Do You Want to Know a Secret? Page 9

  This was the last time we worked together, about a year ago, when Best’s hired me to launch the new Peter O’Brien ready-to-wear collection for a big high street chain. Their suggestion was that we hold it in a trendy down-town champagne bar, but I had the strongest instinct that that would be just a bit too . . . obvious. So I rang the designer, the mighty Mr O’Brien himself, and asked him what his inspiration for the collection had been. Well, it was like striking gold: it turned out he’d based the overall concept for the entire collection on the portraits by Sir John Lavery hanging in the National Art Gallery. It was just the eureka moment I needed; I pitched that we host the launch there, had murder trying to win Best’s around, but eventually wore them down, and the rest is history.

  Honestly, if I say so myself, it was a glittering night. I’d arranged for models wearing exact copies of the Edwardian dresses in the portraits to pose in gilt-edged picture-frames, then step out and circulate. It was a gamble, but it worked a treat: the launch practically generated more column inches than the President’s last state tour, and the stores that stocked Peter O’Brien’s clothes sold out, literally in hours, leaving nothing but empty shelves and queues outside the doors, a bit like Stalinist Russia on Christmas Eve.

  A few hardier shoppers even vowed that for his next collection, they’d camp in sleeping bags on the pavement outside the store the night before, like people do when U2 tickets go on sale, just to be on the safe side. And the icing on the cake: the whole story even ended up getting a novelty item feature on the Six O’Clock News, which in PR terms is kind of like the Holy Grail.

  Which is kind of why I feel confident about coming back here this morning, with the new pitch I’ve worked so hard on for them.

  Which is kind of why I feel, OK so it’s not technically in the bag, but I think I might just be sending Paris and Nicole out to buy a lovely big bottle of pink champagne for us to celebrate with before the day is out.

  Which is kind of why my heart sinks a bit when, just as we’re about to go into the boardroom, Amanda turns to me and says, ‘Oh, yeah, by the way, the boss is sitting in on this one. It’s just that it’s such a huge contract and this client is so important to us. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Shit.

  Funny, this is normally the way the law of attraction works on my love life. Every time I feel confident about a bloke, I’m rewarded with a sharp smack in the gob from the universe.

  I will seriously have to re-read that book when I get home.

  Anyway, as you might expect from a company like Best’s, the boardroom is more like somewhere you’d throw a party in; in fact I bet they use it for their staff Christmas party.

  Note to self: do level best to get invited to their next Christmas do. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they make it a condition of your Christmas bonus that you have to kiss the face off as many people as possible, therefore am bound to score. Yes, even me.

  The room is huge and white and bright and fab, with a giant Louise Kennedy crystal chandelier, bright-blue swan chairs, and so many bowls of sweets dotted around that I almost feel like emptying one into my handbag for later. Don’t worry, I don’t, but when Amanda plonks down beside me and tosses me a mocha kiss I can’t help myself. I’d no breakfast this morning due to having no kitchen, I just grabbed a Starbucks which I gulped back in the car, and am now half-afraid that the pitch I’ve put my heart and soul into will be drowned out by my tummy, which is now rumbling louder than a 747 cleared for landing at JFK. We’re the first people here, there’s no one to see, so within two seconds, I’ve stuffed two of them into my face in one go.

  ‘Oh, God, Amanda, the only thing you got wrong with these is the name. Should have called them chocolate orgasms.’

  ‘Mmmm, I mwah, merw mmmmmmmmm,’ is what she comes out with, but I’m pretty sure she’s agreeing with me.

  Pretty soon, the room fills up and it’s showtime. Amanda introduces me to about eight different people; more staff from Best’s marketing department who I haven’t met before, more design consultants, more brand consultants and then of course . . . drum roll for dramatic effect . . . the client herself, one Sophie Boyd. She’s older than anyone else here, maybe fifties, and is dressed to kill in a stunning pale-blue pastel suit with a matching Hermès scarf. The hair is cut into the most perfectly executed blonde bob and I know just by looking it must take at least half an hour every morning with a GHD to get it sitting that poker-straight. She has a distant, bored look and kind of reminds me of Meryl Streep in that movie, The Devil Wears Prada. In fact, I’d safely say she’s one of those frowningly important women who come with their icy stares all pre-graded, from class A to class C (the one that reduces her staff to whimpering wrecks), entirely depending on how narky a mood she’s in.

