Last night, purely by coincidence, I bumped into PA to Famously Unpleasant Chairman and we went for a drink.
It was always viewed as evidence of her professionalism (and, let’s be honest masochism) that she had worked with this man for eight years in a number of different agencies: but it was also widely assumed that whatever job she went to next would be the equivalent of a full body, deep tissue massage.
This was not the case. Her next boss used to refer to her two PAs as “Cunt” (yes, you read that right – and she was a woman), and was pretty uninhibited about demanding 24 hour attention (and, apparently, the ability to see the future and to mind-read): but it wasn’t until PA to Famously Unpleasant Chairman turned to me and spoke the words “Have I told you about the menstrual blood?” that the full horror of the situation struck me.
It seems that this woman had an office that made Miranda Priest’s office in “The Devil Wears Prada” look like a dingy hole: there was a Bill Amberg ostrich leather desk (in lavender, if that helps you build a picture, or (less likely) identify this noisome bitch) and toning (though, as it was cream, not matching) chair.
One morning, the cry went up: “Cunt”
The two women turned to each other: “Do you suppose that’s me, or you?” asked my friend – but it was the other woman who walked into the office.
“Clean that up!” was the instruction and this villainess pointed to the seat of her cream leather chair, where a smear of blood was apparent.
The PA went outside, ashen-faced, to consult with my friend: “There’s blood on her chair”.
“Has she cut herself?”
“It’s menstrual blood. She wants us to clean it off.”
“I’m sorry: not for anything in the world.”
I don’t doubt the truth of this story for one second – although those of you lucky enough never to have worked in an advertising agency might. The sums of money that one is dealing with, the lifestyle that becomes (too quickly, in some cases) second nature – and the throngs of people who will “Do your bidding” are all dangerous incitements to this kind of lunacy – and if you’re a certain type of American (and therefore more susceptible than most to believing that anything fake is real), then it’s very easy to get to a point where you end up saying the sort of things to which the only fitting response is a slap around the face with the sole of a shoe.
