Читать книгу Man of the Year - Lisa Ruff - Страница 10

Samantha rushed in out of the rain and walked briskly to the elevator. The brass hand in an arch above the doors pointed at the number ten, slowly dropped to nine, then stopped. She waited, staring at the ornate brass curlicues on the door in front of her without actually seeing them. Her mind was still on the commercial for the Rainiers. A few minutes later a soft chime sounded, and the doors opened. An old man in a burgundy uniform with gold braid carefully held the door for her to enter.

“Hello, Ted.”

“Good afternoon, Miss James. A fine day we’ve got, don’t you think?”

Samantha grinned at the elevator operator. “With rain and wind like this, you can say it’s a fine day?”

“Oh, well, it’s Seattle. If this isn’t a fine day, then it’ll be a while before we have one.”

Samantha laughed. He was right. With all the rain in Seattle, they had to appreciate days when it only drizzled. Ted pulled the door closed and shifted the lever to “up.” With a clank and a slight wheeze, the ancient elevator rose slowly to the twelfth floor. The Smith Tower, the oldest high-rise in the city, had its quirks. This elegant brass relic of an elevator was one of them. But Samantha loved the old building. Much taller skyscrapers rose all around, but they seemed like polished, characterless monoliths in comparison. Since 1913, the tower had outlasted both developers that coveted the land it occupied and earthquakes that tried to shake it down. Now, quirks and all, it was an intrinsic part of the Seattle skyline. It was also the perfect home for Samantha’s company.

The car jerked to a halt, a foot above the twelfth floor. Ted patiently shifted the lever up and down, joggling the car closer to the same level as the floor. Samantha waited just as patiently, though she would have been happy to hop down the short distance. The elevator was Ted’s pride and joy, and Samantha respected his need to do his job perfectly. He opened the brass gate and waved Samantha on her way.

“Thanks, Ted.”

“My pleasure, Miss James. You have a good day.”

Walking down the short hall, Samantha opened the door into her corner of the advertising world. On the front end, Emerald Advertising looked like any other business. Muted rose paint on the walls and furniture upholstered in navy and plum greeted the visitor, an image of tasteful yet understated affluence. At the large mahogany reception desk, phones rang quietly and were answered graciously. The lighting was also subdued, soft. Two equally inviting conference rooms, one large and one small, lay directly behind the reception area.

If Samantha knew anything about her business, it was that packaging made the product. Her clients had preconceived ideas of how a successful ad business should look, how it felt, smelled and worked. So, she gave them glass walls, a touch of brass and chairs with ample padding: the plush trappings where deals could be made in comfort. The front office looked spacious and gracious, as Samantha liked to say, with enough room to stretch out your checkbook.

Behind this formal front lurked Emerald Advertising’s messier, creative side. A three-quarter-height wall of frosted glass separated one half from the other. Occasionally, this seamier side of the company slipped over the wall and broke into the respectable realm. While sitting in the waiting area, clients occasionally caught glimpses of objects flying through the air. These strange sights happened so suddenly that they were usually dismissed as figments of the imagination—indoor UFOs. After all, mature adults did not throw things in an office, did they?

Samantha greeted the receptionist. Debbie smoothly put one caller on hold while simultaneously routing another call back to Pam at her desk.

“Brenda pulled your messages when she got back from lunch. I’ve put most of your calls through to her this afternoon.”

Samantha thanked her and walked behind the wall into “Never-Never Land” as her employees called it. Most of the back half of the business had no walls, cubicles or other hindrances to carve up the space. Only Samantha’s corner office was enclosed. The walls were frosted glass for an illusion of privacy, but her door was nearly always open. Illustrators and copywriters were free to toss ideas back and forth—or erasers, spitballs or rubber bands, if the whims of creativity so required it. The front office decor flowed back to this area, but in a more lively fashion. Where the entrance to Emerald Advertising inspired business, the working area inspired creativity. The colors were bolder and brighter, the energy level higher.

