South Bank I've practically forgotten the voodoo doll fiasco. Now I'm getting nervous. I'm frightened I'll clam up with nerves. The thought of the Haddock hearing me muck up the interview drives my stress levels sky high. But there's not much time to think. I barely have time to eat a complimentary slice of caramel cheesecake in the hospitality room before I'm being ushered in to meet the presenter, an old guy in a plum coloured waistcoat called Horace Walters.

I'm relaxing a bit, now I'm actually here. This is going to breeze, I tell myself, when, to my surprise, the blonde babe in the Karen Millen jumper walks into the studio and sits down in a chair besides me.

"You," she hisses. "You're behind all this?"

I take a deep breath, determined not to be intimidated by her cut-glass accent and English rose beauty. "Hold on a minute. Don't shoot the messenger. I don't go on fox hunts, I don't breed deer on my estate and I don't wear fur because I can't afford it. If you want to have a go at someone why not give McManus a piece of your mind."

"I will, just as soon as he gets back from Jamaica. In any case, you created this, this monstrous ad. You're the one responsible for making the murder of innocent creatures sexy."

"Now, now ladies," says Horace, looking up his hands and looking distressed. "Let's not get into a cat fight before we've even got on the air. Let's try and keep this civilized. Okay, we're on."

He leans forward and starts to talk into his microphone. "Today we're talking about a big, big controversy that's raging over the latest McManus pie ad. I'm here today with Kate Pickles, a copywriter at the Canter Agency who created the ad and Flora Batchelor, of AGFURA."

"Can I just say Horace, before we go any further," says Flora sweetly, "that AGFURA is not an extreme group, as we have been portrayed in the media. We're not absolutely against eating meat if it is a domestic breed, brought up in a humane environment. I myself eat meat. But killing wild animals like deer, well, it's just plain crazy. These are very sacred creatures we're talking about."

"I suppose you'll be telling me next that deer should be having Jacuzzis and living it up in five star hotels rather than being on the menu at five star hotels," I say, desperately trying to lighten the mood. But Flora just glares at me.

Horace continues. "Mark McManus has long been a target for AGFURA because of his habit of hosting high-profile fox hunting parties, that, because they are chock-a-block with celebrities are heavily covered in the media."

"It's sick, so sick. He invites all those actresses up there to make his blood thirsty behaviour seem glamorous!" says Flora, grinding her teeth.

Horace moves smoothly on. "But back to this ad. Flora and her colleagues at AGFURA have defaced posters and picketed the Canter agency, as well as Mr McManus' estate. They are outraged, both by the fact that McManus' pies use venison in them, as well as by the fact that fur was used in the poster for his latest campaign."

"Damn right we're furious. Fur is not a luxury product, and deer are wild animals who should be left to roam free rather than stuffed into pies. To promote this type of abuse to animals is outrageous!"

"So, Kate, as one of the creatives who worked on this campaign, how do you respond to Flora's criticisms?"

My mind goes blank. Totally, utterly blank. Flora's staring at me. Horace is staring at me. I have to say something. And responding with some wishy washy spiel about creative freedoms and artistic licence isn't going to wash with Flora, I can see it in her steely gaze. So instead I decide to try the touchy feely approach. I smile at her sweetly. I take a sip of water. Then I go for the kill. "So, Flora, you say you eat meat. Isn't that a little hypocritical?"

"I eat a little organically farmed chicken. But I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but what you seem to be saying is that you believe it's fine to kill one kind of animal, but not another. Wouldn't you agree?" I say, turning to Horace.

"Well, if you put it like that, I suppose you have a point," says mild-mannered Horace, looking panic stricken. "I don't see how it's the same thing at all," says Flora. "Chickens have been domesticated for centuries, while deer and mink are wild animals and it's barbaric to breed them solely to indulge our taste for luxury."

"You seem to enjoy moving the goalposts for the sake of your argument," I retort. "I don't see how the killing of one type of animal for consumption differs from another."

Flora opens her mouth but I decide to keep going.