  Apart from her, there’s two guys, the rest are all women, and needless to say, everyone’s outrageously good-looking, fully in keeping with the company ethos. Amanda doesn’t give me their actual job-titles though, and I’m frantically trying to put faces to names and names to titles, and even more critically, gulp, figure out who is this boss I’ll have to try and impress the most, when suddenly a size-zero Posh Spice look-alike, wearing a suit just like mine only in black (thank you, universe), steers me away from everyone else and introduces herself as Best’s senior creative adviser.

  Oh, bugger. We shake hands coolly, and I swear I can practically see this one taking an instant dislike to me, which I probably should explain.

  The relationship between creatives and PR people can pretty much be summarized thus: they hate the sight of me and I hate the sight of them. They tend to look on people in my game as jumped-up nobodies, outsourced and now trying to muscle in on their territory; whereas we look on them as behind the times for not accepting that launching any new product is a huge deal, and that PR people need to be involved in product development from day one, whether they like it or not. And, on a personal/slightly bitchy note, I have yet to hear any ‘creative’ come up with a concept that isn’t a rehash of what’s already out there, instead of being ahead of the game. Just like the fashion world: the real players there have already decided now what we’ll all be wearing in about two years’ time.

  I don’t have to pretend to be nice to her for too long. After a light bit of chit-chat, everyone just plonks down on the swan chairs and Amanda asks Posh Spice look-alike to kick-off. Which she does, giving me a sneaky few minutes to glance around the room, trying to figure out which one is the Don Corleone, so to speak.

  ‘OK, well, in keeping with the Hollywood theme you envisage for Original Sin,’ Posh Spice is saying, in her ‘It’ girl voice, holding up a storyboard, ‘I’d like to suggest we go for a young, hip concept that will appeal to the broadest section of our target market. So, I’ve created Isabella to represent our ideal consumer. OK, so let me introduce you. Isabella is aged between twenty and thirty-five years old, OK? She lives in Malibu, California, she spends all her weekends at the beach, and she drives a Mercedes convertible, OK? She eats out at least three times a week, works out four times a week and is more likely to agree with the lifestyle statement: “It’s more important to look good than to work hard.”’

  She keeps droning on and on about Isabella’s favourite colours and movie stars and TV shows, and will probably be telling us what colour her knickers are in a minute, but I’m not fully concentrating, I’m too busy scanning the room for who could possibly be the head honcho around here . . . and having absolutely no joy whatsoever. I’m just wondering if maybe whoever it is couldn’t show up at the last minute, for some multi-millionaire type reason such as the private jet ran out of Moët & Chandon or something, when the tag-line of Posh Spice’s pitch suddenly pulls me back into the room.

  ‘. . . so to conclude,’ she’s twittering, ‘I would say our overall image could be summarized in a single phrase, Bel Air.’

  What? Bel Air freshener, is what I’m thinking, as the rest of the room give her a small round of applause and, hypocritically, I have to j
oin in. Oh my God, that is so NOT what I had envisaged for this product, I’m thinking, glancing down at my notes for the launch which so don’t fit in with any of Posh Spice’s pitch, not a bit of it . . .

  ‘Great, fabulous,’ Sophie says. ‘Can you get preliminary budget figures to me ASAP?’ There’s a lot of relieved-looking faces around the table, and you can practically see them all thinking: great, now that that’s out of the way, client’s happy, let’s all go to lunch. But Sophie clearly doesn’t feel she’s got her money’s worth.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t like it,’ she says slowly, coolly looking out the window and clicking a pen, ‘but I’d very much like to hear what else you’ve got?’

  A few barely discernible panicky glances around the room followed by a cacophony of voices from everyone as the brainstorming instantly starts. Or maybe they’re all improvising wildly; these people are all so bloody good, it’s hard to tell the difference.

  ‘What about a theme revolving around Hollywood musicals?’ one cute guy in the corner throws in. ‘Each commercial could tie in with a signature tune . . .’

