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From: david@f-e-mail.com (David Shaw)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 28 Mar 2004 03:53:46 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} "CINDERELLA AND THE COPYWRITER" (rom.; comedy) By David Shaw
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Date: Sun,  4 Apr 2004 21:10:02 -0400
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"CINDERELLA AND THE COPYWRITER"

David Shaw
david@f-e-mail.com

www.f-e-mail.com

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Nice legs -- pity about the paperwork.
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"Brian, you're wanted in the bunker, straight away."

Brian Palmer was surprised. As the youngest copywriter in the agency
it was unusual for him to be summoned to the main conference room. He
looked up at the man who had appeared in front of his desk. Eric
Mansell was probably the best creative director in Perth. Anyone who
could show up for work whenever he liked in an Hawaiian shirt and a
company BMW had to be good.

"Hmm, OK, what's it about?"

"You remember that we gave you the Bailey's shoe account as your first
big job? A rep from the client is here and wants some words about that
print ad you and your partner put together."

Brian took a deep breath. "Well, if it's gone wrong I'm sorry but you
know that I practically begged you and Georgina to do it my way.  If
they're looking to blame somebody I guess I'm the one who has to wear
it."

"It's all experience. Get hold of Georgina and find out what the
problem is."

Brian reluctantly put aside his work for City Motors and began 
wandering  around looking for Ms Georgina Tench, a remarkably good
looking young lady who could fairly be described as a high profile
target. She was almost two metres tall, her blonde hair so long it
reached her waist, last seen wearing faded blue jeans, a T-shirt
promoting tours of Outer Mongolia and a small round straw hat with
ribbons dangling from it. Even by advertising agency standards she cut
quite a noticeable figure. And, like a lot of other people around the
place, she made Brian feel very aware of his youth and inexperience. A
bush high school had done little to prepare him for this place. Not
that he cared about his rawness: it just added even more magic to a
workplace he'd fallen in love with from the first day he'd entered it.
Perhaps because it was so full of life and energy -- on this side,
anyway.

Like Korea, the ad agency was divided into two conflicting parts,  the
reception desk marking the cold war zone between them. On one side was
the 'suit' territory, where the account executives, accountants and
others of that ilk lived. Very quiet and dignified, a lot of
individual offices and several conference rooms, forums for the
frequent discussions held with the many VIP visitors. Indeed, Brian
had already decided that the only real difference between advertising
management and  prostitution was that the ad industry seemed to need a
lot more meetings to make things happen. But the heart and soul of the
agency was on his side, where the 'creatives' did their thing.

As he walked through it seeking Georgina, Brian felt the adrenalin
tingling within him as it always did. Each of the open plan corridors
bustled with activity, the ringing of telephones, the rise and fall 
of  conversation as busy groups coalesced briefly to exchange sheets 
of  paper, photographs, gossip and wails of anger because somebody 
somewhere had just totally stuffed things up. It was a place of 
experts.  Creative artists, photographers, TV production specialists,
printers, and the backbone of the creative side, the finishing art
department. But all of  this collective expertise was useless without 
the creative impetus supplied by the copywriters; and you couldn't
make a copywriter, because that job was out on the edge where there
were no rules. You had to be born a copywriter -- and maybe it was
going to turn out that he hadn't been. The thought of being kicked out
of the  agency made Brian feel sick with apprehension.

As he had expected, he found Georgina in the finishing art section,
talking to a couple of the  girls over the drawing boards and probably
exchanging dirty jokes to judge by the expressions on their faces. He
was hesitant to interrupt the conversation.  In the first place the
finishing art workers were an insular crew, as touchy and awkward as a
gang of longshoremen, best left to other artists to deal with. In the
second place Georgina Tench made him feel about five years old
whenever she talked to him. For each copywriter to be assigned a
creative artist  was perhaps a good idea, but Brian would have been
happier with a team associate that he had something in common with.

