Contagion

2

NEW YORK CITY

Terese Hagen stopped abruptly and looked at the closed door to the “cabin,” the name given to the main conference room. It was called the cabin because the interior was a reproduction of Taylor Heath’s Squam Lake house up in the wilds of New Hampshire. Taylor Heath was the CEO of the hot, up-and-coming advertising firm Willow and Heath, which was threatening to break into the rarefied ranks of the advertising big leagues.

After making sure she was not observed, Terese leaned toward the door and put her ear against it. She heard voices.

With her pulse quickening, Terese hurried down the hall to her own office. It never took long for her anxiety to soar. She’d only been in the office five minutes and already her heart was pounding. She didn’t like the idea of a meeting she didn’t know about being held in the cabin, the CEO’s habitual domain. In her position as the creative director of the firm, she felt she had to know everything that was going on.

The problem was that a lot was going on. Taylor Heath had shocked everybody with his previous month’s announcement that he planned to retire as CEO and was designating Brian Wilson, the current president, to succeed him. That left a big question mark about who would succeed Wilson. Terese was in the running. That was for sure. But so was Robert Barker, the firm’s executive director of accounts. And on top of that, there was always the worry that Taylor would pick someone from outside.

Terese pulled off her coat and stuffed it into the closet. Her secretary, Marsha Devons, was on the phone, so Terese dashed to her desk and scanned the surface for any telltale message; but there was nothing except a pile of unrelated phone messages.

“There’s a meeting in the cabin,” Marsha called from the other room after hanging up the phone. She appeared in the doorway. She was a petite woman with raven-black hair. Terese appreciated her because she was intelligent, efficient, and intuitive-all the qualities lacking in the year’s previous four secretaries. Terese was tough on her assistants, since she expected commitment and performance equivalent to her own.

“Why didn’t you call me at home?” Terese demanded.

“I did, but you’d already left,” Marsha said.

“Who’s at the meeting?” Terese barked.

“It was Mr. Heath’s secretary who called,” Marsha said. “She didn’t say who would be attending. Just that your presence was requested.”

“Was there any indication what the meeting is about?” Terese asked.

“No,” Marsha said simply.

“When did it start?”

“The call came through at nine,” Marsha said.

Terese snatched up her phone and punched in Colleen Anderson’s number. Colleen was Terese’s most trusted art director. She was currently heading up a team for the National Health Care account.

“You know anything about this meeting in the cabin?” Terese asked as soon as Colleen was on the line.

Colleen didn’t, only that it was going on.

“Damn!” Terese said as she hung up.

“Is there a problem?” Marsha asked solicitously.

“If Robert Barker has been in there all this time with Taylor, there’s a problem,” Terese said. “That prick never misses a beat to put me down.”

Terese snatched the phone again and redialed Colleen. “What’s the status on National Health? Do we have any comps or anything I can show right now?”

“I’m afraid not,” Colleen said. “We’ve been brainstorming, but we don’t have anything zippy like I know you want. I’m looking for a home run.”

“Well, goose your team,” Terese said. “I have a sneaking suspicion I’m most vulnerable with National Health.”

“No one’s been sleeping down here,” Colleen said. “I can assure you of that.”

Terese hung up without saying good-bye. Snatching up her purse, she ran down the hall to the ladies’ room and positioned herself in front of the mirror. She pushed her Medusa’s head of highlighted tight curls into a semblance of order, then reapplied some lipstick and a bit of blush.

Stepping back, she surveyed herself. Luckily she’d chosen to wear one of her favorite suits. It was dark blue wool gabardine and seriously severe, hugging her narrow frame like a second skin.

Satisfied with her appearance, Terese hustled to the cabin door. After a deep breath she grasped the knob, turned it, and entered.

“Ah, Miss Hagen,” Brian Wilson said, glancing at his watch. He was sitting at the head of a rough-hewn plank table that dominated the room. “I see you’re now indulging in banker’s hours.”

Brian was a short man with thinning hair. He vainly tried to camouflage his bald spot by combing his side hair over it. As per usual he was attired in a white shirt and tie, loosened at the neck, giving him the appearance of a harried newspaper publisher. To complete the journalistic look, his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows and a yellow Dixon pencil was tucked behind his right ear.

Despite the catty comment, Terese liked and respected Brian. He was an able administrator. He had a patented derogatory style, but he was equally demanding of himself.

“I was in the office last night until one A.M.,” Terese said. “I certainly would have been here for this meeting if someone had been kind enough to have let me know about it.”

“It was an impromptu meeting,” Taylor called out. He was standing near the window, in keeping with his laissez-faire management style. He preferred to hover above the group like an Olympian god, watching his demigods and mere mortals hammer out decisions.

