From The Moment I Saw Him .... (14 page)

I hoped that was true, but I would still miss seeing
them every day.   Agency life wouldn’t be the same without them.

Then my relationship with Mike began to unravel.  I
have to admit that this was probably my fault.  It had always been second best
for me, and neither of us really wanted a full commitment.  There was no
dramatic ending, but we gradually spent less time together until there was
nothing left.

During this restless period, I was cheered up by two
unexpected reunions with friends from university days.

One was with my American buddy, John.  Shortly after
his return home, he found the courage to tell his family about his sexual
preferences, and after an initial coolness, they had come to accept matters. 
Being gay was losing the stigma it once held, even for conservative Eastern
Americans.

Life had been much easier for him since then, and he
was now the owner of a contemporary art gallery in Washington, along with his
partner, Zac.

John had travelled to London to attend a number of
fine art auctions, and we met for dinner one night at an informal Italian restaurant
in Soho.  We had always exchanged letters and telephone calls over the years,
but it was wonderful to see him in person after so long, and we indulged in a
good catch up with regard to each other’s lives.  I was keen to hear all about
Washington, and was delighted to realise that he, at least, had finally found
happiness.

  Over coffee, John raised the subject we had been
avoiding all evening.

“Do you ever hear from Nick, Eithne?” he asked
bluntly.

“No.  Well, you know that I told him where to go, after
that article.  As far as I’m concerned, he’s in the past,” I said, more bravely
than I felt.

John sipped his espresso, his expression was
thoughtful.

“You seemed to be so happy together at Oxford.  I
really hoped things would work out for you,” he mused.  His eyes swept over me
approvingly.  “You’re just as pretty as I remembered, sweetie, even more so, I
think.  London life suits you. I can’t believe you’re not in demand.  Is it so
hard to replace Nick?”

“It seems so,” I replied glumly.   “I think I’m
attracted to alpha males with commitment issues.  They’re far from ideal, but
they make ordinary men seem a bit dull in comparison.  Perhaps I’ll get over it
when I’m older.  I hope so, life will be very difficult if I don’t.”

“Hang on in there,” he advised, smiling.  “Look at
me and Zac - you never know what’s round the corner.”

His words were prophetic - however, what was round
the corner for Jo and myself was not an exciting new man, but a visit from our
old fellow student, Sofia Kinski.  She rang Jo at work one day to announce her
presence in the UK, and we invited her round to the flat for an impromptu
supper. 

Sofia was living and working in Milan, but had
returned briefly to London to attend a family funeral.

We were both very curious to see her again.  She was
working in PR for a major fashion designer, and her life appeared to be busy
and glamorous.  Her clothes were little short of fabulous, and we were very
jealous.  She was still the same breezy, confident Sofia, taking everything in
her stride.

Inevitably, the subject of our love lives cropped
up.  Sofia was having an affair with an Italian photographer, and neither of us
could compete with that in any way.  After asking Jo about her latest squeeze,
she told me she was not surprised to hear that Nick and I had parted company
again.

“Of course, I knew all about the American job long
before you did,” she told me, eyes crinkling at the corner like a satisfied
cat.  “Nick swore everyone at
Cherwell
to secrecy; at least he cared
enough not to want to upset you before the end of term and your exams.  But I’m
sorry you didn’t manage to make things work afterwards.  I know how much he
meant to you.”

“Yes.  Thankfully, I’ve moved on since then,” I
said, hoping she wouldn’t press me for details.

Despite our envy of her glittering world, we enjoyed
seeing her.  Sofia always brought a sense of invigoration with her. She was
someone who took what she wanted from life, and it made me begin to question
what I wanted for my own future.

“You didn’t tell her about seeing John,” Jo said
afterwards.

“No.  They didn’t part on very good terms at Oxford,
and I thought it better to leave that in the past,” I replied.

In June, I was asked to accompany Don Rossi, my
boss, to a Sales Conference in Manchester for Idaho Foods, the parent company
of “Brekkie Brownies”.

I had never been to Manchester before, so that was a
novelty.  Neither had I attended a Sales Conference.  I couldn’t really see
what I was doing there, as I had no part in the scheduled agency presentation,
but Don seemed to think it would be a helpful experience for me, and it was
good to get out of the office for a change.

