urchin-style, the sides flicked away from her face). I’d learned that she was single, had no current man in her life, lived in a tiny flat near Dolphin Square, Pimlico, and I was just priming myself to make a move on her. It wouldn’t usually have taken me so long to ask her out—it certainly didn’t with other girls—but Andrea was an exception. Why? Because I’d already half-fallen in love with her and I was terrified of rejection. Funny how easily you can lose your confidence when something matters too much. Of course, Oliver’s charm antenna was at full alert the moment he spotted her talking to our art buyer in the corridor of our old agency. He asked me who she was and, stupidly, I hauled her in to our office to make introductions.
I groaned inwardly as soon as I saw his eyes light up and he held onto her hand for much too long. I knew I was whipped before I’d even started, but I bore no grudges. It served me right for being so boneless.
Soon she had moved in with him. So soon, in fact, that I was stunned. I hadn’t quite given up hope for myself as far as she was concerned, because there still seemed to be something going on whenever she and I made eye contact. Andrea was no flirt, but she made me feel special when we spoke together or arranged times and dates for photography. She could have rely been doing her job, massaging the ego of an important client, but I didn’t think so; there was something incredibly sincere about her, and something very, very sweet.
Still, I had to accept the situation and I couldn’t be mad at Oliver for having the boldness to jump in first whereas, like some lame fool, I’d hung back, too cautious to make my move.
Ollie and Andrea. They made a hot couple. I couldn’t begrudge him, even though secretly I continued to pine for her. Get over it, I eventually told myself. Oliver was more her league. Besides, there were plenty of other fish, so go fish. And I did for a while, but I never quite got over my original crush. It was when Oliver and I were in the first exciting but anxious throes of setting up our own agency that he suggested bringing Andrea on board as an account manager and assistant to Sydney.
It took me all of two seconds to agree: from experience I knew she was more than just competent and I had no doubt she’d be an asset to our fledgling company; she might have been soft in the looks and attitude department, but believe me, she was shrewd as far as business was concerned and had always driven a hard bargain for the photographers she represented (and I was no pushover—I always treated my clients’ money as if it were my own).
So, initially on a lowish salary but with the promise it would grow as quickly as the agency itself—we were all working on spec those days—she joined gtp. And took to it like a duck might take to Evian, charming both prospective and existing clients, selling our talents as passionately as she’d previously sold the skills of her photographers.
Our team expanded as the client list grew and all seemed well but, like I said, maybe we worked and played a little too hard, because eventually the cracks began to appear. And most of the problems were to do with Oliver.
We’d both stretched ourselves to the limit, Ollie and I, but the relentless grind took a greater toll on my friend and colleague than me. After a while he seemed to be running on empty, becoming irritable with staff members (especially Sydney, who did his best to keen us all sane), going to the edge with clients (most of whom were good and intelligent people—although even those who were not had to be treated with a modicum of respect). Sydney Presswell came into his own on such occasions, smoothing things over, turning any add observations Oliver might have made into nothing more than humorous banter.
Nevertheless, the work was always good; Oliver never let the agency down on that score. He usually managed to pull some little creative gem out of the bag at the last possible moment, when timing was crucial and we had to present an ad or campaign that the client could run with. And if he didn’t, then I did. We were still a great team, but I was beginning to grow anxious about my buddy. Couple of times I took Oliver aside and told him of my concerns—you’re cracking, pal, you’ve got to ease up on the playtime, grab a break, somewhere warm and sunny, pay Andrea a bit more attention maybe… He just shrugged it off, gave me the Ollie-grin that said everything was cool. He wasn’t sleeping too well lately, he would indeed cut out extracurricular activities, and anyway, mood swings were part of his nature. Often on these occasions, he would also remind me that it was his creative input that had won us many clients, a fact I couldn’t deny. Sure, I told him, but we’re more worried about your health nowadays, not your input. You don’t look good, sport, and those mood swings are affecting Andrea in a bad way.
