The Importance of Being Married: A Novel Read online

  Anthony looked thoughtful for a moment, then flashed Chester a smile. A few seconds later he stood up and walked toward the window. “Milton Advertising,” he said, after a pause, “is not an ordinary firm. Sure, we do some ordinary things, but we like to think that we do them in an extraordinary way. When we work for a client, they become part of our family, part of our raison d’être, if you will. Their problems are our problems, their successes our triumphs. We don’t just assign client directors; we embed them. We work with our clients, not for them. We go the extra mile; we’re available whenever we’re needed, not simply when our office happens to be open. And when you task us to develop a new brand, we don’t just think about logos and typefaces. We think about core values. We think about what a company stands for, what its brand needs to communicate—with customers, with rivals, with shareholders, with the media, the public…We help you to discover who you are, what you’re about, and then we make sure that everything you do reflects your values, from the way your receptionist answers the phone to the way your online sales are handled. We’re big-picture people who are passionate about the detail. We are tireless, committed, insightful. Sometimes we may tell you things that you don’t want to hear, but we’d rather tell you the truth than have you discover it elsewhere. In a nutshell, we care. Deeply. And you’ll see that care in everything we do—from today’s presentation right through to our brand development, should you hire us. Which”—at this point, Anthony turned to Chester—“I sincerely hope you will.”

  The room felt electric, all eyes on Anthony. I knew he hadn’t really said anything—nothing of substance, anyway—but it had worked nonetheless. Even I felt myself thinking I’d hire him if I were in Chester’s shoes.

  He sat down silently. No one said a word. A few seconds later, Chester cleared his throat expectantly, but still no one said anything. Was this a tactic? I wondered. Was this what you did in a pitch to unsettle your clients, to keep them guessing? And then I felt a kick to my ankle. Quickly I swung around to see Marcia glaring at me. “The presentation,” she hissed. “You’re up.”

  My eyes widened. Now? I had to give the worst presentation ever made right now? After that introduction? Smiling awkwardly, I stood up, and Marcia thrust the PowerPoint remote control into my hand.

  “Good day,” I said, clearing my throat, then coughing desperately. Good day? What was I, an eighteenth-century salesman?

  “Good morning, I mean,” I said quickly. “I’m Jessica Wild, and today I’m going to be talking to you in general terms about our interpretation of Jarvis Private Banking’s new venture.”

  I smiled brightly, trying to disguise the abject fear making my legs tremble beneath me.

  “You’re far too modest, Jessica,” Anthony said, encouragingly.

  “I’m sure that you’ve got more than generalities to share with Chester and his colleagues.”

  I blanched. “Right. Yes, of course,” I said. Already I was writing my resignation letter in my head, wondering what other career options might be open to me.

  Hesitantly, I pressed a button on the remote control, and my presentation flashed into life. I wanted to spend as long as possible on the first slide—the one with the title on it—because it was undoubtedly the best; once it left the screen, things would go downhill all the way.

  “Jarvis Private Banking,” I said as authoritatively as I could manage. I looked over at Max; he was looking at the Jarvis Private Banking client file, his eyes serious, those little lines he got between his eyes furrowed and focused. I looked away again quickly. My whole body was shaking, and I was sweating lightly all over. Desperately, I thought about what Anthony had said, trying to think of something I could say to make this presentation slightly less bad than embarrassingly awful. Anything to pad it out just slightly.

  “What…um, what values do we associate with Jarvis Private Banking?” I asked, eventually, then left the question hanging for a minute. Everyone was looking at me expectantly, and I realized I had no idea what their values were. So I decided to throw in another question.

  “Which values are the pivotal ones? And which values need to be carried over to the new investment fund?”

  I was seriously hot now, and lifted my hand to my forehead to wipe away the beads of sweat glistening there. I cleared my throat. “Quality,” I managed to say. “Quality, and…privacy.”

  I snuck a quick look at Chester, who was looking slightly baffled.

