Hotel Pastis (15 page)

“I’m touched, Bob. What about the psychology?”

“Right. This is important. From what I hear, Parker likes to think of himself as a simple guy, nothing fancy.
Plus the fact that he’s not only American, he’s Texan. Are you hearing what I’m saying?”

“What do you mean?”

Ziegler sighed. “I’ll spell it out for you. My reading of him is that he thinks most people in advertising are goddamn ballet dancers in disguise, and that Europe is a little village full of flakes.”

Simon had a vision of Ziegler in tights and coughed on a mouthful of smoke.

Ziegler shook his head. “Well, they’re your fucking lungs. Anyway, you get the idea. No smartass European crap about different cultural values, okay? The line to take is the McDonald’s line—American quality, American value, American efficiency, American …” Ziegler searched for another word that would do justice to this catalogue of virtues.

“Money?”

“You bet your grandmother’s ass, money. Do you realise what this will do to billings? To the share price? To your own personal net worth? You could buy fucking Havana and smoke yourself to death.”

“You know, Bob? There’s a sweet, generous side to your personality sometimes.”

Ziegler looked at Simon through narrow, unfriendly eyes. “Don’t kid around, Simon. I’ve been working on this one for months, and I don’t want it screwed up by any wisecracks from you. Save your jokes for next time you have tea with the Queen.”

Ziegler strutted back and forth as he delivered his opinions on the conduct of the meeting, his bulky, pugnacious figure silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling plate glass and the view down Sixth Avenue to lower Manhattan. Simon looked at his watch. It was seven p.m. English time, and he felt like a drink. If he’d been in London, he’d be getting ready to have dinner with
Nicole, somewhere quiet, preferably somewhere like the flat where he could take her clothes off afterwards. He shook himself and tried to pay attention as Ziegler came to the end of his performance.

“… So just remember that, okay? We give him one big fucking hammer of a campaign worldwide—no chintzy little special-market shit. The world is hungry, and we’re going to feed it.” Ziegler stopped pacing and jabbed a finger at Simon. “Hey, that’s not a bad line, you know? Who needs fucking copywriters?”

Simon had declined the microwaved, gourmet-in-the-sky meal on the plane, and hadn’t eaten all day. “It worked on me, Bob. I’m starving.”

Ziegler cocked his head suspiciously. He was never quite sure when Simon was serious and when he was making one of those snotty remarks that passed for the British sense of humour. In the interests of corporate harmony, he gave Simon the benefit of the doubt. “Sure. We’ll order in. Parker could be early.”

But he was punctual to the minute, shadowed by a trio of large, smiling executives with booming voices and force-ten handshakes. After Ziegler’s remarks about Parker, Simon had been half expecting bandy legs and a Stetson, and was a little surprised to see a dapper man in what looked very much like a Savile Row suit. A loosely knotted bow tie; a lean face, dark and wrinkled from the sun; heavy-lidded eyes. Simon thought of a lizard.

“Hampton Parker. Good to meet you, Mr. Shaw.” He had a dry, smoker’s voice softened by the pleasant trace of a drawl. “They tell me you came over from London for our little meeting.”

“That’s right. Flew in this morning.”

They sat down, and Simon noticed that Texans really did wear boots with their business suits.

“Tell me, Mr. Shaw,” said Parker, “do you get to see
much opera over there? That’s one thing I miss back home.”

Simon saw Ziegler’s smile become a little more fixed. “Not as much as I’d like. I try to go whenever Pavarotti’s singing at Covent Garden.”

Parker nodded. “Hell of a voice.” He took out a pack of unfiltered Chesterfields and leant back. “All right, boys. Let’s get to it.”

The “little meeting,” as Parker had called it, turned into an inquisition that stretched over two more days before the Texans were satisfied. Friday morning found the two agency men sitting over coffee speculating on their chances, Ziegler’s cockiness tempered by fatigue, and Simon, adrenaline gone, anxious to get back to London. The faxes he’d been getting from the office had been the usual litany of problems.

One of the secretaries put her head round the door. “Package for you, Mr. Ziegler.”

