really know who he is. Just about the only concrete thing I know about him is that he and John Cramer don’t get on with each other.”
“Really? Why on earth is that?”
“I’ve absolutely no idea.” She drained her drink and smacked the glass down on the table.
“Gracie, I do hope you’re not going to get yourself tangled up with someone horrid. You need a nice man to settle you down. What’s wrong with dear old Dickie? He’s thoroughly adorable and we never see him these days.”
Grace considered her reply but then decided not tobother. Nancy probably didn’t expect a coherent response in any case. Glancing up at the bar, she saw two empty stools where the nice-looking men had been. “They’ve gone and left,” she said. “Typical! Men just don’t know a good thing when they see it, do they? Shall we have another drink?”
Five
“Gracie, have you ever read The Vision ?”
Dickie had chosen a bad time to call. Mondays were always frenetic at Pearson’s, and this Monday morning had been more so than usual. Grace had just emerged from a long meeting with all of the copywriting department and the two Mr. Pearsons—a “buck your ideas up” meeting, the sort which took place every time another advertising agency seemed to be running ahead of them. On this occasion they’d lost a longstanding client—Potter’s meat spread—to a rival. They’d sat in the boardroom with the air of a bunch of skulking schoolboys waiting to be given a good thrashing. All but Grace, the only female copywriter, who made it her habit to be perversely chirpy at such meetings—giving her best, brightest smiles to the slightly doddery Mr. Henry Pearson, while insisting to Mr. Aubrey Pearson that the problem, in the case of Potter’s, wasnot their advertising campaigns, but the name of the product itself.
“What does ‘meat spread’ conjure up in one’s mind?” she’d asked the room at large. “Brown stuff in a jar, that’s what. It’s a lot of meaty nothing. We should have come up with a new name for the product—something to make it sound exciting and give it an identity all its own. Something like…Wonderlunch.”
“This is all very well, Miss Rutherford,” said Mr. Aubrey. “But it’s not our job to come up with new names for the products we advertise. And what’s the use of inventing a new name for an account we’ve lost?”
“The point is to work out how we could do better next time. How we can avoid losing any more accounts.”
But they weren’t interested, of course. They never were.
After the meeting, Grace called Margaret, her favorite of the typists, into her office, and closed the door.
“Take this down, would you? ‘Dear Frank, We are very disappointed to have lost your account, not least because we were just about to put forward a new idea to relaunch your product. We are confident that we can do a better job for you than Benson’s, and suggest you reconsider before it is too late.’” She paused to think. “‘Our confidence is such that I shall confide our idea’…Hmm—is confide right, do you think?”
“Not after two mentions of ‘confidence.’” Margaret brushed invisible fluff from her immaculate white sleeves. “How about divulge ?”
“Divulge…yes, why not? Where was I? ‘Our confidence is such that I shall divulge our idea. Your product needs a new name—Wonderlunch. We feel certain you will agree that this name bestows a new identity on a, frankly, tired brand,and opens up the possibility for a whole new approach to the advertising. I beseech you to think again and come back to Pearson’s—’”
“No, Miss Rutherford.” Margaret patted at her thickly coiled black hair, not a strand of which was loose. “Pardon me, but you don’t want ‘beseech.’ Sounds like you’re begging.”
Grace smiled. This was why she liked Margaret. “You’re right, of course. ‘I urge you to think again and come back to Pearson’s. Our door is always open.’” She
“Really? Why on earth is that?”
“I’ve absolutely no idea.” She drained her drink and smacked the glass down on the table.
“Gracie, I do hope you’re not going to get yourself tangled up with someone horrid. You need a nice man to settle you down. What’s wrong with dear old Dickie? He’s thoroughly adorable and we never see him these days.”
Grace considered her reply but then decided not tobother. Nancy probably didn’t expect a coherent response in any case. Glancing up at the bar, she saw two empty stools where the nice-looking men had been. “They’ve gone and left,” she said. “Typical! Men just don’t know a good thing when they see it, do they? Shall we have another drink?”
Five
“Gracie, have you ever read The Vision ?”
Dickie had chosen a bad time to call. Mondays were always frenetic at Pearson’s, and this Monday morning had been more so than usual. Grace had just emerged from a long meeting with all of the copywriting department and the two Mr. Pearsons—a “buck your ideas up” meeting, the sort which took place every time another advertising agency seemed to be running ahead of them. On this occasion they’d lost a longstanding client—Potter’s meat spread—to a rival. They’d sat in the boardroom with the air of a bunch of skulking schoolboys waiting to be given a good thrashing. All but Grace, the only female copywriter, who made it her habit to be perversely chirpy at such meetings—giving her best, brightest smiles to the slightly doddery Mr. Henry Pearson, while insisting to Mr. Aubrey Pearson that the problem, in the case of Potter’s, wasnot their advertising campaigns, but the name of the product itself.
“What does ‘meat spread’ conjure up in one’s mind?” she’d asked the room at large. “Brown stuff in a jar, that’s what. It’s a lot of meaty nothing. We should have come up with a new name for the product—something to make it sound exciting and give it an identity all its own. Something like…Wonderlunch.”
“This is all very well, Miss Rutherford,” said Mr. Aubrey. “But it’s not our job to come up with new names for the products we advertise. And what’s the use of inventing a new name for an account we’ve lost?”
“The point is to work out how we could do better next time. How we can avoid losing any more accounts.”
But they weren’t interested, of course. They never were.
After the meeting, Grace called Margaret, her favorite of the typists, into her office, and closed the door.
“Take this down, would you? ‘Dear Frank, We are very disappointed to have lost your account, not least because we were just about to put forward a new idea to relaunch your product. We are confident that we can do a better job for you than Benson’s, and suggest you reconsider before it is too late.’” She paused to think. “‘Our confidence is such that I shall confide our idea’…Hmm—is confide right, do you think?”
“Not after two mentions of ‘confidence.’” Margaret brushed invisible fluff from her immaculate white sleeves. “How about divulge ?”
“Divulge…yes, why not? Where was I? ‘Our confidence is such that I shall divulge our idea. Your product needs a new name—Wonderlunch. We feel certain you will agree that this name bestows a new identity on a, frankly, tired brand,and opens up the possibility for a whole new approach to the advertising. I beseech you to think again and come back to Pearson’s—’”
“No, Miss Rutherford.” Margaret patted at her thickly coiled black hair, not a strand of which was loose. “Pardon me, but you don’t want ‘beseech.’ Sounds like you’re begging.”
Grace smiled. This was why she liked Margaret. “You’re right, of course. ‘I urge you to think again and come back to Pearson’s. Our door is always open.’” She
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