Until he'd got the job at the agency his home had been in Dampier, two
thousand kilometres away from the nearest city: Georgina  bitched
every lunchtime because the agency was ten minutes walk away from the
centre of the metropolitan shopping area. Brian  had once asked her if
she'd ever been to the north west. For somebody who used to think a
trip to Perth once a year was a big deal, her answer  was
unforgettable: "Oh, yes, I often fly up there at the weekends with my
parents for the game fishing."

Which at least proved that having a rich family in the background
certainly gave a different perspective on life.

"You want something, Brian?"

Georgina had at last decided to notice him.  "I don't,  but Eric wants
both of us in the bunker, now. We've got a visitor from Bailey's shoes
who wants to talk to us."

"Oh God," she answered, turning around to stare at him. "I warned you
what was going to happen if you didn't change that ad but you wouldn't
be told, would you?"

"I've already made it clear to Eric that I remember fighting both of
you to send it out the way I wanted it. It was my ad and I'll take the
blame if it's a cockup."

"You certainly will. Come on then, let's get it over with."

Inside the bunker Brian had no thought of looking out of the windows
at the thirty storey  panoramic view across the Swan river. His
attention was first focused on Mr Du Cann, the head of the agency.
Impeccably dressed as always, down to the red carnation in his
buttonhole, Du Cann was in a  class of his own for smoothness and
slicing people into fine slices with their own silly mistakes. It was
strange for a man in his position to be bothering personally about a
print ad, which was pretty small potatoes. The big money and the big
decisions usually revolved around the TV commercials. But Du Cann
would know what he was doing. He'd reached his mid fifties with most
of his own hair, all of his teeth and a lot of other people's  money. 
At this precise moment he was standing in front of an easel with a
large blow up board of the Bailey's ad displayed on it.

"Ah, Georgina and Brian. Let me introduce you. Mr Highfield, Sales
manager for Bailey's Fashion Shoes."

Mr Highfield was short and chubby, perhaps a few years younger than Du
Cann, though looking a lot more harassed.  He seemed to have put his
clothes on in a hurry whilst trying to drink a cup of coffee at the
same time and without having had a chance since to look in a mirror.
Probably due to drop dead from a coronary any month, Brian thought.
Unlike Du  Cann, who was unlikely to be killed by anything except
overindulging  himself with some spectacular female like Georgina.

Highfield clearly had his dreams though, because Georgina seemed to be
getting all of his attention.  "This is a very remarkable ad you've
done for us, young lady. Congratulations."

Georgina beamed, Brian rocked on his heels in astonishment and
everybody's eyes rested for a moment on the blow up projected on the
white board.  The dominating feature of the photograph was a green
baise table top littered with multi coloured poker chips and ashtrays
with crushed cigar butts in them. Three pairs of heavily muscled
forearms and hands were resting on top of the table with five cards
lying face down on the table just in front of each pair of hands.
Standing on the centre of the table was a woman in a  blue  ball 
gown,  visible only from the waist down. Her hands were holding up the
 hem of the dress well above her knees, showing off her shapely calves
and ankles. One foot was still wearing  a  Bailey's  high heeled shoe,
the other foot bare and gracefully  arched on tip toe as she
maintained her balance. A huge hand which looked as if it belonged to
Arnold  Schwartzeneger was  holding up the discarded shoe and turning
it over, letting cards spill out from inside it into the smoke filled
air. Three of a kind: the ace, the king and the queen of hearts.

Underneath the photograph was the caption: "BAILEY'S FASHION SHOES --
THE BEST BET IN THE HOUSE WHEN THE CHIPS ARE DOWN".

"Interesting,"  Du Cann observed.  "Clearly there's a story involved
but it's up to the individual to decide what kind of a story. Was she
caught cheating? Or attempting to help somebody else to cheat? Was it
an attempt to stop the game by hiding some cards? Or a very grandiose
way of playing the winning hand?  Are more cards hidden inside the
other shoe. Or something else, perhaps? Certainly there's something
salacious about it -- tastefully so, though. Apparently it's generated
quite a lot of  interest amongst the ladies."

