Fire in the Firefly (16 page)

He's always felt that the quality of Lily's prose lacks something when compared to the standard of her verse. But, damn, he did forget about the AdForge Awards. Roebuck checks his calendar. She is right of course: it's this coming Thursday. The date completely slipped his mind. Which reminds him that he still needs to work up a presentation. Though that now, too, will have to be rethought
.

Roebuck is disturbed that he's forgotten. It's his normal practice to take awards very seriously. All agencies do, although at the same time everyone pretends not to give a crap. Roebuck doesn't play that game. Or, more accurately, he prefers to play it at a higher level. He knows—and this truth he holds absolutely—that if there's one thing his business is about, it's recognition. That's pretty much
all
it's about. An advertiser not interested in receiving recognition is like a carnivore not interested in meat.

His facial muscles twitch while Roebuck gazes at the ceiling.

Potential.

He settles back, taps his fingers on the laptop, still staring at the ceiling, opens up his Axiom File, and for a moment weighs the pros and cons of tacking on a supplementary clause—something like “both are heading for extinction”—but decides to keep it clean and simple.

“Speaking of the AFAs,” he writes, returning to his email, “how's this …?”

Over the span of their relationship, Roebuck has entertained Lily with many such sayings—aphorisms? epigrams? adages? squibs?—he's never really certain what to call them, but he's confident that she enjoys their deconstruction as much, or nearly as much, as he enjoys composing them. Often they will serve to stimulate argument, which for the two of them is tantamount to sex, or the next best thing to sex, when sex itself is unobtainable.

He's fairly certain this one will strike a chord, if not for its wit then at least for the memories he knows it will arouse. They'd talked about exactly this subject at last year's AFAs. Or rather, some hours after, in a room at the Four Seasons; one of the few nights they have ever spent together. There are strict rules: chief among them that, although Roebuck is entitled to cheat on his wife, he is not permitted to steal time from his family. With rare exceptions, he and Lily see each other during daylight hours only when they both can slip away from work. Weekends, holidays, even the hours between school and his children's bedtimes are, for him at least, the exclusive property of domestic hearth and home.

So special events like the AdForge Awards are cherished all the more for how rarely they come along. Roebuck was a panelist last year, provided with a room at the hotel where the other judges were put up. Some of Lily's work was nominated so she was in attendance that night too. He'd told Anne that it was sure to be a late night of drinking, catching up, shoptalk, and so on. There was the expectation he would crash at the hotel.

Anne used to go with him to events like these—and still enjoys the trips to Cannes or London when those ones come along—but years ago decided that sitting in a ballroom stuffed with hyperventilating advertisers was worse than riding with a busload of alcoholics midway through a pub crawl.

“Better you than me,” she said.

Roebuck repeated his wife's observation that very same night as he and Lily lay together in their rumpled sheets, overlooking the display of hardware lined up on the dressing table. Quite a haul, despite his having withdrawn from competition in the categories he was tapped to judge. Officially, top prize each year is
The Golden Anvil Award, presented to whichever agency has made the biggest impact, overall. Winning The Golden Anvil guarantees a glowing feature in
AdForge
—the year he got it for the Ripreeler campaign, they published a cover of Roebuck with his chin pressed against the anvil and a No. Six Spinner clenched between his teeth—but there are dozens of lesser prizes, including his own
hands-down
favourite: Best Art Direction in a Radio Spot (one Roebuck covets, but has never achieved). Another that has always tickled him was sitting on the table, not six feet from his toes—The P. D. Harper Award for Most Imaginative Use of White Space—part of Lily's catch that night.

It was this award that had put them in the mood for disputation.

Lily took the position that a category like that was
flat-out
ridiculous and that her march to the podium to receive the prize for it was plain embarrassing. Roebuck's bias was more nuanced (he admits a higher tolerance for inanity), and Lily didn't really mean it; at least not in that articulation.

Truthfully, there's just no denying the practical value of awards: they inform the world its winner does good work, which in turn attracts business, which in turn pays the rent. Clients attend these events and, more importantly, other people's clients comparing them unfavourably to you. Lily knows all that. But recognition was never really her complaint. Her true objection, and something of a delicate one owing to the circumstances, was—and still is—that she honestly believes the entire industry is run by crooks and shitheads.