  “Quality, privacy, and…luxury,” I concluded. “Luxury products, luxury service. For those who are looking for…luxury.”

  I smiled, but it wasn’t a happy one. It was a smile of desperation.

  And then I noticed Marcia’s mouth. She was smirking, I was sure of it. As she caught my eye, her face turned suddenly serious again, but I’d seen her mouth creasing upward. She actually thought this was funny. She thought it was a joke, me standing here making a fool of myself.

  I pressed a button on the remote control and brought up the second slide.

  Key stakeholder: Chester Rydall, chief exec.

  What we know: New Yorker, smart, taste for luxury

  Chester was looking like he was expecting me to tell him the punch line, like he knew this was meant to be funny but he wasn’t sure why.

  “The reason that this slide is important,” I said, forcing myself to look at Chester seriously, “is that as the leader of the brand, your values are inevitably going to both influence and demonstrate the core values of the brand. If we understand you, we will understand the brand and vice versa. And when I say we, I don’t just mean Milton Advertising, I mean the world at large.” I could feel myself getting hotter and hotter by the minute. All eyes were on me, and not in a good way.

  Chester smiled weakly and I cleared my throat again. There was no going back, I told myself—I was like an out-of-control lorry on the motorway. All I could do was watch the road and try not to hit anyone.

  Quickly I brought up the next slide.

  Investment fund for women

  “And here,” I said brightly, “is the concept that we’re here to discuss today. An investment fund aimed at women. Let’s just think about that, shall we?”

  Everyone stared at me blankly. It was like that nightmare where you’re in an exam and the questions keep changing as soon as you’ve answered them. Or the one where you turn up at the school prom only to discover that you forgot to get dressed.

  “You see,” I said, desperate now, mentally dragging up some facts and figures from the Jarvis spec, “there are a million and one investment funds. More, probably. Investment funds are ten a penny. Investment funds are really not terribly exciting, are they? But an investment fund for women? That’s different. That’s specialized. That’s…brave. Innovative. Pushing back boundaries.”

  I heard a snort from Marcia’s side of the room and bristled. Steeling myself, I flicked to slide four.

  Usual market for investment funds: high-income, sophisticated investors

  It wasn’t much, but at least this slide had more than four words on it. Slowly, I read it out loud. All I could hear was Helen’s voice ringing in my ear like a pantomime dame, telling me I was a hot babe. A hot babe? God, I wished I hadn’t come to work this morning. There I was, a few hours ago, standing in front of the mirror while Helen ummmed and ahhhed over which of her many handbags I should use today, when all the time destiny was planning my total destruction. In fact, handbags were a bit of a running theme in this horror story; Marcia’s shopping list cited at least three that she was hoping to buy.

  “So,” I said, tentatively, remembering the first thing Max had taught me about advertising: clients will always expect you to have the answer, but usually they do—so keep asking questions, because eventually someone will reveal it. “How many people in this room have money invested in investment funds?”

  Slowly, Chester and his two colleagues raised their hands, along with Anthony and Max.

  I figured I had about twenty seconds before they’d ca
ll security.

  “Well, that’s interesting,” I said, taking a deep breath. “All men. All high earners…” I reddened slightly at this point, not sure that it was the done thing to refer to your potential client’s salary level at a pitch…“And all…sophisticated.”

  I caught Anthony’s eye and he raised an eyebrow quizzically, making my blush deepen.

  Quickly I flicked to the next slide.

  Colors? Logo? Bright, not cheap, not tacky.

  I stared at it, feeling the blood drain from my face. It was over. It was all over. Slowly, I turned off the projector. I was going to have to apologize and give up. I had nothing to say, no pitch to present.

  I picked up my bag—Helen’s bag—aware that everyone was staring at me, aware that in a few seconds my career at Milton Advertising would be over. As for Project Marriage, I figured that Project-Getting-Anthony-to-Speak-to-Me-Again would be hard enough.