The clutter in this creative room was terrible, which was mostly Samantha’s fault. She encouraged her employees to hang personal art, current projects, comic strips on the walls—anything pertinent to their work, and things not so pertinent, whatever generated fresh ideas and imaginative thoughts. It was an idea factory where slogans, logos and images for products from detergent to auto parts were crafted. The waste from this process littered the tables, desks and floor.

One of four walls was entirely devoted to Emerald’s competition. Ads for lingerie, espresso, software, oil-and-lube service and more were plastered one atop another. Comments were scribbled across them. Just above eye level to the left was a small banner that read Worst. To the far right was a similar banner with Best. Under these headings were the ads that had won either award that week. For each ad pinned to the wall, Samantha wanted a critique. Did it succeed in promoting the product? Why did it fail? How could Emerald do it differently? How would they do it better?

Better was always what Samantha wanted from her company, her employees and herself. Because of this, Emerald Advertising had earned a steadily increasing reputation for fresh, offbeat campaigns in the marketing world. It was a reputation that Samantha worked hard to cultivate. Staying on the cutting edge of advertising was a continual challenge. That’s what made the work so interesting. In time, Samantha hoped to turn Emerald into one of the leading advertising firms in the city—and the nation. The contract with the Seattle Rainiers was a critical step toward fulfilling that dream.

She stopped to greet Stuart and Lane, one of her best creative teams.

“How’s it going, guys?”

“Pretty good, Ms. Boss-lady,” Lane answered playfully. “We’ve got the storyboards ready for Big Snot Auto Parts. I think they’ll go for it.”

Samantha laughed at Lane’s irreverence. “Good. When do you meet with them?”

Stuart answered. “Next Tuesday.”

“I’d like to see what you’ve got planned.” Samantha glanced at the clock. “Not this afternoon. How about first thing tomorrow morning?”

The two men agreed, and Samantha moved on to her office. She smiled, thinking about Stuart and Lane. As a creative team, they worked together beautifully, though she sometimes thought that they shared the same mind. Often you’d ask a question of one, and the other would answer. Or one would finish the sentence that the other had started. Nice guys, but odd—perfect for advertising and her company.

As she went through the door to her office, Samantha noticed a short, blond spike of hair peeking over the top of her blue swivel chair. Those pale spikes could only belong to Brenda Miller, Samantha’s right-hand woman. Brenda kept Samantha’s world organized. She followed the progress of current projects, passed on the information she thought needed to be heard, and filed the rest for future use. Samantha was certain Brenda could do at least seven things at once. Besides all that, Brenda was Samantha’s closest friend.

“Hey, what is this? Some sort of coup?” Samantha teased. “I’m gone for two hours, and you’ve already taken over.”

“Samantha!” Brenda spun around in her boss’s chair, ignoring her teasing. “How did everything go? Did you meet the team?”

The question was laced with more excitement and zest than Brenda usually mustered for business. She and her husband, Craig, a lawyer, were dedicated Rainiers fans. She had made Samantha promise that she would get autographs of any new players for Brenda’s collection.

“It was fine.” Samantha dropped her briefcase to the floor and perched on the edge of the desk, flipping through the mail piled on it.

“Come on, Samantha,” Brenda begged. “Fine cannot describe a trip to a locker room full of half-naked, gorgeous hunks of male flesh.”

Samantha laughed. “Why do you think they were half-naked?”

“Wishful thinking.”

Samantha chuckled at Brenda’s wistful look. “Well, I might have noticed one or two that were wearing less than the regulation uniform.” An image of Jarrett Corliss wrapped in a damp towel popped into her mind, as if it were a jack-in-the-box that had wound itself up, springing into her head unannounced. Samantha blinked, pushed the image back into the box and slammed the lid tight.

“What do you mean? Or should I say who do you mean?”

“No one,” Samantha denied firmly.

“Bull. You met someone.”

Samantha shook her head. “I’ll tell you later. What’s happened here at the factory?”

Brenda allowed the subject change without comment. “Running wild and crazy as usual. If there are any problems, everyone seems to be handling them on their own and not sharing them with me.” She levered herself out of Samantha’s chair with some effort. “Boy, that gets harder to do every day.”