Taylor and Brian were opposite in most ways. Where Brian was short, Taylor was tall. Where Brian was balding, Taylor had a dense halo of silver-gray hair. Where Brian appeared as the harried newspaper columnist always with his back against the wall, Taylor was the picture of sophisticated tranquillity and sartorial splendor. Yet no one doubted Taylor’s encyclopedic grasp of the business and his uncanny ability to maintain strategic goals in the face of daily tactical disaster and controversy.

Terese took a seat at the table directly across from her nemesis, Robert Barker. He was a tall, thin-faced man with narrow lips who seemed to take a cue from Taylor in regard to his dress. He was always attired nattily in dark silk suits and colorful silk ties. The ties were his trademark. Terese could not remember ever having seen the same tie twice.

Next to Robert was Helen Robinson, whose presence made Terese’s racing heart beat even a little faster. Helen worked under Robert as the account executive assigned specifically to National Health. She was a strikingly attractive twenty-five-year-old woman with long, chestnut-colored hair that cascaded to her shoulders, tanned skin even in March, and full, sensuous features. Between her intelligence and looks she was a formidable adversary.

Also sitting at the table was Phil Atkins, the chief financial officer, and Carlene Desalvo, the corporate director of account planning. Phil was an impeccably precise man with his perennial three-piece suit and wire-rimmed glasses. Carlene was a bright, full-figured woman who always dressed in white. Terese was mildly surprised to see both of them at the meeting.

“We’ve got a big problem with the National Health account,” Brian said. “That’s why this meeting was called.”

Terese’s mouth went dry. She glanced at Robert and detected a slight but infuriating smile. Terese wished to God she’d been there since the beginning of the meeting so she could have known everything that had been said.

Terese was aware of trouble with National Health. The company had called for an internal review a month ago, which meant that Willow and Heath had to come up with a new advertising campaign if they expected to keep the account. And everybody knew they had to keep the account. It had mushroomed to somewhere around forty million annually and was still growing. Health-care advertising was in the ascendancy, and would hopefully fill the hole vacated by cigarettes.

Brian turned to Robert. “Perhaps you could fill Terese in on the latest developments,” he said.

“I defer to my able assistant, Helen,” Robert said, giving Terese one of his condescending smiles.

Helen moved forward in her seat. “As you know, National Health has had misgivings about its advertising campaign. Unfortunately their displeasure has increased. Just yesterday their figures came in for the last open subscriber period. The results weren’t good. Their loss of market share to AmeriCare in the New York metropolitan area has increased. After building the new hospital, this is a terrible blow.”

“And they blame our ad campaign for that?” Terese blurted out. “That’s absurd. They only made a twenty-five-point buy with our sixty-second commercial. That was not adequate. No way.”

“That may be your opinion,” Helen said evenly. “But I know it is not National Health’s.”

“I know you are fond of your ‘Health care for the modern era’ campaign, and it is a good tag line,” Robert said, “but the fact of the matter is that National Health has been losing market share from the campaign’s inception. These latest figures are just consistent with the previous trend.”

“The sixty-second spot has been nominated for a Clio,” Terese countered. “It’s a damn good commercial. It’s wonderfully creative. I’m proud of my team for having put it together.”

“And indeed you should be,” Brian interjected. “But it is Robert’s feeling that the client is not interested in our winning a Clio. And remember, as the Benton and Bowles agency held, ‘If it doesn’t sell, it isn’t creative.’ ”

“That’s equally absurd,” Terese snapped. “The campaign is solid. It’s just that the account people couldn’t get the client to buy adequate exposure. There should have been ‘flights’ on multiple local stations at a bare minimum.”

“With all due respect, they would have bought more time if they’d liked the commercial,” Robert said. “I don’t think they were ever sold on this idea of ‘them versus us,’ ancient medicine versus modern medicine. I mean it was humorous, but I don’t know if they were convinced the viewer truly associated the ancient methods with National Health Care’s competitors, particularly AmeriCare. My personal opinion is that it went over people’s heads.”

“Your real point is that National Health Care has a very specific type of advertising it wants,” Brian said. “Tell Terese what you told me just before she came in here.”

“It’s simple,” Robert said, making an open gesture with his hands. “They want either ‘talking heads’ discussing actual patient experiences, or a celebrity spokesperson. They couldn’t care less whether their ad wins a Clio or any of the other awards. They want results. They want market share, and I want to give it to them.”

“Am I hearing that Willow and Heath wants to turn its back on its successes and become a mere vendor shop?” Terese asked. “We’re on the edge of becoming one of the big-league firms. And how did we get here? We got here by doing quality advertising. We’ve carried on in the Doyle-Dane-Bernback tradition. If we start letting clients dictate that we turn out slop, we’re doomed.”