Although it's true that Roebuck and his ego have developed a healthy working relationship, the same cannot be said for many of his associates—the very ones he was supposed to be carousing with that night. Lily, with a shade more smugness than he thought was fair, hadn't hesitated in pointing out that there he was with her instead of them.

“Well you can hardly fault me for that. Plus, that argument is beside the point. It's not people I'm defending. It's the awards.”

The difficulty, with so many of his peers, is their willingness to interpret success in advertising as a measure of success itself. Roebuck is amazed at how repeatedly he sees this. Advertising itself is void of meaning. Or rather, it has meaning only as an aid toward a far more fundamental chase. As an occupation, it's extremely verbal and tends to generate a lot of money, a combination which—to a greater degree than any other profession he considered in his youth—attracts the attention of women like Lily (and Anne, of course, and Yasmin possibly, and certainly Zhanna). But this line of reasoning would have been an unproductive one to have pursued in that particular context.

“You're right,” he'd said, following up. “The business is a showcase for misguided
self-esteem
… all those egos strolling to the podium in ragged jeans and ripped
T-shirts
, making the exact same speeches as the ones
jumped-up
in their Armanis. I totally agree. It's all so obvious …”

But, on the other hand, wasn't that the
nature
of the business: segmentation of the obvious? He might also have mentioned his own special loathing for creative directors who sit smugly at their tables, pretending to ignore the applause while sending up some blushing junior to accept the prize on their behalf. Roebuck really does despise that brand of arrogance. But this, too, was not germane, nor was his reply to Lily, though he went ahead with it anyway, because he really wasn't able to resist. “But if you want to talk about posing, you have to admit it's not restricted to the advertising business. You'll agree the literary community, for instance, has its share. What about that guy who won that big prize a few years back for an entire book made up of only vowels? Or was it consonants, I forget?”

“I wasn't talking about posing,” replied Lily after considering her response for maybe a quarter of a second. “You were. I was talking about assholes. And for the record, it was one vowel per chapter, asshole, not the whole book. And none of that changes the fact that the only reason I'm here tonight is to be with you.”

Sic probo
. Or so Roebuck believed at the time.

His computer pings again, and he draws it to him eagerly. Lily is not a postponer.

Considering this as a line in your address? It's definitely your voice, though you know how much I disapprove of what it is saying. But it has a kind of cadence, and I'm sure you'll make it work. Though I think you might want to add a preface, something like: “Awards are the proteins of our business: an advertiser not interested in recognition is like a carnivore not interested in meat ... (bletch).” Curious to hear where you go with it. Looking forward to debriefing. See you Thursday!

Amazing.

It had never crossed his mind to use this phrase as a line in his speech. He was weighing it only as a possible addition to his epigram collection. But she's completely right. It
would
have been a perfect fit. In fact, he could easily have worked it up into a theme for the entire talk. Roebuck has to stop himself, even now, from shifting to a blank page and fleshing out the concept.

He activates his client file instead. The other thing he's going to have to deal with is the organizers, who are going to be extremely pissed. One complication at a time.

It takes a bit of browsing, but eventually he finds it. Roebuck
double-checks
the dates and confirms they do indeed conflict. It's Helsinki—so he'll have to spend a lot of hours getting there and back—but that's no hardship. The longer Roebuck studies the invitation, the more he's convinced that this is what he's looking for. In fact, now that he considers it, he has to wonder why he didn't give this one more serious consideration when it first arrived. It's undoubtedly the kind of thing he
should
be attending. And such a golden opportunity to reaffirm relations with what is, unquestionably, his number one client. Roebuck studies the list of attendees. Some very key players. Funny, sometimes, the twists fate takes; there are moments when he suspects he might actually have a guardian angel, working his corner. Really, it
would
have been a serious miscalculation to have taken a pass on a conference this high level.

It's always better to face the hard things
head-on
and get them over with. Roebuck takes a breath, channelling that
plough-ahead
-
until-the
-
page-is
-full technique he taught himself all those years ago in Iowa.