  “Jess? Is everything okay?” It was Max, his face creased with concern.

  “Of course she’s okay,” Anthony said quickly. “Come on, Jess, don’t keep us waiting. I bet you’ve got something in that bag of yours, haven’t you?”

  I hesitated for a second. Then I bit my lip. Maybe it wasn’t over quite yet. Anthony didn’t think there was anything wrong. He thought I could pull it out of the bag, quite literally. And maybe I could. Helen was right—sometimes you had to go for it. Deal or No Deal. And this job was too important for me to give up. It was going to be Deal all the way. Purposefully, I put my bag back down.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, as the silence around the table deepened uncomfortably. “But no slides are going to get to the nub of the issue here.”

  “The nub?” Chester asked tentatively.

  “The nub,” I confirmed. It was all or nothing, I decided. Sink or swim. And I was going to do what I could to stay afloat, even if it meant doggy paddle. “And the nub of the issue is that women, particularly the ones who’ve got enough money to invest in an investment fund, would probably rather spend the money on…”

  I looked at Marcia, and my eyes were drawn to something on the floor next to her. Something made of the softest, buttery leather. Something that, I had no doubt, had cost upward of three hundred pounds. And then I had an idea.

  “…on a handbag,” I concluded firmly.

  “A handbag?” Chester was staring at me now.

  “A handbag,” I confirmed. “Or a great pair of shoes.”

  “Instead of an investment fund?”

  I nodded. If I was going down, I was going to fight all the way. “Marcia,” I said, seriously, “how many pairs of shoes do you have?”

  “Jessica, I’m not telling you that.” She glanced around the table with a slightly baffled look on her face.

  “No, tell us,” Chester said intently.

  She looked at Anthony, who nodded, and she sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. Thirty, maybe.”

  “Including the ones you don’t wear much?” I asked her.

  Marcia smiled uncomfortably. “Okay, maybe more like forty. No, fifty. Something like that, anyway.”

  “And bags?” I persisted. “How many bags?”

  Marcia was looking very uncomfortable now. I’d seen her with at least ten designer bags in as many months.

  “Fifteen,” she said with a shrug. “Twenty. What does it matter? We’re talking about an investment fund, Jessica, remember?”

  “Fifty pairs of shoes and twenty handbags. Average cost of each, three hundred pounds. That makes…” I frowned as I did the calculation, unsure how many zeros to add…“Twenty-one thousand pounds! Twenty-one thousand pounds that could have been secured in an investment fund, but only if that investment fund made Marcia feel as good as if she’d bought a new pair of shoes, or a new bag.”

  “Twenty-one thousand pounds on…on accessories?” Chester said, busily scribbling on a piece of paper. “And this is normal?”

  “Completely,” I said confidently, thinking of Helen’s wardrobe back home. “Some women will have a lower budget, of course, but the proportion of salary will be similar.”

  “Really? So how do we do it? How do we make a fund as desirable as a handbag?” Chester asked, leaning forward and picking up his pen. Anthony grinned at me and I felt my shoulders relax just slightly.

  “Well,” I said, playing for time. I suddenly remembered the Vogue article I’d read when Pedro had been trussing my hair up like a chicken being prepared for Sunday lunch. It had been discussing the key items of the season, pieces of clothing that had waiting lists as long as your arm, and which items fashion-conscious women would fight over. At the time I’d been amazed that anyone would pay over a thousand pounds for a green sweater, but now it was giving me ideas. “Explaining the benefits and the growth potential isn’t going to work, is it? Because plenty of funds do that, and Marcia still prefers to spend her money on handbags.”

  Anthony laughed and Marcia grimaced slightly; it was all I needed to spur me on. “No,” I continued, getting into my stride, “to make an investment fund as sexy and aspirational as a handbag, it has to be difficult to get hold of—which means waiting lists. It needs visible benefits—maybe a limited-edition purse given out free when you open the fund, so that those in the know recognize it and it becomes a little club. Make it expensive—minimum investment of, I don’t know, two thousand pounds a month or something, so that not everyone can afford it. Don’t call customers ‘customers’ or even ‘clients’—call them members, so they feel a sense of ownership. And don’t aim your public relations at the finance pages; aim it at Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. Get a couple of celebrities to join and get them to mention it in a Hello! Magazine interview.”