"I suppose you also think it's wrong that McManus' Pies provide work for thousands of people? I suppose that doesn't add up to much in your book?"

"Not if it means the slaughter of wild creatures in the process."

"What about the news we received today, that a human toenail was found in one of his pies?" says Horace.

"That's an isolated incident," I say. "Who knows how it happened? An investigation has been launched. We'll just have to see what it turns up. All I'm saying is that McManus has brought considerable prosperity to Glasgow and Aberdeen through employing people in his factories."

"At slave labour wages, I should imagine," says Flora.

I take a sip of water. This Flora is proving to be a very slippery customer, but I'm not beaten yet. "Tell me," I venture. "Do you have children?"

"Yes, I have a three year old girl." She turns to Horace and says furiously, "She keeps getting off the argument."

But I go on. "You have a babysitter looking after her right now?"

"Yes, of course. I don't leave her alone if that's what you're getting at."

"So while you come here to indulge your moral arguments against animal cruelty you're paying some poor woman slave labour wages to watch your child?"

"I pay her the going rate."

"An amount, I would hazard a guess, of approximately the same amount McManus pays his factory workers."

Her face falls. She balls her hands into fists. From her expression I can tell I've pushed her into a corner. Her mouth opens and closes but nothing comes out. Horace cuts in with, "Well, an interesting argument. I'm afraid we've run out of time, but thanks for coming in to give us your viewpoints."

Once I leave the studio I feel tremendously liberated. The sky is clear and birds are circling above me. There's a feeling of change in the air. This should be a moment of personal and professional triumph. The problem is, I didn't believe what I was saying in there. I could see her point of view was as valid as mine, but I was there to represent a client, so I pulled it off. Suddenly I feel sad, sad that I don't believe in anything anymore. Somehow along the way my life went astray and I've lost track of who I am.

When I get back to the office everyone's walking around grinning. I go over to my desk, to find my letters perfectly presented in my In Tray. In the distance I can hear Ricky whistling, while doing his rounds.

"Ricky's in a good mood," I say to Sparky.

"I think it might have something to do with Briony."

"You mean they're dating?"

"Something like that." I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that a new age has dawned, in which Ricky will no longer be forced to express his hostility by sabotaging my mail.

"I heard you on the radio," she says. "Seems Miss Craddock did too. She wants a word."

I have a feeling of dread in my stomach, but oddly, as I walk towards her office, I relax. I feel too good today to let her affect me. She can haul me over the coals, fire me if she wants to. I realize something. I no longer care.

As I walk into her office she says, "I've just had McManus on the phone."

"Don't tell me, he's firing the agency?" You see what I mean? I no longer give a damn.

"No, actually. He's back in London and heard your radio interview. He was very impressed actually."

"Oh?"

"You know, I think I owe you an apology. I've been under a lot of stress lately. And I've decided to take a leave of absence." She plucks a stray piece of cotton that's hanging loose from her jacket collar. "I'm pregnant actually." My mouth must have hit the floor because she says, "Don't look so surprised," and gives an approximation of a smile, twitching up the corners of her mouth.

"Sorry, um, congratulations." I'm lost of words. The Haddock isn't exactly the maternal type. I can't imagine her up to her knees in dirty diapers and baby puke. I didn't know she even had a boyfriend. Maybe she hasn't. Maybe the conception involved donor sperm delivered in dry ice.

"Trying to conceive was a nightmare. And then when I finally did, the first months were just awful. What with the nosebleeds and the throwing up. The only good thing about it is that my hair's gone all bouncy. However, that doesn't justify the way I've treated you."

Good God, the Haddock apologizing. I pinch my wrist to make sure I'm not dreaming. Those pregnancy hormones must have softened her up.

"And after that toenail business, I thought we'd had it. But McManus seems surprisingly unconcerned by it all. Anyway, what I wanted to say is, you've done a terrific job and I'd like to offer you a pay rise."

I look at her face, which is, for once, full of empathy. I'm almost moved. Almost, but not quite. This is what I've been waiting for isn't it? To have the Haddock admit she's been wrong. Yet now it's happened, it means nothing.