Page 2 of Twelve Days of Christmas
I’m talking to the accounts director of a new client, who demanded to see my sales percentages before he’d commit, who in all his infinite fucking wisdom is trying to tell me what will sell.
Me.
He’s tellingmewhat will and won’t sell.
At first I found it amusing. But he crossed the line when he told me he thought my campaign was missing something.
And that just pissed me off.
So I’m pacing, telling Mr. I-know-fucking-squat, what it actually takes to sell his company’s technology in an already flooded market, in the middle of the global financial crises.
I turn to find Cameron standing at my door, leaning against the door frame, listening to me rant at my client. He’s holdinghis next wrapped Christmas gift in his hands, and he’s smiling at me.
I bark into the phone. “You wanted brilliant when you came to Fletcher Advertising, Mr. Tanner,” I say, out of fucking patience. “And you got brilliant when you got me. Because that’s what I am, Mr. Tanner; I am brilliant.”
Cameron walks in, grins and sits at my desk. “It’s true,” he says quietly. “You are.”
I can’t help but smile. Mr. Tanner is grumbling something into the phone, but I cut him off. “Mr. Tanner, quite frankly I’m surprised a man with your expertise in figures is doubting my ability.”
He starts to apologize or make excuses or something, but I’m not listening.
“You’ve seen my statistics,” I interrupt. “You’ve seen how good I am at my job. I’d appreciate if you’d now let me do my job, Mr. Tanner.”
I miss the old phones with the big heavy receivers. Because when you hung up on fuckwits like Mr. Tanner, it was loud and satisfying; final.
These new phones are pissy and soft – and the dumb fuck probably doesn’t even know I hung up on him. I don’t want a pissy click. I want a resounding clunk.
“What’s wrong?” Cameron asks me, trying not to smile.
“The phones don’t clunk like they used to.”
Cameron snorts. “I meant with Mr. Tanner.”
Oh. I huff out a sigh. “That bean counter seems to think he knows more than me about advertising.”
Cameron fakes a gasp. “The hide of him!”
I scowl at him. But he smiles, and my anger and frustration fades away. I look at the large, flat square gift he’s holding. “Whatever do you have there?” I ask with a grin.
He smiles, and then he sings, “On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…”
I laugh at him. “Oh, just open it.”
He tears at the wrapping paper, and when he sees what it is, he looks at me. “Luc.”
I look at the two vintage LP vinyl records – Roberta Flack’s The First Time I Ever Saw Your Face, and Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World – the very two albums he once mentioned as the one music experience to be heard on vinyl, only he couldn’t find them, or so Ben had told me.
He looks at me. “How did you know?”
I smile. “I’m brilliant, remember?”
DECEMBER 17TH
ON THE FOURTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS…
I wakeup to Cameron peeling back my eyelid. I gotta say, it’s not overly pleasant. “Urghwbngh,” I huff at him. That’s Lucas-speak for I-don’t-fucking-like-mornings. He really should know that by now.
He chuckles, so I roll over away from him. “Mm mm.”
