…And write a little fiction.

Pitch Theatre

 Nobody ever asked Marilyn questions about herself.

“When did you last water the cactus?”

“Did someone spill something here?”

 “Are these free?”

It was as though they believed she really was a “passionate front of house professional”, as per the job description she’d answered eighteen tortuous months ago. That this “hub of spear-heading strategists and eclectic ideation-engineers on a mission to create radically consumer-centric stories that reimagine the future of brands” really was her life. That just because she was always sat here when people arrived or called, she never actually left.

When her cat sitting business took off, she would kiss the job goodbye.

“Could I borrow a pen?”

Marilyn looked up from organising photos on her phone. She was deleting the pictures of Norman, her Persian pride-and-joy, that were too blurred or underexposed to make the final cut; otherwise he’d shed Instagram followers even faster than he managed to shed fur. Maintaining triple figures was a struggle, so this was something he really couldn’t afford to do.

It was just Giles from accounts. He often had questions for Marilyn, none of which were urgent or important or needed to be asked at all. They were both of an age where they should be settled down but weren’t, which meant they were perfect for each other, or at least as far as Giles was concerned.

She smiled and handed him a branded biro.

Giles was the kind of man you felt sorry for, which was an insurmountable barrier to lust. He had a complexion of uncooked pastry and eyes like pie steam-vents. He owned two suits, both a little short in the leg and too wide at the shoulders, which he wore on alternate days. Giles always turned up to work drinks, even at short notice, or when he hadn’t been invited at all. Once ensconced with a Bacardi and coke, he would edge into a circle and say strange things that nobody either acknowledged or heard. If you got stuck on your own with him and asked about weekend plans, his answer was always “Lunch at Mum’s”.

Giles wrote an address on a brown A5 envelope and held it over the out-tray.

“Shall I pop this in here?” He had a voice delivered through the nose.

“Yes, please,” said Marilyn, already back on her phone. She added a filter to make the most of Norman’s glorious coat and blue eyes and uploaded it to Instagram with a selection of carefully chosen hashtags. The rush of expectation turned her cheeks quite pink.

When she looked up again, Giles was gone.

“Is the boardroom booked for the 2pm pitch?”

This question came from a blur of blue denim: David Springer, Head of Strategy. His job was to build enormous PowerPoint presentations packed with pie charts and soundbites revealing searing insights such as “bored housewives spend a lot of time on Facebook”.

“Sure is!” Marilyn called back as David punched the lift button three times.

“Sweet! You’re an angel! We want to wow Subaru, so make sure you get the expensive biscuits. I’m sure you have it under control!”

David always walked at top speed to denote his indispensability. Every day he fired gushing remarks Marilyn’s way, like a parent praising a talentless child who’s crafted something unrecognisable from clay. David was too old for his thick red-rimmed glasses, turned-up jeans and Converse trainers. He was too old to be saying words like sweet, except in the context of pudding. He was too old to be sleeping with the new 23-year-old account exec who was so in awe of his walking tempo she was blind to his many and unforgiveable flaws.

The married men always dallied with their fresh-faced colleagues. They had nothing to lose, except a family. With their egos padded by lifetime commitments, it was always worth a punt.

Not that any of them bothered with Marilyn. She was nearly 40, well above the average age of employees at the agency. And even 15 years ago, she wasn't thin or beautiful enough to compete with the fashion show that strutted past her reception desk each day.

She looked up at the sound of the glass front door shuddering closed. Felicity Gordon. Dressed impeccably in a fitted black dress, red patent shoes and a polka dot neckerchief tied just so.

Marilyn tugged on the cuffs of her bobbly grey cardigan as Felicity’s stiletto heels drum-rolled her approach.

“What a weekend.” Felicity pouted while tweaking the position of her fringe. “But I did sign up to this, didn’t I? Three birthday parties – all fancy dress – and a pitch document to wave some creative magic over.” She closed her eyes for moment to gather herself before coming too with a shiver.  “Of course, I wouldn’t change one thing.”

Despite her demanding schedule, Felicity had time to maintain a blog called ‘It’s All Worth It’.  The introductory blurb poses the question, “How do I manage a career at a top NMA agency and motherhood?” Had anyone ever asked Felicity how she manages a career at a top NMA agency and motherhood? No. But that wasn’t going to stop her. If Marilyn’s time at the agency had taught her anything, it was that persons most lacking in self-awareness considered themselves most capable of insight.

“Make sure you check the blog. There are some adorable new photos of the boys!”

Marilyn nodded. Perhaps Felicity would like to see the latest snaps of Norman with his head in a plastic bag.