It was pretty dull.  The morning was spent in
listening to gung ho sales talk, where everyone was exhorted to go out and
exceed their targets, and in the afternoon, Don and our creative director Bill
presented the Marketing and Advertising Strategy for the national launch of the
cereal, and unveiled the launch campaign.  Finally, there was a dinner in the
hotel where we were staying, where a large amount of alcohol was consumed.

I did not find it easy to make small talk to a lot
of strange salesmen, but I did my best, wishing it was not so necessary for
them to feel they had to flirt with me.  As soon as possible after the meal, I
made my excuses, and retired with some relief to my room.  

I watched some TV, and was just getting in to bed,
when there was a knock at the door.

Putting my coat over my nightie, I opened the door a
crack.  Don was standing there, a look of concern on his face. 

“Hi, Eithne.  I just wanted to make sure you were
okay.  You left really early.”

He smiled at me, and shouldered his way inside.  I
stepped back, but only a little, something about his demeanour made me feel
uneasy.

“Yes, fine, I was just tired.  Goodnight, Don.”

“It could be a
very
good night.” 

He reached out and stroked my hair, then moved
swiftly to enfold me in his arms.  I recoiled in dismay.

“Don, please stop this.  I don’t want it, and you’ve
had too much to drink.”

I pushed him away, hard, and he staggered slightly
against the door frame.  His eyes narrowed, and in that instant I felt
electrified, horrified, I read in his gaze exactly what he was intent on doing,
whether or not I was willing.  Somehow, I found the strength to shove him away
again, and I slammed the door and locked it. 

Trembling all over, I sank down on the bed.  How
would I face him in the morning?  And how could I go on working for him at
Marsham and Hunter after this unpleasant episode?  I could see that things
would have to change yet again.

At breakfast the next morning, Don apologised to me
very properly.  He said he had been drinking, he didn’t know what had come over
him. He hoped it would not affect our working together in future.

I accepted the apology, and hastened to change the
subject.  The last thing I wanted was any sort of fuss or recriminations. 
However, I knew what I had seen in his face, and I wasn’t sure I could forget
it.  It only strengthened a resolve which I had been pondering for some time.

Back in London, I called one or two head-hunters,
and told them that I was looking for a job with a new agency.   It was a good
time for the advertising industry, and I was fairly sure I could get another
position without too much hassle.  With any luck, I’d get a salary increase as
well.

At the same time, I was having another life changing
event.  My mother was unexpectedly left a large sum of money by an uncle, and
she and my father thought it would be a good idea to buy a flat in London as a
long term investment.  It would also help me in the shorter term, as I could
live there rent free whilst I was working in the capital.

  After some searching, they bought a two bedroom
flat in a converted warehouse overlooking the Thames at Wapping, a hitherto run
down part of London which was beginning to be redeveloped and gentrified.

I loved it from the start.  The flat had a small
balcony where I could sit and watch the changing tides, and it was wonderful to
feel it was mine.  Jo agreed to share with me, and I thought we would have a
whole new lease of life there.

As I had hoped, I was invited for interview at a
number of agencies, and I eventually accepted a job with a “boutique” agency
with a strong creative reputation called Mackerras Mackay.  I began work there
in September, and within six months, my life changed completely.

There was a whole different feeling to working at
Mackerras Mackay.  For a start, it was much smaller and more intimate than
Marsham and Hunter.  Instead of a board whose members were removed from the
everyday running of the business, there was a hands on approach from the top
people downwards - we were all involved in working to make the agency as
successful as possible.

Rob Mackerras had started the agency five years
before, with a handful of small clients, and had seen the business expand
swiftly under his leadership.  Charlie Mackay, a fellow Scot, was the creative
head, a talented individual with a string of advertising awards to his name.  I
had been interviewed by both men, and found their enthusiasm and intellectual
calibre impressive.  I prayed that they would offer me the job, and for once, I
got what I wanted.

In some ways, I was sad at leaving Marsham and
Hunter, where I had made many friends, but it was exciting to be starting again
with the knowledge that I was not coming in as a raw novice, but as a person
who could hit the ground running (favourite agency phrase.)

My new accounts were Luna Cosmetics, and Adorco, who
made a variety of small electrical goods.