 "But even more interest amongst the men," Highfield cut  in. "We've
been getting a lot of reaction to the ad from  men who want to know
what the girl on the table looks  like.  We  regard this as very
important because we also sell mens' shoes as  well as womens', and
it's been a slow moving business of late. We want to take advantage of
the male  interest to increase the sales of our mens' lines. So the
company been wondering whether we might be able to use the shoe that's
been taken off  as  a  kind of Cinderella gimmick in a follow up
campaign."

Brian was fascinated by the idea. "You mean -- have some kind of a
ball?"

Highfield nodded: "Perhaps. We could put an entry form in the box with
every pair of mens' shoes we sell. Every form that's returned goes
into a barrel and the first fifty pulled out are invited to the ball
to try on a shoe and find Cinderella."

Brian shook his head. "We could have a problem there  --  we might
find the shoe fitting the wrong girl. Maybe we could use the card
angle as well and make it a sort of a gamble?"

"Would you like to suggest something, Brian?"  the agency chief asked.

"I'm just thinking aloud. Mr Highfield talked about inviting fifty men
to this ball. I suppose the idea would be to have one of them find the
Cinderella at the ball and win some kind of a prize?"

Highfield nodded. "Yes, a  world cruise perhaps, for the Prince and
his Princess. It  may  sound a bit corny but the prospect of a few
weeks on an ocean liner with a  pair  of  legs like that . . . Of
course we don't guarantee any romance,  we just supply the tickets to
the happy couple and let them sail off together in the sunset. How do
we tie it all in though?"

Brian rubbed his palms nervously on the sides of his shorts. "Suppose
we invited fifty two men and had the same number of girls, all real
good looking sheilas.  One of them is the Cinderella and they're all
wearing shoes like the ones in the ad. OK, so we'll deal out a deck of
cards and the three guys who get the ace, king and queen of hearts get
a chance to try and pick out which girl is Cinderella. If they get it
wrong the cards are dealt out again and the next three guys to draw  
the same cards have their chance."

Highfield nodded approvingly: "I like it. The  question is, how do
they find out which is the real Cinderella?"

"We turn it around. Whenever a guy picks a girl he takes one of her
shoes off instead of trying one on, just like in the ad," Brian
answered eagerly, tapping the blow up. "The girls can all have cards
hidden in their shoes but only the real Cinderella will have the same
hand as in the ad: the three hearts, ace, king  and queen."

Highfield smiled, Du Cann smiled, everybody  seemed  happy. Then
somebody went and ruined the happy moment -- Highfield. "And best  of 
all, when we finally find  the real Cinderella  everybody's curiousity
about what the mystery girl in the ad looks like will be satisfied.
We'll get good media coverage on the strength of that alone."

Georgina looked daggers at Brian, Brian gaped at Georgina.  "By the
way, have you got a  full length picture  of  the  model  handy?" 
Highfield continued. "I'd like a sneak preview, you understand."

"We didn't think we needed a professional model, under the
circumstances," Georgina said shyly. "To tell the truth, I posed for
that shot myself."

The two older men beamed on her with even fonder approval as Brian
took a firm grip on the back of a chair to prevent himself from
falling over. The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of
congratulations and a smooth tasting glass of single malt from Du
Cann's private stock. It wasn't until they were safely back inside
creative territory that Brian felt free to say what was on his mind.
His only problem was in deciding where to start.

"You conniving, lying, two-faced, double-crossing, publicity hungry
cow!"

"Be reasonable, Brian. Was I supposed to tell him that we let some
temporary secretary with a face like a hairy nosed Wombat pose for
those shots?  She's gone, nobody else knows what happened and a pair
of legs is a pair of legs. Problem solved."

"No, it is not bloody solved by a bloody long way,"  Brian snarled.
"What the hell do you think is going to happen when what's her name,
Mary, sees all the follow up ads about the ball and about how the real
owner of those legs is going to be sent off on a cruise around the
world? She'll be knocking on the door wanting to know why nobody has
contacted her and told her to start packing, won't she?"

Georgina considered the matter. "So who's going to believe her? How
can she prove they were her legs?"

"If she takes us to court she'll soon be able to prove it. Your little
white lies won't last long in a witness box under a barrister's cross
examination."

"A witness box! Are you crazy or something?"

