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“Hey.” I indicate toward the chair, and she sits promptly. I like this girl. She’s been with us for a year now and is proving to be a good hire. She’s young, dynamic, and has great vision. Although her dress sense is a little off the wall. I take in her interesting choice of top, which, quite frankly, looks like a huge spider’s web. And as for her eye makeup, I’ve concluded she must be up earlier than I am to get those thick lines perfectly painted onto her lids and winging halfway up her temples. “What’s up?” I ask, yet I suspect I know exactly why Callie’s here. She’s one of the designers on the Dior team who I cancelled my meeting with this morning.
“Well.” She coughs and sits back, keeping our eye contact. She’s a fast learner. Always look someone in the eye. “The track we wanted for the ad was produced exclusively for another client, which basically takes it off the shelf.”
Okay, I relent. That really does make it unobtainable. “So . . .” I prompt, hoping she’s not come to me with the problem expecting me to fix it. Like I said, I don’t mind problems, so long as I’m being given a proposed solution to said problem.
“So I got in touch with the producer’s agent,” she goes on.
I nod, smiling on the inside. She’s not going to let me down. “And?”
“And I figured that if he can produce something exclusively for someone else, he can for us, too. I know we all loved that track, but having something produced means we can have the drama, the beats, and the lulls in the exact places we need them instead of fixing the footage around the music and editing it. It could take this campaign to another level. The sound appeal is just as important as the visual appeal.”
“Time?” I ask.
“Doable.”
“Cost?”
“Under budget.” She smiles. “I just need the okay from you so the agent can get the contract drafted for our legal department.”
“Okay,” I say simply, returning to my computer, scowling when I find the emails I’ve sifted through this morning—deleting, answering, or scheduling—have all been replaced with new ones. I hear the door to my office open and look up, smiling as I watch Callie skipping back to her office. Initiative. That’s what I like. It’s why Sal and I take time to select our staff together carefully and push them hard, because when you put confidence in the right person, they bloody well get stuff done.At one o’clock, I make a quick trip to the men’s before heading to Sal’s office, knocking once before letting myself in. My lifelong best friend is hunched over his mahogany desk with his bald head in his hands. “That kind of week already?” I shut the door as he pulls his heavy head up.
“Mia’s not sleeping. Night terrors,” he grumbles. “And Moya finds it necessary for us to both be up in the night with her.”
I smile at the mention of Sal’s wife. She’s a catch for my short, balding mate. Although Sal wasn’t so bald when they met in college. “How is that gorgeous woman of yours?”
“Right now, she’s probably catching up on lost sleep while Mia’s at nursery and I’m slaving away here.” He flicks a pen across his desk.
“Fancy a relaxing drink after work?” I offer. He looks like he needs it.
Sal laughs and turns to his iMac. “Relaxing? With you?”
“I can do relaxing,” I protest, offended. “I don’t rip the arse out of it every night.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“Okay, I do, but look how chilled I am as a result.” I motion down my relaxed form, resting back in the chair.
“I have a wife and kid, Ty. I can’t just go out when it suits me. And chilled doesn’t feature in my life anymore.” He starts stabbing at the keys of his computer, bashing out an email. “Now it’s all about school playground drama and five a day.”
I grimace on behalf of my friend. “So, that drink?” I ask again, seeing him folding under the promise of man-time. “I have dinner with Mum at six, so let’s say eight?”
Sal deflates. “I could wangle a few early doors, but Moya will be sending out the search party if I’m any later than eight.”
I huff, disgusted, and grab my phone from my pocket. “It just takes a bit of creative thinking, my friend.” I search through my contacts.
“What are you doing?”
I ignore Sal and take my phone to my ear. “Moya,” I say when she answers.
“Ty,” she sings, delighted to hear from me, as I knew she would be. “Where have you been all my life?”
“Grafting, girl,” I answer, catching Sal rolling his eyes. “It’s non-stop around here lately.”
“Arhhh,” she coos in sympathy—sympathy I know Salvador doesn’t receive from his wife. “Sal was gone by five this morning,” Moya tells me. “I know it’s super busy for you guys at the moment, and the fact that he doesn’t have a PA right now . . .”