Samantha reached out and helped her friend to her feet, steadied her, then patted the protruding stomach. Six months pregnant, Brenda had started to waddle a bit. “Junior giving you problems today?”

“Only when he does a tap dance on my bladder.” She sighed. “Now, the urgent mail is on the left, the not-so-urgent is on the right, the important messages are here, I fielded the rest. You want a cup of coffee?”

“I can get one myself. I thought the smell made you nauseous.” Samantha sat and looked over the piles Brenda had indicated.

“Not anymore,” Brenda said with a grimace. “Now cat food, that makes me green.” Both women laughed at that.

“Then, yes, thank you. I’d love a cup. And if you’ve got time, I’d like to go over the material I picked up at the Rainiers today. I think I have a campaign just about figured out.”

“Jeez, you’re quick. Stuart and Lane will be disappointed. They want to come up with all the brilliant ideas.”

Samantha wiggled her eyebrows and did a poor imitation of Groucho Marx. “I had a lot of inspiration while I was there.”

Brenda groaned. “Okay, I’ll get my notepad and the coffee and be right back.”

Samantha pulled a thick file from her briefcase. She took an envelope of photographs from the file and went to the large worktable just outside her office door. Around her, activity buzzed. Stuart and Lane took turns shooting a foam basketball through a hoop over the windows. Samantha didn’t ask what that had to do with auto parts. A printer hummed, spitting out paper. Carol hunched over a computer, composing a layout. Somewhere in the back Pam argued on the phone.

Samantha spread the photographs out before her on the table. Eight-by-ten headshots mingled with the “action” poses that she had always found corny. She pulled out the headshots and lined them across the table. Players were identified by name across the bottom of each photo. Other personal data, vital statistics and averages were listed on the back. None of the official information said much about the individuals. Samantha recalled her conversations with the players: their jokes, their quirks, their stories all came back to her.

“So this is the new team.” Brenda peeked over Samantha’s shoulder. “Here’s your coffee.”

“Thanks.”

“Not bad.” Brenda picked up a photo. “Hey, this is José Alvendia. He used to play for Houston. Craig and I wondered what had happened to him. He used to be really good.”

“Let’s hope he’s still really good.” Samantha eyed the photo. “Between you and me, Elliott told me that this is the last chance he’s giving the team. If they don’t turn things around, he’s going to sell it.”

“What? I thought the city had a contract with him for two years.”

“No, only one year is guaranteed. The second year depends on this season’s revenues.”

“You think they can do it? Pull the club out of the toilet, I mean?” Brenda knew as much or more about the team as anyone, and the skepticism was evident in her tone.

“I don’t know. Elliott’s put some money into getting players. About half of these guys are new this year.” Samantha waved at the spread of photos with her coffee cup. “But your guess is as good as anyone’s whether they can pull it off.”

“Well, that could either mean new energy, or too many egos to make a team work together.”

“Exactly.” Samantha sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “But for better or worse, we’ve got to shove our personal doubts aside and assume they’ll succeed.”

Brenda eased herself onto a chair at the side of the table. “Maybe we should just stick to auto parts and bookstores.”

Samantha eyed the photos as she pondered Brenda’s words. Not only had the Rainiers been rock-bottom in the league, they’d also managed to bring just about every scandal swirling around the club: drugs, drunk driving, bar fights. One player had even been caught having an affair with the mayor’s wife.

“Well, at least the problem players have either been suspended indefinitely or left the team,” Samantha said, thinking aloud.

“Or they’re in jail.”

“Don’t remind me. It’s been four months since the end of last season. If we hit the public with a whole new image, play up the bright future the team has, I think we can win the fans over.”

“So what’s your big idea, boss?” Brenda sipped the glass of water she held. “How’s the rookie ad-lady going to save the day?”

Samantha perched on the edge of the table, facing Brenda. “Try this one: When I was talking with some of the players, I had this flashback to grade school. Do you remember at recess, the boys would try to outdo one another with jokes and tricks when they were around the girls? They’d do all this silly stuff just to get our attention and we ended up thinking they were just that—silly?”