Brian slumped down behind his desk and spread his hands out. "I'm
crazy am I? If you'll remember the day we did the shots on that ad, it
was one when everything went wrong. We had a deadline to meet, we
couldn't get a photographer until the last minute, we were digging out
the lumber room to get the props.  I  found that green table top
jammed underneath a stuffed polar  bear. Then the model we'd booked
never showed up. I had to go around the office asking the girls to let
me have a look at their legs so we could use one of them instead. And
I was in so much of a hurry I never even got to enjoy it."

"So?"

"So, I  don't remember anybody organising a clearance contract for
Mary to sign to give us the rights to any pictures we took. I don't
think we've got any legal right to be using that picture in the ad.
She didn't say anything to me about it at the time, she just seemed to
think it was a big joke that her legs were going to be famous. That's
what  she said.  And I gave her a hundred bucks out of the petty cash
for her trouble, which she seemed happy about at the time. But it's
going to be a different story when she finds out she's missing out on
a world cruise. We'll have to  tell  Du Cann the truth."

"No we won't," Georgina said decisively. "That  girl had a face which
looked as if it had been chopped off the top of a totem pole. We
couldn't possibly let her be the Cinderella.  The  guys at the ball
would start a riot. That's why I said I posed for the shots. And I've
got no intention of going back to Du Cann to tell him that a team I am
part of made such a stupid mistake as forgetting about getting a
clearance contract signed."

"But . . ."

"But me no buts, young Brian. Get on your motor bike, go around to the
temps agency and find out where the creature from the black typing
pool lives. Take her out to dinner, fill her up with booze and put a
release contract in front of her. If you have to you can even promise
her a world cruise too, just as long as she signs."

"A world cruise? Who's going to pay for her cruise if Bailey's Shoes
are paying for yours?"

"Daddy will. He can afford it. She gets a cruise, I get a lot of
useful media coverage at the ball and congratulations from Du Cann for
a job well done. And as soon as I get on the ship I can pass whatever
yobbo I've been lumbered with onto our typist. Then I can have some
real fun. I may even send you a postcard from Tahiti if I feel in a
good enough mood."

Brian did as he was told. At least as far as he could. There were a
few embarrassing moments at the agency when he  was unable to remember
Mary's second name, eventually solved when  he described her. Mary
Shact was her full name and the agency also provided her phone number.
 A  carefully worded call was successful in arranging a meeting.
Having already booked a table at the Golden Plum restaurant in
Northbridge, Brian asked her to meet him there.

It started out with all the makings of very nice evening. Despite
Georgina's caustic comments Ms Shact seemed to Brian to be an
attractive enough girl for anybody to be seen with in public without
flinching. Taking a second and more leisurely look at her he was still
sure he'd picked the best female volunteer in the office on the day. 
Mary's figure was about as perfect as you could judge without using a
micrometer, particularly her legs, a judgement which many men in the
state of Western Australia seemed to be keenly  supporting.  It was
also a refreshing  change after Georgina to meet a  girl who was
satisfied with a wearing a simple black frock and a single strand of
pearls at her neck.

"It's nice to see you again," she told him  over the  first glass of
wine. "I was sorry to leave the agency, it's the most interesting
place I've ever worked  in. I always think about it when I see that
shoe ad  we  did.  I bet you remember that day, don't you?" She almost
dropped her glass in a fit of giggles. "Running around asking all the
girls  to  lift up their skirts! You were lucky not to get your face
slapped,  I reckon."

"The girls who work there get used to some pretty strange requests,"
Brian answered defensively. "I suppose it seemed odd to you because
you were only there for a week and not used to the place."

"I was there long enough to find out that the strangest requests
usually came on a Friday afternoon."  Mary laughed again, apparently
totally relaxed and happy.

She had always been the same the few times he'd talked to her before,
bubbling over with high spirits. It was just a great pity that what
Georgina had said was true; this Cinders couldn't go to the ball. The
guy who won the contest expected to walk out with a glamorous model
girl on his arm and Mary was just not glamorous. For a start, she wore
 glasses.  Fashionable  glasses perhaps, with outsize gold octagonal
rims but they were still glasses. Even if she took  them off and had
enough  residual vision left to walk around without falling over the
furniture she still wasn't right. Her nose and mouth looked at least a
size too big for the rest of her face -- perhaps the mouth could be
called two sizes too big. Somehow it still produced a wonderful smile
though.

