31st Of February by Julian Symons Page B

on.” Reverton raised his eyebrows. “Humanity, not humour, he said, and I think he was right. Is ‘Hey Presto’ human? It sounds pretty comic to me.”
    “Now look, Andy,” Reverton said earnestly, “You’re losing your sense of proportion. It’s good this name, don’t you agree, Charlie?”
    “I think so, yes.”
    “All right then. You know me, Andy. I’m one of the boys myself; I think like you, I know what’s on your mind. You like ideas to come from the copy boys and the Studio and then go up to the directors, not come down the other way. So do I. We all know directors are pretty dumb – I ought to know, I’m one myself.” He laughed heartily. “But it can happen that a director gets hold of a bright idea. This is it.”
    Perversely, against the sense which told him he had better keep silent, Anderson said “I still think it stinks.”
    The telephone rang. Anderson picked it up and made a face.
    It was Bagseed. Reverton and Lessing went out. With an effort, Anderson adjusted a tone of false joviality over his voice and said, with the forestalling technique familiar to advertising executives and others engaged in selling material which they have had no hand in producing, “I know what you’re after, Mr Bagseed, you’re after those drawings.” The forestalling technique was justified upon this occasion by the fact that, at the moment these words were spoken, Jean Lightley came in with drawings in her hand. Mr Bagseed whined, cajoled and threatened until Anderson said brightly: “Those drawings are on the way up to you now, Mr Bagseed.” He looked at the drawings, which showed odiously fat little girls and unnaturally demure little boys wearing a variety of clothing, and told Jean Lightley to send them up immediately to Kiddy Modes. When she had left the room he tilted his revolving chair back against the wall, and sat staring at the green carpet. Looking up, he was surprised to see the neat brown suit of Greatorex in front of the desk.
    “I knocked, but you didn’t answer.” Greatorex coughed. “I wondered if you’d had a chance to look at those names for the new preparation.”
    Anderson pointed to the wastepaper basket. “There they are.” He held up a warning finger. “Don’t get the idea they were no good. I thought two or three of them were pretty bright. But that doesn’t matter.” He let the revolving chair drop to the ground with a bump. “What matters is that VV has had an idea himself.”
    “That’s Mr Vincent?”
    “That’s Mr Vincent. He’s decided to call the stuff Hey Presto. That’s the decision and there’s no argument about it, unless VV changes his mind. So –” He indicated the torn up pieces of paper.
    “Hey Presto,” Greatorex said. “Well, that’s a pretty good name.”
    I think it’s a terrible name. I’m the creative man on the account. But that doesn’t matter either.” Anderson tapped the desk with his finger. “Lesson number one in advertising. Be original, but don’t be too original, because people won’t like it. And remember that until you get near the top nine-tenths of what you do won’t even be considered. You’ll sweat your guts out for no purpose whatever. It’s disheartening, but that’s the way it is. Now, here’s advertising lesson number two.” He laid another finger on the desk. “Have you got another copy of that list? All right then, don’t throw it away. VV may change his mind – or the client may not like VV’s idea – then that list may be very useful. Understand?” Greatorex nodded, but looked at him oddly as he left the room. Anderson reflected again that he was a fool to be saying such things. A month ago he would not have said them. Why was he saying them now?
    He pulled out of his pocket the letter from Val, spread it before him on the desk, and read every word of the letter carefully as though in the hope that the wording of those hurried phrases or the shape of the handwriting or the texture of the blue