“Yeah, and the weirdest ones always turned out to be the guys you dated in high school,” Brenda said with a laugh. “So how does this sell a baseball team?”

“What if we play on that image to reintroduce the team to the public? Especially the new ones. Set up a series of commercials with the players shown as boys. Take them through childhood when they’re on the playground to adulthood in the stadium. Each guy would have some particular talent that revealed itself at an early age. Or maybe it’s just a quirk that has followed him through life that makes him good at what he does now.”

“You mean like the naughty boy throwing a rock that breaks a church window?” Brenda asked. “In the next spot, he’s the team’s star pitcher.”

“Exactly. That’s a good one.”

“What about the print ads and the billboards?”

“We could use stills of each player, showing a parody of them as a kid, then as an adult. You know, a photo of a kid breaking the church window, then a still of the actual player winding up for a pitch.” Samantha felt the seed of the idea blossoming in her head. “We can use the new faces on the team. The old ones, too. Introduce all of them so it’s like there’s a completely new ball club. We give the customer the feeling of getting to know the team from day one. How a new era of great baseball got started. Or, at least a new season.” Samantha finished with a shrug.

Brenda sat for a moment sipping her water. “This has promise, boss. You’re good. But I’m still thinking about those half-naked men. What about them?”

“What half-naked men?”

“The half-naked men that gave you that glazed look a little while ago? You said you’d explain later. It’s later now.” Brenda was watching Samantha with wide, guileless eyes.

Samantha was not fooled. “Hmm. Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

“That’s why you hired me.”

“I haven’t quite figured out where the half-naked men fit into the picture, but I have my target.”

“Who?”

“Jarrett Corliss.”

“The pitcher with the bum shoulder? Why him?”

Samantha sorted through the photos and pulled one from the mess. “This is why.” She handed it to Brenda.

Brenda took one look at the blond, blue-eyed man and whistled her approval. “My, oh my. He was with Arizona a while ago, wasn’t he? I wondered what happened to him.” Brenda shot an inquiring look at Samantha, then added, “Well, his shoulder may be toast, but the rest of him has sure improved with age.”

“Brenda, I am telling you the complete and honest truth—this man is the best-looking thing in a damp towel that I’ve ever seen in all my twenty-eight years.” Samantha pointed her finger at the other woman. “And that opinion is never to be mentioned outside of this conversation.”

Brenda had a steadily widening grin on her face. “That good, huh? He’s the reason for your glazed, dreamy look?”

Samantha had to smile. “Well, he did kind of…pop into my head unexpectedly.”

The two burst into laughter that had a decidedly wicked ring to it. Others in the office glanced up to see what the joke was, then went back to what they were doing after deciding that it was private.

Samantha wiped the corner of her eyes. “He’s also the…what do I want to say? He’s the smoothest man I’ve ever met.” She felt her blood sizzle from the memory of Jarrett’s bold appraisal. “He’s from somewhere south—”

“Oklahoma,” Brenda supplied, looking at the back of the photo she held.

“Oklahoma, then. He has a drawl and entirely more charm than what’s good for him.”

Brenda laughed. “Sounds like you’ve got a thing for the man in the towel.”

“No way, Bren. No ballplayers. Never again. You know that.”

“It’s been a long time, Samantha.” Brenda looked at her friend directly. “Just because he plays baseball, doesn’t mean he’s going to run around on you.”

“Whether he plays baseball or not, he’s not going to get the chance.”

Brenda shot her an exasperated look. “Those were boys, Sam. These—” she waved a hand at the photos arrayed on the table “—are men who know what mitt-muffins are like and what they want. Not every guy in the league is only interested in empty sex.”

Samantha snorted. “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba. The mitt-muffins are just the tip of the iceberg, Bren. It’s the ego I can’t stand. Every player I ever met acted like he’s God’s gift to the universe. That hasn’t changed much from when I was a kid, hanging out at Boomer’s high school games.” Samantha looked at Jarrett’s picture, then turned it so the handsome smile was directed at Brenda. “This guy’s got an ego as big as them all. Maybe bigger.”

