Hotel Pastis by Peter Mayle Page B

to see presentations for their five million-pound account. Simon knew that two other agencies were pitching, and he wanted the business. Although the billing wasn’t enormous, it would be worth having for the creative opportunities it offered. Sex and social responsibility—a copywriter’s dream assignment—could be the basis for some showy, provocative work that would be in dramatic contrast to the package-goods advertising that the agency produced for its major clients. And the City would be pleased to see another few million on the turnover. It would be, as Jordan had been heard to say, a rubber feather in the agency’s cap.
    Simon looked through the documents that would be incorporated into a single glossy volume for Thursday’s meeting, the paper crutch carefully designed to support the campaign idea, proof that the agency had done its homework. He weighed the inch-thick pile in his hands, sighed, and forced himself to concentrate.
    The days leading up to the presentation passed in a series of skirmishes between the various departments of the agency. The research people accused the creative people of ignoring their findings. The creative people sulked and complained about lack of time. The media people complained about lack of sufficient money for a national campaign. The executives complained about everybody else’s unreasonable and childish behaviour. The agency bitched and snarled its way towards Thursday, working late and muttering about pressure and brutal hours. It was always the same, Simon thought. Give them three days or six months, it didn’t matter. Panic was part of the game.
    The Rubber Barons were late. The presentation had been set for two-thirty. The receptionist had hidden her copy of
Hello!
magazine, the charts in the conference room had been checked for the twentieth time, secretaries briefed to look busy, the dartboard taken down from the art department bullpen, fresh rolls of paper installed in the conference room lavatory—the Shaw Group was ready, poised for another triumph, and the members of the presentation team gathered in Simon’s office, trying to look relaxed and quietly confident.
    And now it was nearly three o’clock. The bastards were late, and jittery speculation was rife. They’d been out to lunch with one of the other agencies. They’d given them the business and been celebrating. Bastards. All that work for nothing. The least they could do was call. Probably too pissed, too busy getting stuck into the third bottle of port.
    Simon’s office was thick with smoke and pessimism, and Liz wrinkled her nose as she put her head roundthe door. “They’re here. Seven of them. They brought one extra.”
    Shit. There were only six in the agency team, and it would never do to be one man short, to leave a client dangling at the end of the conference table all on his own. Clients got very touchy about little things like that, felt they weren’t getting enough respect.
    Simon looked around. “We need another body. Who’d be most useful?”
    A young man in a dark suit—a planner, solemn and safe—was suggested, elected, and summoned while Simon went out to the reception area.
    It resembled a small convention of attaché case salesmen: seven black, leather-look cases, seven sober suits, seven earnest faces. Simon adopted his most welcoming manner as he identified the senior Rubber Baron and shook him by the hand. “I’m so sorry to keep you. One of those interminable phone calls. How are you?”
    “I think we should be making the apologies, Mr. Shaw. One of those interminable lunches.” The Rubber Baron bared his teeth. His cheeks had a three-gin flush, and Simon wondered whether he’d last the course without falling asleep.
    He shepherded the group down the corridor, past secretaries bowed diligently over their keyboards, and into the sombre luxury of the main conference room, windowless, thickly carpeted, silent except for the ruffle of air conditioning. The agency team rose