“How long has that picture been like that?” Felicity's smile set like cement.

Marilyn glanced over her shoulder.

“Could you straighten it before Subaru get here, please? Attention to detail is so important when it comes to our clients.”

The picture was one of many framed quotes adorning the agency walls, although this one had pride of place.

We are happy buccaneers plundering the high seas of creativity

Signed by none other than Felicity Gordon, in a flourish that was unquestionably creative.

000

“Mind if I grab a handful of these?”

Marilyn was busy completing her profile on catsitters.com. She’d included a photo of the elaborate cat tree that stretched floor to ceiling in her dining-living space, a photo of Norman lounging on his back which reinforced just how relaxing it was to be a cat under her care, and a selfie with Norman on her lap where his head appeared to be twice the size of her own.

It was the Subaru marketing director, Marilyn’s least favourite client, plunged wrist-deep in a bowl of retro sweets. His face was orange and puffed up like a Wotsit, and he had an unnerving habit of leaning in too close. The tangle of hair that stuffed his large nostrils frequently put Marilyn off her lunch.

“Hi Clive!” She rolled her chair back a fraction. He reeked of arrogance and excessive Aramis. “Please help yourself.”

Today the agency was re-pitching for Clive’s business. And as with all re-pitches, the prevailing mood was one of anger. Management was angry Felicity had put creative integrity above the bottom line. Felicity was angry the account-management team hadn’t made the client feel appreciated. The account-management team was angry the creative teams hadn’t come up with enough sensible, client-friendly ideas. The creative teams, who were known to take everything personally, were crippled with the pain of rejection and many years of diluted ideas.

Clive pushed a Flying Saucer between slug-like lips. Behind him two female colleagues in grey suits lowered themselves awkwardly into the crush-velvet upholstered armchairs that were sandwiched between two giant lightbulbs. The agency’s clients enjoyed the spectacle of this other world, where people sported pink hair and tattoo sleeves as a direct result of creative impulses, even if they weren’t entirely comfortable within in.

“Could you let the guys know we’re here?” Clive asked, moistening his lips with a plump but rather grey tongue, while checking his Rolex for effect. Then he spun on his heels and fell heavily into a Ball Chair.

Marilyn put a call into David – “Thanks Marilyn! You’re a sweetheart! What would I do without you?” – who appeared moments later and swept the group up like a tornedo.

Marilyn checked her dashboard stats for views.

Zero.

Perhaps the page hadn’t updated yet.

Just as she tapped the refresh button, the sound of scraping metal cut through the conditioned air.

Kate and James, the Subaru account execs, were on the pavement struggling beneath the weight of the empty shell of a car.

They’d joined on the graduate scheme – after three days of psychometric tests and demonstrating skills they would never use – and worked the hardest for the least pay. The honour of working at the agency was supposed to be recompense enough. Kate was petit and pretty like a little bird, but also just as twitchy. Felicity’s favourite, she took on every task with gusto, even when it was pointless, moronic or utterly demeaning. She was the ideal agency hire. James was very excitable. Literally everything excited him. Free peanut butter in the mornings, toilet-roll pitches, seeing a travel insurance banner ad he’d overseen on a real life website. There was no doubt he’d go far.

Kate mouthed something that looked like “Could you help?” but it was a windy day and her long blonde hair kept flying into her mouth.

“Why have you got that?” asked Marilyn, opening each of the large glass doors wide.

“It’s pitch theatre,” replied Kate, backing inside.

“You alright at the front?” called James.

“Yes!” puffed Kate.

Pitch theatre: gimmicks designed to distract clients from the actual ideas themselves.

“Where’s it going?” asked Marilyn, stepping beside Kate to help her with the weight.

Kate nodded up at the ceiling.

“The first floor?” asked Marilyn.

“No. Up there,” said Kate, nodding again at the ceiling.

“We’re dramatising the pitch idea!” James’s disembodied voice explained.

Marilyn frowned.

“Subaru sticks to the road? We’ve got to stick this…” Kate nodded aloft again. “…up there.”

The car was lowered with a clang.

“But how?”

“I’ve got a crane!” James enjoyed saying this sentence immensely. “Just a mini one, obviously!” He peered out into the road then turned back to the women: “Here it comes!”

Sure enough, a miniature yellow crane appeared on the road outside, manned by three hard-hatted men in high-vis jackets.

“Why didn’t the crane bring the car?” asked Marilyn, squinting at the vehicle and trying to calculate if it could fit through the double doors.

