Name & Address Withheld (17 page)

Rachel was indulging in a quick game of Solitaire on her computer when the whirlwind of energy and creativity that was making her life a whole lot more bearable at the moment burst through the door.

‘Morning, Rach.’

Will bounced on to her sofa and slurped at the froth on his cappuccino while waiting for a suitable break in her concentration. Fortunately his most recent attempt to give up smoking still seemed to be in full swing, and Rachel was spared a lingering blue cloud of smoke in her office. Through the strategic positioning of office furniture Rachel had ensured that no one else could see her computer screen, so Will was currently unaware that the delay was due to a pressing tactical decision: should she move the King of Spades to the presently empty column or deal more cards and see whether the King of Hearts or King of Diamonds might still be in the pack? What she really needed was a red king.

‘I’ll be with you in a second.’

She’d perfected pretending to be engrossed in her work when people came into her office and had stopped feeling
guilty about what some people might consider to be wasting time. Advertising might never have returned to the excesses of the eighties but it was still keeping its end up, and she didn’t have to be sitting at her desk typing all day to be working hard. While the legwork was done by her talented and incredibly enthusiastic team, Rachel had time to do the whole lunch, drinking club, award ceremony bit. She’d found she could troubleshoot problems just as effectively whether she was in her office or on Bond Street.

Will was becoming increasingly impatient and more than a little fidgety—not unrelated to the fact that he didn’t have a cigarette in his hand to play with. Once he’d scooped the residual froth out of his paper cup and eaten it from his finger he watched Rachel. He felt slightly guilty about distracting her, but he did have some exciting news.

‘Sorry to disturb you…’

‘No, no, it’s fine. That’s what I’m here for. Go ahead.’

She finally looked up. Will was beaming.

‘We’ve got her…’

Rachel wondered whether there was another quick move she could do. The Ace of Clubs must be under there somewhere. She suddenly realised that Will had already stopped talking. Damn. She minimised the game on her screen, stood up assertively and walked over to the couch to join him.

‘Sorry—you were saying?’

‘We’ve got her. She’s said yes to being filmed and—wait for this—she’s even given us permission to use the archive which, even if I say so myself, is bloody miraculous but makes our lives a hell of a lot easier.’

‘Her…?’

Rachel struggled with her short-term memory. In the absence of any recollection she feigned coolness. She didn’t want to portray a level of excitement that outweighed the level of his achievement and therefore make herself look stupid.

Will wished that Rachel would just swallow her pride and give him the credit he deserved. Communicating positive feedback wasn’t her forte. A couple of weeks ago she’d made him feel like young creative of the moment, yet today—nothing.
Not a glimmer of recognition. She was just so up and down these days. Women. Exasperation and frustration crept into his tone.

‘Indigo Jackson. As per our meeting last week. It was touch and go. Her agent wasn’t sure at first, but a bit of intensive schmoozing later and she’s up for it.’

Will was annoyed. What was the point in him putting his life on hold night after night if Rachel wasn’t even paying attention?

Rachel tried and failed to put a human interest story to the name. Who the hell was Indigo Jackson? She sounded like something off a rock chick’s paint colour chart. But Will was looking a little pissed off at her less than euphoric reaction to his morning’s work. She’d just have to trust him on this one. In Will’s eyes Indigo was obviously worth a champagne toast at the very least.

‘Great. Fab to have her on board.’

Great? Will thought it was more like fucking amazing. He had just secured an exclusive with the widow of a no longer living legend who had killed himself in search of the perfect high, so depriving future generations of his lyrics and innovative melodies, to talk about the pressures her husband had felt and his regrets at getting in too deep, and all Rachel could manage was ‘great’. It was irritating him enough to instantly make his nicotine patch redundant. If ever there was a time he had wanted a cigarette or three it was now.

He wondered what would happen if he got Elvis out of his coffin and on board to talk about his final years… A ‘well done’, perhaps? A ‘good work Will’? He knew the client and the senior partners at the agency were thrilled with the way things were shaping up. Rachel was soaking up all the compliments at the moment, and he knew she could gush with the best of them when she wanted to. What did he have to do to impress her?

