Nobody True (5 page)

We set about the hardest part of the whole venture: acquiring clients. Legally we had contracts with our ex-employers which forbade Oliver and I approaching our existing clients for the next three years. Of course, that did not prevent those clients approaching us once the news got out that we were quitting and branching out on our own. So one or two who trusted our abilities solicited us instead. We gained two quite big accounts that way, but we needed a third large one to make us viable.

We went after new business with a passion, toiling day and night to come up with outstanding presentations and better marketing strategies than the companies already had. Media buying was handled by Sydney for a while, until we were established enough to bring someone in on a full-time basis. We ruthlessly targeted any business that we felt was right for us and whom we considered was receiving less than perfect service—mediocre advertising, poor media choices, etc.—from their existing agency, and we failed to win them over more times than we succeeded. Nevertheless, through sheer nerve, perseverance and, I like to think, talent, we gained three new clients, one medium-sized and two smaller, but easily making up for the third biggie we thought we needed. Heady days, and you know what? I miss them. Yeah, I miss a lot of things… We called it gtp in the fashion of the day, the acronym for Guinane, True, Presswell, of course, set in Baskerville lower case, letters touching. It looked pretty cool.

The agency did take off. Around town we became known as a creative hot shop and we began pitching for and acquiring more and more accounts, some blue chip but mainly clients who wanted that little bit of extra creativity in selling their products, clients who were not afraid to take fresh marketing leaps that would not go unnoticed by the public or the trade. You’d be surprised how many big budget spenders could only live with the known, concepts without risk, strategies that dared not stray from formula or jeopardize the marketing manager’s position. Internal politics are always rife in both small corporations and big ones (the bigger the worse, in fact) and they’re third only to advertising, which, as I’ve said, is second only to politics itself.

The companies that came to us were already aware of our reputation for risk taking and they were usually primed for something different. Maybe nothing truly off the wall, but at least something individual. We didn’t win everything we pitched for by any means—easy to say you’re looking for something “different”, but not always easy to go with it once it’s presented—but we acquired enough business to expand our offices and staff. We even managed to win a few advertising awards along the way, all voted for by our peers in the industry itself.*

*Interestingly, now that Oliver and I were joint bosses, we actually felt more responsibility towards our clients. A long-standing joke in advertising circles is how an art director is constantly devising ways of including a palm tree in the left-hand corner of his layout no matter what the product might be because it meant a photo-shoot somewhere in the Bahamas, a beautiful excursion for himself (and possibly, but not necessarily, for the copywriter) accompanied by glamorous models, plus photographer and his assistants (you couldn’t sell dog food this way, you might insist, but don’t think it hasn’t been tried). Another and even more heavily disguised objective is the D&AD award for best advertising, when fabulous—and very expensive—film or TV commercials (or brilliantly smart ones, but a little oblique as far as selling the product is concerned) are proposed by the agency. These litter the whole media range, great concepts that fail to do their job because the brand name either goes unnoticed, or is never remembered (I’m sure you could mention one or two wonderful TV commercials without recalling the brand they were selling).

It’s a vanity that reveals a lack of respect for the client, but then, more fool the client who allows it to happen. The answer is simple, although often not easy: the truly great advertising always combines a clever (and often amusing) idea with distinct branding (and I don’t mean a large company logo); GREAT COPY, GREAT VISUAL, CLEAR PRODUCT IDENTIFICATION, is the legend that should be pinned to every marketing manager or company advertising director’s office wall, and creative teams should constantly be reminded of it. So, this was our company philosophy and no headlined layout or storyboard ever left our office for client presentation without it being fulfilled. Okay, I won’t pretend we did it every time. Rush or panic jobs, copy deadlines, overnight work, client procrastination, together with their insecurity and occasional inability to recognize a superb concept, all are inherent and expected in the advertising business, so we could not always deliver of our best, but hell, we tried, oh how we tried.

