that happen, she wasn’t quite sure. But somehow she would prove to him that the idea had been hers all along and then he would have to give her the senior copywriter’s job.
She turned her attention to the number she’d written down for Gary Rossiter, the head of marketing at Droolin’ Dream. A thought was starting to take shape in her mind. It seemed so obvious. After all, the Droolin’ Dream idea belonged to her, not Chelsea. What if she went to the meeting with the Droolin’ Dream people instead of Chelsea? Of course she could hardly go in bleating about Chelsea having stolen her idea. It would look highly unprofessional. She would have to invent a reason why she was replacing her, but that shouldn’t be hard. She took another sip of coffee. Maybe she would tell this Gary Rossiter that the Droolin’ Dream commercial had originally been her idea but the whole thing had been passed over to Chelsea when . . . When what? OK, when her flat flooded? She would say she had taken some time off to get the flat sorted, but everything was fine now. She was back on the case and raring to go.
Deciding her excuse sounded perfectly feasible, Cyn picked up her work clothes, which were draped over the back of her chair, and went to the ladies’ room to get changed. She’d made up her mind. She was off to Slough.
As she was touching up her makeup it occurred to her that she had done absolutely no preparation for this meeting. Suddenly she wasn’t sure she could handle it. She had absolutely no idea what the Droolin’ Dream people would want to know. “Course you do,” she said to her reflection. “You’ve done these things a hundred times.” She was right. Meetings like this were a formality more than anything. They would ask a few questions, but nothing she couldn’t handle.
She came out of the ladies’ room, picked up her bag and coat and went to find Brian Lockwood. He was one of the senior creatives and had been left in charge while Graham was away. She told him that she had an afternoon meeting and wouldn’t be back today. Brian was a piss artist who, even when he was sober, only took in a quarter of what was said to him. Right now he had just got back from a boozy lunch at the Oxo Tower and was looking particularly bleary-eyed. “Right, fine, whatever,” he said, barely bothering to look up.
Chapter 6
The Droolin’ Dream HQ was on one of those ominously depopulated, tinted-glass-and-metal industrial parks. As Cyn drove past the immaculate lawns, beds of daffodils and newly planted conifers, she half expected to see mad government scientists in white coats and wiry hair accompanying a group of freshly programmed Stepford Wives on their afternoon constitutional.
Cyn felt a sense of mild relief when the girl at the Droolin’ Dream reception desk turned out to be a Britney Spears clone and couldn’t have looked less ominous if she’d tried. When Cyn walked in, the girl’s hair was draped over her face like Cousin Itt and she was busy examining the strands for split ends. At the same time she was yakking away on the phone. “So anyway, I’m like, ‘Tell it to the hand’ and she’s like, ‘You bitch.’ Dah. I mean who’s the bitch here? She slept with my boyfriend.” At this point the girl noticed Cyn, made her excuses to whomever she was speaking to and put down the phone. She tossed back her hair. Cyn said she was there to see Gary Rossiter.
“Oh, right chyew are.” She tapped out his extension with an impossibly long nail that had a tiny fake diamond stuck to its center. “Mr. Rotisserie, yer three o’clock’s here.” She looked up at Cyn. “Says he’ll be down in a jiffy.”
Cyn sat down on one of the imitation brown suede armchairs. The receptionist went back to her split ends. Several jiffies passed. After about ten minutes, a beaming chap in his midthirties came bounding toward her. He was short and chunky, rather like a small sofa, Cyn thought. He also had a smile full of crooked
She turned her attention to the number she’d written down for Gary Rossiter, the head of marketing at Droolin’ Dream. A thought was starting to take shape in her mind. It seemed so obvious. After all, the Droolin’ Dream idea belonged to her, not Chelsea. What if she went to the meeting with the Droolin’ Dream people instead of Chelsea? Of course she could hardly go in bleating about Chelsea having stolen her idea. It would look highly unprofessional. She would have to invent a reason why she was replacing her, but that shouldn’t be hard. She took another sip of coffee. Maybe she would tell this Gary Rossiter that the Droolin’ Dream commercial had originally been her idea but the whole thing had been passed over to Chelsea when . . . When what? OK, when her flat flooded? She would say she had taken some time off to get the flat sorted, but everything was fine now. She was back on the case and raring to go.
Deciding her excuse sounded perfectly feasible, Cyn picked up her work clothes, which were draped over the back of her chair, and went to the ladies’ room to get changed. She’d made up her mind. She was off to Slough.
As she was touching up her makeup it occurred to her that she had done absolutely no preparation for this meeting. Suddenly she wasn’t sure she could handle it. She had absolutely no idea what the Droolin’ Dream people would want to know. “Course you do,” she said to her reflection. “You’ve done these things a hundred times.” She was right. Meetings like this were a formality more than anything. They would ask a few questions, but nothing she couldn’t handle.
She came out of the ladies’ room, picked up her bag and coat and went to find Brian Lockwood. He was one of the senior creatives and had been left in charge while Graham was away. She told him that she had an afternoon meeting and wouldn’t be back today. Brian was a piss artist who, even when he was sober, only took in a quarter of what was said to him. Right now he had just got back from a boozy lunch at the Oxo Tower and was looking particularly bleary-eyed. “Right, fine, whatever,” he said, barely bothering to look up.
Chapter 6
The Droolin’ Dream HQ was on one of those ominously depopulated, tinted-glass-and-metal industrial parks. As Cyn drove past the immaculate lawns, beds of daffodils and newly planted conifers, she half expected to see mad government scientists in white coats and wiry hair accompanying a group of freshly programmed Stepford Wives on their afternoon constitutional.
Cyn felt a sense of mild relief when the girl at the Droolin’ Dream reception desk turned out to be a Britney Spears clone and couldn’t have looked less ominous if she’d tried. When Cyn walked in, the girl’s hair was draped over her face like Cousin Itt and she was busy examining the strands for split ends. At the same time she was yakking away on the phone. “So anyway, I’m like, ‘Tell it to the hand’ and she’s like, ‘You bitch.’ Dah. I mean who’s the bitch here? She slept with my boyfriend.” At this point the girl noticed Cyn, made her excuses to whomever she was speaking to and put down the phone. She tossed back her hair. Cyn said she was there to see Gary Rossiter.
“Oh, right chyew are.” She tapped out his extension with an impossibly long nail that had a tiny fake diamond stuck to its center. “Mr. Rotisserie, yer three o’clock’s here.” She looked up at Cyn. “Says he’ll be down in a jiffy.”
Cyn sat down on one of the imitation brown suede armchairs. The receptionist went back to her split ends. Several jiffies passed. After about ten minutes, a beaming chap in his midthirties came bounding toward her. He was short and chunky, rather like a small sofa, Cyn thought. He also had a smile full of crooked
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