white. A sumptuous white leather chair sat behind it. On the walls hung black-and-white Ansel Adams prints—well, given the deVeers money, they were probably originals. Black bookcases, white walls. There was a picture of her and Mr. deVeers in ski gear standing on some mountaintop. I seemed to remember that Muriel’s mother died when she was young.
Muriel sat behind her desk. “Have a seat,” she said, looking at me with those glittering eyes. I obeyed, feeling like I’d been called to the principal’s office (something that had never happened in real life, let me assure you).
“Would you like a scone?” I asked. “I made them this morning.”
“No, thank you,” she said, folding her hands primly.
“So,” I said. “What’s up?”
Once again she looked me up and down as if surveying a bug. “I thought you should be aware that Mark’s told me about the little … fling … you two had last year,” she said.
Fling? Is that what he called it? My heart flinched. All of me flinched, apparently, because she smiled, an evil little Cruella De Vil smile. “I didn’t want you to think you had to hide that information,” she said. “It must be quite hard, still having feelings for your employer.”
“Oh, no,” I lied. “I’m fine. I’ve known Mark most of my life, and we’re very good friends. Thank you so much, though.” I tried to match her cool tone, but it was hard when my face was practically bubbling with heat.
“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured, raising a silken eyebrow. “Well, I commend you for not letting it get in your way. I’m not sure I could work with the man I loved if the feeling wasn’t mutual.”
Wow. I mean, really. Wow! It took balls of steel to say that. “I’m fine, let me assure you,” I said, though my throat was tightening.
“Well! Good for you, Callie,” she said. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have work to do.”
I stood up, my legs unsteady, and walked to the door, hoping not to look as shaken as I felt.
“Callie?” Muriel called, writing something on a pad.
“Yes?”
She didn’t look up. “Don’t forget your snack.”
“They’re for everyone,” I said defensively. “I always bake on Mondays. Production meetings.” She didn’t answer, just shot me a dubious look, as if she knew I’d be galumphing across the hall with my scones and stuffing all twelve of them into my mouth.
Taking care not to accidentally let the tray, oh, I don’t know … hit her in the face, I picked it up and left, closing the door quietly behind me.
THE NATURE OF ADVERTISING is to make people yearn for something. As creative director, my job was basically to come up with a concept … the big picture, the general idea of an ad campaign. But it was more than that, too. To me, there was something magical about my job. When I had an account, I got the chance to repackage something, to focus only on its good qualities, to convince others to like it, want it and need it. In essence, I focused on the positive. That had always been a strength of mine.
Mark was the account exec on all of our clients, though I knew Fleur had high hopes to move up the food chain. For the time being, she worked under me, doing the grunt work of writing the copy before giving it to me for approval and tweaking. Pete and Leila took care of the graphics side of things, the layout and fonts and color schemes and all that fun stuff. Karen booked ad space, paid the bills and dealt with our vendors, and Damien answered the phones, made appointments and worshipped Mark.
And now there was Muriel. We’d never had anyone work on just one account before, but then again, Bags to Riches was our biggest client. They wanted to do a huge national ad campaign—radio, television, Internet, print, billboards, everything. This morning, Muriel was supposed to give us the lowdown on what the client wanted, and then we’d finesse some ideas. I already had a few mock-ups prepared.
And so, ten minutes later, the entire staff filed into the conference room. I set down the tray of scones in the middle of the table.
“God loves you, Callie,” Pete said, lunging for one, then breaking a bit off and feeding it to Leila like a male cardinal.
“Those look great,” Mark said, grinning at me. “Muriel, Callie’s an incredible baker. Want one?”
“Oh, absolutely,” she said, smiling up at him. “I’m starving.”
“Bloody hell, don’t tell me you’re that thin and you eat carbs. Life’s so unfair. Hi, I’m Fleur Eames.” Fleur stopped dunking her tea bag and stuck out her hand. “Sorry I’m late. You wouldn’t believe what happened to me on the way in. Fucking deer almost smashed my windscreen, yeah?”
“You hit a deer?” I blurted.
Fleur glanced at me. “Almost. I had to pull over and settle down, though. Have a ciggie, calm my nerves.”
“Nice to meet you,” Muriel said.
“Great meeting you,” Fleur said. “Heard oodles of good stuff about you.”
“Ass-kisser,” Damien whispered, taking his customary seat next to me.
“Okay,” Mark said. “Let’s get down to business. Everyone’s met Muriel, we’ve got Callie’s great scones …” He smiled at me, and I forced a smile back. Good old Callie, scone baker. “Muriel, want to get us rolling? Tell us everything we need to know about Bags to Riches.”
“Absolutely. And let me just say I’m thrilled to be here.” She smiled at each of us in turn, then cleared her throat and reached for her notes. “Bags to Riches is an outerwear company that makes clothing out of a unique blend of cotton and plastic grocery bags.”
Her voice was confident and loud, as if she were addressing a stadium. “Our demographic is young, affluent people who enjoy outdoor activities, such as hiking and biking.” She paused, and made eye contact with each one of us, her expression grave. Damien kicked me under the table. “Our goal is to reach these people in a variety of media and increase sales. Thank you.”
With that, she sat down. Mark gave her a confused look, but she just smiled demurely and looked at her hands. “Um … okay. Great, Muriel,” Mark said. “Well, Callie, any ideas?”
I glanced from Mark to Muriel. What Muriel had just told us was something so basic a fourth grader could’ve presented it. Usually, Mark would give us much more detailed information … how long the campaign would last, which markets were underselling, which were doing great, product tie-ins, etc. “Are you … um, are you all done?” I asked her.
“Why, yes, I am, Callie,” she answered. “Mark said you were presenting some ideas. May we see them?”
“Of course,” I said, glancing at Pete, who shrugged. “Well, obviously what makes this company unique is the grocery bag element, and that’s something we’ll definitely focus on.”
“Obviously,” Muriel murmured.
I looked at her. “My first idea is geared toward male consumers, college grads, twenty-five to forty years old, earning more than fifty grand a year.” I reached down next to my chair, grabbed the first poster (PowerPoint was fine, but I was a little old school in presentations) and read my tagline aloud. “Kick some butt, save the planet. BTR Outerwear.” The poster showed a good-looking, sweaty guy, his backpack next to him, standing at the top of a mountain, overlooking a vast wilderness.
Mark smiled, and the usual tingle of pride fluttered in my stomach.
“Oh, nice work,” Leila said.
“Delicious,” Karen murmured, taking a bite of scone. “Him, I mean.” She jerked her chin at the poster.
“I’m thinking all our ads should be shot in national parks,” I continued. “If BTR coughs up some