Getting Even (15 page)

She cast her mind back to the evening she and Dan had first tumbled into bed, when they'd been playing that game, “Who would you shag/marry/push off a cliff?” Hadn't Earl accused Dan of being more interested in shagging than anything? No wonder—as Dan's colleague in production, Earl had probably been at the Image Focus party too. Doubtless he knew Dan had spent the night before with Lara. She shuddered.

Plus, there was that gossip about G-A-Y, and Ivy's theory about Dan's suspicious love of shopping … Orianna's mind whirled. Men, women … who knew what, when? Certainly past experiences had shown Orianna the opposite sex couldn't be trusted.

You're being silly, she scolded herself. Dan adores me. We have great sex, and get along brilliantly. Hasn't he only just told me he loves me? He's even suggested I might meet his parents.

Eventually a banging on the door brought Orianna to her feet.

“Sorry,” she said to an impatient-looking woman waiting outside.

As she mounted the stairs, she forced herself to be sensible. The last thing she wanted was another public scene. She'd let it all wash over her, behave like a soon-to-be creative director should, and not pay any attention.

No one was going to spoil her happiness. Were they?

 

16. The thought doth like a poisonous mineral gnaw my innards

“Darling!”
Mwah, mwah
. “Lovely to see you. Let me look at you.”

Trixie stepped back and Ivy paused on the threshold. Dressed in her favorite A-line skirt and a sharply tailored jacket, she was confident she appeared her best.

“Ooh, gorgeous, sweetie. Gorgeous. And I'm loving those shoes! Patrick…? Hang on, let me guess…” Trixie peered down, examining the strappy suede stilettos, encrusted in tiny pearl beads. “No … a touch too practical maybe; seems you can actually walk in them…” Finally, “Oh go on, put me out of my misery.”

“Topshop.”

“Never!”

Ivy nodded. “Oxford Street special.”

“You don't say.”

Ivy, gratified she'd scored already, followed Trixie down the hall, heels clicking on the parquet flooring. She noticed a waft of lilies coming from an imposing display on the antique mahogany table.

“Thought we'd sit in here.” Trixie led Ivy into the sitting room and lowered herself onto a chaise longue. Ivy took a seat opposite on a deep four-seat sofa upholstered in rose-colored silk. As she sank back into the cushions, she smiled inwardly: Trixie, perched above her, was able to maintain an elegant, formal pose with her legs crossed—she had magnificent calves, even at her age.

Whereas I'm forced to sit beneath her, noted Ivy. Still, it's interesting she's brought me into the lounge, not her office, where she saw me last time with Orianna. I guess these days she thinks me worthy of platinum treatment. Or maybe she's wanting me to see just how successful
she
is.

A bottle of champagne was cooling in a silver bucket on the smoked-glass coffee table, two crystal flutes by its side. Trixie removed the bottle using a linen tea towel, dried it, and deftly twisted the cork. It barely hissed, let alone emitted anything as uncouth as a pop. The champagne (for champagne it was, not some poor New World imitation) bubbled as she filled the glasses. Trixie waited for it to settle, and topped it up before handling Ivy hers.

“Well, my dear. Long time no see. Cheers.”

“Cheers.” They smiled at each other, and for a brief moment Ivy could see herself reflected in Trixie's eyes.

“Before we look at your portfolio, do update me, darling. Tell me
all
the gossip at Green. Am I right in gathering Neil's leaving?”

“Indeed.” Ivy took a sip.

“And how do you feel about that?” A pained expression communicated sympathy.

Ivy shrugged. “I'm not bothered, really.”

“Can't imagine he had much to teach you.”

“No.”

Trixie took a teeny sip of champagne. “Forgive my directness, my dear, but what I think you need is someone who can match your intelligence, your spark, your wit.”

Three words of praise: Ivy knew she was being played, but nonetheless savored them all. “Oh?”

“I'm not sure Neil was the right creative director for you. Copy never was his strong point, was it?”

“No.” Ivy often thought he lacked appreciation of her skills; it was good to have this verified by someone she respected.

“I'd like to see you working somewhere bigger, more high flying.”

“Yes?”

