Moving On

Hope

Hope

LOCATED IN WEST LONDON, FAR FROM THE GLITZY advertising agencies Ellen had encountered in the centre of the city, those of the glass frontages and revolving doors, Marketing Solutions was different.

It was a regular-looking building, painted cream, and its windows were regular too. Its name was displayed on a small brass plaque on the wall by its (non-revolving) entrance. It was at the end of a short street that also featured a café, a launderette, a bookshop and a pub called The Greedy Ostrich that advertised a beer garden at the rear.

The agency was just three years old, according to Laura: Started by two friends who met in another agency and decided to go it alone. They’ve got a nice little client list. She’d named brands, and Ellen had recognised two of them.

They were currently in need of a copywriter, and had agreed to interview Ellen. She glanced at her reflection in the launderette window and patted her hair, which was just about long enough to pin up – she hoped her clips would hold it in place till after the interview. She took a lipstick from her bag and refreshed what was already there.

She smoothed her skirt. She took a deep breath, and another. What if you try and don’t fail?

She walked in and found herself in a reception area painted white. Behind a desk was a young girl in a check shirt whose sleeves were rolled to the elbows. Her dark hair was pulled off her face with what looked like, but couldn’t possibly be, a giant clothes peg. She regarded Ellen with raised eyebrows and a wide smile.

‘Hi! Can I help?’

‘I have an interview with Mr . . .’ for a second or two his name was gone ‘. . . Robinson.’ Ellen gave an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit nervous.’

‘Oh, don’t be, he’s not at all scary.’ The girl lifted a phone and jabbed at a button. ‘Someone to see you,’ she said. ‘What? . . . Hang on.’ She covered the mouthpiece and said, ‘I forgot to ask your name.’

‘Ellen Sheehan.’

She relayed this. ‘He’ll be out in a sec,’ she said, replacing the receiver. ‘Have a seat.’

Definitely not the polished receptionist type Ellen had encountered in the other agencies. She was directed towards a green tweed couch that was more comfortable than it looked. She plucked a magazine from a table but didn’t open it.

‘I like your skirt,’ the girl said.

‘Thanks.’

‘Have you been in London long?’

‘About eight months.’

Before the girl could ask anything else a nearby door opened and a man emerged. Somewhere between forty and fifty, baggy jeans, white shirt with no tie. Tousle-headed, brown hair sprinkled with grey. A hint of stubble. She wondered if it was company policy not to be smartly dressed. Maybe they were a rebel ad agency.

‘Ellen,’ he said, hand extended. ‘Tim Robinson, creative director. Call me Tim. Thanks for coming in.’

‘She’s nervous,’ the receptionist said, to Ellen’s mortification. ‘Go easy on her.’

He threw her a look, but didn’t respond. ‘Follow me,’ he told Ellen, and led her into the room he’d come from. It held two large desks that butted up together, with a younger man seated at one. Computer monitors sat on both desks: the sight of them made her think of Danny. Everyone will have a computer soon , she remembered him telling her. Wait and see.

The second man looked about Ellen’s age. He had white-blond hair and brown eyes, a striking combination. His neat beard was a few shades darker than his hair. Like Tim, he was in open-necked shirt and jeans. There was a sketchpad on his desk and a scatter of felt-tip pens.

‘Jeff,’ Tim said, ‘Ellen,’ and the man nodded and didn’t offer a hand. On the wall behind him were several framed ads. Butter Up Your Bread , she read, and Don’t Say Cheese, Say Cheddar. One of her ads might be on a wall someday.

‘Please,’ Tim said, indicating a chair, and Ellen sat. ‘Jeff’s copywriter is leaving,’ Tim explained. ‘He’s been poached by a rival agency that can pay more than we can, so we need to replace him.’

‘I see.’

Was that his way of letting her know that the job was low-paid? She wouldn’t let it stop her, if work was offered. She’d determined to accept any job in advertising, as long as the salary paid her bills. She’d got used to living on a shoestring here.

Tim’s desk was practically hidden under piled-up paper-clipped bundles, higgledy-piggledy stacks of folders, scattered leaflets and brochures. He plucked, from the top of the clutter, what looked like Ellen’s embarrassingly short CV.

‘You win competitions,’ he said, reading.

‘Yes. I like coming up with snappy sentence endings.’

‘So that made you think about working in advertising?’

‘Pretty much, yes.’ Was that enough of a reason?

‘You enjoy playing with words.’

‘I do. I love words. I’m a reader,’ she added. ‘I think it goes with the territory.’

‘Certainly helps to broaden the vocabulary,’ he agreed. ‘How’s your Scrabble?’

‘Good – and I love crosswords too.’ Thanks to Frances.

‘I liked what Laura sent of your samples, so let’s see the rest.’

She handed over the portfolio and clenched her hands into fists out of sight while he leafed through it slowly and silently before passing it to Jeff, who did the same. So far, Jeff hadn’t said a word. If she was offered a job, she’d be his copywriter. She wondered what that would be like.