“What I’m hearing is the usual conflict between the account executive and the creative,” Taylor said, interrupting the increasingly heated discussion. “Robert, you think Terese is this self-indulgent child who is bent on alienating the client. Terese, you think Robert is this shortsighted pragmatist who wants to throw out the baby with the bathwater. The trouble is you are both right and both wrong at the same time. You have to use each other as a team. Stop arguing and deal with the problem at hand.”

For a moment everyone was quiet. Zeus had spoken and everyone knew he was on target as usual.

“All right,” Brian said finally. “Here’s our reality. National Health is a vital client to our long-term stability. Thirty-odd days ago it asked for an internal review, which we expected in a couple of months. They now have told us they want it next week.”

“Next week!” Terese all but shouted. “My God.” It took months to put together a new campaign and pitch it.

“I know that will put the creatives under a lot of pressure,” Brian said. “But the reality is National Health is the boss. The problem is that after our pitch, if they are not satisfied, they’ll set up an outside review. The account will then be up for grabs, and I don’t have to remind you that these health-care giants are going to be the advertising cash cows of the next decade. All the agencies are interested.”

“As chief financial officer I think I should make it clear what the loss of the National Health account would do to our bottom line,” Phil Atkins said. “We’ll have to put off the restructuring because we won’t have the funds to buy back our junk bonds.”

“Obviously it is in all our best interests that we not lose the account,” Brian said.

“I don’t know if it is possible to put together a pitch for next week,” Terese said.

“You have anything you can show us at the moment?” Brian asked.

Terese shook her head.

“You must have something,” Robert said. “I assume you have a team working on it.” The smile had returned to the corners of his mouth.

“Of course we have a team on National Health,” Terese said. “But we haven’t had any ‘big ideas’ to date. Obviously we thought we had several more months.”

“Perhaps you might assign some additional personnel,” Brian said. “But I’ll leave that up to your judgment.” Then to the rest of the group he said: “For now we’ll adjourn this meeting until we have something from Creative to look at.” He stood up. Everybody else did the same.

Dazed, Terese stumbled out of the cabin and descended to the agency’s main studio on the floor below.

Willow and Heath had reversed a trend that began during the seventies and eighties when New York advertising firms had experienced a diaspora to varying chic sections of the city like TriBeCa and Chelsea. The agency returned to the old stamping ground of Madison Avenue, taking over several floors of a modest-sized building.

Terese found Colleen at her drawing board.

“What’s the scoop?” Colleen asked. “You look pale.”

“Trouble!” Terese exclaimed.

Colleen had been Terese’s first hire. She was her most reliable art director. They got along famously both professionally and socially. Colleen was a milky-white-skinned strawberry blonde with a smattering of pale freckles over an upturned nose. Her eyes were a deep blue, a much stronger hue than Terese’s. She favored oversized sweatshirts that somehow seemed to accentuate rather than hide her enviable figure.

“Let me guess,” Colleen said. “Has National Health pushed up the deadline for the review?”

“How’d you know?”

“Intuition,” Colleen said. “When you said ‘trouble,’ that’s the worst thing I could think of.”

“The Robert-and-Helen sideshow brought in information that National Health has lost more market share to AmeriCare despite our campaign.”

“Damn!” Colleen said. “It’s a good campaign and a great sixty-second commercial.”

“You know it and I know it,” Terese said. “Problem is that it wasn’t shown enough. I have an uncomfortable suspicion that Helen undermined us and talked them out of the two-hundred- to three-hundred-point TV commercial buy they had initially intended to make. That would have been saturation. I know it would have worked.”

“I thought you told me you had pulled out the stops to guarantee National Health’s market share would go up,” Colleen said.

“I did,” Terese said. “I’ve done everything I could think of and then some. I mean, it’s my best sixty-second spot. You told me yourself.”

Terese rubbed her forehead. She was getting a headache. She could still feel her pulse clanging away at her temples.

“You might as well tell me the bad news,” Colleen said. She put down her drawing pencil and swung around to face Terese. “What’s the new time frame?”

“National Health wants us to pitch a new campaign next week.”

“Good Lord!” Colleen said.

“What do we have so far?” Terese asked.

“Not a lot.”

“You must have some tissues or some preliminary executions,” Terese said. “I know I haven’t been giving you any attention lately since we’ve had deadlines with three other clients. But you have had a team working on this for almost a month.”

“We’ve been having strategy session after strategy session,” Colleen said. “A lot of brainstorming, but no big idea. Nothing’s jumped out and grabbed us. I mean, I have a sense of what you are looking for.”

“Well, I want to see what you have,” Terese said. “I don’t care how sketchy or preliminary. I want to see what the team has been doing. I want to see it today.”

“All right,” Colleen said without enthusiasm. “I’ll get everybody together.”