Oliver and I were in our element, working like dogs, our enthusiasm never diminishing. Often we’d book a hotel suite for a weekend and work day and night to produce a fresh and sometimes even original advertising campaign. We used hotel rooms because now and again we needed new surroundings, different venues somehow helping with an objective approach to the brief. Frankly, it’s not unknown in the business for some agencies to lock their creative team away in a five-star hotel for a couple of nights and feed them cocaine for inspiration and to keep them going. It isn’t standard practice, but it does happen sometimes when agencies are desperate, out of time, and the great ideas aren’t coming. We didn’t do that though, because I for one just couldn’t get into drugs of any sort. Sure, I did some hash at art college, and later, when finances started to allow, I tried coke, but it never seemed to work for me, only made me hyper-tense. Same with alcohol to some extent; it took a lot to get me smashed. I don’t know why—something in my metabolism, I suppose—but I was glad. Drugs are bad news, as I later found out. Besides, I didn’t need any chemical substances to stimulate my imagination; that could take care of itself, and anyway, there’s nothing quite like the high you get through creative brainstorms.

Maybe we worked too hard in those early years, took too much on, but Oliver and I, and to some extent Sydney, were overly ambitious and we ran on adrenaline. We seemed to have unlimited energy—although when we crashed we really crashed—which great to begin with, but too much of it could easily have led to early burn-out. As well as producing the creative work, we had the responsibility—the burden—of running our own company even though Sydney took much of the administration side of things onto his own shoulders. We still had to attend too many meetings, many with clients—oh God, those bloody long lunches—but we always made important decisions as a threesome.

So, we worked hard and we played hard, and possibly it was the pressure of both that instigated the first cracks in the partnership. The fact that I stole Oliver’s live-in lover didn’t help either.

9

I’d known Andrea Dodds for several months before I introduced her to Oliver, because I’d worked with two of her lensmen on a couple of jobs. She was tallish, slim and, as I told you earlier, had fantastic legs. At that time she wore her dark-brown hair long and straight so that it fell over her narrow shoulders (these days she has it cut short, urchin-style, the sides flicked away from her face). I’d learned that she was single, had no current man in her life, lived in a tiny flat near Dolphin Square, Pimlico, and I was just priming myself to make a move on her. It wouldn’t usually have taken me so long to ask her out—it certainly didn’t with other girls—but Andrea was an exception. Why? Because I’d already half-fallen in love with her and I was terrified of rejection. Funny how easily you can lose your confidence when something matters too much. Of course, Oliver’s charm antenna was at full alert the moment he spotted her talking to our art buyer in the corridor of our old agency. He asked me who she was and, stupidly, I hauled her in to our office to make introductions.

I groaned inwardly as soon as I saw his eyes light up and he held onto her hand for much too long. I knew I was whipped before I’d even started, but I bore no grudges. It served me right for being so boneless.

Soon she had moved in with him. So soon, in fact, that I was stunned. I hadn’t quite given up hope for myself as far as she was concerned, because there still seemed to be something going on whenever she and I made eye contact. Andrea was no flirt, but she made me feel special when we spoke together or arranged times and dates for photography. She could have rely been doing her job, massaging the ego of an important client, but I didn’t think so; there was something incredibly sincere about her, and something very, very sweet.

Still, I had to accept the situation and I couldn’t be mad at Oliver for having the boldness to jump in first whereas, like some lame fool, I’d hung back, too cautious to make my move.

Ollie and Andrea. They made a hot couple. I couldn’t begrudge him, even though secretly I continued to pine for her. Get over it, I eventually told myself. Oliver was more her league. Besides, there were plenty of other fish, so go fish. And I did for a while, but I never quite got over my original crush. It was when Oliver and I were in the first exciting but anxious throes of setting up our own agency that he suggested bringing Andrea on board as an account manager and assistant to Sydney.

It took me all of two seconds to agree: from experience I knew she was more than just competent and I had no doubt she’d be an asset to our fledgling company; she might have been soft in the looks and attitude department, but believe me, she was shrewd as far as business was concerned and had always driven a hard bargain for the photographers she represented (and I was no pushover—I always treated my clients’ money as if it were my own).