When he’d finished he returned the portfolio to her with a nod. No comment, no smile. Nothing at all to indicate what he’d thought of it.

She saw him exchange a look with Tim that she couldn’t read. She waited to be told that she was no good. She felt they’d be nice enough not to put it in so many words, but the message would be the same. It was her first interview – she couldn’t expect to strike it lucky right away.

‘You’re currently working?’ Tim asked.

‘Yes, in a sandwich bar in Notting Hill.’

‘You definitely have potential,’ he told her. ‘Some nice ideas there – and the competition wins are a good indicator too.’

‘Thank you.’

She waited for the but. The polite but. There was a pause, another silent exchanged look. ‘The stuff in there,’ Tim said, nodding towards the portfolio, ‘is the fun part. Ads are where you get to play – but you’d also have to produce company brochures with all the waffle they want you to write, about their innovative this and cutting edge that. You’d have to come up with promotional ideas for supermarkets and other businesses. You’d be writing copy for price drops, and two-for-one deals, and introductory offers, and other equally scintillating things.’

To her it all sounded scintillating. Every bit of it. ‘I wouldn’t mind any of that,’ she said. ‘I’m pretty sure I’d enjoy it.’

He paused. Had that been a bit much, a bit over-eager? He drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk.

‘We could do a three-month trial,’ he said, ‘and see how we go. Jeff?’

‘Fine.’ He didn’t look like he cared, either way.

It took a few seconds to sink in. Ellen looked from one to the other. Really? Really?

‘Wow, thanks so much, I’m completely . . . I mean, I didn’t think—’ She broke off. Pull yourself together . ‘I’m a bit flabbergasted, as you can see. I wasn’t sure whether you’d see any – but I’d love to accept. Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me yet – like I say, it’s a trial, and there’s no guarantee it’ll come to anything more. You might be ready to run away from us after three months.’

She smiled, her first real smile of the interview. Run away? Not a chance.

‘Also, we can only pay peanuts, which is why we’re looking for a newcomer. Here’ – he rummaged in the pile on his desk and pulled out a brochure – ‘you can read all about us, see what you’re getting into. If you work out, and we keep you on, we might be able to do a small salary raise. I’ll get a temporary contract drafted in the next few days and send it to Laura, and you can see what you think of our terms and conditions before you commit yourself. We’re a friendly bunch here – and Jeff isn’t half as fierce as he looks.’

At that, Jeff simply lifted his eyebrows a fraction. She was sorry she wasn’t going to be working with Tim, who seemed altogether more amiable – but she would happily team up with Quasimodo for this job.

Tim swivelled to consult a desk calendar propped by his computer. ‘Assuming you’re OK with the contract, how would Monday the eleventh of April sound as a starting date? It’s a week after Easter, just over three weeks away. Like I say, you’ll have the contract in a few days.’

‘Perfect,’ she said. Everything was perfect, as long as the peanuts he was offering paid her bills.

‘That’s that then.’ Tim got to his feet, and so did Ellen. Jeff remained seated. ‘Well done,’ he said.

‘I look forward to working with you,’ Ellen replied. Looked forward might be a bit strong.

In the lobby Tim shook her hand again. ‘Welcome to the team.’

‘You got the job!’ the receptionist exclaimed. ‘Congratulations!’

Tim looked pained. ‘My daughter,’ he told Ellen. ‘Our proper receptionist is on honeymoon. Normal service will resume soon.’

‘Well, there’s gratitude for you,’ the girl said. Ellen thought how nice for a workplace not to be too swanky to have the boss’ daughter filling in.

On her way back to the Tube station she was unable to keep the smile off her face. Soon, in just a few weeks, she would be getting paid for playing with words all day.

‘An advertising copywriter,’ she’d say, if anyone asked what she did. She’d throw it out casually, as if it was just another job, and inside she’d be whooping with delight.

She couldn’t wait to start. She imagined telling everyone at home. To think a chance remark from a barman had led to this – she’d have to call in and tell him, and bring him a thank-you gift.

‘Fantastic,’ Claire said. ‘I’m so happy for you. You look like the cat that got the cream.’

‘I feel like it.’

‘I might be job hunting myself soon.’

‘What? You want to leave the pub? I thought you loved it.’

Claire made a face. ‘Not any more. It’s too busy, too noisy – and it’s got too many creeps trying to look down my top. I want somewhere more civilised.’

‘You mean another pub?’

‘I mean another something. I don’t know what I mean.’

An idea struck Ellen. ‘Would you consider the sandwich bar? Evenings and weekends off, and lunch included.’

‘I’d consider anything, but what about Gloria?’

‘Oh, you’d be well able for Gloria – her bark’s worse than her bite. Will I say it to Claudia when I’m handing in my notice? She loves the Irish – she’d be delighted to be getting another one.’

‘Go on then. Nothing to lose.’

In bed later, Ellen replayed the interview in her head, reliving the excitement she’d felt on her way back to Notting Hill. Tomorrow she’d exchange a fiver for coins from the cash register in the sandwich bar, and on the way home she’d phone everyone with the news.

She fell asleep smiling.