We All Fall Down (20 page)

‘Is this any way to run a business?' he slurred in the direction of Simon.

The creative director grinned, clasping him round the shoulders. ‘You sound like shit, mate.'

‘I was just thinking the same about you. It's possible I may have drunk a little too much, but no harm done.'

‘I have to admit to being cold stone sober myself.'

‘It's stone cold sober, actually.' He was proud to have picked up the error, especially with Simon being a copywriter and everything.

‘That's what I said.'

‘No, you didn't. I assure you …' He turned more towards Simon, keen to share an intimacy.

The creative director was frowning. ‘You're not going to throw up on me, are you, mate?'

‘I want to tell you …'

‘Because I've got my best suit on. Fact is, it's my only suit.'

‘You know what you said about our earlier campaign?'

‘You're not talking work, are you? Not at this time of night.'

‘I want to tell you about that other campaign, the one you called a crock of shit.'

‘Yeah? I remember that. It was a crock of shit.'

‘A friend of mine did it.'

‘Is that right? Well, no offence, mate. Just being honest. Always the best policy in my opinion.'

‘Her name was Fiona.'

‘Yeah, heard about her.'

There was a man standing across the room, legs apart, a puzzled – even bewildered – expression on his face as he struggled to keep his balance as he stared down at the two empty pockets he'd pulled out of his trousers. ‘She died in a car crash. Couple of days ago.'

Simon did a double take, one that was a little slow and inebriated, but a double take nevertheless. Hugh was pleased at his reaction. Russell was asking a waiter to bring another bottle of champagne, which seemed to involve a good deal of discussion. Simon was shaking his head and frowning. ‘She what?'

‘She died in a car crash. She was by herself. Went into a tree. I've just heard.'

Simon emptied his glass of champagne. It struck Hugh that he did this because he could see Russell looking round at everyone's glass and was keen not to miss out on another round. ‘Well …' He was distracted when he addressed Hugh: ‘Sorry to hear that, mate. Not much I can do about it, though. Doesn't change what I think of her campaign.'

Hugh was trying to focus. He felt like the man who was still examining his empty pockets across the room: he was confronted by a puzzle, and he didn't know the answer. He said, ‘Simon.'

‘Yeah?' He was now leaning away from Hugh, making movements as if about to stand up.

‘You're a shit.'

Simon turned back to look at Hugh. ‘You're right, mate. Didn't take you long to work that out.' And he turned away, this time with a finality that excluded Hugh.

9

Amongst the advertising crowd, they definitely didn't fit in. They didn't even appear to fit in their own clothes. He suspected they were wearing their finest outfits – neither of which looked as if it had been worn before.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Bricknell?' The woman started. It was as if Hugh had suddenly accused her of hiding behind an alias. More likely it was because she was unaccustomed to even this modest display of public recognition. Husband and wife nodded their heads expectantly, perhaps hoping Hugh was about to rescue them from their increasingly feeble efforts to survive the occasion alone.

Without asking who was addressing them, Mr. Bricknell said, ‘You must call us Helen and Gerry.'

‘I'm Hugh Drysdale. I work … I
worked
with Fiona.' He wasn't sure of the appropriate tense in the circumstances: although the present was an impossibility, the past might mislead: it might imply he hadn't worked with her for many years.

If her daughter had walked into the room at that very moment, she wouldn't have been leapt on with more enthusiasm than Mrs. Bricknell now leapt on Hugh's introductory remark. ‘Oh but she told us so much about you.' She still found it necessary to seek confirmation from her husband, who stood by her side as stiff an unyielding as if he was being forced to attend the service naked – ‘Didn't she, Gerry?'

Nodding vigorously, ‘She was very fond of you, our Fiona.' He could have been a witness in a court of law, hands crossed over his navel, confirming under oath that, yes indeed, the deceased had been very fond of the person standing in the dock.

‘I want to say how terribly sorry …' The inadequacy of his words, weighed against the grief felt by parents for a dead child, made him falter, but Mrs. Bricknell and Fiona's stepfather were nodding their heads with such quiet desperation – expectancy, hope and encouragement all battling for supremacy in their eyes – that he felt compelled to continue, ‘… how terribly sorry I am. Fiona was a truly wonderful person.'