  ‘Yeah, like Singing in the Rain to plug . . .’

  ‘Waterproof mascara!’

  ‘The Hollywood epic . . .’

  ‘Yeah, we could shoot in one of those swords-and-sandals locations and tie it in with . . .’

  ‘The self-tanning products!’

  ‘Or sunscreens!’

  Sophie, I notice, stays very impassive, just jots things down and every now and then throws in, ‘Hmmm. So what else?’ And on they all go, one idea falling over another, till my head’s almost swimming from listening to them all. Don’t get me wrong, every idea they’re throwing out is a gem. I mean, these are gifted, talented people clearly at the top of their game, it’s just that . . .

  None of their pitches ties in with what I’ve been working so hard on. Not a single one. Shit. Now instead of looking forward to throwing in my pitch, I’m actually beginning to dread it. They’re going to hate what I have to say, and probably hate me too into the bargain . . .

  As if she’s picking up on my nervousness, on cue, Sophie slowly turns to me. ‘We haven’t heard from PR yet,’ she says. ‘So, can I have your pitch for the launch itself?’ And whether I like it or not, I’m on. Right then, for better or for worse, there’s nothing for it but to come clean and just admit that I’ve been working off a completely different hymn sheet to everyone else. Bugger it anyway. I wouldn’t mind, but I’d have killed to have landed this gig . . .

  ‘When I first heard the product was called Original Sin,’ I begin, taking the floor and doing my best to sound loud, clear and confident, ‘I thought the name was inspired. Yes, a Hollywood theme for this product is terrific . . . but . . . the thing is . . . my ideas were a little bit different. You see, I was thinking . . . how about we go back a little further? Back to Hollywood’s golden era of glamour, to the age of film noir, to women like Barbara Stanwyck and Ingrid Bergman. Women who didn’t have access to a fraction of the cosmetic wonders that we have now, but who never looked anything other than fabulous. I’m speaking, of course about the nineteen forties.’

  Sophie raises a single eyebrow, à la Roger Moore, which I take to be a good sign. I include the rest of the room, but primarily address the pitch to her. What the hell, at this stage, I’ve nothing to lose.

  ‘And the launch party itself?’ she asks, impassive as you like.

  ‘Should be like stepping back into an old film noir. Think gentle, tinkling Cole Porter piano music, cocktails, models wearing pillbox hats with veils, Dior’s New Look.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she says, looking at me keenly. ‘And do you have any thoughts about the commercials? As we’re all here to brainstorm.’

  OK, just at the mention of the word ‘commercials’, I’m dimly aware that some of the glances I’m getting around the table are starting to become a bit hostile, and I swear I can practically feel what they’re all thinking. I’m an outsourced PR person, brought in to pitch for a product launch, who’s now in danger of getting seriously out of my depth. But the thing is, I do have ideas about this and, well . . . she did ask . . . Figuring what the hell, I’m in this far, I take a deep breath and plunge deeper.

  ‘Well, I would suggest,’ I begin slowly, trying not to piss off the whole room. ‘That is . . . I think it would be fabulous if all of your commercials were shot entirely in shadowy black and white, with one exception: the pillar-box red of our model’s lipstick and nail varnish.’

  Sophie just nods, so I plough on, getting into my stride a bit.

  ‘One theme I would suggest is “the seven deadly sins”: seven commercials, seven products, broadcast over seven months. The buzzwords would be elegance, old-world style and the cool sophistication of women who never have to try too hard. But, the way I see it, this wouldn’t just be any commercial, it would be a mini-movie, and when it’s broadcast, it’ll be almost an event, just like when Chanel asked Nicole Kidman to advertise their No. 5 perfume, with Paris as the backdrop; except this will be more like a little piece of Casablanca. In fact, that movie has very much been a touchstone of mine for this project; I’d suggest Original Sin to evoke an era when femmes were fatale, just like Ingrid Bergman was in that iconic scene where she . . .’

  ‘Hey, anyone here care to see me do Bogey?’ asks a guy from across the room, doing a pretty decent Humphrey Bogart impression actually, upper lip disappearing into his top teeth and all. Everyone giggles, and I give him a polite but firm ‘I’m touting for work here and fighting for my professional reputation, so do you mind shutting up for a minute please?’ look.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, grinning cheekily at me. ‘It’s just that Casablanca is my desert island all-time favourite film.’