In fact, Brian mused, nature had been  uncharacteristically fair in
the way it had treated Mary. A stunning figure offset by a face which 
you couldn't call ugly,  but certainly wasn't beautiful. Nothing
grotesque, nothing  which  would  affect her personal relationships,
not with her bright and breezy character which more than made up for
the lack of facial symmetry. But as the mystery prize for a massive
advertising campaign --  no, she just wouldn't do.

He managed to keep her curiosity at bay until after the meal and most
of a bottle of riesling had been disposed of. Then he explained the
situation as delicately as he could. The final part was very
difficult.

"You see, Mary, the thing is that if they decide to have this
promotion show -- this  ball -- we have to  produce a Cinderella, the
girl who is supposed to have been the original model. We don't want to
short change you, so it's been decided that you'll get exactly the
same prize as they give to the model we use for the promotion. I just
thought it would be better if we told you about it first. All we need
is for you to sign this clearance contract and everything will be OK."

"Why can't I be the Cinderella? After all, it was my picture you
used."

"Hmm . . . yes, that's true: we used you for the legs, Mary. But this 
ball will be different. Lots of pictures will be taken and a lot of
performing under pressure in public. It just seems so much better to
use a professional model instead."

 "Somebody a lot better looking than me, you mean?"

 Brian tried to think fast. "Well, I'm no film star either. It's just
a fact of life that some people have the luck when it comes to looks.
I suppose that's why some guys and some girls get to be professional
models and the rest of us don't."

"Yes, only there's a difference between you and me,"  she answered,
looking glum for the first time, "You've got a job you like doing
where looks don't matter. But this is the only chance I'll ever have
in my life of being anything but a secretary.  It would have been nice
to have had one glamorous night in my life to remember. I mean, a
cruise sounds nice, but I'll still only be a secretary on holiday."

She stared at him across the candles on the table.  "What happens if I
don't sign this contract?  Suppose I go to the papers and tell them
that I'm the girl in that shoe advertisment and I can prove it. You'd
have to tell the truth, wouldn't you?"

Brian's well filled stomach sank heavily. "Well, I suppose I'd have
too, but I don't think you'd get your cruise if you did something like
that."

"Stuff the cruise," Mary said pithily. "No, I tell you what. I'm
getting sick of going from office to office all the time and your
agency was the best place I've ever worked in. You go back and tell
them I want a permanent job there as a secretary or a receptionist or
something. If they want to talk to me about that then I'll talk about
signing this contract for my picture."

"Er -- I don't know how I'll go, suggesting that,"  Brian baulked,
trying to figure out the different angles. "It may take some time to
fix it. Will you just let things ride for a while until I can talk to
some people?"

Mary stirred the remains of her dessert with a fork and lifted out a
wood strawberry soaked in wine. Her tongue reached out to gently lick
a trace of cream from it. "For a fellow who's prepared to stand me a
meal like this most evenings I'd do just about anything."

Brian conceded the point immediately.  "Mary, I'd love to take you out
just as often as I can."

The sharp white teeth snapped down on the strawberry like  a trap.
Then Mary smiled at him coyly.  "That's sweet of you, Brian."

In the next week Brian just about wiped out his meagre savings, put on
three kilos in weight from rich food and began to develop an
overwhelming desire to bed Mary Shact.  Almost as overwhelming an urge
as the one he was aquiring to defenestrate Georgina Tench from the
highest possible altitude.

"What is the matter with you, Brian?  Can't you make her happy enough
for one minute to do what you want? For God's sake, all you have to do
is to get her to sign one sheet of paper. Even a boy like you should
be able to manage that."

"Look, you stupid . . .  look the only way I've managed to keep her
quiet so far is by saying I'm trying to get her the job she wants
here. That excuse has worn out. What the hell am I supposed to do
now?"

