LITMIR.BIZ

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‘It … it is a bit quick, Charlie. I feel a bit bleurgh about everything.’

      ‘Bleurgh?’ He looked understandably deflated.

      ‘Overwhelmed,’ I clarified. ‘Confused.’

      ‘So this wouldn’t be the right time to tell you I’ve accepted a pitch for our agency, then?’ he asked, wincing.

      ‘But we haven’t got an agency?’ I said. ‘What have you done?’

      ‘Don’t be mad at me.’ He held his hands out to defend himself against whatever puny attack he thought I might launch and grabbed a sneakily hidden copy of Marketing Week from the top of the microwave. ‘But I saw Perito’s were looking for a new agency and one of the blokes in their marketing department is on my football team and I knew you’d come up with an amazing campaign, so I asked him if we could pitch. And he said yes, because he totally loves your work.’

      ‘He loves my work?’ my ego asked on my behalf.

      ‘He was totally obsessed with you,’ Charlie nodded. ‘Knew loads of your campaigns.’

      ‘So just like that? We’ve got a pitch?’ I wondered if there was any wine left. Tea clearly was not strong enough for this conversation.

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But …’

      ‘But?’

      ‘He needs to see the pitch by next Friday because they’re seeing agencies the following Monday. And we’re going to be one of those agencies.’

      ‘That’s not even a week!’ I loved stating the obvious. ‘We would have to come up with an entire marketing campaign, just me and you, by next week?’

      ‘Yeah, but Tess, Perito’s Chicken as our first account? Our own agency?’ Charlie looked so excited. I recognized the enthusiasm; I used to share it. ‘How amazing would that be?’

      Worryingly, if anyone had asked me that question two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have been able to describe how amazing it would be. I’d have been like a pig in peri peri sauce.

      Charlie Wilder was asking me to move in with him. Charlie Wilder was asking me to pitch an advertising campaign for a Portuguese chicken cook-in sauce. Charlie Wilder was asking me to start a brand new advertising agency with him. But no, I had to go off to Hawaii on a voyage of pissing self-discovery and meet a tosspot of a man who would be rolling around on the floor, sides positively splitting, at the sound of any of this.

      ‘And it isn’t just Perito’s.’ Charlie was still talking, still trying to win me round. ‘I talked to some of our old accounts and they’re interested. Squiggles’ Kitchen Towels wants to come with us.’

      At least that explained why he had so much kitchen towel.

      ‘And there’s Brookes & Bryan, the jewellers we just signed; they’re up for it too. And I reckon I can totally get Noodle Pots. You’re the best creative director there is, Tess, and I can’t do this without you. They all want you, not some knobhead account manager. I need you.’

      Charlie took a step towards me and reached out to run a hand through my hair.

      ‘Tell me you’re not just the littlest bit interested?’ he said, his hand getting stuck somewhere around my ear.

      I shivered, trying to separate out my feelings of professional pride and sexual desire. I wasn’t sure whether or not I could. It was a bit disconcerting.

      ‘I’ve got to go to my meeting,’ I said in a weak voice. ‘Can we talk about this later?’

      Sensing defeat, Charlie stopped. Part of me was so disappointed that he hadn’t grabbed hold of my hair, bent me over the oven and shagged me senseless until I agreed to all of his demands; but the part of me that got up at seven every morning, got dressed and went about her daily business in a sensible fashion, respected him for giving me the time and space to make a considered decision. After all, this was sweet, loving Charlie we were talking about, not filthy, tosspot Nick.

      Not that I was thinking about Nick.

      ‘Tess-motherfucking-Brookes!’

      Agent Veronica stood up, put out her fag and grabbed me for a stale, non-optional hug as soon as I set foot in her office.

      ‘Sit your arse down. Cup of tea? Cup of tea.’ She strode over to the door and coughed delicately. ‘Two cups of fucking tea when you’re ready, if it’s not too much fucking trouble?’

      Slamming the door behind her, she shook her head and sat back down behind her desk. ‘Can’t get the staff,’ she lamented. ‘Now, do I need to slap some sense into you or have you just come to confirm your flights?’

      Veronica, it was fair to say, was something of an imposing woman. Very blonde with very red lipstick and an ever-present fug of cigarette smoke that tended to knock the breath out of your lungs before you had a chance to get a word in edgeways. Not that you ever really had a chance to get a word in edgeways. She stubbed out a crimson-ringed dog-end with matching pointy nails and sat back in her seat. Perched on the edge of my chair, my bag safely on my knee, I waited for her to say something. It never hurt to put a potential weapon between Veronica and your vital organs.

      Given that she hadn’t spoken in four seconds, I took it that I was safe to begin.

      ‘Well—’

      ‘I don’t want to hear “well”!’ she shouted, slapping her desk with her hand and grabbing a fresh pack of Silk Cut out of her drawer. ‘I want to hear, “sorry I’ve been such an ungrateful shithead all week, Veronica. You’re amazing, Veronica. When does my flight to Milan leave, Veronica?”’

      ‘I’ve had a lot of thinking to do,’ I protested as she savaged the plastic film around the cigarettes.

      ‘Wandering around in the rain? Staring out over the river and wondering “What if?”’ she asked. ‘Fuck that. You’re leaving on Sunday.’

      ‘It hasn’t rained this week …’ I muttered, confused. Then realized what she had said. ‘What?’

      ‘Sunday, you leave on Sunday.’ Veronica took care to enunciate each word very carefully, as though I were simple or slow. I was fairly certain she believed I was both. ‘You start work on Monday, so it seemed like a good idea to get you on a flight on Sunday. You comprende?’

      ‘I can’t leave on Sunday,’ I said, holding my bag closer into my body. ‘That’s in two days. I’m not ready.’

      ‘So what are you doing sat there like a bastard lemon then?’ she asked. ‘Go home, wash your fucking hair, pack a fucking bag, find your fucking passport. You’re going.’

      ‘Veronica …’ I started, reaching a hand up to touch my hair. ‘I can’t just up and leave on Sunday for three months.’

      ‘Why? You haven’t got a job, have you? You haven’t got anywhere to live …’ She paused to light up again, either oblivious or unconcerned by the laws about smoking in the workplace. I assumed the latter. ‘From what I’ve heard, you’re lucky you’re not having this conversation with me in a fetching orange onesie. Thank God they didn’t send you down, girl. Some butch bitch’d be wearing you like a glove puppet inside half an hour.’

      ‘Who told you …? You know what, never mind.’ I blinked, trying to erase the terrifying image she had just planted indelibly in my mind. ‘It’s still a lot. To go off to Italy for three months in two days. I can’t even speak Italian.’

      ‘They all speak English,’ she said, dismissing my fears with a sweep of her ignited arm.

      ‘Really?’ I asked.

      ‘Well, no, but if they don’t speak it, I doubt very much that they’ve got anything fucking interesting to say anyway.’ She pointed at me, making stabbing motions with her lit cigarette on every word. ‘You. Are. Going. To. Milan. On. Sunday.’

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