What Rhymes with Bastard?

I asked him what he meant and he took a deep breath. ‘Linda, we have no clients. That means we don’t make any money. However, it offers huge creative freedom. Think! is a very exciting place to work right now. It’s a true challenge.’

I accepted the challenge and the 75 per cent pay cut and returned home with a spring in my step – David Aarse wanted me Think! ing ASAP!

The very next morning I travelled purposefully downtown, gazing up at skyscrapers that jutted into flawless blue.

‘I like your pants!’ said a passer-by.

I reeled, and then I remembered: Americans talk to strangers; pants = trousers.

Soon I was gliding in a gold-plated lift to the Think! reception area, where a young woman sat reading a magazine in the shade of a gigantic, asymmetric blaze of tropical flowers. She looked up and smiled, gesturing for me to proceed. I found myself in a space the size of a football pitch, in which enough people to make up two teams swivelled listlessly in thousand-dollar ergonomic chairs. The place was heaving with the latest technology and the fridge was stocked with organic smoothies. I wondered vaguely who was funding all this, but then Tina came up and showed me round and I got distracted by all the activity. I was working on a website that would have been for Comedy Central TV if they’d commissioned it, but as they hadn’t we had to keep it a secret in case they sued us for using their logo. The website spoofed the X Games8 – taking place a few blocks down the road – using tiny skateboards and bicycles from cereal packets, and served to demonstrate the Think! flair. By the end of the day I had the Think! system pretty much worked out:

A week later, I was standing on the pier in San Francisco, surrounded by X-treme sports fans with grey hoodies and outsize jeans melting over their sneakers. In my red polka-dot blouse, I felt like a cross between a clown and a traffic cone.

David Aarse interrupted my thoughts. He was preaching to his acolytes. ‘A great creative solution isn’t just about pretty pictures or witty strap lines. Never overlook the importance of the financial aspect. Because no business can operate on gloss alone.’ He reached up to smooth his gleaming hair-nimbus. It was true: to demonstrate their business savvy to their non-existent clients, the Think! team would do anything – hang the expense! He turned to me. ‘Now, see, Linda, this is what we’re looking at …’

As far as I could tell, he wanted me to conduct hilarious interviews with skate-kids that would surreptitiously convey valuable data on the consumer habits of the target market sector. Under ideal conditions, I’d have struggled to build a rapport with them, and these conditions were far from ideal. For a start, David had decided that I wouldn’t appear on camera: instead the on-screen interviewer would be a doll-head on a stick. I would crouch out of shot, addressing my questions to a knee.

‘OK, Linda,’ called David, ‘we’re rolling!’ I cleared my throat and unfurled the question list, which kept flapping in the wind. Now, was there a question that wasn’t too dreadful … ?

‘Rolling!’ said David, again.

‘Um,’ I said, to a flapping trouser-leg, ‘why do you smell of tuna?’

‘Whaaaah?’

David bent down. ‘Linda, he can’t hear you.’

I tried again. ‘Why Do You Smell Of Tuna?’

‘Whaaaah?’

Our cameraman turned to the kid: ‘Sorry, man, she has an accent. The question is, why do you smell of tuna?’

‘Whaddaya mean?’

I tried another tack. ‘What Is Cool?’ I shouted into the wind.

‘What’s cool? Oh, I dunno, like, skaters and stuff, you know? Like, the X Games! That’s cool!’

Bingo! Time to slip in a marketing question. No one would ever notice. ‘What was the last consumer durable you purchased?’

‘Whaaaah?’

‘What was the last thing you bought with a plug on it?’

My TV career proved short-lived, but as lay-offs weren’t yet in vogue, David quietly demoted me to tagger-alonger. In my stead, he hired a dreadful little man who dressed up like a ladybird and went round hitting people with a balloon, all his own idea. I trudged around after them, slowly accruing my twenty-five dollars an hour. When the X Games drew to a close, I approached the Create! employment agency. ‘Nothing today,’ they chirped, ‘but soon! Check in every day!’

Three weeks later, they dredged up something, and I went downtown to a swanky ad agency. There, a man with curly red hair sat me down and spoke as though we were planning an air raid. ‘Thanks for coming in at the last moment, Linda.’

I tried to look as though I had something better to do. ‘That’s all right.’

‘Excellent. So, here’s the deal. Our client wants two options for this campaign, and we’ve already come up with the ideal solution.’ He held up a drawing-pad with a blue scribble on it. I inspected it and raised my eyebrows appreciatively. ‘Nice …’

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘However, we need to offer them something else, something that’s not so hot, so they get the impression they’re choosing the ideal solution. And that’s where you come in.’

I was confident that I could create something truly second-rate.