“You know that after meeting him just once?”

“Oh, yeah, that came through loud and clear.”

“But he still turned you on,” Brenda added smugly.

“I said he was sexy, not that I was interested in him.”

“I say go for it, Sam. If he’s as sexy as you—”

“You know I can’t, even if I did want to,” Samantha interrupted. “I told you what Elliott said.”

“He can’t tell you who you can and can’t date,” Brenda said.

“Sure he can. He holds all the cards. At least as far as the team is concerned.”

“You think he’d cancel the contract because you went on a date with a player?” Brenda was incredulous.

“I don’t know if he would cancel, but he could make our lives very difficult,” Samantha said, serious now. “I can’t—I won’t—take the risk of finding out how far he’s willing to be pushed. I do know Elliott was dead serious when he said he didn’t want any trace of scandal around the team.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Brenda sounded doubtful.

“I know I am. We need this contract much more than I need a date with some smooth-talking, sexy farm boy from Oklahoma.”

“It’s your call, Sam.”

“Exactly, and I don’t want anything that smells even vaguely suspicious getting back to Elliott’s nose. Besides, I get enough of baseball from Boomer. More, I don’t need.”

“Speaking of which, what are you going to do about him?” Brenda shuffled the pictures and came up with Boomer’s. “What’s his bit in all this?”

“Nothing special. I treat him just like any other player. He knows that and so do I. Elliott didn’t seem to think there was a problem, as long as we both knew that there would be no special treatment. I told him about the connection, but it turns out he already knew. Thanks to Boomer.”

“He told him?” Brenda asked, surprised. “Why would he do that?”

“Little brother didn’t want any blotch on his career because I was bidding on the team’s ad contract.”

“Huh? I don’t get it.”

Samantha shrugged. “That’s how he explained it. As it turned out, I may have gotten the contract because of my connection with him, at least indirectly. Elliott said that my knowledge of baseball was one thing that tipped the scale in our favor.”

“That and being low bidder.”

“Well, his budget is tight this year, so that worked to our advantage as well.”

Samantha was philosophical about why she had beaten other, more prestigious firms for the high-profile job. In the end, all that mattered was that she knew her team could do the work as well as, or better than, any other firm. She had convinced Elliott of that. And her spiel to him was not merely boastful, hopeful words. Samantha would not have taken the contract if she did not think Emerald was right for the job and that the job was right for Emerald.

The size of the project was a bit daunting for a small company, though. The firm would be responsible for not only the advertising, but also a new logo, uniform design and colors. Caps, buttons, bumper stickers, giveaways—the list was endless. They would set up interviews for the players at local radio and television stations. The budget ran into the millions.

To handle all this work, Samantha had to turn away numerous smaller jobs, some with clients that she hated to lose. In the past, those small jobs had been the company’s bread and butter. The contract with the Rainiers would usurp all their resources. If Emerald succeeded, it would earn national exposure. Other corporate clients would notice the small company from Seattle and come courting. Samantha’s fledgling firm would fly to a higher altitude in the ad business. With that flight would come money and prestige.

And if they failed? Samantha had not thought much about that possibility. Without consulting her accountant, she knew her business could not afford to lose. If Emerald failed to show Mr. Elliott a healthy return on all his advertising dollars, it would be stretched pretty thin, maybe too thin to recover. Nothing like putting all our eggs in one basket, Samantha had thought when she signed the contract.

“So, Bren, this is the big one. Let’s get started. I want to schedule a kickoff meeting with everyone on Monday. Afternoon is best.” She gathered up the photos.

Brenda jotted a few more notes on her pad of paper, then boosted herself out of the chair. “Right, boss. I’ll set it up.”

Samantha dropped the photos in the center of the mess on her desk. As if by magic, Jarrett’s picture slid out of the pile. He smiled up at her.

“Wipe that cocky grin off your face, Jarrett Corliss,” Samantha warned the man in the photo as she tapped his nose with the eraser end of her pencil. “I’ve got plans for you.”