important, but certainly worth considering are the young non-account holders, the upwardly mobile C2s, who have to be encouraged—or enticed—to open a bank account. Like the small businesses their numbers are incredibly high and well worth bringing in. Catch ‘em while they’re young is the motto of all the banks, because they rarely change banks during their lifetimes.”
“So we’re seen as more cutting edge than British Allied’s present agency? Is that why they want us to pitch?” Oliver was jigging a foot on the carpet, a habit of his when his energy was running high.
“Precisely,” Sydney replied. “But naturally, there will be other agencies pitching, including their present one, which has to be given a chance. I’ve learned from Geoff, though, that we’re the only hot shop; all the others are good and well established, but don’t have our reputation for high-concept campaigns. I think, provided we come up with the right pitch, if we hinted that we could possibly be associated with another much larger agency in the near future, it might be to our advantage. Of course, if we did win it, it would be the biggest single account we’d held financially. The advertising budget would be phenomenal.”
“Are you saying both deals go hand-in-hand?” I asked, frowning.
“Not at all. But a merger would help in regard to back-up. It’s all very well having wonderfully innovative ideas, but if we can’t service the account fully, then what’s the point? The bank will be all too aware of our limitations as much as I know they’ll like our ideas.”
I turned to Oliver. “What do you think?”
He grinned, and his foot was still tapping. “I say let’s take it to the max. Let’s burn the blacktop, go for both.”
He spoke in precise, clipped tones, an “elitist” accent he’d never even tried to modify for street-cred purposes; estuary-speak had become the norm in our game, but he was having none of it. I liked him for that, even though he had an irritating penchant for jargoneze. He never tried to hide his wealthy, upper-class background and, with his shortish brown-almost-auburn hair, loose strands of which hung over his forehead, and military-straight back, intelligent brown eyes, home-counties accent, he would never have succeeded in doing so anyway. Even though his clothes were casual, they had a sharp neatness to them, a kind of preciseness that matched his clipped voice.
“I think we’ve a good chance of winning the account,” he went on, “particularly if they’re tired of the old staid bank advertising they’ve become used to and are looking for something fresher and more original.”
“And the takeover?”
“Merger,” Sydney persisted.
Oliver shrugged. “Whatever. It might be an extremely beneficial move.”
“You’d give up everything we’ve worked for?” I was beginning to simmer.
“It wouldn’t necessarily mean that, chum. Try seeing it from the north.”
I hated it when he called me chum, especially when it was coupled with the jargon.
“Sydney and I already more or less agreed it would be a smart way for us to expand.”
Ah, so Sydney and Oliver had already discussed the matter without me.
“Beside which,” Oliver put in, resting his elbows on the cushioned arms of his leather swivel chair and making a steeple under his chin with his fingers, “we three would each receive quite a large sum for the company.”
“That sounds like a buyout to me,” I said.
“Not at all. Financial remuneration for the partners would be merely part of the deal…”
There was a light tap on the door and it opened a little. Lynda, our receptionist/switchboard girl, poked her head through the gap. She looked directly at me.
“Phone call for you, Jim. Your wife.”
“Did you tell her I was in a meeting?”
“She said you’re always in a meeting.”
I couldn’t argue with that: over the last couple of years, my whole life seemed to revolve around meetings, which was frustrating for someone who wanted to work only on the drawing board. I knew Oliver felt the same as far as copywriting was concerned, but somehow he was better than me on such occasions, especially where clients were concerned. Ollie was also terrific at presentations and his social skills were excellent, whereas I tended to be too stiff and was hopeless at cosying up to the clients, particularly those I didn’t like.
“Ah, tell her I’ll ring back in a couple of minutes, will you?”
Lynda smiled and retreated, quietly drawing the door closed after her.
Ollie was looking at his wristwatch. “Look, Jim, I’ve got something on tonight so I have to get away,” he said, his foot stopping its tattoo on the carpet.
I breathed a loud sigh. “Okay with me,” I said. “But I still think we should take things one step at a time.”
“You think we should pitch though?” Sydney leaned forward over his desk again.
“You two would outvote me anyway, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh no, Jim,” said Oliver, standing up and brushing an imaginary crease from the knee of his trousers. “Also, I want to think on bedding down with Blake & Turnbrow myself. Let’s touch base again tomorrow morning when we’re fresher. I have to admit, though, right now I’m inclined to push the envelope. We could all benefit from a paradigm shift.”
I assumed Sydney understood the lingo; I did, just about.
“If we’re going for the new account we have to start work right away.” Despite the warning, there was no impatience in Sydney’s manner, nor in his grey eyes. There was only his usual impassiveness.
“We wouldn’t start on it tonight anyway,” said Oliver to Sydney. “Let’s sleep on it, okay?”
Sydney nodded and I got to my feet, still wondering if I’d been left out of the loop somewhere along the way. Ollie hadn’t seemed very surprised by either of the two propositions, nor by the possible linking between them. I followed my copywriter out of Sydney’s office back to the one we shared as the agency’s creative directors, Oliver switching on the light as we entered.
Moving behind my desk and picking up a long steel cutting rule that rested there, slapping the flat side against my open palm, a habit of mine when I was tense, I began to say, “We oughta talk…”
“Ring Andrea first, Jim,” he interrupted. “It might be something urgent.”
Reluctantly, I placed the heavy rule back on the desk and picked up my phone, pressing 9 for an outside line. We needed to discuss things, Ollie and I. I dialled my home number.
“Hello, please?”
It was Prim’s breathy little voice.
“Hey, squirt, it’s Daddy.”
“Daddy! Are you coming home now?”
I smiled as I thought of her standing in the sitting room, phone clutched in both hands, her curly hair kept away from her face with an Alice-band. Lush brown hair like her mother’s, a few shades lighter though, with a reddish hue when the sun lightened it; tawny brown eyes full of innocence and fun.
“Soon, Prim,” I told her.
“You got to, Daddy. You’re looking after me tonight. Don’t you ‘member?”
Uh-oh. Sure I remembered. Andrea was meeting two of her girlfriends this evening for a quietish girlie night out and I was the appointed childminder.
“Did you think I’d forgotten? Anything special you want to do?”
“Lots and lots. And cards.”
Seven years old and I’d already taught her how to gamble. Taught her to cheat a little too.
“No DVDs you want to watch?” I needed some thinking time tonight.
“Just games, please.”
I laughed. “Okay.” Plenty of time to think once I’d put her to bed. “Now run and get Mummy for me, will you?”
“Love you!”
She was gone and I pictured her running to the kitchen—she was of an age when kids are always in a hurry, rushing from one interest to the next. A snapshot view of her came to mind, a holiday photo, the sun directly behind her so that the curls around her face were orangey red, a halo of fire, her features softened even more because they were in light shadow, her brown eyes deepened so that they were like Andrea’s. I wanted to eat her.
“Jim?”
