Truth in Advertising Page 0,121

won’t even know it’s gone, Jill. We were never here.”

Malcolm and Raj come in. Malcolm says, “We heard there was food.”

Jill says, “You guys!”

Pam has the spot cued up. I turn and say to the guys, “Take a look.” Pam hits play.

We watch it play through once. Pam plays it again before anyone says anything.

When it finishes Paulie says, “Nice. Really nice, you guys.”

Stefano says, “I must say I am surprised. It’s not terrible.”

Rajit is shaking his head “no” but that’s a good sign as he’s Indian.

Malcolm says, “Well done.” He pours himself some coffee and makes a bagel.

Jill says, “You’re messing up the lox.” Her phone rings. We watch her answer it. We watch her listen and hang up.

She says, “They want us in Martin’s.”

• • •

Alan is sitting in Martin’s office when we arrive. Emma says to go right in. Frank is standing at the window, his back to us, but the sky is a gunmetal gray and with the lights on in the office we can see his reflection and his thumb plumbing for something deep in one nostril.

You can tell by the way they look at us, by their stillness.

Martin says, “Have a seat.”

Alan says, “Hey, guys.”

Martin says, “Bad news, I’m afraid. Spot’s dead. Alan’s just had a call from Jan, our trusted friend at Snugglies. Alan. Why don’t you share her thoughts.”

I look at Ian, he at me. Pam stares straight ahead.

Alan says, “Their legal department is worried about the claims they’re making for the diaper. There’s new research. It basically doesn’t work. So it’s dead.”

They keep saying “dead.” But it’s not dead. It’s just not alive. It’s a project for a diaper and diapers don’t die, especially Snugglies Planet Changers. My mother is dead. My father is dead. The project just isn’t happening anymore. There’s a difference. Words matter. A day that will live in world history . . . in infamy.

Alan says, “We were able to unload the media slot, which was $3.2 million. Sold it to Skippy. First time for a peanut butter on the Super Bowl. So that’s good.”

They seem to be waiting for one of the three of us to say something. But none of us says anything. Perhaps it’s the windowless editing room we’ve spent the night in, the January darkness, the jet lag, the missed holiday vacations, the waste of time.

And then Frank turns, Cheshire-cat grin, and says, “Tell them the good news.”

Martin says, “We’ve been . . .”

But Frank cuts him off, school-boy excited. “We’ve been invited to pitch Petroleon. Just us and Saatchi, and we know they hate Saatchi. Ours for the taking. Massive billings, Fortune top ten company. The pitch is next week.”

Jill says, “We’re briefing tomorrow.”

Ian says, “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

Frank says, “There are no Saturdays anymore. Every day is Monday.” He laughs, but he’s not kidding.

I look at Martin, who’s slowly massaging his temples. I look at Jill, who’s furiously texting on her BlackBerry. Alan looks like a man waiting for a bus. I’m waiting for someone to say something, to laugh, to scream, to set the room on fire.

Frank says, “There are other teams, of course, not just you. But this could be a career-maker. You could make your mark with this one.”

It’s a warm feeling that comes over me, the kind you experience in the moments before sleep, a lovely calm. But right behind it is a line of cocaine. I’m suddenly shaky and the words fall out before I’ve had time to think about them.

“My mark?” I say. “My mark?” I’m chuckling, but not in a happy-funny way. I also want to say more than “My mark” but don’t quite know how.

Frank looks confused.

“My mark?” I say again. My eyes go wide. “Oh! I know! It’ll be the thing I have carved on my tombstone! That’s what you mean by mark. You mean like a life’s work, like Mother Teresa of Calcutta or Gandhi or Neil Armstrong. You mean the thing I will be known for, the thing that people on the streets or in airports stop me about, recognize me for. They’ll say, ‘You’re the guy who won Petroleon, aren’t you? You did that campaign that made that big, repulsive oil company look good.’ Wait. I know! I could have my mark tattooed on my body; on my ass, my balls. I could have it tattooed on my scrotum. Better yet, I could have one of my balls removed, have my mark etched on it, have it bronzed, put in Lucite,