teeth.
“Chel! So, you found us all right.” Chel? What was with the Chel? Talk about overfamiliar. Loathe Chelsea as she did, she couldn’t help feeling indignant on her behalf.
“Yes. No problems.” Cyn smiled, extending her hand toward him. But Gary Rossiter ignored the hand. Instead he leaned in toward her and kissed her on both cheeks. Strong whiff of coffee breath. “We don’t stand on ceremony here at Droolin’ Dream. Anyway, after all those e-mails I really feel like I know you.”
“Ah, right. Well, actually, I should put you straight on that. You see there’s been a change of . . .” But she could see he wasn’t listening. Instead he was doing up the button on his shirt, which had burst open at the midsection of his paunch.
“So, not too much traffic on the M4, then? Nice one! I was just saying to our boys upstairs in sales that our roads must seem pretty pathetic to you. I mean, where you come from it’s all six-lane highways. I was watching a helicopter police chase in Florida the other night. Amazing. And I mean amazing with a capital Wow. Do you get a lot of police chases where you come from?”
“No, Crouch End tends to be pretty quiet as a rule,” Cyn said.
Gary cracked up. “Nice one! I like it. I like it. No, I meant, do you get a lot of police chases where you come from originally?”
“No. Not really,” she said briskly, aware that if she didn’t tell him who she was right now, the situation could spin out of control. “Look, Gary, before we go on, there’s something I need to explain.”
“Call me Gazza. Everybody does.”
Gazza? Gawd. “Right. Gazza. Well, you see . . .”
“It’s funny, your American accent is not as pronounced as it was on the phone . . . Oh, must get you a visitor’s pass before we can let you go upstairs.”
“Right.” Bugger. Now he’d noticed her accent. Tell him. Tell him. But Gazza had walked off and was already standing in front of the reception desk. Cyn followed him. The It Girl was faffing around looking for a pen that worked. “By the way, Kelly,” Cyn heard Gazza say to the receptionist in a taut whisper. “The name is Rossiter. Right? Not Rotisserie. Got that?”
“Right chyew are. Sorry.” With the kind of slowness that would have driven even Pollyanna to eat her own head, the girl filled out a card and tucked it into a plastic pouch. Gary insisted on clipping it to the lapel of Cyn’s jacket. “OK,” he said, “your lift awaits. If you’d like to follow me.”
“Fine. Lead on. Look, Gary . . .”
“Come on, now,” he grinned, wagging a playful finger, “you promised you’d call me Gazza.”
“Sorry. OK. The thing is, Gazza . . .”
The lift arrived and Gazza stood back to let her in. “You know, Chel,” he said as the lift doors shut. “You don’t mind me calling you Chel, do you?”
“No. I mean yes. Well, you see, actually . . .”
“Nice one. You know, Chel, I have to tell you from the get-go that all of us at DD were massively impressed with your concept. And I mean massively with a capital Huge.”
“Wow. That’s great, but there is something you should know.”
“Of course our chairman is a bit of a—well, to be honest with you, he’s a bit of a dinosaur—and he couldn’t quite see where you were coming from artistically speaking. In fact he couldn’t see it at all. Took some persuading from the rest of us, I can tell you. But when we mentioned your name his ears pricked up, I can tell you. ‘If she’s good enough for Procter and Gamble, then she’s good enough for us,’ he said. Until then he’d been thinking of giving the account to Saatchis, but it was your name that won him over.”
“Really? I’m flattered.”
“And so you should be.
Do not doughnut, why not Low Nut?
It’s genius. And I mean genius with a capital Mastermind.” Cyn’s heart was pounding in her chest. God, what did she do now? If she told him she wasn’t Chelsea Roggenfelder, PCW could lose the
“Chel! So, you found us all right.” Chel? What was with the Chel? Talk about overfamiliar. Loathe Chelsea as she did, she couldn’t help feeling indignant on her behalf.
“Yes. No problems.” Cyn smiled, extending her hand toward him. But Gary Rossiter ignored the hand. Instead he leaned in toward her and kissed her on both cheeks. Strong whiff of coffee breath. “We don’t stand on ceremony here at Droolin’ Dream. Anyway, after all those e-mails I really feel like I know you.”
“Ah, right. Well, actually, I should put you straight on that. You see there’s been a change of . . .” But she could see he wasn’t listening. Instead he was doing up the button on his shirt, which had burst open at the midsection of his paunch.
“So, not too much traffic on the M4, then? Nice one! I was just saying to our boys upstairs in sales that our roads must seem pretty pathetic to you. I mean, where you come from it’s all six-lane highways. I was watching a helicopter police chase in Florida the other night. Amazing. And I mean amazing with a capital Wow. Do you get a lot of police chases where you come from?”
“No, Crouch End tends to be pretty quiet as a rule,” Cyn said.
Gary cracked up. “Nice one! I like it. I like it. No, I meant, do you get a lot of police chases where you come from originally?”
“No. Not really,” she said briskly, aware that if she didn’t tell him who she was right now, the situation could spin out of control. “Look, Gary, before we go on, there’s something I need to explain.”
“Call me Gazza. Everybody does.”
Gazza? Gawd. “Right. Gazza. Well, you see . . .”
“It’s funny, your American accent is not as pronounced as it was on the phone . . . Oh, must get you a visitor’s pass before we can let you go upstairs.”
“Right.” Bugger. Now he’d noticed her accent. Tell him. Tell him. But Gazza had walked off and was already standing in front of the reception desk. Cyn followed him. The It Girl was faffing around looking for a pen that worked. “By the way, Kelly,” Cyn heard Gazza say to the receptionist in a taut whisper. “The name is Rossiter. Right? Not Rotisserie. Got that?”
“Right chyew are. Sorry.” With the kind of slowness that would have driven even Pollyanna to eat her own head, the girl filled out a card and tucked it into a plastic pouch. Gary insisted on clipping it to the lapel of Cyn’s jacket. “OK,” he said, “your lift awaits. If you’d like to follow me.”
“Fine. Lead on. Look, Gary . . .”
“Come on, now,” he grinned, wagging a playful finger, “you promised you’d call me Gazza.”
“Sorry. OK. The thing is, Gazza . . .”
The lift arrived and Gazza stood back to let her in. “You know, Chel,” he said as the lift doors shut. “You don’t mind me calling you Chel, do you?”
“No. I mean yes. Well, you see, actually . . .”
“Nice one. You know, Chel, I have to tell you from the get-go that all of us at DD were massively impressed with your concept. And I mean massively with a capital Huge.”
“Wow. That’s great, but there is something you should know.”
“Of course our chairman is a bit of a—well, to be honest with you, he’s a bit of a dinosaur—and he couldn’t quite see where you were coming from artistically speaking. In fact he couldn’t see it at all. Took some persuading from the rest of us, I can tell you. But when we mentioned your name his ears pricked up, I can tell you. ‘If she’s good enough for Procter and Gamble, then she’s good enough for us,’ he said. Until then he’d been thinking of giving the account to Saatchis, but it was your name that won him over.”
“Really? I’m flattered.”
“And so you should be.
Do not doughnut, why not Low Nut?
It’s genius. And I mean genius with a capital Mastermind.” Cyn’s heart was pounding in her chest. God, what did she do now? If she told him she wasn’t Chelsea Roggenfelder, PCW could lose the
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