A messenger appeared pushing a trolley, his head barely visible behind an enormous carton, which he lowered carefully to the floor.

Ziegler called out to his secretary. “Get that out of here, will you? This isn’t a goddamn warehouse. Jesus.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ziegler. It was for you personally.”

“Shit.” Ziegler got up and hacked at the heavy tape sealing the carton with a letter opener before ripping the top open. The carton was packed with cans and tubes and boxes, all with the red star Parker Foods logo. Tucked in the middle was an envelope. Ziegler opened it and took out a single sheet of paper.

“Son of a bitch!” He slapped the paper on the table in front of Simon, punched him on the arm, and grinned. “Son of a bitch!”

Simon looked at the letter. It was headed: “From
the Office of the President.” It read: “Congratulations. Hampton Parker.”

By the time Simon looked up, Ziegler was on the phone to public relations on the floor below, telling them to arrange a press conference, all signs of tiredness gone, arrogant, swollen with triumph. There was a time when Simon would have felt that same charge of excitement instead of a weary sense of satisfaction mixed with anticlimax. In the end, it was just another hand to hold, even if the hand was stuffed with money.

Ziegler banged the phone down and looked at Simon across the polished acreage of his desk. “Three fucking hundred fucking million. Minimum!”

“That should keep the wolf from the door.” Simon stretched. “Congratulations, Bob.”

“There’ll be some dead bodies thrown out of the windows over at M&R when this gets out.” Ziegler seemed to relish the thought of the massive and instant redundancies that inevitably followed the loss of a giant account. “They’ll be vulnerable. Better take a look at their list and see what else we can knock off.” He made a note on his pad.

Simon stood up. “Well, I can’t hang around having fun with you all day. I’m going to see if I can get on the 1:45.”

Ziegler was delighted, as Simon knew he would be. He’d have the press conference all to himself. “Sure. I’ll talk to you in a couple of days.” Simon hadn’t reached the door before Ziegler was on the phone again. “News? You bet I have fucking news. Listen to this.…”

Simon was the last to board British Airways 004. The other passengers looked up as he made his way down
the aisle, and then, seeing just another tired man in a dark suit and not a celebrity or even an ex-President, went back to the contents of their briefcases. Concorde and its cargo of business gypsies took off and pointed its snout across the Atlantic.

Simon made a halfhearted attempt to concentrate on his bundle of faxes and then gave up in favour of a glass of champagne. He stared out at the stratosphere. It had been an incredibly successful trip, one of the biggest account gains for many years. It would keep the City sweet, keep the share price up, keep him rich. He yawned and accepted another glass of champagne from the stewardess. He thought of the empty, impersonal flat in Rutland Gate. He thought of working with Ziegler for the next few years until one of them got rid of the other. He thought of the problems waiting for him in London, and he thought about the business of advertising.

For years, he had been happy to defend his occupation in the face of condescending comments from his contemporaries—acquaintances in banking or law or publishing or journalism—who wondered, with superior smiles, how he could possibly be interested in making commercials for lavatory paper or beer. Their barely concealed resentment used to surprise him. An “ad man,” they called him, always with a patronising curl of the lip. The curl disappeared, of course, when they wanted favours like Centre Court tickets.

Well, to hell with them. They were irritating, but unimportant, and Simon no longer cared what they thought. More and more, he no longer cared about the business either, not enough to put up with the squabbles in the office or the tedium of the meetings or, most of all, the incessant stroking of clients. From the chairman to the most lowly brand manager, they wanted constant
attention, reassurance, endless discussions, frequent meals—the whole wearisome ritual dance that was officially described as “servicing” an account. And it was never, ever over.

Simon dozed. When he woke, the sky was black, the plane angling down on its landing approach. The pilot’s professionally cheerful voice informed passengers that it was raining in London.

It was nearly eleven by the time Simon cleared customs, and the arrivals lounge had been taken over by cleaners, moving with the deliberate slowness that characterises workers on overtime.

A tall figure in a black hat and a long black raincoat was watching the passengers as they came out, and walked briskly towards Simon.