He was angry with himself for the feebleness of the word ‘wonderful', and questioned what could have impelled him to say ‘truly'. He'd added insult to injury by making it sound as if there was a possibility it might
not
be true.

The mother stifled a sob. Her husband patted her on the arm. The gesture was more congratulatory than comforting, and it struck Hugh that they were very much alone in their misery, a couple ill-equipped to share their grief with anyone else, or, even worse, together. He wondered if they'd given any thought to the circumstances of Fiona's death, or if they were in any way suspicious. He'd read somewhere that solitary drivers who wrap their cars around trees are invariably suicides, and that the tree is an attempt to hide this fact either from family and friends, or from an insurance company. Could this have been the case with Fiona? He prayed it hadn't been like that. He felt so bad about her death, so guilty that he hadn't called her since their drink in the pub, that he spent every minute of the day battling feelings of being responsible. Unable to raise such a subject with the parents, he began searching for a less upsetting subject of conversation. Hugh's mind, unfortunately, was a blank and he felt unable to contribute. It was Mr. Bricknell who finally brandished, triumphantly, a new topic. ‘We came down on the early train this morning.'

Always considerate of the feelings of others, Hugh did his best to appear interested. He bent his head a little to one side, and nodded thoughtfully.

‘It's a big trip at our age.'

Hugh wasn't sure how long he could keep up the pretence, yet somehow managed to add a dash of sympathy to his look of interest, before, thankfully, being rescued by Caitlin, Fiona's best friend.

‘Hugh, I've already spoken to Helen and Gerry. I'm asking a few people back to my place.' She turned her back on Fiona's parents and, gesticulating towards the others standing around in the crematorium's reception area, drinking tea and coffee, she added, ‘I'm not inviting that lot back, apart from Sam and Jason. Fi had no time for any of them. But I'd love it if you came back. She really liked you, you know – always talked about you. I can't believe we've never met.'

He looked down at the tear-stained face. She was biting the corner of her bottom lip, on the verge of crying again. He had watched her during the ceremony, in the front row next to Fiona's mother, her shoulders shaking, and Mrs. Bricknell, who looked proud that her own daughter could cause such grief in a friend, giving her a hug every few minutes.

In the chapel, he'd stood with Russell, who spent most of the ceremony on his Notebook. Hugh wondered why he was attending. He'd been stunned into silence when Russell had breezed into his office and offered him a lift, taken aback that his boss had never considered
not
going, never considered that he might have been responsible for the fact there was a funeral service in the first place. The fact that he might not be welcome, Hugh suspected, had probably gone right over Russell's head. He was more likely to have seen the service as a good networking opportunity.

During the brief, non-religious ceremony, two assistants, one skinny and tall, the other fat and small, had glided around the chapel with lowered eyes and hands clasped before them, with such impressive looks of sorrow on their faces, one could almost believe that they themselves had lost a daughter. The celebrant attempted to speak about the deceased as if she'd been a personal and well-loved friend, but failed miserably. The speech came across, at least to Hugh, as a list of facts she'd managed to glean from Fiona's parents and Caitlin. He wondered if this was the sum of his friend's life; was this all she had been about? To have sold some washing powder, a few cars, female sanitary products and written – using the word loosely – an
immortal
line for a well-known brand of toothpaste, was that what Fiona's life amounted to? Was that it? To have had a meaningless, if successful, career in a transitory industry, of benefit to no one but a few vainglorious businessmen, was that all? These dark thoughts made him want to weep almost more than the fact of her death.

‘A gathering of insincerity,' said Caitlin looking around the room. ‘What you might call a crowd of hypocrisy.'

