Chapter Twenty One

21


Fergus Blaine

Tuesday, September 27

Charlie Chabot had arranged a coffee date with Fergus Blaine at Café Uno in York for the next afternoon. Among the many issues I had with this, Chabot himself had decided not to make an appearance, deeming it better to leave the two of us to get to know each other. What he had neglected to do was provide a descriptor of Fergus Blaine as I had no idea who I was looking for. Such was the lethargy I carried into this meeting I couldn’t even bring myself to call Chabot back for this information. I simply turned up at Café Uno at the designated time – three o’clock – in the blind hope Blaine would miraculously materialise from the crowd. In any case, how many men would be sitting alone in Café Uno at three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon?

Answer: A lot.

As I slithered inside off slippery cobblestones relieved to have negotiated my way across York’s myriad al-leys without cracking my head, it was as if Café Uno was hosting a North East Convention for Dateless and Desperate Gay Men. In and amongst a smattering of small groups – middle-aged German and Scandina-vian-looking couples, a large family of Italians or Greeks, and a single set of student types – at least a dozen men sat alone at two seater tables. All of them peered up at me as I walked in. I felt suddenly and inexplicably dirty and wanted to turn on my heels. Then I remembered the black leather portfolio hanging at my side, an accessory that surely flagged me as other than on the pull. I began to wander aimlessly.

The interior of Café Uno was pleasantly modern – sleek and minimalist with chunky light wood tables and chairs – and somewhat at odds with the maze of greasy Edwardian alleys I had battled down to get here. I inched my way in eyeing solo men for a sign, a raised hand or flick of the head. None came. Just idle disinterested gazes before they looked away. Thus, one by one, I was able to eliminate solo men from my selection of potential Fergus Blaines. I began to eye semi-attractive men in the hope it was them and, equally, eye dodgy or fat or just plain ugly men in the hope it wasn’t. In no time at all I had done a full circuit of Café Uno and come up Blaineless. I was relieved: I was used to my art directors being young, somewhat hip and nattily dressed. None of the single men I had eliminated from my list of potential Fergus Blaines had been young, hip or natty. If I was to be seen in public with this person, some semblance of style would relieve the embarrassment associated with those imminent business cards.

A waiter made a belated appearance at my shoulder and I jumped. He offered me a table by a broad window six tables from the door, which I accepted. I ordered a latte and sent him on his way. And that’s when things took a severe turn for the worse.

The waiter’s trip to the kitchen took him back past the door. As he passed this door someone shuffled in alone, and I do mean shuffled. The state of this person made the waiter stop in his tracks and a brief exchange of pointing and head shaking took place at the door. I could see why: the alleged intruder had tramp written all over him in sickly white, blotchy skin and filthy yellow parka. Even from six tables away I could see an unsightly overbite of crooked teeth. Then I saw the portfolio…

‘Are you Bailey?’

The tramp stood over me as the waiter looked on, still unconvinced.

I looked up at the glazed, red ringed fish eyes protruding from beneath a fluffed and dirty black beanie and I wanted to say no.

‘Yes?’ I said. ‘Are you…?’

‘Fergus Blaine, Bailey. Have you been here long?’ He didn’t offer his hand and I was just as pleased. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late, but you wouldn’t believe it, I fell asleep in the car.’

‘Oh?’ I said as he removed his musty old parka right in my personal space to reveal a pastel blue woollen jumper that seemed clean and only moderately threadbare, yet was so small it shrink-wrapped his scrawny frame like an undersized wetsuit, a lot of red boxer shorts poking out where the jersey and massively baggy jeans failed to meet. A ridiculous wide studded belt stopped the jeans slipping completely off his undernourished hips. With his patent ill health, unkemptness and general street person persona, it came as no surprise he slept in a car.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Luckily I was only doing about twenty at the time so the damage was pretty minimal. How are you, Bailey?’

I gawped at him. ‘Um. Fine.’

He sat opposite me and pushed all the condiments away one by one. If only Peter Jackson could have been here now. He’d have kicked himself. To think he spent all that money computer-generating the creature Gollum from Andy Serkis’s movements, when they could have just stuck a loin cloth on this bloke. No question he’d have done it for peanuts and he’d have only needed a gain a few pounds. The voice wouldn’t have needed much work either – high and nasal as if he had a very large bulldog clip sealing his nostrils. That said, his speech was surprisingly educated, not posh, but his diction was clear and distinct for someone who had surely been drinking since daybreak.

‘Well that’s good, Bailey,’ he said. ‘Charlie tells me you’re Australian.’

‘No, I’m a kiwi.’

‘Same thing, isn’t it?’ I opened my mouth to object. ‘Have you been in England long?’

‘Just a few weeks,’ I said.

‘What do you think of Charlie?’

‘What?’

‘Charlie Chabot. What do you think of him?’