The first few days at Mackerras Mackay were
daunting.  My account director boss, Robin Thompson, was only a few years older
than me, ferociously bright and with a reputation for not suffering fools in
any shape or form.  In the beginning, I was in awe of him.  But after a week or
so, especially when we had been to the pub and out to lunch together, I relaxed
and began to appreciate his sharp intellect.  I realised that as long as I
worked hard, we would get on well.

I also thought that he would not be sleazy enough to
make any passes at me, even though he clearly admired my looks.

“You’ll need to watch out for Owen and Sam in
Creative,” he told me when we were having lunch.  “They like to work their way
through the new arrivals, and I’m sure they’ll be knocking on your door any day
now.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

He gave me an appraising glance.

“Don’t you have a boyfriend, Eithne?  Forgive me for
asking, but I would have thought you’d be in a relationship.”

I grimaced. 

“I’ve had a long, on-off affair with someone I
adored since I was seventeen.  But he works in America now, and it’s all over. 
I’ve not met anyone special since, he’s a hard act to follow.”

“No chance of him coming back and starting again
then?”

“I think it’s unlikely.”

I thought for a moment, and then gave him a potted
version of the article in
Sphere,
and my fury at the invasion of my
privacy.  He was very sympathetic.

“Actually, the fallout from the article wasn’t as
bad as I feared at first,” I said.  “But I still wish it hadn’t happened.  I
was really mad that it ended up winning an award though.”

Robin roared with laughter.

“Yes, I can see that would have been a bit much. 
Never mind, I don’t suppose anyone here reads it, and even if they did, that’s
old news now.”

At the beginning of my third week at Mackerras
Mackay, I was frowning over a Progress report, when Janie, our secretary, came
in with an air of gossip to impart.

“Ian Inglis is back from holiday,” she reported,
eyes large and shiny.   “And the rumour is he’s dumped his girlfriend.  The
ladies will be pleased.”

“Who’s Ian Inglis?” I asked.  I didn’t immediately
recognise the name.

“Who’s Ian Inglis?  Only the most fanciable man in
the whole agency.  He’s our group account director, very good-looking, all the
girls are wild about him.”

“Oh.”

 I wasn’t very interested.  My experience of men who
attracted a lot of female attention wasn’t exactly positive.  On the whole, I
thought they were better avoided.

I turned my thoughts back to the knotty problem of
copy dates for a forthcoming press campaign.

Later that day, I saw a tall man with thick brown
hair, very smartly cut, standing in conversation with another director outside
the board room.  He gave me a swift look as I passed, as if trying to assess
what I was doing there, but I was in a hurry to get to an internal creative
meeting and didn’t return his gaze.

However, two days later, I was walking down the
directors’ part of the corridor, when a deep voice hailed me from one of the
offices. 

“Hi there, new girl.  I don’t think we’ve been
introduced.”

I stopped in my tracks.  The brown haired man was
sitting behind a huge, shiny desk, his office was furnished with a low coffee
table and easy chairs, and the walls were hung with what I assumed to be expensive
- and original - modern art.

He got up, and came round the side of the desk,
extending a hand.

“Ian Inglis - and you are?”

I murmured my name, feeling suddenly rather shy.

“Eithne..... what an unusual name, it suits you.”

He had a very attractive smile, not a devastating
flash like Nick, but engaging and confident.  His skin was tanned after his
recent holiday, and I noticed that he wore an expensive and beautifully
tailored pale grey suit.  He was every inch the quintessential adman.

“Sit down and tell me what you’re doing at Mackerras
Mackay.”

He pointed to one of the easy chairs.  I perched on
the edge, and recited the brief tale of my life in advertising to date, while
he took another seat.

  I was conscious that he was sizing me up as I
spoke, and it made me slightly irritable.  At this stage, I just wanted to
blend in with the rest of the agency until I found my feet.

“Marsham and Hunter - sound enough, but very dull
compared to here,” he pronounced, when I had finished.

“Yes, well, it’s not easy when you start looking for
jobs at university, and you have no knowledge of the commercial world,” I
replied.

He laughed.

“I mean that you’ll find life a lot more interesting
with us.”

He surveyed me with thoughtful grey eyes.  Despite
my attempt at nonchalance, I found myself growing a little pink under his
calculating gaze.  He was very good-looking, and projected a certain self-confident
sexuality.  I began to understand what Janie meant when she said he was
extremely fanciable, I imagined that there was a long queue of ladies hoping
for his attention.

