Authors: Mark Mills
‘I’ve gone right off it,’ she says forcefully. ‘It sounds too much like a government health warning.’
I know the sensation; it’s always the same – a chill running across my shoulders. ‘That’s it!’
‘What?’
‘Clever girl.’
‘What?’ demands Edie. ‘What did I say?’
It looks great mocked up. We wanted more tension between the image and the strapline and we’ve got it. A white strip cuts a crude swathe along the bottom of the photo of the kiss, and stamped across it in bold black letters are the words ‘WARNING: SWOSH! CAN SERIOUSLY AFFECT YOUR SOCIAL LIFE’.
Ralph is delighted, and not only because we’ve managed to get the product name in there. He finds it daring, arresting, and he thinks the humorous little swipe at our health-and-safety-obsessed society has broad appeal. Moreover, it’s a line that lends itself to variations. We shove a few in front of him. The one he likes most is ‘SMOKING KILLS. SWOSH! DOESN’T’. It’s not for now; it’s for way down the road as the campaign evolves. Clients love a concept with legs; they feel like they’re getting more for their money.
Ralph sits back in his chair. ‘I love it. I’d pitch it myself if I didn’t know Patrick was going to make it fly.’ And if that isn’t a warning shot across Patrick’s bows, I don’t know what is.
When we return to our office, Edie seems a little shell-shocked. ‘Tristan didn’t say much.’
‘What’s to say?’
‘He’s always got something to say.’
‘Maybe he hates the idea,’ I suggest.
‘You think?’ She glances at me from the sofa, where she is distractedly stroking Doggo.
‘He’s a pragmatist; he’s probably just keeping his powder dry.’
‘Meaning?’
Meaning why the hell are we talking about Tristan when we’ve just received the kind of endorsement we could only have dreamed of from the main man?
‘Don’t worry about Tristan. Worry about how Patrick’s going to perform on Friday. There’s no medal for coming second.’
It’s a big account and we’re a small agency. The buzz soon builds. Clive and Connor are the first to stop by our office. They seem genuinely impressed with the work and pleased for us. Megan and Seth are almost as convincing.
‘Great line, you bastard,’ jokes Megan.
‘Actually, it was Edie’s idea.’
‘Not really,’ says Edie.
Megan bares her big teeth. ‘You guys have really got to get your story straight.’
My only worry is that the concept might be a bit risqué. I don’t say this to Edie. I tell her that even if it doesn’t come off, she has made her mark on Ralph, which is just as important. ‘Anyway, it would be sickening if you found a home for your first piece of work. It took me five attempts, and in the end it was a magazine ad for hearing aids: “Going Deaf? Buy One of These”.’
She laughs, then says, ‘Thanks for before. You know I don’t deserve any credit for the line.’
‘You were the one who said it: government health warning.’
‘I said it but I didn’t see it. You saw it.’
‘Only because you spoke the words. Listen, what’s mine is yours … ours. It’s called teamwork.’
She doesn’t reply immediately. ‘You know, Dan, you’re one of the good guys.’
I’m touched by the level of feeling in her voice. ‘Tell that to Clara.’
It’s a terrible line, dripping with self-pity, and the timing couldn’t be worse, because when Edie asks, ‘Who’s Polly?’ I stupidly assume the question is somehow part of the same conversation.
‘Clara’s sister. Why?’
I realise too late that I’m using the speaker dock on Edie’s desk to recharge my iPhone, and an incoming text has just popped up right in front of her.
‘Because she really needs to feel you inside her again.’
I freeze, squirm, searching for something to say. ‘Like you said – one of the good guys.’
We’re still laughing when Tristan suddenly appears in our office.
‘Want to share it?’
‘Definitely not,’ I reply.
‘Now I’m intrigued.’
I can see Edie wavering under Tristan’s viper-eyed glare. ‘Don’t you dare,’ I warn her. She shrugs apologetically to Tristan.
‘As you like, children,’ he says with a tight smile. ‘I just wanted to say great job. Whatever happens on Friday, you’ve done us all proud.’
H
I
P
OLLY.
T
HOUGHT
you should know a colleague of mine saw your text x
Oops! Ever heard of password protection? X
Okay, my fault, I admit it x
Won’t do it again and it was a joke. Wanted to see how you’d react x
Funny joke. Give me five minutes to recover x
Only took you two last time x
Stop it!