He nodded. It was hard to disagree. Some people had said to him, ‘She would have loved the service,' and he wondered if they meant that Fiona must be disappointed not to have been able to make it. Others said, ‘It's a good turnout,' as if it was a sporting fixture and there'd been some initial worry about filling the seats. Many said, ‘Let's keep in touch. It's been so long,' but did not mean it. With the social necessities out of the way and their sorrow having been displayed for all to witness, they could return to their favourite topic of conversation – advertising in general or, if they felt their audience to be receptive, their own latest campaign.

‘Is your wife here?' Caitlin asked.

‘No, she couldn't make it. She sends her condolences.' Neither of which was true, but Caitlin nodded, apparently either satisfied or, more likely, uninterested.

‘I can't believe that shit Russell turned up. Why did he bother?'

‘I don't believe he thinks he's in any way to blame. He told me on the way here that he'd given her very generous redundancy terms.'

She snorted. At that moment, Hugh was grasped by the elbow from behind. ‘Are you free for a quickie by any chance, Mr. Drysdale?' He swung round. She was tall, with short blonde hair, startling blue eyes and a stance – weight all on one leg, the other bent – that made her look both sporting and awkward. She was wearing black, which gave her a
femme fatale
look.

‘Penny! I don't believe it.' He gasped, stepping back in amazement. ‘What … How … Where?'

Penny Ross, never one for the insipid air kiss, threw her arms round his neck and hugged him tight. ‘Which would you like me to answer first?' She was laughing, delighted that she'd been able to surprise him so effectively. ‘I worked with Fi in London – years ago. Just got back in touch with her when this happened. So sad.'

Caitlin, still clinging to her share of Hugh, by the elbow, said, ‘I had no idea you two knew each other.'

Penny picked up her cup of tea from a side-table and holding it like a microphone, just before her mouth, smiled at Hugh over the rim, eyes wide. ‘You live out here now, don't you?'

‘So why didn't you get in touch?'

‘I was going to – promise!' Taking a sip before lowering the cup. ‘I just hadn't got round to it. But every intention …'

He remembered her. How could he possibly forget her? Always so outrageous. Like the occasion he was reminded of now, almost the moment he set eyes on her. It had been at an agency gathering in London, in the local pub. There'd been a rambling but animated conversation about looks and attractiveness (a preoccupation of the youthful, fashion-conscious advertising world), when Penny had suddenly, drink still in hand, unbuttoned her blouse and, braless, exposed her breasts to her cheering colleagues – both male and female. ‘I have good tits,' she shouted, daring anyone to disagree. ‘You do, Penny, you do,' everyone had agreed. Then, mock sadly, ‘But they're not as good as they used to be.' Everyone had disagreed: ‘They're still beautiful, Penny.' ‘You think so?' She'd looked a little forlorn – her face momentarily reflecting her naked, exposed breasts. ‘I think they're beginning to sag. Do you think they could still pass the pencil test?' She arched her back, sticking out her chest, lifting her breasts as high as possible, much to the glee of everyone in the pub. ‘Of course they would,' everyone reassured her. ‘Has anyone got a pencil?' Sadly, no one did, so Penny had put her breasts away and buttoned up her blouse. ‘It's important one retains an air of mystery,' and she'd shrugged, as if such an aspiration was really asking too much of herself.

‘Are you listening to me, Hugh?'

He tried to bring his mind back to what she was saying. ‘I said I've changed sides.' He frowned, not understanding. Surely she couldn't mean that she'd become a lesbian? She reassured him. ‘I've joined the client side. How about that?'

He laughed. ‘How could you?'

‘Money, darling. No other reason. It's always been money. That's all that interests me.'

‘I don't believe it.'

‘That only money interests me, or that I've become a client?'

‘Both.'

‘Believe it.'

‘Who are you working for?'

‘I'm selling liquid gold.'

‘You're being mysterious. What, whisky?'

‘More valuable than whisky, darling.'

‘Petrol?'

‘More profitable than petrol.'

Caitlin, standing between them, was clutching herself with excitement, almost giggling.

‘Penny! I give up.'

‘You'll never guess.' She paused dramatically, enjoying teasing him. ‘Water!'

‘Water?'

‘Bottled water. That's where the future is, Mr. Drysdale. Bottled water.'