Where There's Smoke

From then on, the pitch had ballooned until it filled her entire horizon. Clive joked that she might as well install a bed at the office, to save going home at all. You’re not happy unless you’re working, he’d said. She had smiled, but behind it had been a dark stirring of panic. Happy? That night at the gym she had strained until her muscles screamed, trying to burn off her restlessness like calories.

Now the waiting had concertinaed into the final hours. Redwood, the chairman of the board of trustees, had told her he would let her know the Trust’s decision before noon.

Winning would mean financial security, perhaps eventually bigger premises. It would establish the agency’s reputation, opening the way to bigger and better accounts. Kate didn’t let herself consider what losing would be like.

She found she was clicking her ball-point pen aimlessly in and out. She stopped, put it down, and determinedly reached for the file she had opened earlier. She began to read it and make notes, haltingly at first, then more fluidly.

But every few minutes her eyes would stray to the clock on the wall. The morning passed slowly. Each time a call came through she stiffened, expecting it to be from the Trust. None were. At five to twelve she gave up even the pretence of trying to work. She sat in the silence of her office, looking at the clock and waiting for the phone to ring. The second hand crept round the dial, bringing the noon deadline closer. She watched as it converged with the other two. The three formed a single, vertical finger, poised for a moment, and then the second hand ticked indifferently into its downward sweep.

Kate felt the anticipation leak out of her. In its wake was a heavy residue of disappointment. The Parker Trust were almost obsessively punctual. If she’d won the pitch she would have heard by now. She didn’t move as the fact of failure sank in, no longer a possibility but a reality to be faced. Abruptly, she shook herself. So you didn’t get it. It’s only a pitch. There’ll be others. She sat straighter in her chair, doggedly re-opened the file she’d been working on.

The phone beeped. Kate started. It beeped again. She picked it up. “Yes?”

Caroline answered. “It’s Mr Redwood from the Parker Trust.”

Even though she knew what he was going to say, Kate felt her heart bump. She cleared her throat. “Put him through.”

There seemed to be more clicks than usual as the transfer was made. The line hummed, hollowly. “Miss Powell?”

“Good afternoon, Mr Redwood.” She allowed a faint emphasis to creep into the “afternoon”.

“I apologise for the tardiness of the call. I realise you would have been expecting to hear sooner.” The voice gave an accurate picture of the man. Scottish. Thin, dry and humourless. Clive had called him anal, and Kate hadn’t been able to argue.

“Yes,” she said, simply.

“Yes, I’m sorry about that.” He didn’t sound it. Kate felt a flash of antagonism. “It’s our policy to inform the unsuccessful tender first,” he went on, “to put them out of their misery, as it were, and it took a little longer than we anticipated.”

It took a moment for the implication to register. Suddenly confused, Kate floundered. “I’m sorry... You’ve spoken to CNB?”

She heard Redwood give an exasperated sigh. “Perhaps I’d better start again. I’m pleased to tell you that your tender has been successful. The board of trustees has decided to invite your agency to handle our campaign.”

Kate felt an almost out-of-body detachment. Outside, a siren Dopplered in and out of existence.

“Miss Powell? Is there a problem?”

“No! No, I...” She made an effort. “I’m delighted. Thank you.”

“Again, I apologise for the delay.” His voice became tinged with disapproval. “I’m afraid CNB were reluctant to accept our decision. The person we were dealing with became quite... insistent.” Redwood brought himself up short. “Well. Congratulations, Miss Powell. We look forward to working with your agency.”

Kate said something, she wasn’t sure what. They agreed to meet later in the week. He rang off. She listened to the purr of the dialling tone before setting the receiver back in its cradle. From downstairs she could hear the drone of a photocopier, the peal of someone’s laughter. She stared blankly out of the window. For a moment she thought the patch of darkness outside was a raincloud. Then she remembered. After a while she got up to tell the others.

The bus stopped outside the shops near her flat in Fulham. As Kate stepped off, it occurred to her, belatedly, that she could probably afford to get a taxi from the tube station now. Old habits died hard. She went into the Asian supermarket and bought a pint of milk and a packet of rice. After a moment of indecision she added a bottle of white Rioja to the wire basket.