No kiss?
X
That’s better. What you up to this weekend? X
Visiting my grandpa in Sussex x
Sussexy! If you change your mind, there’s a hotel I know in Aberystwyth xx
Joking again or being polite? Xx
Neither. I lied. I really do need you inside me again xx
It’s not going to happen xx
I’ll tell Clara if you don’t
xx
She’ll cross you off her Christmas card list if you do xx
God it’s good to laugh. Not a lot of that down here xx
And so it goes on, which is fine by me, because it’s better than sitting slumped on the sofa next to Doggo, watching a Jennifer Aniston romcom. I eventually ask Polly if it’s okay to call her. It’s great to hear her voice. I say I’m surprised Clara hasn’t surfaced by now. I’m worried something bad might have happened to her.
‘You don’t have to be. Worried, I mean.’ Clara has phoned home and spoken to their parents. It seems we were both wrong about Bali; she’s in New Zealand. ‘You mustn’t say I told you.’
New Zealand rings a disturbing bell. Clara had a gig back in March styling a music video for a hot young Kiwi director who jetted in for a handful of high-profile jobs. Could that be what this is really about? She said she disliked the guy, but when I think back on it, she disliked him a touch too much.
He’s so opinionated … so bloody sure of himself … so obsessed with details …
In short, all the things she likes in a man, all the things she used to like in me.
I’m an idiot. I should have read the signs. I feel suddenly sick. Who flies off to the other side of the world in the hope that a frisson might develop into something more? Not Clara, for sure; she’s way too practical to roll the dice like that. No, she went knowing what lay in store for her, from which I can conclude – cue another brief surge of nausea – that she was having an affair with the guy right under my nose. (What was his name again? Wayne? I’ll look it up later.)
I need to know the truth. I don’t care what it takes. I’m as blind to the consequences as I was to the clues. The second I end my conversation with Polly, I call Clara’s best friend, Fiona. We’ve always got on well enough, although she falls into that category of ‘friends’ who I know will slowly fade from my life now that Clara is no longer a part of it. I’ve spoken to her a few times over the past couple of weeks, civil conversations. Something tells me this one isn’t going to be.
After some opening pleasantries, I tell Fiona I’m thinking about calling in the police.
‘The police?’ There’s a distinct note of alarm in her voice. ‘I’m sure that’s not necessary.’
‘You reckon? For all I know, she’s flown off to New Zealand to shag some director or other and he’s beaten her to death and buried her body in the hills.’
The silence hangs between us like a wet blanket. ‘Thanks for that, Dan.’
‘Screw you, Fiona. I’ve been going half mad here.’
‘She made me promise not to tell you.’
‘Then screw her too.’
Childishly, I hang up before she can reply. Her text arrives a few minutes later:
She did what she needed to do. Maybe you should ask yourself why that is
Jennifer Aniston sheds some tears on the TV while I tap away on my phone:
Here’s the deal – I’ll take your self-righteous crap if you tell me Will knows about Otto.
Will is her boyfriend, Otto an architect at the practice where she works. I want her to know that I’m in the loop about her brief fling; I want her to know that Clara is far from being the discreet and loyal friend she assumes her to be. There will definitely be consequences for their relationship. Cuckolded, cut adrift, I’m beyond caring. Let them slog it out. Here you are, the two of you, taste a little bit of the deceit, the pain, and see how it feels, because frankly, my dears, I don’t give a damn.
I’ll hate myself for it later, but right now it makes me feel a whole lot better about my roll in the hay with Polly. So much better, in fact, that I seriously consider calling her back and asking for the address of that hotel in Aberystwyth.
‘Hey, Doggo, you want a weekend in Wales?’
He doesn’t even glance at me; he’s too intently focused on Jennifer, who’s now looking gorgeously glum while dragging the back of her hand across her eyes to wipe away the tears.
I don’t make the call to Polly. I can’t blow Grandpa out, even though he has no idea I’m coming to visit him, even if, as happened last time, he struggles to place me in the fuzzy pantheon of family and friends who drop by the nursing home from time to time. The thing is, I love Grandpa, I always have, and his brain is going fast. I’ll never forgive myself if the next chance I get to visit I find it’s gone altogether.
