Read Online Original Cyn by Sue Margolis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sue Margolis
Tags: Fiction
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pressed
rewind
and went to fetch a packet of Doritos and the wine bottle.
For the next hour and fifty-five minutes, apart from drinking wine and dipping her hand into the Doritos bag, she barely moved. By the time it was over, the idea of doing something wicked and brave—for the most honorable and noble of reasons, of course—was beginning to hold a certain, almost irresistible, appeal.
Chapter 4
Morris’s cage was three feet by four and Cyn had quite a struggle getting it downstairs without tripping over or spilling his food. On top of that, Morris was frightened by the movement and refused to stop squawking and shouting about how much he needed a shag. Old Mr. Levinson, who lived with his wife on the floor below, was taking in the milk as Cyn and the cage went by. “Fuck, I need a shag. It’s been three sodding months.”
“Three months?” Mr. Levinson chuckled. He’d met Morris on the day he moved in and found him hugely entertaining. “That’s nothing. You want to try living with Mrs. Levinson. It’s been thirty years.” He insisted on carrying the cage downstairs for Cyn and held on to it while she unlocked the car. Then he slid it onto the backseat. “Thanks, Mr. Levinson. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem. Bye, Morris.”
“I like a woman with a really big arse,” Morris said.
“Really?” Mr. Levinson chuckled and looked at Cyn. “You know, on second thought, maybe Morris and Mrs. Levinson would hit it off.”
Morris was no better on car journeys than he was at being carried. Cyn covered his cage with the towel in an effort to calm him down.
She arrived at PCW just after nine. Two or three people saw her drive into the office car park. Of course they all noticed the ad, and the jokes started flying faster than you could say
anal fissure.
A bit of her wished she could have left the car at home, but even if she hadn’t had Morris’s cage, she would still have needed to drive. Everybody at PCW drove to work because the office, a converted warehouse in Shoreditch, was a bleak fifteen-minute walk from the tube.
Inside, the place was more industrial workspace than traditional office. The rough brick walls had been painted white and covered with gigantic arty photographs and brightly colored abstracts. There were light wood floors and two metal and wire staircases that led to either end of a mezzanine floor where the directors had their offices. The twenty-foot-high ceiling was supported by a lattice of polished metal girders. Workstations were dotted about the perimeter.
In the middle of the space was an absurdly long, rustic wooden table that was used for meetings and conferences. If people needed to meet in private, they could adjourn to one of four small trailers that were parked as if they were in a campsite in the country. There was also a “thinking area”—a garden hammock on Astroturf—and a “play area” complete with pinball machines, snooker table and miniature trampoline.
The idea was that “creativity and vision” were exchanged in a fun, fluid, informal way. There were no doors and no partitions, and no appointments were needed to see the bosses. A few people like Chelsea insisted on wearing suits, but mostly people slouched around in jeans and Juicy Couture track bottoms.
The entire operation was, to say the least, self-consciously trendy. Most of the staff, Cyn included, saw the trendiness for the gimmick it was. The media was less cynical. Umpteen magazine and newspaper articles had raved about PCW’s “egalitarian management style” and the fact that 10 percent of the agency’s work was for charity, which it usually undertook pro bono. Stella McCartney had been their first big client. Soon, other young cutting-edge fashion designers, dot-com entrepreneurs and other corporates with a social conscience were following in her wake.
Cyn walked into the building and put Morris’s cage down on the big conference table. “OK, now you sit there quietly. If
rewind
and went to fetch a packet of Doritos and the wine bottle.
For the next hour and fifty-five minutes, apart from drinking wine and dipping her hand into the Doritos bag, she barely moved. By the time it was over, the idea of doing something wicked and brave—for the most honorable and noble of reasons, of course—was beginning to hold a certain, almost irresistible, appeal.
Chapter 4
Morris’s cage was three feet by four and Cyn had quite a struggle getting it downstairs without tripping over or spilling his food. On top of that, Morris was frightened by the movement and refused to stop squawking and shouting about how much he needed a shag. Old Mr. Levinson, who lived with his wife on the floor below, was taking in the milk as Cyn and the cage went by. “Fuck, I need a shag. It’s been three sodding months.”
“Three months?” Mr. Levinson chuckled. He’d met Morris on the day he moved in and found him hugely entertaining. “That’s nothing. You want to try living with Mrs. Levinson. It’s been thirty years.” He insisted on carrying the cage downstairs for Cyn and held on to it while she unlocked the car. Then he slid it onto the backseat. “Thanks, Mr. Levinson. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem. Bye, Morris.”
“I like a woman with a really big arse,” Morris said.
“Really?” Mr. Levinson chuckled and looked at Cyn. “You know, on second thought, maybe Morris and Mrs. Levinson would hit it off.”
Morris was no better on car journeys than he was at being carried. Cyn covered his cage with the towel in an effort to calm him down.
She arrived at PCW just after nine. Two or three people saw her drive into the office car park. Of course they all noticed the ad, and the jokes started flying faster than you could say
anal fissure.
A bit of her wished she could have left the car at home, but even if she hadn’t had Morris’s cage, she would still have needed to drive. Everybody at PCW drove to work because the office, a converted warehouse in Shoreditch, was a bleak fifteen-minute walk from the tube.
Inside, the place was more industrial workspace than traditional office. The rough brick walls had been painted white and covered with gigantic arty photographs and brightly colored abstracts. There were light wood floors and two metal and wire staircases that led to either end of a mezzanine floor where the directors had their offices. The twenty-foot-high ceiling was supported by a lattice of polished metal girders. Workstations were dotted about the perimeter.
In the middle of the space was an absurdly long, rustic wooden table that was used for meetings and conferences. If people needed to meet in private, they could adjourn to one of four small trailers that were parked as if they were in a campsite in the country. There was also a “thinking area”—a garden hammock on Astroturf—and a “play area” complete with pinball machines, snooker table and miniature trampoline.
The idea was that “creativity and vision” were exchanged in a fun, fluid, informal way. There were no doors and no partitions, and no appointments were needed to see the bosses. A few people like Chelsea insisted on wearing suits, but mostly people slouched around in jeans and Juicy Couture track bottoms.
The entire operation was, to say the least, self-consciously trendy. Most of the staff, Cyn included, saw the trendiness for the gimmick it was. The media was less cynical. Umpteen magazine and newspaper articles had raved about PCW’s “egalitarian management style” and the fact that 10 percent of the agency’s work was for charity, which it usually undertook pro bono. Stella McCartney had been their first big client. Soon, other young cutting-edge fashion designers, dot-com entrepreneurs and other corporates with a social conscience were following in her wake.
Cyn walked into the building and put Morris’s cage down on the big conference table. “OK, now you sit there quietly. If
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