away”—and then, with the volume up a couple of notches, there was a second screening of the commercial.
Fry blew his nose and sat down, and silence descended again on the conference room.
Simon leaned over to the senior Rubber Baron. “First impressions?”
The senior Rubber Baron took a considered puff of his cigar and looked down the table towards the most junior member of the Condom Marketing Board, a young man who had taken over the mantle of HygienicSupplies (Basingstoke) Ltd. from his father. In the time-honoured way of these things, comments were delivered in reverse order of eminence, so that the top man could assess the mood of his minions before committing himself to anything approaching an opinion. “Brian, would you like to kick off?”
Brian cleared his throat and shuffled his notes. “Yes. Well. I must say that the agency has come up with a very … ah … striking approach. Very striking. Obviously, I have one or two questions—indeed, a couple of reservations—and it might be premature to express a final judgment without seeing the detailed background which I understand is contained in the presentation document.” He paused for breath.
Here we go again, thought Simon. Why don’t the bastards ever say what they really think? He kept his voice bright and sympathetic. “I’m sure you’ll find we’ve covered just about everything, but it would be most interesting to hear your reactions to the advertising.”
“Yes. Quite.” Brian searched in his notes for an exit line that would maintain his position on the fence. It wouldn’t do to be the odd man out when the committee’s decision was made. Balance, that was the thing—balance and a line of escape in case the majority vote went against the agency. Committees, like boats, shouldn’t be rocked. Consensus was the key. Hygienic Supplies (Basingstoke) should be a team player. “Well, as I said, a striking approach, and I shall be fascinated to see from the document how the agency arrived at it.” Brian took off his glasses and polished them with brisk, decisive movements.
And so it went on up the ladder of corporate importance, more than two hours of tap-dancing, faint praise laced with cautious qualifications. Simon had to make aconscious effort not to yawn. Why was it always the same? An immediate no would almost be better than this interminable cud-chewing; at least the meetings would be shorter. But he smiled and nodded and appeared attentive and said of course when the senior Rubber Baron told him that the committee would have to go away and consider the agency’s proposals in detail—and what interesting proposals they were too, deserving of many another meeting back at Rubber House—before making a decision of this importance, and, well … yes. The same old vapid and inconclusive waffle.
And the same old postmortem in the conference room after the clients had been bowed out of the agency. Recriminations from the research director, who had been denied his moment of glory; David Fry in a postcoke depression at the lack of response to the creative work; anticlimax spread thick among the rest of them.
It was a relief when Liz came in and handed Simon a note, but a relief that was short-lived:
“Mrs. Shaw is in reception. She says she has to see you.”
Simon arrived in reception to find his ex-wife fluttering her eyelashes at Jordan, who was pawing the ground and smoothing his hair flirtatiously. He was known for his roving hand under the table at dinner parties, a habit that Caroline and Simon used to joke about in the days when they made jokes. “The thigh creeper,” they called him, and always tried to avoid seating him next to a client’s wife.
“Hello, Caroline. How are you?”
The eyelashes stopped fluttering and the smile faded. “Hello, Simon.”
Jordan suddenly remembered a pressing engagement. “Nice to see you again, old thing,” he said. “I’d betterrun.” He shot his cuffs in farewell and
Fry blew his nose and sat down, and silence descended again on the conference room.
Simon leaned over to the senior Rubber Baron. “First impressions?”
The senior Rubber Baron took a considered puff of his cigar and looked down the table towards the most junior member of the Condom Marketing Board, a young man who had taken over the mantle of HygienicSupplies (Basingstoke) Ltd. from his father. In the time-honoured way of these things, comments were delivered in reverse order of eminence, so that the top man could assess the mood of his minions before committing himself to anything approaching an opinion. “Brian, would you like to kick off?”
Brian cleared his throat and shuffled his notes. “Yes. Well. I must say that the agency has come up with a very … ah … striking approach. Very striking. Obviously, I have one or two questions—indeed, a couple of reservations—and it might be premature to express a final judgment without seeing the detailed background which I understand is contained in the presentation document.” He paused for breath.
Here we go again, thought Simon. Why don’t the bastards ever say what they really think? He kept his voice bright and sympathetic. “I’m sure you’ll find we’ve covered just about everything, but it would be most interesting to hear your reactions to the advertising.”
“Yes. Quite.” Brian searched in his notes for an exit line that would maintain his position on the fence. It wouldn’t do to be the odd man out when the committee’s decision was made. Balance, that was the thing—balance and a line of escape in case the majority vote went against the agency. Committees, like boats, shouldn’t be rocked. Consensus was the key. Hygienic Supplies (Basingstoke) should be a team player. “Well, as I said, a striking approach, and I shall be fascinated to see from the document how the agency arrived at it.” Brian took off his glasses and polished them with brisk, decisive movements.
And so it went on up the ladder of corporate importance, more than two hours of tap-dancing, faint praise laced with cautious qualifications. Simon had to make aconscious effort not to yawn. Why was it always the same? An immediate no would almost be better than this interminable cud-chewing; at least the meetings would be shorter. But he smiled and nodded and appeared attentive and said of course when the senior Rubber Baron told him that the committee would have to go away and consider the agency’s proposals in detail—and what interesting proposals they were too, deserving of many another meeting back at Rubber House—before making a decision of this importance, and, well … yes. The same old vapid and inconclusive waffle.
And the same old postmortem in the conference room after the clients had been bowed out of the agency. Recriminations from the research director, who had been denied his moment of glory; David Fry in a postcoke depression at the lack of response to the creative work; anticlimax spread thick among the rest of them.
It was a relief when Liz came in and handed Simon a note, but a relief that was short-lived:
“Mrs. Shaw is in reception. She says she has to see you.”
Simon arrived in reception to find his ex-wife fluttering her eyelashes at Jordan, who was pawing the ground and smoothing his hair flirtatiously. He was known for his roving hand under the table at dinner parties, a habit that Caroline and Simon used to joke about in the days when they made jokes. “The thigh creeper,” they called him, and always tried to avoid seating him next to a client’s wife.
“Hello, Caroline. How are you?”
The eyelashes stopped fluttering and the smile faded. “Hello, Simon.”
Jordan suddenly remembered a pressing engagement. “Nice to see you again, old thing,” he said. “I’d betterrun.” He shot his cuffs in farewell and
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