Next, Create! got me an interview for a permanent job with the brand-new interactive wing of a global ad agency. The creative director hired me on the spot. ‘Great portfolio,’ he said. ‘Sharp. Edgy. I like it.’ His judgement was awry, but I ran off a-sparkle, rushing into Jack’s arms with the good news.

‘Fifty bucks an hour?’ He beamed. ‘Full time? That’s great!’ He lifted me off my feet for an extra big hug. ‘I’m so proud of you!’

‘I’m so proud of me too!’

We went out to dinner to celebrate. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I really didn’t want to come over here to San Francisco. And things have been pretty difficult so far. It was the worst time of my life, being here without you. But now I’m thinking that maybe we did the right thing after all.’ He polished off his third whisky.

‘I’m sorry I made you do it, Chief. I’m sorry I uprooted you from everything. I know you had a terrible time.’

‘That’s all right, Bun. We’re together now and it’s working out. Shall we get salmon-skin rolls? With little bits of lettuce for you?’

Things were looking up – we’d got ourselves a sun-drenched, overpriced pad with a palm-tree in the garden, and Jack was already bringing in enough to support us both. Viewing life as a ladder we couldn’t fall off, we threw away our savings on designer sunglasses, roller-blades and CDs.

Sadly, life at the cutting edge of interactive advertising proved to be a lot like freelancing in London, except I couldn’t get a single word approved. After two weeks I’d been given nothing to work on except the subject line for a single spam email.

 See the potential. Reflect on your growth.

 A moment’s reflection.

 A lifetime’s growth.

 See your reflection; reach your potential.

 Your potential is reflected right here.

 Extraordinary potential. Time to reflect?.

 Time to reflect on extraordinary potential.

I passed my latest sheet to Slim, the head of copy. ‘Yeah!’ he said, nodding. ‘Nice work! There are some really strong lines in here.’

‘That’s good,’ I said, breaking a smile. ‘I was beginning to think —’

‘Yeah, you’ve nearly got it.’

‘Nearly?’

‘Yeah.’

My buttocks clenched inside my nice pants. ‘So, um, how do I actually Get It?’

‘Hmm.’ He tapped his chin. ‘I’d say … focus on the concept of “Extraordinary”.’

I trudged back to my borrowed desk. Slumping in my ergonomic chair, I began to type yet again.

 Reflect on extraordinary growth potential.

 Reflect on potential extraordinary growth!

 Reflecting extraordinary potential growth?

 Extraordinary potential: growth-reflecting.

 Extraordinary potential for reflecting growth.

 Potential growth reflecting the extraordinary.

 Growth potential reflecting the extraordinary.

 Extraordinary reflecting potential = growth!

 Grow extraordinary reflecting potential.

 Extraordinary! Reflect your growth potential.

 Potential: reflect your growth. Extraordinary!

 Reflect potential for growth: Extraordinary!

 Reflecting truth growing potenti …

Why didn’t they get a computer to generate this stuff? It wouldn’t need its own ergonomic chair. I stood up and went to lunch.

As I ate my rice pudding, I calculated that if Slim ever accepted one of my sentences, it would have cost the company five hundred dollars a word. Considering this, I felt bad about downloading so many knitting patterns. It was time for some straight talk, so back at the office I collared the creative director.

‘You’re doing fine,’ he purred, stroking his plastic hair. ‘There’s plenty of work. Just a bit sporadic. Start-ups.’ Then he ducked into the loo.

The veneer began to disintegrate before my eyes, and I realized quickly that nobody else was doing any work either. Though the CEO kept making references to the future, he wouldn’t give an exact date. We were ‘temporarily’ housed in a low-slung attic above a Chinese restaurant, with threadbare carpets and exposed wiring. Of course, we’d move into a marble palace ASAP, and I’d have my own ergonomic desk, chair and computer, but in the meantime would I mind squatting in the lobby over that big, dark stain? I stared out into the limitless azure beyond the murky windows, then followed my instincts and walked out.

As soon as I got home, I called Jack. ‘I couldn’t bear it any more, Chief. I told them where to stick it – under G for Goodbye. Actually, I said I had another job, which isn’t really lying – it’s referring optimistically to a future state. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No, Bunny, I don’t want you to suffer. No point us both having a stupid job that we hate. You’ll get something much better.’

In fact, I didn’t. There was no word from Create! and I began to give up hope. I started making elaborate food, reading French and lounging around the house a lot; things got so desperate that I started reading the paper. Not the news part, of course – just the column with the sex tips. ‘A gentleman props himself up on his elbows,’ it said. That was an option? I liked being squashed, but Jack was really heavy, and I couldn’t breathe properly, and after a while the sweat made those farty sounds … But hang on, wasn’t I supposed to be moaning, or something, sort of spontaneously? I just didn’t have it in me, especially now that Prozac had me numb from the waist down. Oh, well, I suppose the occasional orgasm was a fair trade for the soft padding inside my skull. I put down the paper and got to work on a song, and by the time I’d finished, Jack came home with a bunch of irises. ‘Hi, Bun!’ he said. ‘Writing a ditty?’