“Where writing is viewed as an art form.” Trixie uncrossed her legs and recrossed them the other way. She is
terribly
chic, thought Ivy, eyeing her dog-tooth tweed skirt enviously. “I'm thinking…” Trixie paused for effect. Ivy sat forward on the edge of the sofa. “Brothers and Sisters, perhaps, or even AMV…”

“Right.” Ivy was delighted. She was talking about the crème, the very crème!

“With things so tight at the moment, lots of places aren't hiring, but for someone of your caliber, I'm confident we'll find something. If there's one area that's not been hit too hard by recession, it's direct mail, and with your experience, the DM division of these big agencies will be most keen, I'm sure.”

Oh, thought Ivy, reassessing. She had assumed Trixie meant advertising proper. She was less thrilled about this suggestion—it wouldn't be very different from what she was doing now.

Trixie continued, “And if we don't pull that off, there are some other small agencies, real hotshots creatively, raking it in despite the economy.”

You mean sweatshops, thought Ivy. Though all she said was, “Indeed.” It's amazing, she observed, Trixie has talked me down from the highest-flying agency to the lowliest start-up in less time than it takes to air a commercial. And she hasn't even asked to see my portfolio or discussed salaries. She's quite brilliant.

Ivy decided to let her continue so she could see where the conversation went next. Sure enough, it proved even more interesting.

“After all”—a still more delicate sip—“it's probably time you broke away from Orianna, anyway.”

“Oh?”

“I don't think staying there will do you any good.” Trixie nodded in agreement with her own appraisal. “I mean, if you weren't learning much from Neil, you're hardly going to learn from Orianna, now are you?”

“No.” With this at least, Ivy could wholeheartedly agree. “I'd been thinking I wouldn't mind breaking away entirely. Going abroad, perhaps.”

“That's not such a bad idea. There's quite a demand for English-speaking writers in some places. The Netherlands, for instance.”

Ivy nodded. Copious sex and drugs—Amsterdam could be fun …

“And it might be good to break from one another fully. One can be a mite too close sometimes. Claustrophobic.” Trixie settled back, relaxing a tad. “Actually, I have a tiny theory I'd like to share with you.”

“Oh?”

“About art directors and copywriters.”

“Ah?”

“You see, I was an art director, once.”

“Really?” This did surprise Ivy, not least because Trixie seemed far more chic than most art directors she'd known.

“It was many years ago.” Trixie smiled. “I worked with a copywriter myself, Cherie, she was called.” Cherie and Trixie, thought Ivy. They sound like matching dolls. She could see them now, for sale as a boxed duo, complete with miniature designer outfits.

“That must have been very unusual,” said Ivy, admiringly. “Two women creatives, in those days.”

“Oh, it
was
.” Trixie almost beamed, recollecting. “We worked together in all the big agencies of the seventies and eighties. Bates, Saatchis, you name it. We had some fantastic creative directors in our time, I'm telling you. So when I say it's important to carry on learning from the best, believe me, I know.” Suddenly, her face hardened. “But I guess all good things must come to an end.”

“What happened?” Ivy was on tenterhooks.

Trixie's voice dropped to a hush. “She betrayed me.”

“Gosh,” said Ivy, genuinely surprised. “How?”

“She left the industry.”

“She left?” Ivy was astonished. However ambivalent she felt about advertising, there was no better alternative, surely.

“Without telling me.” Trixie was almost spitting by now.

“
Without telling you?
” My Lord, thought Ivy, what a coincidence. But she said nothing about her own experience with Orianna, just waited, keen to hear more.

“Yes. Out of the blue. One Monday morning, she announced it.”

“What?”

“That she was going into
publishing.
” Trixie spoke the word as if it were unclean.

“Publishing!”

“I know, extraordinary.”

“But publishing—it—” Ivy could scarcely get the words out.

“Pays a pittance?” Trixie said helpfully.

“Yes.”

“I know.” Trixie sighed. “Cherie had a pang of conscience. Got involved in that feminism stuff, went off on some awful weekend workshop, women only, and discovered her inner being and with it her true vocation. When she came back she was never the same.” Trixie seemed almost wistful, for a second. “Said she felt advertising compromised her. It was too competitive, rife with jealousy, driven by narcissism and greed. She decided to become a book editor. Wanted to work with real people,
genuine
writers, contribute something valuable to the world. Absurd! But that's how it was.”

“Well I never,” said Ivy.