  I took a deep breath and looked at Chester. For what felt like forever, he didn’t say a word; just looked down at the notes he’d scribbled, scratching his head. Then he lifted his head.

  “I love it.”

  I looked at him uncertainly. “You…you do?”

  “I really love it,” he said again. “You’ve managed to get to the…what did you call it? The nub? Yes, you got to the nub of the issue so succinctly. You’re right—a formal presentation of slides was all wrong for this. I have to hand it to you, Anthony, this was one hell of a presentation. Off the wall, had me guessing there for a while, but I guess that’s what you meant by extraordinary. It certainly wasn’t ordinary, that’s for sure.”

  I was getting goose bumps on the back of my neck. He loved my idea?

  “Of course it wasn’t ordinary,” Anthony said warmly, winking at me and causing Marcia’s eyes to narrow. “Jess, you’ve done us proud. Thank you.” I looked over at Max to see if he was smiling, too, to see if he was looking at me proudly, but his eyes were fixed downward and I felt my shoulders fall slightly.

  “Thank you,” I forced myself to say, the words sounding alien in my mouth. “I’m so glad you liked it.”

  I grinned, then felt Marcia’s gaze on me. She had a very fixed smile on her face. “That all sounds so great,” she said. “But what about the branding? I thought we were going to cover that, too, Jess.”

  “And I’m sure she’s got it covered,” Anthony said reassuringly, his eyes twinkling. Suddenly he didn’t look quite so plasticky. He was actually quite attractive, really, in a blond, blue-eyed kind of way. “What were your thoughts on the branding, Jess?”

  I shook myself. “Well, obviously,” I said, “the branding would need to reflect these…these values and…and…aspirations.”

  “And they would be?” Marcia asked, wide-eyed.

  “I thought you’d know that, Marcia,” I said smoothly. “The values are luxury, membership, and exclusivity.”

  “Exactly,” Chester said, grinning.

  “What about visuals, Jess?” Max asked suddenly.

  “I…” I looked up to see him smiling appreciatively at me and I felt a surge of happiness zip through my body. Then my eyes flickered back to Anthony, who was grinning ear-to-ear. “I thought that the logo might be a
handbag,” I found myself saying, like I’d spent a week prepping for the question. “Or maybe a pair of shoes. Something that tells men that this isn’t a club for them.”

  Chester was still looking at me expectantly, so I decided to continue. “It could have a tagline that plays on the logo,” I said, my eye flicking up to meet Anthony’s again and feeling immediately reassured by his confident smile. “Something like All you need to carry with you or Keeping you walking tall all the way.

  “All you need to carry with you. This just gets better and better,” Chester said, standing up. “So listen, I’m hooked. I can’t stay now—I’ve got another meeting. But I’m going to keep in touch. I have a good feeling about this.” He looked at me. “Jessica Wild, huh?” he asked. I nodded. “Good to meet you,” he continued. “Good to have you on the team.”

  And with that, he and his flunkies left Anthony’s office.

  “Marcia, see him to the door, will you?” Anthony asked. Marcia opened her mouth as if to complain, then shrugged and half jogged out of the room.

  Immediately Anthony rounded on me, enveloping me in a huge bear hug. “Jarvis Private Finance. We’ve got fucking Jarvis Private Banking! Jessica Wild, you’re an asset to this company.”

  “I am?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Yes, you are,” Anthony said. He clapped Max on the back. “Jarvis Private Banking,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not just blue chip. It’s royal blue chip. Think of the money! No more problems, Max. It’s going to be plain sailing from now on.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Max said, picking up his papers. “A good job all around, I think.”