Agency

In Which David Dreams of Downton Abbey

Monday afternoon

David smoothed his hair and adjusted the cuffs on his new-vintage cardigan so they were perfectly turned and precisely equal.

He surveyed the strange blandness of the finance area: a collection of beige half-wall cubicles, each with a nameplate velcroed to its cloth wall and a depressed-looking human sitting inside it. Even the plants looked suicidal. While the orderliness of it was appealing, he could never be happy in the company of such zombies. Did accounting drain the joy from people, or did joyless people go into accounting?

David was attracted to people with charisma, which, of course, Creative Directors almost always had and the handsome ones even more so. He would never admit it, but David'd had serious crushes on some of the most outstandingly talented CDs in agency land. He kept them very quiet. Not "in the closet" quiet -- just "career-protecting" quiet. Unlike the straight people in this office, he had the good sense to keep his romantic and professional interests separate.

Although disappointingly platonic, it was true that he had a huge crush on Niall Flannery. Privately, he liked to think of himself as "Niall's man." If he occasionally entertained a Downton Abbey fantasy featuring Niall as Mr. Crawley and himself, his loyal manservant Mr. Bates... well, what was the harm in that?

He straightened his already straight spine and forayed into the beige forest. He was here on official creative department business.

"Is Samara inside in her office?" he asked the dull-eyed, sad-faced young man who guarded the Head of Production's schedule.

The assistant hesitated just long enough to give David an opening. He flashed past him and into the open door of Samara Lee's office.

"Ms. Lee, may I have a moment? I'm here on behalf of Niall, who is busy... creating," he began pleasantly. "As you know, he doesn't have a head for numbers, and so he's sent me. His right-hand man, so to speak."

David did not laugh at his sort-of joke. Neither did Samara Lee, who had no idea who this young man was or why her dimwitted assistant had let him in.

"May I sit?" he asked.

Samara gestured with a New Yorker's efficiency at the chair in front of her desk.

"Ms. Lee, I'm here on sensitive business. As you know, our Agency recently won an extremely prestigious pain-relief account. This win was, in no small part, thanks to Niall's genius. Now, we both know that genius doesn't come cheap. The design team put quite a lot of hours into that pitch and, well, you know better than any of us how closely we're being held to billable goals in light of recent..." David waved his hand vaguely.

"Niall wants money," clarified Samara, getting right to the point like a lion shearing through flesh and hitting bone.

David smiled. He liked Samara's lack of nonsense. He could see why people feared her and why Niall hadn't wanted to have this conversation with her himself. Niall was all nonsense. That was his charm. A woman like Samara wouldn't know how to give him the space he needed to make an argument. Fortunately, David didn't need much space at all.

He responded efficiently. "We'd like to pull 20k from the budget to cover the time and expenses we gave to the pitch. This will not, naturally, cover any future work. That will get billed as normal against the client's open SOW." He paused there. "Can I just ask... that account has been opened now, has it? I understand there was some delay in getting the signatures?"

Samara turned to her laptop and brought up the account.

"Yes, the signed SOW turned up just after lunch. Bertrand sent in a copy. Just awaiting processing."

David nodded and stood abruptly like a marionette with an invisible puppeteer. He made his way to the door, but Samara called to him before he could exit.

"Tell Niall he can have 10. Not 20. And on your way out, tell my assistant to get his ass in here. I'd like a word."