Seductive Viennese Whirl (5 page)

"Heard you got a telling off about that Smuckbecker's ad," he says, running up and scooping the ball through the net. "That Haddock's too flipping uptight for her own good. Know what I reckon she needs?"

"Let me guess. A good shag?"

He dribbles the ball up to me, then holds it above his head, giving me a whiff of BO. The fact that Simon doesn't score very high in the personal hygiene department hasn't prevented him from scoring with most of the females at the agency. He looks at me blankly. "Yeah, how'd you know?"

I smile. It's Simon's standard cure for all women's ills.

"Are you offering?"

He chuckles. "I might be."

"Think about it. You'd be doing me a favour," I say over my shoulder as I head back to the corridor, where Eva's leaning against the wall, filing her nails. Simon's made me feel a bit better. But as we reach the boardroom my palms start to sweat.

The boardroom is one of my favourite rooms. It's very Zen. One wall is painted a pale green, the rest are stark white. Little plinths holding votive candles jut out from the walls, draping the room in soft light. There's also some jasmine incense cones nestled into pots containing bonsai trees. It was one of the Haddock's concepts: to make the clients feel so relaxed they'll agree to anything. And it usually works. The Haddock does have some talents, I think grudgingly, as we walk into the meeting.

"So sorry we're late," I say, turning to the Haddock. "Eva had a doctor's appointment and I went with her for moral support." I look at the piles of assorted muffins in the centre of the table and can't wait to get stuck in. I only had a brie and tomato sandwich for lunch and I'm starving. I know I should be wondering what the meeting's about, but those muffins are so tantalizingly fluffy, I'm totally mesmerized.

"Well it can't be helped. We didn't want to start without you," she says, indicating the Smuckbecker twins.

It's clear Citronella, a tubby, block shaped woman has already started without us. She's making short work of one muffin and her watery blue eyes are trained on the rest. If Citronella was made of putty and you could twist her into a long thin woman with a snout like a greyhound you'd end up with Poppy, the woman beside her, brand manager for Smuckbecker's frozen yoghurt.

As I gulp down a glass of mango juice, Eva opens her briefcase and flips open her notepad, pen poised, ready to take notes.

"I can't wait to see what developments there've been on this campaign. This is the progress meeting isn't it?" says Eva.

"Absolutely right," says the Haddock.

"Oh and may I just say, Citronella, I love your blouse." Since the blouse is desperately unfashionable, with lots of ruffles and two little buttons garrotting her neck, I'm assuming Eva isn't serious. "I've been looking for one like that for ages. Where did you get it?"

"Laura Ashley I think, wasn't it?" She looks over to Poppy who nods and adjusts her Alice band over her bobbed hair. They probably do their shopping together, since they dress identically, in penny loafers, boxy jackets, high collared blouses and A-line skirts. But while Poppy looks tightly controlled and immaculate, Citronella always seems in the process of unravelling. Right now her Alice band has slipped down over her doughy forehead and one of her jacket seams is bust. I don't know what exactly Citronella's function is at Smuckbecker's UK, but I'm hardly going to embarrass myself by asking now. Not after I've been working on the account for three years.

Since I'm going to join the gym after work, I decide I can definitely have a muffin. Now, which one will it be? I weigh up the benefits of blueberry versus chocolate chip. Chocolate is Sin with a capital S, sugar and fat and, well, I won't even go there. While blueberry is a fruit, a blameless, health giving fruit. I reach for the blueberry.

The Haddock shakes her freshly coiffed red hair off her face and flicks through a thick tome in front of her.

"Now, I know Eva and Kate will have familiarized themselves with this report." She holds it up. The cover reads:
Analysis of sales response to Smuckbecker's frozen yoghurt commercial 51B."

I've certainly not seen the report before, although to be fair, I rarely check my In Tray because I'm too busy churning out copy for shaving foam and foot deodorizers.

Eva reaches for the report and flicks through it.

"Let me just say, these figures are not what I expected," Eva says enigmatically.

"Me neither," I chip in. The Haddock's always telling me to speak out more at meetings.

"I quite agree," says Poppy, slipping the lid on and off her silver fountain pen. "I've not seen these kinds of figures in all the time I've been brand manager."