‘Really, Will, that’s great. If you could e-mail me a few cuts and a biog on her when you get back to your desk that would be perfect. Now, who else are we still waiting on?’

Rachel knew that it was thanks to Will, his persuasive charm
and his tireless ambition, that they now had several generations of football players, a well-known TV actress and a handful of ageing rock stars signed up to talk about how and why they had beaten their habits, and now this Indigo woman. If Will said she was good news then she was sure she was. Erudite and gifted, he’d cut some powerful montages of archive footage and present-day soundbites to some perfectly chosen and memorable phrases of music, and he’d ensured that she now had the appropriate CDs in her collection and the odd factoid at her fingertips to wow clients with in meetings.

Last week he’d discovered that the guy who’d been tipped as the next baron of the information superhighway, and a sure entry into next year’s Rich List, had marvellously—from their point of view—lost five years of his life to heroin addiction but against all the odds had fought back from rock bottom. Human interest tales of rags to riches never failed to sell, and Rachel was in the process of signing him an exclusive with a Sunday tabloid to tie in with the launch of the campaign.

‘All we need now is a supermodel and a member of the Royal family—or, more realistically, someone who has shagged a member of the Royal family—who’s dabbled in drugs in the past and I think our wish list will be complete.’

Will was encouraged to see Rachel at least had the decency to smile as she asked the impossible. He knew his brief only too well, but she wasn’t the one on the phone talking to agents and sending faxes all day. The fashion world was a fiercely closed shop, and trying to get any of their own to dish the dirt on the more sordid aspects of the industry was proving impossible. There were plenty of rumours but nothing concrete to go on. Sure, they’d rooted out a disaffected few, but they just sounded bitter and you suspected that, had their careers gone better, they wouldn’t have been remotely interested in taking part. Besides, as far as Rachel was concerned it was either an A-list name or no name at all.

‘I know it’s tough. But a model would be great. An exposé on the so-called glamour. Everyone knows it’s going on.’

‘“Everyone” might do, but no one’s telling me anything.’
Will tried not to lose his cool. Rachel sensed she was dancing close to the edge.

‘I appreciate the effort. I know it’s not easy out there—just keep going. You never know who might say yes if you don’t try…’

But, Will thought to himself, I know who’s going to say no.

‘I’m getting a really good vibe about this. You’re doing great. You should be very proud of yourself.’

‘Thanks.’ Now she’d paid him a direct compliment Will had no idea what to do with it. ‘I’d better get back to the phone. I’ll e-mail you that biog later this afternoon.’

‘No problem.’ Rachel couldn’t remember exactly which biog, but she was confident she’d learn lots from Will’s impeccable research when it did arrive. Violet, Indigo—whoever she was—would certainly seem a lot more familiar when she’d read a potted history. Sometimes she missed her days at Will’s level. Frenetic, sparky, all-consuming and totally invigorating. So what if the pay had never even been enough to cover alcohol, let alone anything less frivolous? There’d been genuine camaraderie lower down the pecking order. The higher you got, the more the pecking became stabbing, and you became more and more paranoid as you had to watch your back as your increased salary became harder to justify when things weren’t going award-winningly.

Rachel owed Will big time. His Midas touch meant they’d be more than fulfilling their brief and reaching out to the age group who were most influenced by the ‘glamour’ of the drug culture without patronising them. Maybe it was time for a team night out to boost morale.

Rachel wanted this to be a great campaign on every level. Watch out Richard Branson, Ms Nice Guy, queen of motivational leadership, was just waiting in the wings—and she didn’t see why she had to wear a sweatshirt or grow a beard in order to be approachable. With this success she would be unstoppable—plus, with a bit of time and the right preparation, she was sure Mr Rachel wouldn’t be able to resist her. It was going to be a fantastic year; she could feel it.