“All true, I'm telling you.”

Ivy took a sip of champagne. This was most illuminating, called for something special. She recalled Trixie indulged occasionally, too … So she leaned forward, opened her bag, and took out a packet of menthol cigarettes. “Do you mind dreadfully if I smoke?”

“No, do,” said Trixie, pushing forward a crystal ashtray. “In fact, you've tempted me. May I join you?”

“Of course.” Ivy handed her the pack.

Trixie took a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled. “I only allow myself one a week,” she confided. “I appreciate it's dreadfully outmoded these days. But oh! How I love it!” As she exhaled, her lips formed a reverential kiss.

“I understand,” said Ivy, who did.

“My point is this,” continued Trixie. “Never get too entangled with anyone else professionally, my dear, however much you might like them or how well you work together. You never know what can happen—they might get married, be promoted, fall ill, or, like Cherie, have some peculiar, nutty freak-out. Whatever. Because if you tie yourself to someone, you're laying yourself open to being deserted.”

Ivy nodded.

“And at the end of the day we all die alone.” She sighed again, more heavily, then inhaled deeply on her cigarette. “I was terribly, terribly upset by what Cherie did to me. Never really got over it. But it taught me a lot. When I found out she was leaving, I went wild, reacted very strongly. I suppose…” She paused. “With hindsight I betrayed my own feelings somewhat.”

“Oh?”

“It's nothing I want to go into.” Trixie shifted in her seat, obviously uncomfortable with the confession. “But I got myself a bit of a reputation for being fiery, difficult. Which when you're a woman in advertising … It's bad enough already—or it was then, certainly—without having gossip and prejudice to contend with. And ultimately her leaving affected my career because I never really had my heart in being a creative after she'd gone.”

“Oh dear.” Ivy was strangely moved.

Yet Trixie brushed her concern aside. “There's no need to worry about me. I was fine, in the end. Without all that…” She gesticulated around with a sweep of her beautifully manicured hand. “None of this would have happened.”

“Mm?”

“Shortly after I left agency life too,” explained Trixie. “Or at least directly. I went into head-hunting. Set up on my own, working here. And I assure you, I never affiliated myself to one person, or betrayed my real feelings, ever again.”

“Ah,” said Ivy. It was wonderfully clear. Never mind Neil or Orianna; the person she could learn from was Trixie. Though there was one thing further she wanted to clarify. “And Cherie?”

“Yes, Cherie.” Trixie spoke the name with disdain. “She's in publishing to this day. Grand old dame of literature. Became an agent, in fact.”

“Do you ever speak to her?”

Trixie tutted. “Sometimes, yes. When it's mutually beneficial for us to do so, professionally, whatever. We still have some friends in common. But we'll never be close, obviously.”

“Obviously,” agreed Ivy, and together they stubbed out their cigarettes.

*   *   *

By the time they left the pub, both Dan and Orianna were pretty inebriated; Dan more so, having started earlier, and because no matter how much wine Orianna knocked back, she couldn't shake her sober mood.

“Taxi!” shouted Dan, waving his arm at a passing black van and lurching rather alarmingly onto Tottenham Court Road.

The busy thoroughfare worried Orianna. She ran after him and led him to safety. “Let's walk,” she urged, taking his arm. Dan's place was just over a mile away.

“Walk!” Dan stomped back to the pavement edge. “Walk?! I don't walk on my birthday!”

Orianna had to laugh. “It might be wise. Clear our heads a bit.”

“Oh, OK,” said Dan, drunkenly obedient.

“Good for your weight, too.”

“Am I fat?” He looked at her, worried, and patted his tummy. “You think I'm a Dough Boy!”

“No, silly. I'm teasing.”

He linked his arm in hers, walked a few paces, and promptly tripped over a paving stone. He looked at her, mouth turned down in cartoon contrition. “Sorry!”

They stumbled on a while, Orianna steering Dan in as straight a line as possible. They were past Sainsbury's and Muji; alongside a row of tired-looking electrical shops; crossed Stephen Street, checking for vehicles taking a sudden left; ignored some beggars sitting beneath the HSBC ATM with their dog—getting home, not homelessness, had to be her priority right now. Dan entertained himself by kicking a Coke can along with them, but after a while it bounced out of reach.