Georgina shook her head. "Haven't you caught onto female psychology
yet? That story about getting a job is just her excuse to keep on
seeing you. If she was only interested in getting a job here she would
have shown up days ago and spoken to Du Cann. As long as you keep
cuddling up  to her she won't cause any bother."

"I've got to tell her something, Georgina, some  reason why she
mustn't say anything until this ball is over."

She picked up one of her drawing pens and tapped her teeth with the
wooden tip. "OK, tell her you think she's getting a raw deal from the
agency and you're going to be her knight in shining armour. Better
still, tell her you're going to be her fairy godmother. You're going
to take her to the ball and tell Du Cann you're both going to make a
scene right in the middle of  the promotion if she doesn't get a job
here."

"What!" Brian sat up straight and stared at  her.  "Are you serious?"

"Sure, why not? Just as long as you keep my name out of  it. Tell Du
Cann you were the one who was supposed to get the contract organised.
Then tell him you've managed to keep the girl quiet by promising her a
 job and she won't cause any trouble if she gets one. After all she is
presumably good enough at her sort of work so where's the problem?  Du
 Cann won't sack you for something like that -- you're shaping up to
be  too good a copywriter."

Cheered, comforted and resolved to do or die, Brian went off that
evening and told Mary about Georgina's advice.  She smiled at him with
her innocent eyes: "People are surprising, aren't they. I always
thought that Georgina was one of the selfish sort. Just shows how
wrong you can be, doesn't it?"

A week later the lobby of the Lord Forest hotel greeted them with a
scene of restrained yet decided luxury.  Inwardly sick with
apprehension but bolstered by Mary's faith in him Brian walked arm in
arm with her towards the  ballroom.  Slap into a barricade of silken
rope across the entrance and two burly men dressed in footmens'
clothes and wigs. Brian thought it was a hell of a way to earn a few
dollars.

"Your passes, please, sir."

"Er -- passes." What passes was the guy talking about? "Nobody said
anything to me about needing any passes."

"This is a private function.  No passes, no  entry.  It's that simple,
mate."

He'd been right, it was a hell of a way to earn a few bucks, standing
around dressed like a ponce, and the guy had clearly built up a load
of resentment he was eager to drop off on somebody else, even a
somebody as insignificant as Brian. Mary stood patiently waiting  as
Brian  appealed,  protested, threatened and finally begged for 
admission to the ball room. All the good it did him was to bring
Georgina to the other end of an internal phone line.

"What the hell is going on here, Georgina? Tell these people to let us
in!"

Georgina's tone was cool and distant. "Sorry, Brian, but it was better
this way. You were so wrapped up in the idea of making a shock entry
here that you both kept quiet for the extra week I needed. I thought
it better not to mention to you that I'd arranged security coverage
for the ball."

"You don't think you'll get away with this, do you?"

"Why not? We're all ready to see the real Cinderella in here. If she
doesn't show up I guess I'll have to stand in for her. It's a pity but
there it is. If somebody forgot to send her a pass, well, even the 
best of organisations make mistakes sometimes. Not much of a story for
the papers, I'm afraid."

 Brian was shaking with anger: "Tell these goons to let us in, or
else!"

Georgina giggled, totally unimpressed:  "Tell them your girlfriend is
the glamour pot all the boys in here are lusting to meet. Maybe
they'll laugh so much they'll let you in anyway."

Brian threw the receiver down in fury and tried to charge past the
guards. They grabbed and held him with ease.

"OK, mate,you've got two choices, either walk out nicely or we take
you out of sight and give you a few bruises to go home with."

"I don't think you should try to do that,"  Mary warned the guard,
displaying one of her widest smiles for no good reason Brian could
see. "It might be you who gets hurt."

The two bouncers grinned at each other, then at Mary.  Until four men
suddenly seemed to materialise out of nowhere -- four men wearing the
uniform of the Special Air Service Regiment. One of them had
sergeant's stripes on his sleeves.

"Excuse me," the sergeant said  quietly.  "But I think my sister would
like to go through that door."