"When I spoke to Mr Smuckbecker some weeks ago," says the Haddock, going all soft and compassionate, "it was clear there was a problem, a very serious problem. Audiences were not responding well to the ad. Some judgments were made in the choice of imagery that were, well," she says, struggling and failing to find the right word, "let's just say some errors of judgment were made, on the agency's part."

She takes a sip of water. "It's a relief to all of us that the ITC decided not to pull it. The complaints were relatively few, but," she hurries on as Poppy's mouth begins to pucker, "every lost potential consumer is a loss in sales." She gives a little chuckle. "We are perfectionists here at the Canter Agency and mistakes will not be tolerated."

"Have you actually read this?" says Poppy, stabbing her fountain pen against her palm. Eva and I exchange glances.

"Well, of course, I haven't had time to read the whole thing." No, you were too busy reading
OK!
magazine.

"Sales are up," blurts Citronella.

Poppy's looking angrily at the Haddock. Eva's got her head down, scribbling on her pad.

"That's something of an understatement," replies Poppy.

"Sorry," says Citronella, chewing her lip.

"What I mean is, sales have gone through the roof. Not only

with our target audience, but, and this is quite extraordinary, there's been something of a repositioning of the brand. It seems that you," she says, nodding in my direction, "tapped into a whole new segment of potential consumers that our market research had failed to uncover."

"I went with my gut instinct."

"Kate has a knack for these things," says the Haddock.

"Indeed. It seems that most of the dog owners weren't offended by the ads. They loved the idea of their dogs telling them what they liked. Especially rich, upwardly mobile dog owners." Poppy smiles. "Our favourite kind." I think she's just made a joke.

"Now people are also buying the stuff for their dogs," says Citronella.

"How wonderful," says Eva, clapping her hands together.

"And because Smuckbecker's is packed with vitamins and minerals, they feel they're doing something beneficial for their pets at the same time as pampering them," Poppy finishes with a flourish.

"Well, this is good news," says the Haddock. "Mr Smuckbecker must be delighted."

"He's talking about running the ad in the States and doing a deal with the PetTreat chain of superstores to sell our frozen yoghurt alongside their luxury dog products."

"Marvellous," sighs Eva. Maybe she's overdoing it just a little.

"I suppose we should all applaud Kate for her brilliant ad," says the Haddock.

As they turn to me and grin I force a smile. I guess I should be grateful that my job is safe, at least for now.

I celebrate the fact by reaching out for a banana muffin, the last on the plate and rightfully mine. But before I can get it into my clutches Citronella has swiped it from under my nose.

Once we've knocked off Eva asks me if I want a quick one and looks shell shocked when I refuse.

"I've never heard you turn down a drink before. Are you sure you're feeling all right?"

"You're looking at a changed woman," I say. "I'll meet you in a couple of hours at Cafe Boheme. Right now I need to get to the gym."

I make my way through Soho, past dozens of twig like young girls with straight glossy hair, chattering into mobiles about their plans for tonight. Wet lumps of snow plop onto my hair, and as I turn onto Long Acre I pull a cloche hat over it. I glide past the sparkling shop windows, through the salt strewn slush, feeling like an ugly duckling. A silver Mercedes zooms past, and while the beautiful faces inside throw me withering glances, its tires shower me with ochre hued slush.

I'm hobbling along Quasimodo style, wiping sludge from my Pied à Terre boots as I go, when I thud into a guy blocking my way.

"Kate?" My head jerks up. I stare at him. And stare. And stare some more. All around me the people and cars have become one hazy stream of grey, moving in slow motion.

"Ben?" I ask stupidly, although it's him all right. Worn jeans that hug his marvellous thighs, broad shoulders, dark hair cut shorter than I remember, and those eyes, God those eyes, all dark and velvety, a deep inky blue. The goatee's gone and his face looks naked without it. Of course, the little scar on his right cheek is still there. The scar I used to stroke with the side of my thumb. The last time I did that was more than a year ago and yet now suddenly the months, the years, melt away. Now it's just him and me, like it was our second date and we were just beginning to feel comfortable with each other.

Eventually he breaks the silence. "How are you?"

"Good, good," I say casually, clapping my gloved hands together, a sense of panic spiralling up inside. My senses snap back to life, the drone of the traffic suddenly overwhelmingly loud.

