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“These are all accounts that have gone to the competitors. Find out what they’re being offered and better it.”
“Right. Okay. See you in a month.” I chuckled.
Her brow scrunched as she studied me closely. “I need these done by the end of the week.”
“But today’s Wednesday.”
“You’ll have to find the time. The firm is running in the red. We’re losing clients by the day. Old clients too.”
I flicked open a file and found the name Jack Whitman, my freshman nemesis.
“I went to college with Jack.”
She sat up. “He’s a powerful player. Whitman’s Ad Agency only set up shop a year ago. They’re leeching our clients. Everyone is walking. Word has it he’s got himself a team of creatives that are young, brash, and brilliant. And he’s offering contracts at bargain-basement prices.”
Jack Whitman was the only person who could stay up all night and party hard. We’d been inseparable party animals until I fucked his girlfriend. By accident.
“We need to stop him,” she said.
I nodded slowly. “How serious is it?”
“Let’s put it this way—if this keeps happening, this place will be closing its doors by the end of the year.”
My jaw dropped.
“That’s why I’m here. To salvage Elliot’s. It’s been around since the sixties. And these days, firms with that kind of history are either respected like a Rolls Royce or put out to rust.”
“I’m more an Aston Martin man myself.” I grinned.
“Mm…” Her eyes narrowed. “Normally, everyone fights for new contracts. But we don’t usually poach unless the client’s looking for a new player.”
“Player is the operative word here, Ms. Sharp.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Jack Whitman was my drinking pal back at college. We had a running competition over how many girls we could get.” I smiled apologetically. “I was once a bad boy.”
“Once?” She raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve cleaned up my act.” I squared my shoulders as a way of convincing myself more than Ms. Sharp, whose eagle-eyed stare made me wonder if I’d forgotten to zip my fly.
“Not from what my sources tell me.” She played with her pen.
“Your sources?” I sat up. “Are you spying on me?”
“I don’t need to. You get around. You’re a notorious player. There aren’t too many girls’ sheets you haven’t stained.”
My eyebrows sprang up. “Now look, what I do in my private hours has nothing to do with you—or this place, for that matter.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Because from now on, I expect you here early, bright and affective. As you can see, your future depends on it.”
I rose.
“Sit. I haven’t finished yet.”
I sank into the chair.
“You need to be more Don Draper, less Roger Sterling.”