The footman were looking at each other again, but they weren't
grinning this time. Without any further consultation they stepped
aside, white faced. Brian reached  up  and  straightened the guard's
wig. "There you, cuddles, you look delicious now. Why don't you slip
down to the docks and say hallo to all the sailors?"

The bouncer made one flicker of movement towards him, an involuntary
movement stifled as quickly as it was begun by the sergeant's eyes. As
blue and empty as fragments of desert sky, set in a face with the
texture of stretched rawhide. Brian had a feeling that absolutely
nothing which the sergeant saw happen or caused to happen would alter
the total calmness in those eyes. It was not a pleasant experience to
have them focus on him.

"Hi, Brian, my name's Eric. Mary's told me a lot about you. I hope
we'll be able to have a drink together soon. Mum and Dad are looking
forward to meeting you."

Brian's mouth fell open and he was happy to find himself excused from
any need to answer as Mary led him into the ballroom. Behind him
walked their escort with the winged dagger badges prominently
displayed on their sand coloured berets.

How did he get here?" Brian whispered.

"Oh, I thought Georgina would try to pull some kind of a dirty trick.
I never liked her when I was at the agency.  And it's useful 
sometimes, having Eric based here in Perth at Campbell barracks."

"Yeah, useful." Brian glanced behind him and then spoke even more
quietly into her ear. "He seems to think we're engaged or something."

Mary giggled. "Oh, I must have been talking about you too much."

Brian thought remarkably quickly. He thought about he felt about
having a man like like Eric as a brother in law; then he thought even
more quickly about having a man like Eric as an unhappy non-brother in
law. Perhaps the favours he did for his sister included avenging her
honour if someone was ill advised enough to jilt her. Brian shuddered
and felt his palms begin to sweat. Christ, this was worse than the
mafia. The SAS, the deadliest bunch of trained killers in Australia --
who  knew what they were capable of if you upset one of them?

The scene inside the ballroom was one which he would  never forget.
Fifty two girls lined up on the stage,  giggling and posing for a
posse of photographers as they lifted up their ball gowns to knee
level to give the contestants a sneak preview before the cards were
dealt out for the first time.  A piercing wolf whistle came from
behind him and the  girls, every one a beauty, looked over the heads
of the seated crowd of men towards the soldiers. The SAS men returned
the looks with  interest. Especially when the tallest of the girls
hurriedly left the stage and rushed towards them. Georgina, with Du
Cann  following on her heels.

"What do you pair want?" she demanded.

"We don't want anything at all," Mary  said.  "We hope you have a
wonderful ball and everything goes well."

She turned to Du Cann and continued talking. "In case you don't know
it I'm the girl who's the real Cinderella, so I hope you don't mind my
brother and his army friends coming along.  You  see, I made a few
enquiries from people I know in the agency and I found out that
Georgina here was planning to stand in for my legs, if I can put it
like that. I'm not sure it's quite right for an employee of the ad
agency to be given a prize offered  by a sponsor, especially under
false pretences. But if you don't bother my guests I don't think I'll
mention it to those reporters."

Du Cann seemed nonplussed. "You're the  real Cinderella?  I can't
pretend I know what's going on but if it's about the prize I'm sure we
can come to some arrangement."

"She wants a job at the agency," Georgina  snapped  angrily. "That's
what she's trying to get out of us."

"I don't want your prize and I don't want any job you have to offer,"
Mary answered calmly. She opened her handbag and gave Du Cann an
envelope from inside it. "I just came to hand you Brian's letter of
immediate resignation from your agency."

"My what!" Brian found Mary holding onto his arm.

"I've been a naughty girl," she confessed. "I  faxed copies of your
shoe ad to every major advertising agency in the Eastern states. The
creative director of Ransdown  and  Mitchell in Sydney was the first
to call back.  For a start they only offered you twice what you're
getting now, but I held out for three times what this bunch of
cheapskates are  paying  you. It didn't take them long to agree."

Mary carefully smoothed down the front of Brian's jacket  in a
proprietorial manner and smiled at the other girl:  "I  guess it's
true what they say after all, Georgina.  It does pay to advertise."

THE END

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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