“Oh, we didn’t have the budget for that,” said Kate, wiping the sweat from her forehead with a trembling hand.

Marilyn returned to her seat and watched the crane crawl into the atrium. Kate used various hand signals to assist while James captured the manoeuvre on his phone.

The men in hard hats positioned the car upside down on the crane’s platform. Then one took charge of the controls while the other two climbed on board and were lifted to the ceiling, together with the car.

Marilyn tapped refresh again. The results had increased! One unique visitor. Although Marilyn had a nagging suspicion the one unique visitor might just be her. Was that how it worked? Or not? It was difficult to concentrate with all the drilling and shouting going on.

“Do you think it looks OK?” asked Kate. The crane had gone and she and James were now leaning back on the reception desk, peering up at the car.

“It looks like a car on the ceiling,” replied Marilyn, putting her phone face down to manage temptation.

“It does, doesn’t it?” said James, holding his phone low for a selfie. It wasn’t a very flattering angle and he was struggled to get the desired result.

“Hurry up, James,” said Kate, glancing nervously towards the lift. “We’re not supposed to speak to the client.”

The agency policy was that account execs should be seen and not heard. Brainstorms were the one exception, so long as all ideas were run past the relevant account director at least 24 hours before such meetings began. James and Kate took the stairs, just to be sure.

Moments later, the lift doors opened and out squeezed the Subaru team, followed by David Springer and Felicity Gordon.

Marilyn was curious to see how the car on the ceiling was going to go down.

“Is that?...” Clive blinked up towards the car. “Is that a car on the ceiling?”

“Subaru Sticks to the Road!” Felicity corrected him, throwing her arms in the air and lunging forward like a tap dancer.

There was an awkward silence.

Marilyn had to admit, now that she was paying attention, it wasn’t exactly wow-factor stuff. The car didn’t have any wheels and was starting to come unstuck.

The two female clients smiled politely. “Very clever,” said one. “We really love the idea,” said the other.

“Fantastic stuff. Well done to all the team,” said Clive. Although he was preoccupied fishing for a Rhubarb and Custard.

Felicity’s ears were red.

“And when should we expect to hear back?” asked David, slipping his hands into his pockets to show he wasn’t all that bothered about the answer, even though his deranged smile said otherwise.

Marilyn’s phone was blinking. A green glow reflected in the white veneer.

“I’ll confirm on my round-up email,” replied Clive, fiddling with a sweet wrapper.

Instagram, perhaps?

“Marilyn, could you call a cab?”

She was tempted to sigh. But Marilyn prided herself on maintaining an expression of blank acquiescence between the hours of 8am and 5pm, so she kept the air inside her chest. She smiled at the group, who weren’t looking at her anyway, and reached for her mobile to book a car with the app.

It was a new email. She’d just have a quick look first.

The desk vibrated below her forearms as an enormous crash swelled and reverberated around the atrium. There was a scream followed by wailing that rose and fell like a siren.

Marilyn gasped. Her hand pressed against her pounding heart.

It was her first catsitting booking. Right there in her email. And for two cats. Brother and sister, they enjoyed cuddles and tuna.

“Marilyn! Have you called an ambulance?”

It was a strange, rasping voice.

Felicity’s face appeared, pale and waxy. Her fringe had caught awkwardly on her left eyebrow and her polka dot scarf was now pressed against a neck-wound so deep it pumped blood like an open beer tap. She fell forward onto the desk and began to slide slowly backwards, her lycra-mix dress squeaking as she went.

Marilyn stood and peered into the lobby. The car wasn’t on the ceiling. It was on the ground. Two Converse trainers pointed out of the wreckage at angles that suggested they weren’t in fact a pair. The female clients hugged their laptop bags and gawped at the mess. Clive was nowhere to be seen.

Marilyn reached for her mobile; she’d better make that call.

But it was blinking at her again. She’d just take a quick look.

Would you like to confirm this booking?

How nice to be asked. She clicked on the accept button and walked around to the front of the desk.

“Felicity,” said Marilyn.

There was quite a lot of blood and her eyes had turned glassy. Marilyn frowned and reached down to straighten the wayward fringe. That was better.

“Felicity,” she began again. “Please accept my resignation with immediate effect. I’ve got a new job now.”

Felicity’s right hand twitched, which would have to do, given the circumstances.

Marilyn smiled and tiptoed – it seemed the right thing to do – back around the desk. She took her mobile in one hand and the bowl of sweets in the other.

“Good luck with the pitch,” she said, stepping over Felicity and heading for the front door, secure in the knowledge that at least Giles would notice she’d gone.