‘I haven’t really—’

‘I don’t know about you but I think he’s on the verge of something, Bailey. I really do. That’s a good little agency he’s got there and I think it’s going places. He’s a good operator. And you know what? I really mean this: we can be a part of that. I find that quite exciting, don’t you? You’re a writer, aren’t you Bailey? I’ve worked with a lot of writers in my time. Some good, some bad. Have you ordered coffee?’ All of this mishmash of interruptions, proclamations and clunky links was delivered in those whiney nasal tones at break neck speed.

‘What?’ I stared at him but he was already head down in the menu. I stared at that overbite as he picked at his face, an off-white collection of misshapen teeth falling all over each other like a runaway caravan hitting a picket fence. I imagined terrible halitosis emanating from that mouth, sat back in my chair to ensure this assumption wasn’t confirmed. Already every last instinct was utterly convinced that this was a creative alliance made in hell. It just wasn’t going to work. Not on any level. In less than two minutes, the man opposite me had identified himself as a social misfit and quite possibly a nutter. I wanted to leap to my feet citing the sudden onset of dysentery (surely something he would be all too familiar with) and flee to the Hartley Castle court room for a stiff drink.

The same waiter arrived to take Blaine’s order. ‘I’ll have my usual,’ he said with a dismissive flick of his menu. He gave me a wink and wide toothy grin.

The waiter looked from him to me. ‘What is your usual, sir?’

‘You don’t know what my usual is?’ Blaine said, again to me as if I was somehow sharing his odd little prank. ‘Well, you’d better get me the manager.’

‘I am the manager, sir.’

‘Whoops,’ said Blaine. ‘Then you’d better get me a hot chocolate and an orange juice.’ He snorted insidiously as the waiter departed with appropriately placed glares.

‘You’re quite the joker, Fergus,’ I said flatly.

‘Well, that’s nice of you to say, Bailey,’ he said without irony. ‘You know, there’s so much sadness in the world, I think it’s important to have a good sense of humour just to get you through, I really believe that. Have you got a sense of humour, Bailey?’

‘I have a sense of humour, Fergus.’

‘I’m not so sure. You seem pretty serious to me. Are you nervous?’

‘No, I’m not nervous. Nauseous, more like.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you a bit of a wise guy, Bailey?’

‘No, I’m pretty much the whole wise guy.’

‘That’s very funny,’ he said with a strange, matter-of-fact sincerity, but no laugh. ‘Have you been here long?’

‘About five minutes.’

‘I meant in York.’

‘About six weeks.’ I couldn’t be bothered telling him I actually lived on a farm out in the sticks and that it had taken me an eternity to get to this joke of a meeting. I could have strangled Charlie Chabot.

‘Really? That’s interesting.’ The tilt of his head suggested he really did think it was. ‘Charlie was saying you worked at McCarthy Ellison.’

‘Well. Only in Brisbane.’ I didn’t mind downgrading myself in such company. It still left me feeling ridiculously superior.

‘Why do you say only in Brisbane? I know the Brisbane office, Bailey. I’ve seen the reel.’

‘Which reel?’

‘The McCarthy Ellison international reel. Brisbane’s got about three ads on it and considering the size of the network and the size of the Brisbane office, something I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, that’s quite an achievement, it really is. I think you should be very proud.’

I was gawping again. ‘When did you see the McCarthy Ellison reel?’

Did someone leave one in a dumpster?

He seemed a bit affronted. ‘When I was working at McCarthy Ellison, New York? Didn’t Charlie tell you anything about me?’

Yes, he said you were a scary little man but undeniable. I have confirmed the former, I still don’t know what the latter meant.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Really? That surprises me,' Blaine said with a strangely hurt sincerity. 'He told me quite a bit about you on the phone.' Okay, Bailey,' - he swept condiments aside as if opening sliding doors and leant in - 'a brief précis of me. I moved to York, like you, only recently, in my case, three weeks ago. I’m from Cambridge originally. But I’ve worked in essentially blue chip agencies in London, Singapore, Durban and Sydney and I’ve been at McCarthy Ellison in New York for the last two years.’

I didn’t believe a word of this. ‘York seems a bit of a come down after New York,’ I said.

‘Well, you could say that, Bailey. Personally, I don’t see it that way.’ He didn’t elaborate, cutting abruptly to ‘Do you want to see my book?’

I sighed and gazed distractedly around the cafe. ‘Have you written one?’

‘That’s very funny,' Blaine said peculiarly unfazed. 'Do you like Everybody loves Raymond?’

I scoffed. ‘I hate Everybody loves Raymond with a passion.’

‘Really? That surprises me. I thought it might be your brand of humour.’ The delivery was so fast, deadpan and sincere, it was impossible to tell if he was taking the piss.

I suppose I endured another five minutes of this oddball tangential interrogation, Blaine firing random, unrelated questions, clearly desperate to unravel the inner Bailey, me just desperate to get out.