The film ends, the credits roll, and Doggo does something he’s never done before: he barks. I once heard him give a strangled sort of yelp when I accidentally trod on his paw in the kitchen, but this is the real thing, surprisingly deep and resonant given his size – like an apple-cheeked choirboy opening his mouth and belting out ‘Ol’ Man River’ in a basso profundo.
‘Doggo, shhhh.’ But he doesn’t let up, even when I find another movie to entertain him. He can’t really have fallen that hard for Jennifer Aniston, can he? It’s a frivolous thought, but as the racket continues, I figure it’s got to be worth a shot. I pull up Film4+1, which runs exactly the same schedule an hour later. The moment we land back in the middle of the movie, Doggo falls silent and settles down, his big bug eyes glued to the screen, to Jennifer, who is hurrying along a pavement, yakking away to someone on her mobile.
I laugh and lay a tentative hand on Doggo’s back. He’s too distracted to protest.
‘Good choice, you horny little devil.’
R
ALPH IS IN
raptures when the team returns to the office late on Friday afternoon. It seems Patrick outdid himself selling the concept to the suits at KP&G. Tristan was also present at the pitch and feels it went well.
‘Compared to what?’ asks Ralph, which sounds like a swipe at Tristan’s lack of experience.
We won’t have an answer until next week, but Ralph insists that the five of us – six including Doggo – decamp to the terrace bar at the Sanderson Hotel. He’s keen to point out that we’re not celebrating our success, just a job well done. ‘No one can say we haven’t given it our best shot. It’s important to mark the small triumphs too.’
I understand his thinking; I’m made the same way. Edie and Tristan look less convinced. They’d prefer to know we had it in the bag before raising a glass. Patrick is just happy to bathe in the compliments (and, I suspect, the knowledge that his job is safe for the foreseeable future).
We down two bottles of champagne while Doggo laps at a bowl of water sweetly provided for him by our considerate waitress. I feel better than I have in a long while, surrounded by my new colleagues, my new life, the jolly banter. I even bum a cigarette off Edie. ‘Smoking Kills. SWOSH! Doesn’t,’ chides Ralph. As ever, we all laugh along dutifully. Edie is the first to leave, followed closely by Tristan. When Patrick bids us both a good weekend and slips away, Ralph calls for the bill.
‘Happy at Indology?’ he asks me.
‘Very.’
‘I’ve got the feeling this is the start of something special – you and Edie, I mean.’
‘Me too.’
‘You don’t have to agree with me just because I’m the boss.’
‘Yes I do.’
He laughs. ‘Tell me what you really think.’
‘If I did that, you’d have to fire me.’
It’s happening again, I’m stealing Fat Trev’s lines. It doesn’t matter; Trev’s not around to scream ‘thief’, and it’s the kind of talk that goes down well with Ralph. I’m growing to really like the guy, not for his overbearing ebullience, but for the small things, such as suggesting the terrace bar at the Sanderson so that Doggo could come too rather than stay behind cooped up in the office; such as insisting on driving us home in his Bentley afterwards, despite it being a major detour for him.
I try to make Doggo sit at my feet, but he’s having none of it. He clambers over me on to the back seat – just another leather sofa to stretch out on, as far as he’s concerned.
‘He’s a funny little fellow,’ observes Ralph. ‘What’s his story?’
I tell him what I know, which is next to nothing. I also tell him about Clara and her disappearing act, although I don’t come clean about New Zealand and Wayne Kelsey. (I’ve looked him up, and from the lantern-jawed photos littering the Web, Wayne Kelsey could easily cast himself as the male lead in the debut feature film he’s looking to get off the ground, ‘a psychological thriller in the vein of Alfred Hitchcock’s
Rebecca
’. Actually, not that you’ve probably ever read the book, you Kiwi fraud, it was Daphne du Maurier’s
Rebecca
.)
Ralph reduces my circumstances to one word – ‘Bummer’ – before topping it off with some advice, a little trick he learned when his first wife left him for a young Dutchman. ‘It’s very simple. There’s three things you have to say to yourself, over and over, like a mantra: She had her chance and she blew it … I’m not a bloody charity … She’ll have to learn the hard way.’ He slaps the steering wheel several times, crippled by his own humour.