  I smile politely and am about to get back to pitching when Sophie suddenly brightens and says, ‘You know what? Mine too. Wasn’t Ingrid Bergman just exquisite?’

  Next thing this guy pipes up again, breaking into a full chorus of ‘As Time Goes By’. Then he takes a mock bow as the whole room give him a polite ripple of applause, then stuffs a mocha kiss into his mouth and sits back, arms folded behind his head, grinning.

  Oh, OK, I think I know what’s going on here.

  There’s one in every company: the office messer. The comedian. You know, the one who reckons that all he need do is put on a one-man show at the Edinburgh Festival to be snapped up by the BBC, given his own sitcom and hailed as the next Ricky Gervais.

  ‘Everyone thinks that’s the only song in the movie,’ Messer Man goes on, ‘but it’s not. Sam sings “Knock on Wood” too. Now the day will come when you’ll all thank me for sharing that with you. Useless trivia like that comes in very handy at pub quizzes, I’ll have you know.’

  More polite laughter, which I barely wait to die down, before I get back to the pitch.

  Don’t get me wrong, this guy’s cute: thick unruly dark curls, and black twinkly eyes. Imagine Heathcliff if he just fell out of bed and put on the first thing that came to hand. He’s actually the only person in the room wearing jeans and trainers, and seems so laid-back, he’ll probably have his feet up on the boardroom table in a minute and start passing around a six-pack.

  But I can’t afford to let the messing get to me, whether Sophie loves or hates my ideas. I need the PR for this gig too badly.

  I wrap up, then pass around the budget costings for the launch, along with some suggested venues I was all day yesterday working on, and mentally remind myself to make particular eye-contact with Sophie as I wrap up. She gives me a half-smile as she takes the presentation pack from me, which I interpret as a positive sign. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ is all she says, as the meeting breaks up and everyone scatters to the four winds.

  ‘Way to go, girl,’ Amanda whispers to me, squeezing my arm encouragingly on her way to the door. ‘That stuff about Casablanca . . . pure genius. I could tell the boss loved it. Oh, better escort this one downstairs,’ she says, indicating Posh Spice, who’s packing up her brie
fcase with a face on her like a bulldog sucking a wasp. ‘Talk to you later, Vicky, and congratulations. Fab, as usual.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  The boardroom’s almost completely cleared out by now, and I’m just packing up my stuff when Messer Man saunters back over, like he’s all the time in the world. The only person in the room who’s in absolutely no rush whatsoever to get back to work.

  ‘So are you a black-and-white movie buff then?’ he asks, arms folded, twinkling down at me, taller than I’d have guessed.

  ‘Definitely,’ I say, a helluva lot more relaxed now that it’s all over bar the shouting, so to speak.

  ‘Did you know Casablanca started out as a stage play?’ he asks, plonking himself down on the boardroom table, one leg crossed over another. No kidding, if this guy was any more laid-back, he’d probably be dead.

  ‘You’re kidding, really?’

  ‘Hand on heart. Called Everybody Comes To Rick’s. “Now not a lot of people know that.”’

  ‘You do a great Humphrey Bogart.’

  ‘Eh, thanks, but that was actually Michael Caine, that time. “You’re only supposed to blow the bloody doors off.” Go on, name that movie.’

  ‘Ehh . . . oh hang on, I know this. Yes, got it, The Italian Job.’

  ‘Well done, you know your stuff. I’m impressed.’

  ‘Not really, I just have two brothers who make me watch that film every Christmas.’

  ‘I’m told I do a mean Sean Connery as well, do you want to hear it?’

  ‘Fire ahead.’

  ‘It’s better if you close your eyes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Trust me.’ I do as I’m told, half-exasperated, half-grinning and half-wondering if anyone in Best’s gets anything done with this messer around. Mind you, he does fit in beautifully with the company ethos: be good-looking, and at all times have a laugh.

  ‘“Now, now, Moneypenny, I’d offer to take you to dinner, only I’d probably get court-marshalled for interfering with government property.”’