"Gotta dash," I say. "Meeting someone." I jump off the curb, spraying slush onto a woman in a long pale coat who shouts at me as I run across the road, tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. I can see him reflected in a shop window, still standing there, watching me.

I run all the way down to Marks & Spencer where I buy two slices of apple cinnamon cake. Once I've wolfed them down I hesitate outside the entrance, wondering if he's waiting for me. Then, because the idea is ludicrous I start to laugh hysterically. People are staring so I quickly turn the corner into Neal Street. Walking along I feel bloated from the cake and wildly stressed out. By the time I reach the Bodyshock Gym I'm hyperventilating.

Pushing open the door, I'm enfolded by the womblike entrance hall. My anxiety melts into the hot chlorine and shampoo scented air as I go up to the blonde girl behind the counter. I note that she's my height and build minus my saddlebags of flab around her middle. As she bends down to pick up a clipboard her skintight t-shirt rides up to expose a washboard stomach. I want to gouge her eyes out.

"Hi, I'm Doreen," she says with an Australian accent, thrusting the clipboard into my hands. "You're going to love it here." She rattles off the list of machines. Triceps Stretch. Biceps Curl. Inner Thigh Crunch. I feel exhausted just listening to her.

Skimming the form on the clipboard I'm aghast to learn that a year's membership is the same price as some Prada ankle boots I currently have my eye on.

I place the clipboard on the counter. "I don't think I'm ready to make the commitment."

She shoves the clipboard back in my hands. "No worries. Just sign here and if you don't like it you can cancel your membership within three months for a full refund."

"I don't think so."

"Before I started working out I was a right sight," she says, pulling out a photo of a fat person from her wallet and handing it over. The features are all blobby and it doesn't look much like Doreen, but the hair's blonde so I figure it must be. "I was, like, 140lb."

"Wow! That's what I weighed the last time I stepped on the scales."

She pats my hand. "You can do it too. Trust me."

"You really think so?"

"Sure you can."

And before I know what I'm doing I'm signing the form. I no longer want to gouge her eyes out. I'm really, properly excited about this. I'm determined to make this gym thing work for me, like it worked for Doreen.

As I hand my card over my Visa bill expands to, well I don't know exactly to how much actually, because I bought some DKNY trainers and a Tommy Hilfiger tracksuit during my lunch break, just to get into a positive frame of mind for the gym, you understand.

When she asks for a photo I hand her the one I keep in my wallet, taken on a holiday I went on with Ben to Barcelona, when we were still in the first flush of lust. I cut him out of the picture a while back, but held on to the picture because it's the best I've ever looked, all tanned and glowing. And thin. Telling myself I'm going to do my damndest to get that look again I extricate myself from Doreen who's quite the chatterbox. Minutes later I'm in my workout gear standing self-consciously beside a woman in a high cut pink spandex leotard who's busy doing stomach crunches. Beside her a muscle bound guy flexes his arms and flirts with himself in the mirror.

Doreen told me it's important to warm up, but since I have no clue what this involves I touch my toes and bend from side to side. God that hurts! Then I jog up and down for a few minutes until I'm gasping for breath.

Now what?

A geek in a string vest disengages his legs from a machine that resembles a giant spider of glinting steel. I settle myself in the seat, preparing to strap my legs into the metal plates, only to find they're slippery with sweat. Yuck. I wipe the machine down with my towel and lie down, secure my legs and start scissoring them, simultaneously pushing two handles up and down, up and down, up and down. Apart from the fact that I'm shockingly bored I'm surprised to find that this is a piece of cake. I'm scissoring and lifting like I've been born to do this. I even increase the weight to sixty pounds and bask in the elation that I can take more than the geek who went before me. I only get up because Pink Spandex Lady is standing beside me, tapping her foot impatiently, waiting to get on the machine.

I try out a few more of the machines, before settling down to a stint on the StairMaster. Soon my backside will be rock hard and I'd be able to wear leather trousers with pride, I muse, catching sight of a Tom Cruise look-a-like, perched on the rowing machine. Maybe the gym is a really great place to meet hot guys, I think, bouncing up and down on the StairMaster, giddy with endorphins and giving him a beaming smile.