‘Yup.’

‘Great. What’s it about?’

‘That girl at work you want to fuck up the arse.’

‘What – Gayle?’

‘Yeah, it’s about Gayle.’

‘But you haven’t met her.’

‘I’ve seen her from a distance.’

‘Let’s hear it, then.’

‘You might not like it.’

‘I’m sure I’ll like it. Go on.’

I cleared my throat.

All Made Up

Though her hair is blonde, she dyes it blonder, Sticks plastic to her eyelids to make her lashes longer. Her skin is almost perfect, though she covers it in crap, She is carefully creating a reality gap.

Beneath it all, she’s a natural girl, Only pretending to be fake, Trying to cope in a threatening world And claim her share of the cake.

Though she is a good girl, she dresses like a whore. It’s good to leave your audience wanting more.

She covers up her shyness with ultra-padded bras, Add two little bits of sponge and men start seeing stars.

Beneath it all, she’s a natural chick, Only pretending to be fake. The hypocrisy of her life makes her sick But there seems so much at stake! Though naturally honest, she acts a little sly. People seem to like it, she doesn’t wonder why. She really isn’t stupid, but never lets it show, Perhaps her mind is addled; her friends would never know.

Beneath it all, she’s a natural dame, Only pretending to be fake, Thinks inside she is still just the same, But she’s making a big mistake.

Jack stood up and crossed his arms. ‘That’s really mean.’

‘It’s not mean, it’s insightful.’

‘Gayle’s really cool.’

‘No, she’s not. She’s a faux-tart.’

‘I’m going out for a smoke.’

‘You said you were going to stop. You promised.’

‘Christ, leave me alone, would you?’ He slammed the door behind him, and I sat down on the bed, ablaze with righteousness and embarrassment.

Back at work the next day, he sat in his office, having a think. Left alone in the US, he’d found himself a job, a home and even some new friends. The truth was, I wasn’t actually necessary. This small but elemental groundshift had caused fissures to appear in our love, and as the relief of reunion ebbed away, they were becoming apparent. Were they structural, he wondered, or superficial? He took another toke on the office bong and Gayle tottered in. Her easy laugh, deft compliments and tight skirt helped him come to a conclusion, which he shared with me after we’d finished dinner that night. No point spoiling a good lasagne.

‘That was lovely, Lins,’ he said, clearing his plate. ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking.’

‘What about?’ I asked. ‘Presents for me?’

‘No, I’m serious. I’m sorry, but I think that, fundamentally, you’re not good enough for me. You don’t care enough about other people, and you aren’t motivated to do good.’

That stopped me in my tracks. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, like at that first place we lived in. You hated everyone.’

‘They were awful.’

‘No, they were just different from you.’

‘Yes. They were awful.’

‘Tova, for instance: she’s really quite sweet. And Gayle – she’s a nice girl, you just don’t know her.’

‘I don’t want to know her.’

‘You’re always looking at people in the worst light.’

My defences began to give way. ‘I suppose so …’

‘And you’re not kind to people in shops. Like that waitress the other day.’

‘She was being stupid.’

‘You think you’re being assertive but you’re just being mean. I dunno, Lins. It’s, well … The people I’m meeting at work are happy to get along with each other, and they’re not so judgemental, you know? They’re just real people.’

Now I was on the attack. ‘What the fuck’s a “real person”?’

‘You know what I’m talking about.’

‘You said they were homogenous androids.’

‘That’s what I thought at first, but I don’t want to approach life like that any more. I don’t want to think the way you do … Don’t cry, Lins. It’s— There are so many things. Like with money. You always think people are out to rip you off. You don’t want me to buy drinks and you always fuss at the tips I leave.’

‘Jack, it’s like you have this inferiority complex and have to prove you’re not mean. You can’t set foot in a bar without spending a hundred dollars, and we can’t afford it.’

‘Look, I know it’s hard for you, with the way your family is, but I think you’re —’

‘What?’

‘Morally inadequate.’

I was quiet for a bit. I had been brought up to expect the worst from life and the people in it. Jack might have been mad from time to time, but he was decent and friendly to people when he was sober. I didn’t know what to do so I ran, sobbing, from the flat. It was exhilarating at first, but I soon felt the wind whipping through my rabbit-print pyjamas. And these were tough hills to negotiate in slippers.

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