Last Chance Saloon - Marian Keyes [52]
Katherine waited for him to slink away, cowed and beaten. Instead, when he leant on her desk and laughed and laughed, she had an unexpected premonition of disaster. She looked at his teeth, arrayed like white flags on a washing-line, and felt for herself. Be afraid, be very afraid.
He stopped laughing. ‘Mr Roth,’ he parroted, his brown eyes looking at her with what seemed to be affection. Unmoving, she faced him, doing her best to exude the patience of a very busy but long-sufferingly polite woman. ‘Mr Roth,’ he repeated. ‘I love it. You know, Katherine, you’re wonderful. You’re simply wonderful.’
When she continued to stare at him stonily, he said, ‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you by being over-familiar. It’ll be Katherine from now on. Unless you’d prefer to be called Ms Casey.’
The fraction of a second that it took before she began to protest was too long. Joe roared with laughter again. ‘You would, I see. Very well, Ms Casey it is.’
‘Now, Ms Casey,’ he said, suddenly businesslike. ‘We need to have a meeting about the overspending on the Noritaki beer account. But the Geetex executives are due shortly for the presentation, so why don’t we discuss it over lunch?’
‘Lunch?’ she asked coolly. ‘On whose budget?’
Katherine Casey was not to be bought. Though she didn’t often get taken out for expensive, trendy lunches in the course of her work – in advertising, the accountant is a Cinderella-figure – she refused to get excited by the thought of a free goat’s cheese salad. On the contrary. She was far more likely to lose the run of herself at the thought of a campaign coming in under budget. ‘After all,’ she continued, ‘if it’s overspent it’s hardly appropriate that we discuss it while spending more money from it.’
‘I’ll pay for lunch myself,’ Joe offered.
Katherine laughed. Joe was not encouraged by its timbre. ‘Nice try, Joe,’ she said. ‘But I see all the expenses claims.’
The account directors never paid for anything. They kept receipts for everything they ever bought and attempted to claim them. Not just restaurant or hotel bills, but everything from shaving foam (‘I had a presentation, I had to look my best,’) to ties (ditto) to birthday cards to the weekly shop at Tesco. Once someone had slipped in a receipt for an Armani suit, another time a home Jacuzzi. Katherine had seen it all.
‘You have my word,’ he insisted. I’ll pay for lunch out of my own pocket.’
‘No.’
‘Come on,’ he joked. ‘Lunch. With Joe Roth. Accept no substitute.’
‘No.’
His expression became serious. ‘This isn’t a come-on. I genuinely need to talk to you about the overspending on the budget.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Katherine lied. ‘I’m up to my eyes doing the end-of-year accounts.’ She’d managed to get most of the work done by coming in the previous day, but she wasn’t telling him that. ‘Why don’t you talk to my assistant, Breda?’ she suggested. ‘She’ll be able to help you and I’m sure she’d appreciate a nice lunch.’
‘OK,’ said Joe desolately and moved away.
It wasn’t the kind of thing he would normally do, but he was in despair as he faced into his fourth week of rejection – he went to Fred Franklin to ask him to pull some strings. Fred was in his little glass office with Myles, a young would-be-wide-boy copywriter. ‘Fred, I need you to do me a favour,’ Joe said, dispensing with pleasantries.
Fred knew what Joe wanted because he’d been watching him talking to Katherine. Fred understood the international language of rejection. In fact, he was fluent in it, having had no luck with women until he got promoted at the age of thirty-five. And from Joe’s body language while talking to Katherine – the pleading, outstretched arms, the earnest expression on his face – it was clear that he was being given the bum’s rush.
‘You’re a sick man,’ said Fred.
‘Are you?’ asked Myles eagerly. ‘How sick? We cater for most tastes here, mate. How about Chain in printing, if