That was another thing we Gods had in common. We were all players, in our different ways, and when it came to ruling the industry, we put every talent we had available to work, and played the game to a fault. Every time. The lengths we’d go to in order to win weren’t in any procedural document, on our internal filing system, or in our new employee manual. We didn’t reference our methods referenced when we gave talks about excellence in advertising, or taking creative businesses to new heights.
Nope. That stuff was discussed behind closed doors, in our daily morning meeting, aka. Confession.
Speaking of the devils, my phone chirped with a text from my PA, Crystal.
Crystal: Raine is here, ready for Confession.
Me: Thx. On my way.
Why Confession was always in Raine’s office, I’d never fucking understand. Well, that wasn’t true. I did understand it, but I didn’t agree with it. Every few months the issue would be raised, and we’d all agree the meeting shouldn’t just default to Raine’s room because he was the Creative Director, yet after a few weeks with the best of intentions, it invariably did.
Firstly, Raine liked to smoke blunts, a lot, and damned if any of us were going to let him do that in our offices, but still that wasn’t an adequate reason—he needed to be able to get through an hour of the day without smoking—but apparently refused for that hour to be the first hour.
Secondly, and more importantly, BR&ND was a creative company in a creative industry. The Creative Director was the king of the advertising agency castle. Period. Anyone who said any different was either deluded, or had never actually set foot in a real as shit, functioning agency.
That was the way life went with the alphaholes I’d gotten into bed with. We were all equal, but when it came down to the comedown, some of us were more equal than others.
Mel
Running. I was always fucking running. And not in the “I’m super fit and go jogging in Central Park for fun, in super-sexy active wear that costs more than some people’s weekly grocery budget” kind of way. No, more in the “You can run, but you can’t hide, because when you reach your destination you’ll still be there,” and the “Always late, always stressed, always under a rib-cracking amount of pressure” kind of way. Nothing cute, or fun about that. No amount of inspirational hashtags was going to polish that turd.
I ran to my car, and threw myself in. Running in heels had become a specialized skill. Not one I’d been happy to acquire, but these were the breaks. I lunged into the front seat, and had practically pulled away from the curb before shutting the door and fastening my seat belt. As my morning commute got underway, I flicked on the car’s entertainment system, selecting my Mandarin for Business course from the list of MP3s.
While I’d never enjoyed the commute to and from the city every day, I’d learned to at least make it count for something—listening to self-help audio books, or the business news, or learning a language or three. It at least made me feel like I’d achieved something other than simply commuting for what worked out to be four weeks a year, when you did the math.
In reality, no second of my day went unused. Most served double duty, in fact. Always improving. Always reaching. Always striving. Always running. Running away from my past and toward my future, but in a cruel twist of fate, the future is always one step ahead of the game, and no matter how fast I ran, or how hard I tried I could never quite catch it.
As I pulled into my reserved parking bay in the underground lot at the offices of Beyner Americas, I glared at the plaque declaring the space officially mine: “Reserved for Senior VP, Marketing.” Yep, that was me: steering the ship in the North American office of one of the world’s biggest, and most innovative toy companies. The irony was not lost on me that my career had been built selling toys, considering what I’d had to give up to be where I was today. That toys had been the beacons that had simultaneously lit the way to my future and bound me to my past was a bittersweet pill to swallow.
I grabbed my oversized designer purse from the footwell of the passenger’s side of the car, and breathed through my nose several times, attempting to center myself before entering the fray. As I neared my office, Faye, my assistant approached hurriedly, her normally calm exterior was decidedly ruffled.
“Umm…Hi.” Her voice sounded equally rattled.
“Good morning Faye. Is something bothering you?”
“Yes. No. Well, kind of.” I waited for her to elaborate—she wasn’t normally flaky like this. She shook her head as though to restart, and began talking again.
“I just had a call from HQ. Apparently Mr. Treichler and Mr. Lagman have had to deal with an urgent issue over there and won’t make it to today’s creative agency pitch meeting. They’ve asked that you and Martin attend instead.” What? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I’d been keeping vaguely abreast of the pitch project, but just enough to hold a conversation about it, should one arise. Not enough to run the whole process, and certainly not enough to really put them through their paces in any meaningful way.
My workload and hours were already ridiculous, without taking on extraneous tasks, so I had to be ruthless about what I added to my to-do list. I was barely home, and when I was, I was often distracted by the nagging pile of work that invariably got dragged back with me, to be done in the evenings and on the weekend. I just couldn’t justify piling on more, unless it was strictly necessary.
My life was a tightly choreographed juggling act, one I’d refined over the years, and gotten down to a fine art. Even still, if I threw in more balls, they were all in jeopardy of coming crashing to the ground, and rolling away, never to be seen again.
“Really? Damn! This isn’t the first time the Swiss have pulled out on us at the last minute. It’s beginning to be a habit. Surely they realized shit was hitting the fan before they simply failed to board a plane from Geneva? Why couldn’t they have picked up the phone as soon as they knew, and given us time to, you know…prepare?” Poor Faye looked like a deer in the headlights.
“Sorry Faye. I’m not shooting the messenger, merely ranting aloud. Is Martin in yet? Does he know what’s going on?”
“Yes he is. I’ve let him know of the change, also.” Of course she had. She was always superefficient.
“Great. Thank you. Can you please get me two copies of the briefing documentation, background material about the agency, and a stiff vodka on the rocks.” Her eyes widened to the size of side plates.
“Relax, that last request was a joke. I much prefer gin,” I deadpanned. Now she looked even more horrified.
“Joke. That was also a joke.” Ugh. Was that the stage of life I was at now, Mom jokes? Faye was practically looking at me like I had two heads. She was exceptional at her job, but not the most fun person I’d ever come across. Oh well, people can’t have it all.
“Can you clear mine and Martin’s calendars for the rest of the day, please? We’re going to need to spend some time getting under the skin of this brief, and then we’ll be out most of the afternoon at the pitch meeting itself.” I headed off down the hall to our VP’s office, my heels click-clacking on the parquet. I knocked lightly on his door.