her.
A bad dream, that’s all. Forget it.
She heard the thump of the engines of a launch going by, up river; deep, steady, rhythmic.
Then realised it wasn’t a launch at all. It was her own heartbeat.
4
Sam sat in the reception of Urquhart Simeon Mcpherson, holding the Castaway story board on the sofa beside her, watching Ken pacing restlessly up and down, hands sunk into the pockets of his battered leather coat over his denim jacket and blue jeans, his black boots immaculately shiny: his uniform. Scruffy clothes, but always immaculate boots.
Two girls came in through the door chatting, nodded at the receptionist and went down a corridor. A helmeted despatch rider with ‘Rand Riders’ printed on his back waded in and thrust a package over the counter; he stood waiting for the signature, bandy-legged in his body-hugging leathers, like an insect from outer space.
Ken sat on the arm of the sofa, above her. ‘You all right?’
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘You look a bit tense.’
‘I’m fine,’ she repeated. ‘Waiting like this always feels like being back at school. Waiting to see teacher.’
He pulled a pack of Marlboro from his jacket pocket, and shook out a cigarette. He clicked his battered Zippo and inhaled deeply, then ran a hand through his hair.
‘Production meetings,’ he said grimly.
Sam smiled. ‘I know you don’t like them.’
‘That copywriter – Jake wozzizname – gives me the creeps.’
‘He’s all right,’ Sam said.
‘He gives you the creeps too?’
‘No.’
‘Something’s given you the creeps.’ He looked at her quizzically.
She felt her face redden, and turned away. ‘Maybe I’m a bit tired. Early start.’
‘What you doing this weekend?’
‘Nicky’s birthday party on Sunday.’
‘Six?’
She nodded.
‘Having a big one?’
‘Nineteen of them. We’re having Charlie Chaplin films and a Punch and Judy.’
‘All his smart little friends?’ He tilted back his head and peered down his nose, feigning an aristocratic accent. ‘Rupert . . . Julian . . . Henrietta. Dominic, Hamish, Inigo and Charlotte?’
‘And the Honourable Sarah Hamilton-Deeley.’
‘Ay say. The Honourable Sarah Hamilton-Deeley. Sounds ripping good fun.’ He dropped the accent and stroked his chin. ‘Hope you think of me, down at the chip shop roughing it with the hoi polloi.’
Sam grinned, then saw something sad in his face. She wondered sometimes whether he liked his independence, or whether he would like to be married again, have kids. She realised how little she knew about him, about the private Ken Shepperd. Here in this environment, where part of him belonged, part of him was comfortable, yet another part of him seemed to yearn to be somewhere else, doing something else, away from the bullshit and the glitz; a man snared by his mistakes and his success.
‘I’ll save you a jelly,’ she said.
‘With a jelly baby in it?’
‘Of course.’
He looked up at the ceiling, then the walls. ‘It’s a poxy room this. Do you know what their billings were last year?’
‘Eighty-two million.’
‘And they can’t even get themselves a decent reception area.’
Sam stared down at the table sprinkled with magazines and newspapers. Campaign. Marketing. Media Week. The Times. The Independent. The Financial Times . The carpet had been specially woven with the agency’s logo of concentric squares receding forever inside each other, like a television picture of a television picture of a television picture. A huge version of the logo dominated the rear wall, surrounded by framed ads, wrappers and packaging. A Ferrari gleamed in the shine of a patent leather shoe on a girl’s foot. A man with a dazzling wholesome smile held up a toothbrush. A can of old-fashioned rice pudding was several feet high, Warhol-style.
‘I think it’s quite smart,’ she said.
‘Sorry to keep you.’ Charlie Edmunds came into the room, tall, almost gangly, with a floppy mop of fair hair. He stood in his
A bad dream, that’s all. Forget it.
She heard the thump of the engines of a launch going by, up river; deep, steady, rhythmic.
Then realised it wasn’t a launch at all. It was her own heartbeat.