Shouldn’t have said it. Oliver exploded, told me to keep my nose out of his personal business, then stormed out of the office we shared. We didn’t see him for the rest of the day and I regretted having spoken out. Still, it seemed to do the trick—for a while, at least. Ollie arrived back at the agency early the next day, bright and shiny and with a box of expensive cigars as a gift for me. Andrea, who had looked a little flaky for some time now, was with him and she seemed almost as chirpy as he was. I assumed they’d had a heart-to-heart and a new leaf had been turned by Oliver. Both looked refreshed, as if they’d had a good night’s sleep, hopefully in each other’s arms.
It couldn’t last though; Oliver’s jittery moods soon swung back and forth like a personality pendulum and I began to suspect it was more than just overwork and booze that was the problem. But it was Sydney who finally put me wise by pointing out the symptoms.
Insiders call it either the curse or the crutch of the trade, but I subscribe to neither view; sure, coke and cannabis are popular in the business—speed, too—but they’re more of an occupational hazard than a prevalence, recreational rather than obligatory. Creativity can often extend itself to taking mind-expanding substances, and advertising must be one of the most pressurizing careers one could choose. There’s always the exhaustion factor too, when both your brain and body become so fatigued they require a little charge now and again. I’m not advocating drugs as a prop—far from it—I’m merely explaining how the trap is set. I’ve known good people who have succumbed to its lure, and now I was concerned that my best friend and business partner had become yet another victim.
To cut it short, Ollie’s condition grew steadily worse, the pendulum becoming caught on the downswing. One evening I was pigged out on a sofa in my apartment—only a slim triangle of pizza left in its shallow box, bare feet resting over one arm of the sofa, my head propped up by a couple of cushions at the other end half-empty can of Stella resting on my stomach, cigarette butt smoking in a crowded ashtray on the floor—when the annoying chime of the doorbell roused me from my mindless vigil over a docu-soap on the TV. With a groan, I dropped the lager can beside the ashtray and swung my feet to the carpet. Hitching up my jeans beneath the loose sweatshirt I wore, I grumbled my way to the door.
Andrea was outside, her face wet with tears, mascara staining her fair skin. She threw herself into my arms, blurting out her woes as she did so: she’d had enough, Oliver was out of control, he’d lashed out at her, hurt her, sworn at her; she had fled and this time it was for good. I hadn’t even known there’d been other occasions and I felt a rising anger as she told me her sad tale.
Apparently, Oliver’s coke habit had reached critical mass, one of the results being his physical abuse of Andrea, and she had left him and had no intention of ever going back. I hadn’t realized that their relationship was anywhere near this sorry state, so good was their cover-up at the agency. I was stunned.
To cut the story even shorter, she stayed with me.
I’m not proud of it, but I was incredibly angry with Oliver at the time, because not only had he stolen my girl (okay, she hadn’t actually been my girl at the time) out he was now physically—and mentally, I soon learned— abusing her. Just having her there in my own home, distressed and desperate, revived all those feelings towards her that I’d suppressed since I’d lost out to my sidekick. I admit, I’m a sucker as far as women or girls are concerned. I offered to ring him, or to go and see him personally, tell him face-to-face what a jerk he was being, but Andrea wouldn’t allow it. We collapsed onto the sofa together and she begged me to let her stay, if only for the night.
She never went back to Oliver. Again, I’m not proud of it, but we made love that very first evening. All those emotions, those frustrated desires, burst out of me like floodwater from a breached dam.
Oliver didn’t show up at the office for two days, but when he did, he was perfectly calm and reasonable. In truth, he was almost arrogant as far as Andrea’s departure was concerned and I think that hurt her more than anything else. His indifference was a shock for us both, but it helped us overcome the guilt Andrea and I were feeling. He’d had space to think, he told us, and realized he was screwing up Andrea’s life, not to mention his own. He might also be screwing up the business we had all worked so hard for. And he was definitely screwing up his long friendship with me. All that had to change and he knew this might be his last chance.
From now on the drugs and the booze were out, hard work and sobriety were in. He wasn’t going to ask