Lil,

I don't know how to tell you this, but I can't make the AFAs. Turns out I have to be in Finland. Honestly, I still haven't figured out how this has happened. Looks like the original invitation got lost somehow.

I only found out about it when someone noticed I hadn't replied and sent a follow-up. Lucky, that, because it would have been a disaster if I'd missed this conference. The Ripreeler Group has purchased a company in the Philippines that claims to have developed a chemical that mimics fish pheromones. If it works, it's an industry-changer. I'm expected to attend a planning session in Helsinki going forward with a global marketing strategy. As you know, I have their N. America business, but this is a foot in the door for a much, much larger possibility. So you see that it's an offer I just can't refuse. I'm so sorry, Lily. I'm broken-hearted over this …

The easier the practice, the deeper the conviction.

The Collected Sayings of Julius Roebuck

A
nd it's true. He is broken-hearted.

So much so that he hasn't had the nerve to open Lily's response.

Roebuck has driven to the office early Monday morning. There's a lot of catching up to do, starting with the AFAs. But first he needs to clear his mind and sort through all the mail that's piled up while he's been gone, including a series from Greenwood who seems to be convulsed with issues out at Artemis. Roebuck deletes half a dozen he arbitrarily decides are junk and forwards several more for the suits to follow up on. He replies to the ones he knows he can wrap up in under sixty seconds and says no, regretfully, to an attractive OCAD student looking for a summer internship. There's another invitation from those guys at Omniglobe—eighteen holes at Glen Abbey, this time. Definitely an escalation, but he doesn't want to think about that now. Which leaves only Greenwood's stream. Judging by the subject headings, something's got Daniel definitely riled; the last one's written all in caps and exclamation points. Roebuck reminds himself that Greenwood is a picture guy, not a writer. But even so … He starts at the bottom, slowly working back.

It's obvious soon enough that Daniel is tripping over the usual hurdles of corporate realignment. He has presented three new sets of boards to the senior team at Artemis. They rejected the first, waffled for days over the second, but announced that the last concept they definitely didn't hate. After much debate and many changes, the VP of Sales and Marketing has finally signed off on the new packaging ideas, so the process was officially supposed to be a go. Except that certain other departments seem not to have bought in. Just this morning, some unnamed production manager sent out an art file with the old blush logo rather than the scarlet red now mandated
company-wide
.

Roebuck is still deciding whether he should intervene—Daniel is right to come down hard on any violations to the brand, but wading into internal debates is also dangerous—when he decides he can't stand the strain any longer. He opens Lily's email.

Well, fuck you then, Julius.

I'm joking. I guess. Yes, I understand. You have to go. These things in life are what life does. I'm disappointed, no hiding that, but don't worry. We'll make it up. And anyway it's not me you have to think about, it's the AdForge folks who are going to want your balls when they get this news. This could be damaging if not handled delicately. You have to admit it's a little late in the day for them to find a replacement. (I, on the other hand, can substitute you at a moment's notice.) Can you help them find someone else, possibly? Give this some careful thinking is my advice.

God, she's wonderful. He really does not deserve such generosity of spirit. And she's completely right about the AFAs. He must be very careful not to underestimate potential repercussions there. They
are
going to want his balls, shaved or otherwise. Roebuck is known in the industry as a giver of good talks.

But at least, speaking of which, his balls have definitely turned a corner. Hardly any pain today, even when he shifts position in his chair. Roebuck admits that this is one of those mornings that has involved a lot of shifting. He is therefore not surprised when another mail from Greenwood lands smoking in his inbox. This time it's the layout for the latest transit ad. The manager in charge is balking because she thinks the tone is “too affirmative.” Greenwood wants to know if Roebuck can shed some light on what the fuck “too affirmative” is supposed to mean.

You would think a guy of Greenwood's seniority could deal with this kind of chatter.

Roebuck sits bolt upright in his chair.

Greenwood!

Why not? He's a decent presenter. Tall, sufficiently attractive. Plus he's got the position, if not the gravitas. No reason Daniel can't adequately represent the agency. Roebuck will prepare the text—it's halfway written in his head already—all Greenwood has to do is move his lips and read it.

Roebuck hits “Reply”:

Don't worry, Daniel. I'll call Artemis. Something else we need to talk about. Do you own a tux?