4
Sam sat in the reception of Urquhart Simeon Mcpherson, holding the Castaway story board on the sofa beside her, watching Ken pacing restlessly up and down, hands sunk into the pockets of his battered leather coat over his denim jacket and blue jeans, his black boots immaculately shiny: his uniform. Scruffy clothes, but always immaculate boots.
Two girls came in through the door chatting, nodded at the receptionist and went down a corridor. A helmeted despatch rider with ‘Rand Riders’ printed on his back waded in and thrust a package over the counter; he stood waiting for the signature, bandy-legged in his body-hugging leathers, like an insect from outer space.
Ken sat on the arm of the sofa, above her. ‘You all right?’
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘You look a bit tense.’
‘I’m fine,’ she repeated. ‘Waiting like this always feels like being back at school. Waiting to see teacher.’
He pulled a pack of Marlboro from his jacket pocket, and shook out a cigarette. He clicked his battered Zippo and inhaled deeply, then ran a hand through his hair.
‘Production meetings,’ he said grimly.
Sam smiled. ‘I know you don’t like them.’
‘That copywriter – Jake wozzizname – gives me the creeps.’
‘He’s all right,’ Sam said.
‘He gives you the creeps too?’
‘No.’
‘Something’s given you the creeps.’ He looked at her quizzically.
She felt her face redden, and turned away. ‘Maybe I’m a bit tired. Early start.’
‘What you doing this weekend?’
‘Nicky’s birthday party on Sunday.’
‘Six?’
She nodded.
‘Having a big one?’
‘Nineteen of them. We’re having Charlie Chaplin films and a Punch and Judy.’
‘All his smart little friends?’ He tilted back his head and peered down his nose, feigning an aristocratic accent. ‘Rupert . . . Julian . . . Henrietta. Dominic, Hamish, Inigo and Charlotte?’
‘And the Honourable Sarah Hamilton-Deeley.’
‘Ay say. The Honourable Sarah Hamilton-Deeley. Sounds ripping good fun.’ He dropped the accent and stroked his chin. ‘Hope you think of me, down at the chip shop roughing it with the hoi polloi.’
Sam grinned, then saw something sad in his face. She wondered sometimes whether he liked his independence, or whether he would like to be married again, have kids. She realised how little she knew about him, about the private Ken Shepperd. Here in this environment, where part of him belonged, part of him was comfortable, yet another part of him seemed to yearn to be somewhere else, doing something else, away from the bullshit and the glitz; a man snared by his mistakes and his success.
‘I’ll save you a jelly,’ she said.
‘With a jelly baby in it?’
‘Of course.’
He looked up at the ceiling, then the walls. ‘It’s a poxy room this. Do you know what their billings were last year?’
‘Eighty-two million.’
‘And they can’t even get themselves a decent reception area.’
Sam stared down at the table sprinkled with magazines and newspapers. Campaign. Marketing. Media Week. The Times. The Independent. The Financial Times . The carpet had been specially woven with the agency’s logo of concentric squares receding forever inside each other, like a television picture of a television picture of a television picture. A huge version of the logo dominated the rear wall, surrounded by framed ads, wrappers and packaging. A Ferrari gleamed in the shine of a patent leather shoe on a girl’s foot. A man with a dazzling wholesome smile held up a toothbrush. A can of old-fashioned rice pudding was several feet high, Warhol-style.
‘I think it’s quite smart,’ she said.
‘Sorry to keep you.’ Charlie Edmunds came into the room, tall, almost gangly, with a floppy mop of fair hair. He stood in his
Similar Books
The Duke's Temptation
Addie Jo Ryleigh
The Orphans (Book 3): Strangers
Mike Evans
Catching Falling Stars
Karen McCombie
Survival Games
J.E. Taylor
Battle Fatigue
Mark Kurlansky
Now I See You
Nicole C. Kear
The Whipping Boy
Speer Morgan
Rippled
Erin Lark
The Story of Us
Deb Caletti