So, initially on a lowish salary but with the promise it would grow as quickly as the agency itself—we were all working on spec those days—she joined gtp. And took to it like a duck might take to Evian, charming both prospective and existing clients, selling our talents as passionately as she’d previously sold the skills of her photographers.

Our team expanded as the client list grew and all seemed well but, like I said, maybe we worked and played a little too hard, because eventually the cracks began to appear. And most of the problems were to do with Oliver.

We’d both stretched ourselves to the limit, Ollie and I, but the relentless grind took a greater toll on my friend and colleague than me. After a while he seemed to be running on empty, becoming irritable with staff members (especially Sydney, who did his best to keen us all sane), going to the edge with clients (most of whom were good and intelligent people—although even those who were not had to be treated with a modicum of respect). Sydney Presswell came into his own on such occasions, smoothing things over, turning any add observations Oliver might have made into nothing more than humorous banter.

Nevertheless, the work was always good; Oliver never let the agency down on that score. He usually managed to pull some little creative gem out of the bag at the last possible moment, when timing was crucial and we had to present an ad or campaign that the client could run with. And if he didn’t, then I did. We were still a great team, but I was beginning to grow anxious about my buddy. Couple of times I took Oliver aside and told him of my concerns—you’re cracking, pal, you’ve got to ease up on the playtime, grab a break, somewhere warm and sunny, pay Andrea a bit more attention maybe… He just shrugged it off, gave me the Ollie-grin that said everything was cool. He wasn’t sleeping too well lately, he would indeed cut out extracurricular activities, and anyway, mood swings were part of his nature. Often on these occasions, he would also remind me that it was his creative input that had won us many clients, a fact I couldn’t deny. Sure, I told him, but we’re more worried about your health nowadays, not your input. You don’t look good, sport, and those mood swings are affecting Andrea in a bad way.

Shouldn’t have said it. Oliver exploded, told me to keep my nose out of his personal business, then stormed out of the office we shared. We didn’t see him for the rest of the day and I regretted having spoken out. Still, it seemed to do the trick—for a while, at least. Ollie arrived back at the agency early the next day, bright and shiny and with a box of expensive cigars as a gift for me. Andrea, who had looked a little flaky for some time now, was with him and she seemed almost as chirpy as he was. I assumed they’d had a heart-to-heart and a new leaf had been turned by Oliver. Both looked refreshed, as if they’d had a good night’s sleep, hopefully in each other’s arms.

It couldn’t last though; Oliver’s jittery moods soon swung back and forth like a personality pendulum and I began to suspect it was more than just overwork and booze that was the problem. But it was Sydney who finally put me wise by pointing out the symptoms.

Insiders call it either the curse or the crutch of the trade, but I subscribe to neither view; sure, coke and cannabis are popular in the business—speed, too—but they’re more of an occupational hazard than a prevalence, recreational rather than obligatory. Creativity can often extend itself to taking mind-expanding substances, and advertising must be one of the most pressurizing careers one could choose. There’s always the exhaustion factor too, when both your brain and body become so fatigued they require a little charge now and again. I’m not advocating drugs as a prop—far from it—I’m merely explaining how the trap is set. I’ve known good people who have succumbed to its lure, and now I was concerned that my best friend and business partner had become yet another victim.

To cut it short, Ollie’s condition grew steadily worse, the pendulum becoming caught on the downswing. One evening I was pigged out on a sofa in my apartment—only a slim triangle of pizza left in its shallow box, bare feet resting over one arm of the sofa, my head propped up by a couple of cushions at the other end half-empty can of Stella resting on my stomach, cigarette butt smoking in a crowded ashtray on the floor—when the annoying chime of the doorbell roused me from my mindless vigil over a docu-soap on the TV. With a groan, I dropped the lager can beside the ashtray and swung my feet to the carpet. Hitching up my jeans beneath the loose sweatshirt I wore, I grumbled my way to the door.