Chapter 3
There are three main teams at The Nighy Agency: client accounts, strategy and creative.
I manage the accounts team, but as our agency is smaller than the larger powerhouses, I get involved in many aspects of the campaign with all departments.
We’re situated on the third floor of a large glass building but the office space itself isn’t quite as progressive or modern as others I’ve seen.
We have an open-plan floor, two conference rooms, a small kitchen, a couple of huddle areas and, thankfully, an excellent coffee machine.
But there’s no pool room, no oddly shaped couches or beanbags to lounge on, no beer on tap and no bring your dog to work day, which quite frankly is a breach of human rights, as Susan in accounts has a Pomeranian.
It’s a good place to work, however. It has a laid-back vibe and everyone works their butts off without too much fuss.
No dress code, although I do smarten up for client meetings, especially if they’re old school.
Patricia Bloom, who owns three bridal boutiques, wouldn’t part with her money if someone turned up to a meeting in combat trousers and an oversized jumper.
Monday mornings can be a tad hectic, dealing with the emails and potential problems which have emerged over the weekend.
We have twenty staff, most of them great to work with (except mediocre copywriter Shelley, who’s engaged to owner Rupert and can’t quite understand why rose petals aren’t thrown at her feet every morning when she graces us with her presence).
She’s around twenty years younger than Rupert, who’s my age but he has far less hair and a more substantial backside.
Her dad is a disgustingly wealthy entrepreneur (currently a dragon on Dragon’s Den) and Rupert is a bumbling idiot, friends with the political and financial elite and without doubt knows where the bodies are buried.
‘Sophie. Just a heads up that Eddie Bailey from Flirt First is on his way in.’
I sigh, turning around to see Rupert standing with a cup of coffee. His face looks unpleasantly pink. ‘Did he say why?’
‘Didn’t ask,’ he replies. ‘I’m sure you’ll find out.’
He walks to his office and closes the door while I inwardly groan at the thought of having to have yet another meeting with Eddie bloody Bailey, given that he’s already signed off on the whole campaign.
It would have taken him two seconds to garner some useful information, but Rupert doesn’t care.
Despite his puzzling apathy towards his own business I hope that he has plans to eventually expand.
My promotion and resulting increase in salary don’t seem quite so impressive six years on when a tub of butter now costs three thousand pounds.
‘Bad luck,’ says the voice from the desk in front of me. ‘Every time he’s in he wants to talk about his keto diet. Being bored to death on a Monday is the worst possible start to the week.’
The look of defeat on my face makes Kieran laugh.
‘I’d pay good money to never have to sit through one of his nutrition monologues again,’ I say, wearily.
‘Well, you know what they say,’ Kieran replies. ‘Silence is golden. Duct tape is silver.’
He’s absolutely my favourite person at the agency.
A six-foot-three, twenty-five-year-old, bearded social media manager, who, like most, works from home two days a week.
I love homeworking. I can do it all in my pyjamas and I’m there to collect all the packages I’ve bought on impulse after three glasses of wine.
The other three days are spent at our desks, Kieran’s situated directly in front of mine.
We’re like Jim and Pam from The Office, if Jim saw Pam as less of a love interest and more of a mother figure who brings in doughnuts on a Monday.
Rupert is the only one who has his own office, which he uses to spray liberal amounts of Creed aftershave and shout about the Wi-Fi speed. I pick up the phone and dial reception.
‘Eesha, do we have anyone in meeting room two this morning?’
I wait while she brings up the diary. ‘Susan has it booked from twelve until two so you’ll need to dispose of Eddie’s body before then.’
Eesha is probably my second favourite person here. She’s incredibly bright, funny and willing to share office gossip that might have passed me by. It seems the recent appearance of Shelley’s new fringe was not a fashion choice, it was to cover a botched Botox eyebrow lift. I thrive on this shit.
Thirty minutes later Eddie bounds into the office, his extreme-hold hair gel glistening under the lights. I’m sure I see Kieran slowly sink under his desk.
‘Sophie, babe. How are you?’
Annoyed with your presence already, Eddie.
‘Good,’ I reply. ‘Nice to see you! Can I get you a coffee?’
‘No need,’ he replies. ‘I’m actually off the caffeine. Last week I read that caffeine can hinder creativity and I can’t afford to . . .’
I zone out, intermittently making noises of interest and agreement while we walk to the meeting room.
‘So, how can I help you?’
He takes the seat at the end of the table. ‘You know, I’m really not sure about the new logo, babe,’ he informs me. ‘I don’t think it says playful . . . sexy. It’s more . . .’
Appealing to a market who aren’t just looking for hook-ups? Like you asked for?
‘Sure. OK,’ I reply, knowing that this could have been a quick call resulting in emailing over some alternative ideas. ‘We can work on that. Do you have anything in mind?’
‘Hmm, just something more . . .’
‘Frisky? Bolder colours?’
‘Exactly. I think having the right logo is important. Did you know that the Coke logo was designed by the bookkeeper Frank Mason Robinson? Nothing to do with the squash company of course but . . .’
Oh, fucking hell. Just stop.
Ten minutes later, we shake hands goodbye, and I go back to my desk, minus some brain cells. Kieran emerges from under the desk.
‘You were down there a while.’
‘Dropped my pen,’ he informs me.
‘Into the Mariana Trench?’
He smirks as I turn on my laptop and log in.