Read Online Nobody True by James Herbert - Free Book Online Page B

I’d be working till late. “Tell you what, I’ll cover the whole bill. You can treat your friends.”
    “No, Jim, that’s not necessary. I don’t want to start a precedent.”
    “Up to you, but really, I don’t mind.”
    “Thanks anyway. Prim’s already eaten, but can you fix something for yourself. There’s plenty of easy stuff in the fridge.”
    “No prob. I’ll see you soon. Oh, and Andrea…?”
    “Yes.”
    “I need to talk to you later.”
    I caught the faint rush of anxiety in her voice. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
    “No, no. Just things going on here that I’d like your opinion on. Nothing that can’t wait till later.”
    “Okay, Jim. I’ll see you soon, then?”
    “Almost on my way. Bye for now.”
    I replaced the receiver and sat at my desk for a while. Oliver had left the office during my telephone conversation and I was alone. People leaving for home were passing by the open door, some of them calling in a brief “G’night” on their way. Preoccupied, I waved a casual hand.
    Something was making me uneasy and at the time I thought it was due to both the suggested merger and the pitch for the new account (which I didn’t think the agency was quite ready for).
    Only much, much later did I realize I was intuitively troubled over something that had nothing to do with business.
    But then, I’d understand a lot of things once I was dead.
    11
    The hotel was one we’d used before for brainstorming sessions. Rooms and service were top-grade and we’d hired a suite with two bedrooms, one for me, the second one, across the large lounge, for Oliver.
    This was a week or so after my meeting with Oliver and Sydney in which we’d discussed the possibility of “merging” with a bigger advertising agency and whether or not to pitch for the British Allied Bank account. I’d reluctantly agreed to the latter, but the idea of amalgamating with Blake & Turnbrow—a sell-out as far as I was concerned—was still in abeyance. My partners knew my view, which was in the negative, but I guess they thought I’d come round eventually. They were wrong: I wouldn’t. I’d worked too bloody hard—we all had—building our own creative shop to let it be gobbled up by a rival agency, no matter how global and how many blue chip accounts it carried. I suppose ego came into it somewhere—I didn’t want to lose control of our company, which inevitably would happen despite Sydney’s assurances that it wouldn’t be the case.
    The point of booking into the hotel for the weekend was to keep us away from telephones—unless we wanted to ring out—and all the other nuisance stuff of running a company. Also, and I’m not quite sure why this is true, getting away from our normal surroundings somehow led to fresher ideas; strange how a different environment can promote new concepts. As well as that, everything was on tap for us, room service ruled. We only had this one weekend to come up with a brand new press poster, and television campaign for the British Allied Bank, an advertising campaign with a budget of several million pounds.
    The team was just Oliver and me, and I must admit that, despite my reservation about the account possibly being too big for us to handle, I had become more and more excited as the preceding week had worn on. It’s called the Buzz, and there’s nothing quite like it.
    On this Saturday night, the second night of the weekend—we’d be working all day Sunday as well—the hotel room’s thick-carpeted floor was covered with sheets of thin layout paper, rough-scamp ideas on every leaf. And there were some good thoughts on those sheets, pithy copy lines with strong visuals, and I was pretty pleased with most of them.
    But there was a problem. I wanted to go with the idea of humanizing the bank by simply informing the public that human beings were running the individual accounts, not computerized automatons, and all had names, families and other interests, but were experts in their