“Welcome to Heathrow, dear. Isn’t it glamorous at this time of night?”

Simon laughed. “I didn’t recognise you in the hat, Ern. How are you?”

“Breasting the waves like a dolphin at play. You’ll see when we get outside. The monsoon season has started.”

As Ernest drove the big Mercedes through the downpour towards central London, he gave Simon his personal summary—the result of daily visits to Liz’s office—of the events that had taken place in the agency over the past few days. Jordan and the creative director, David Fry, weren’t speaking to each other. The Rubber Barons still hadn’t made a decision about their account. There had been a piece in the trade press about a rumoured breakaway, and Liz had started going out with an undesirable young man who wore an earring and drove racing cars. Apart from that, there were several flats to see when Simon had a moment, and a beef stew waiting in the kitchen at Rutland Gate that just needed heating up.

“And how was New York? Is our Mr. Ziegler as modest and charming as ever?”

“We got the business,” Simon said, “so he’s very pleased with himself. You’ll be fascinated to hear that he’s started wearing red braces.”

Ernest sniffed disdainfully. He and Ziegler had loathed each other at first sight. “A belt as well, I hope. The thought of how that man would look if he lost his trousers is enough to shrivel the imagination.”

The car turned into Rutland Gate and pulled up outside the flat.

“Home sweet home,” said Ernest. “Such as it is. Never mind. The place I saw in Wilton Crescent has distinct possibilities.”

They said goodnight, and Simon let himself in. He dropped his bags in the hall and went through to the sitting room, wrinkling his nose at the stuffy, sterile smell of central heating and warm carpet. A hotel room smell. He went through a pile of compact discs until he came to Erroll Garner’s
Concert by the Sea
, poured a glass of whisky, lit a cigar, putting off the moment of going through the folder of papers that Liz had left for him on the table. He sometimes felt that he’d be buried one day beneath a mountain of memos, contact reports, strategy documents, financial projections, staff assessments, the great mass of corporate chewing gum. He sighed and opened the folder.

There was a clipping from
Campaign
, the advertising magazine. It was an item in the “Hotline” section, the magazine’s repository for the least plausible rumours of the week, and it hinted that a group of key executives planned to leave the agency, taking “significant” accounts with them. No names were mentioned, and there was no substance to the report. It ended with the old standby, calculated to add credibility to the rumour,
that “top management were unavailable for comment.” Simon wondered how hard the reporter had tried to reach top management.

He worked his way through the papers, scribbling notes to remind him of the duty calls he’d have to make in the morning, and then came to an envelope that appeared to have been stamped on by an agitated spider with inky feet. He recognised the scrawl and winced. Uncle William was obviously broke again.

Simon shook his head and sighed. Uncle William, artist and elderly philanderer, came into Simon’s life infrequently and expensively, pinching bottoms and bouncing cheques with the vigour of a man half his age, a walking embarrassment. With some difficulty, Simon had managed to keep him away from London, fending him off with bribes. Even Ernest had never met him, and Caroline had never known of his existence. Any feelings of guilt that Simon experienced were cancelled out by thinking of the social carnage that would ensue if ever Uncle William were allowed to escape from Norfolk. Simon looked in his attaché case for the chequebook.

Another envelope, this time in neat, unfamiliar handwriting.

Simon looked at his watch. One in London, two in France. He’d call first thing in the morning. That, at least, would be a pleasant conversation before dealing with the office. He got up and gave himself another tot of whisky.

Bisous
. He liked that. Kisses. He looked through the rest of the papers—a letter from Caroline’s lawyers, a status report on new business prospects, a request for his presence at a client’s think tank on increasing the market for frozen chicken. Now there was a challenge to stir the imagination. He yawned and went to bed.

S
imon’s conversation with Nicole had been brief and irresistible. She had refused to answer his questions about her idea. It’s something you must see, she’d said. Why don’t you come down? Through the fog of early morning and jet lag, he’d suddenly realised that it was Saturday, and two hours later he was in a taxi on the way to Heathrow.