‘Did you bring your book?’ he said after my latest impetuous, disinterested response.

“Does it look like I brought my book?” I said arms wide.

‘Yes. I saw it. It’s under the table. Are you married, Bailey?’

‘What? Can you stay on one subject for a moment?’

‘You’re quite feisty. I like that. Which subject would you like me to stay on?’ I opened my mouth. ‘Actually, Bailey, I’d like to start a new one and I’ll tell you why.' He leant in far too confidingly for a man with, unsurprisingly, halitosis and I recoiled in my chair as politely as man, unsurprisingly, on the verge of vomiting could. 'I think this is a very important part of the process when you’re starting out with a new writer.’ He said, pausing to collect his thoughts, but not quite long enough for me to collect my book and run. ‘I don’t know about you but I tend to form very quick impressions of people, I really do. Within minutes of meeting someone, I know whether they have any creative energy or, just as importantly, whether I can work with them and we can gel as a team. And you know what, Bailey?’

‘What?’ I said with spectacular indifference.

‘I sense something in you.’

My scrotum tightened. ‘Oh, pleeease.’

‘An anger. A hunger. I don’t think it’s been an easy road for you, Bailey. But, you know what?’

I hid my head in my hands. ‘No, but I think you’re going to tell me.’

‘I think you’re ready.’

My head went to the table. Above me I heard: ‘I really think you’re ready, I really do. And I don’t say that lightly.’

I hauled my head off the table with a heavy sigh. ‘All right, I’m ready…I’m ready to pay the bill and leave.’

‘Well,’ said Blaine. ‘That’s really flattering, Bailey. But if I was you, I wouldn’t be rushing into this. You should at least have a look at my book. I certainly want to see yours. You meet some nice people in this business, but nice people don’t necessarily make great ads. I want to make great ads, I truly do and I think Charlie’s quite receptive to that notion. He wants to take Creative Solutions to a new level; otherwise he wouldn’t be talking to the likes of you and me. That’s what I’m excited about, Bailey. Being part of something from the ground up.’

And then he stopped. And took to his hot chocolate. And I took to prising a hand off the end of the table and holding it out. Not to shake hands. To ask for his book. Not that I wished in any way to raise the hopes of a odd, deluded, but articulate tramp, a tramp that had clearly learnt all he knew about advertising from discarded industry periodicals. Fergus Blaine passed a flat leather satchel, as black as he was white, across the table.

“Can you look at it in your lap?” he asked.

I didn’t want anything of his anywhere near my lap but, as my coffee, his hot chocolate and orange juice and assorted condiments had overrun the small table, my lap was the only space left. I unzipped the satchel to find a stack of print ads on white backing board.

‘First rule of putting a portfolio together, Bailey,' Blaine said scatching feverishly at something below table height with one hand and gesticulating at me with the other. 'Quality not quantity. You’ll only find ten ads in there, but they’ve all won awards.’

I was irked by his schoolmasterly style more than his scratching, but said nothing. I had after all applied the exact same principle to my own book. A book just as shiny and leathery, but twice the size of Fergus Blaine’s. More to the point, a book containing eighteen ads, all of which had won awards – national awards in New Zealand and any number of regional awards in Brisbane. Just as importantly, most of those awards had been won for major New Zealand and Australian clients: ASB Bank, Taupo District Council, Turners Car Auctions, Suncorp Metway, Brisbane City Council, Kinsey Laboratories and so on and so on.

The first ad I confronted in Fergus Blaine’s book was for Coca Cola.

‘Always put your second best ad at the front of your book and your best ad at the back,’ he said, both hands now back on the table and I found myself gazing at the left one and wondering what potential sexual pandemic lay in wait beneath gnawed fingernails if this table wasn't taken out and burned the moment we left. ‘Hit them with something good, leave them with something great. Between you and me I’m not convinced about this ad anymore though, Bailey. It won gold at D&AD, but—’

I forgot about the pandemic. ‘You won gold at D&AD?’ I said with an incredulous chuckle - D&AD was only the second most prestigious international creative award an ad could win, the most prestigious being Clio.

‘There’s three ads in there that have won gold at D&AD, Bailey and a couple of silvers and a bronze as well. It’s the Clios I’m most proud of.’

I felt like I’d been slapped with a wet whale. ‘You’ve won a Clio?’

‘No. I’ve won two Clio’s, silver and gold.’ There was nothing gloating about his tone, just matter-of-fact. ‘As I said, always put your best ad at the back. Funnily enough, it’s the silver. I just think it’s a better ad. The gold’s in the middle somewhere. But it should probably be at the front. I dunno. To be honest, I need to do some work on my book. I think it could use a freshen up, don’t you?’

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. There, flicking through the ads in Fergus Blaine’s book – all stunningly simple, brilliant ideas, beautifully art directed – I had lost the power of speech. When he asked if I thought I could work with him, all I could do was nod like a chimpanzee begging for a banana.