“Well, Eithne - I’d like to talk to you for longer,
but I have a meeting.”  He glanced at his watch.  “Are you free for a drink
after work tonight?”

This took me aback, but I couldn’t think of a reason
not to go.

“Er - yes, I suppose so.”

“Good. Shall we say six o’clock?”

I got up, smoothing my skirt.

“Will I meet you in the pub, then?”

He laughed, as if I had suggested something faintly
outrageous.

“No. I’ll see you in Reception.”

“Your Ian Inglis has asked me for a drink,” I said
to Janie later.  She raised her eyebrows.

“God, you lucky thing.  Wait till I tell the others.”

It was clearly an honour to be singled out, and I
felt I should try to be more grateful.

At ten to six that evening, I stood in the Ladies,
checking my make-up and brushing my hair, which, luckily, was clean.  I was
glad I was wearing a new dress.  Now I did not have to pay rent, I had a little
more money to spend on clothes, and I had treated myself to some fashionable
outfits when I changed job.

I strolled into Reception in what I hoped was a
woman-of-the-world way at about two minutes to six.  Ian Inglis was already
there, laughing and chatting with the glamorous afternoon receptionist, Claire,
who was just going off duty. The receptionists were very important to the
agency image, and were selected entirely for their stunning looks and ability
to charm waiting clients.

 “Ah, Eithne - come along.”

He shepherded me through the door, and I noticed
Claire’s surprised face.  Then he took my arm, and walked with me the few paces
to the Edgware Road.

“Taxi!”

He was the sort of person who never, ever found it
difficult to get a cab, I thought to myself, as we climbed inside.

“Savoy Hotel,” he told the driver, and then sat back
and regarded me with a little smile.

For a moment, I remembered Don Rossi and the hotel
in Manchester, and had to repress a shudder.  Then I told myself not to be
silly, there was no way that unsavoury episode would be repeated here.

As the taxi chugged its way through the dusky
streets, he asked me about myself - where I lived, which university I had been
to.  If anything, he reminded me of my dear friend John from Oxford days, he
had a similar air of maturity and self-possession.

Arriving at the Savoy, we walked in to the bar,
where we sat in an alcove, and he ordered champagne.

 I had to admit that he was a very smooth operator -
I had grown up with one in Nick, so I knew the signs.  As I sipped the sparkly
bubbles, I asked him about his own background, and how he had begun to work in
advertising.

“Very much the same way that you did.”

Ian told me that his family had been keen for him to
become a lawyer, but he wanted something more creative and exciting.  He had
started life as a trainee in a top ten agency, and rapidly worked his way up to
the position he now held at Mackerras Mackay.

“It’s a very good life for those who make it,” he
said, smiling that confident smile.  His grey eyes rested on my face.

“I’ve been trying to work out how old you are,” he
confessed.  “You can only be early twenties, but you seem older.  Oh, I don’t
mean that you
look
older,” he added hastily, seeing my face grow blank,
“But you have an air of being grown up that many people your age seem to lack.”

“I’ll be twenty four next spring,” I said.  “And I
suppose you’re in your thirties?”

“I’m thirty two.”

He refilled my glass.  “And is there anyone special
in your life, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I don’t mind, and there isn’t.” 

I swirled the golden liquid around in my glass,
wondering how much I should reveal.

“I did have a very long affair with someone at
Oxford, but he left to work in America after   we graduated, and we couldn’t
make it work long distance - so -” 

I felt disinclined to finish the tale.

“Very fortunate for the rest of us,” he murmured.

I debated as to whether I should ask him about his
own life, but in view of what Janie had said about dumped girlfriends, I
decided it was not appropriate.

We chatted about more trivial matters.  He was
interested to hear about the flat in Wapping, although he lived in Chelsea, a
far more glamorous location. I was enjoying the sophisticated surroundings of
the hotel, and found him very easy to talk to once I had relaxed.  Perhaps the
champagne helped.  After an hour, he looked across at a clock on the wall.

“I would have loved to take you to dinner, but alas,
I’m due to meet a potential client,” he said apologetically.  “Maybe we can
have dinner on another occasion?”