Rachel celebrated Will’s departure from her office by fin
ishing off her game of Solitaire with unprecedented speed and focus. As she watched the victory cascade of cards through to the end she made an executive decision to pop out. Her head swimming with profile articles and acceptance speeches, she knew that an hour in the shops would work the playfulness out of her system—plus there was already a whole ‘next-season’ thing happening in the retail world. Her new positivity about life was about to be reflected in her wardrobe, and maybe she’d even pick up a little something for Will while she was out. They had Indigo Jackson. See, she had been listening. Rachel found herself smiling. Will made her feel good about herself. He could help her all the way to the top.

chapter 14

I
t might have been less than twenty-four hours since they’d spoken, but Lizzie had eaten lasagne two meals running, polished off an entire packet of Angel Delight and done more staring into space than Patrick Moore. From the moment she’d opened her eyes early on Wednesday morning frustratingly she’d been wide awake, and so, at a time of day usually reserved for families getting up to go on cheap package holidays, she’d washed, dressed and headed to her study.

She hadn’t logged on since Saturday, and decided to make a start by going through her inbox in an attempt to break herself in gently. Reading messages didn’t involve mental agility and proved a useful way of tricking her mind into concentrating on something other than the time, the phone, and the possible outcomes of her currently disastrous personal life. There were twenty-three new items for her to read. Once she’d deleted the junk messages trying to sell her tights, flights and promising her lots of luck and money if only she forwarded it to three girls, six boys and a partridge in a pear tree, she’d whittled it down to fifteen.

Three were from the woman formerly known as Name and
Address Withheld. She and Rachel might have struck up a slightly unorthodox correspondence, but Lizzie found their almost daily asides a useful stress-reliever. It wasn’t about professional advice any more, it was—for want of a better word—a friendship. If you could be friends with someone you had never met or spoken to out loud. It was like passing notes. Quick time-outs from their lives. And, in terms of ambitious women trying to make the system work for them, they had a lot in common. The last one had been sent at 22:12 yesterday evening. She really did work late.

Everything OK? You’re probably just snowed under—believe me I know the feeling—but I’ve had nothing from you in three days, and now it’s February—don’t understand where this year is going. Ever hectic at this end. Before you nag, rang Eurostar—well, got secretary to ring Eurostar—yesterday, which is a step in right direction. So get thinking of those romantic restaurants.

R x

Lizzie hit ‘reply’. It was great having a pen-friend who only knew what you’d selected to tell her about yourself. Faceless sounding boards were the way forward. A bit like confession, only not quite as spiritual. Perfect for your average non-practising, half-Jewish agnostic.

R

Worry not. I’m still here. Feeling slightly sorry for myself as my newish relationship (had been looking quite positive) seems to have taken a turn for the worse. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but failed to see this one coming. Still, enough of the whingeing—we agony aunts have to develop thick skins and stress-free personal lives and carry on regardless. Hope your cam
paign is coming together well. Can’t wait to see the ads. When do they start?

L x

Lizzie steered clear of the specifics of her personal crisis. This was work—well, sort of—and she was paid to solve problems, not share them. She pressed ‘send’. It was still only 06:36.

By nine, Lizzie had answered all her e-mailed letters, printed off hard copies for the files and was just starting on a bit of snail mail whilst tossing a few column ideas around at the back of her mind. Despite herself she was feeling a bit chirpier. Her concern was becoming increasingly detached from her reality, as if she was hoping that the having a wife revelation might have been a terrible nightmare brought on by a late-night cheeseburger before bed.

09:17. A message pinged into her inbox. Note-passing was officially underway.

Sorry to hear you’ve had shitty couple of days, but good to know that you’re not immune to the odd personal crisis. Makes the rest of us feel less like failures. Look at it as research. Now you know what the rest of us go through. Fucking impressed (and frankly a bit intimidated) to see you awake and working at 06:36. What’s the secret? I’m still waiting for my second coffee to kick in.

Work hectic. No danger of a completed ad hitting the cinema, a billboard or the TV for quite a while yet. Own personal crisis still unfolding. No need for you to put your professional hat on, but getting it out of my system always helps. Seem to be growing further apart by the hour. Becoming convinced he’s having an affair. I know there are some people out there who spend their whole marriages forgiving and forgetting, but I couldn’t deal with that. An open marriage to me is
about as attractive an option as base jumping. So I’m not quite the modern woman that I think I am, but there’s plenty of personal baggage that goes with it and you don’t need more than a couple of spare brain cells to work out it’s all related.