Master of the Game

Berkley and Mathews Advertising Agency was the diadem in Madison Avenue’s roster of agencies. Its annual billings exceeded the combined billings of its two nearest competitors, chiefly because its major account was Kruger-Brent, Ltd., and its dozens of worldwide subsidiaries. More than seventy-five account executives, copywriters, creative directors, photographers, engravers, artists and media experts were employed on the Kruger-Brent account alone. It came as no surprise, therefore, that when Kate Blackwell telephoned Aaron Berkley to ask him if he could find a position in his agency for Alexandra, a place was found for her instantly. If Kate Blackwell had desired it, they would probably have made Alexandra president of the agency.

“I believe my granddaughter is interested in being a copywriter,” Kate informed Aaron Berkley.

Berkley assured Kate that there just happened to be a copywriter vacancy, and that Alexandra could start any time she wished.

She went to work the following Monday.

Few Madison Avenue advertising agencies are actually located on Madison Avenue, but Berkley and Mathews was an exception. The agency owned a large, modern building at the corner of Madison and Fifty-seventh Street. The agency occupied eight floors of the building and leased the other floors. In order to save a salary, Aaron Berkley and his partner, Norman Mathews, decided Alexandra Blackwell would replace a young copywriter hired six months earlier. The word spread rapidly. When the staff learned the young woman who was fired was being replaced by the granddaughter of the agency’s biggest client, there was general indignation. Without even having met Alexandra, the consensus was that she was a spoiled bitch who had probably been sent there to spy on them.

When Alexandra reported for work, she was escorted to the huge, modern office of Aaron Berkley, where both Berkley and Mathews waited to greet her. The two partners looked nothing alike. Berkley was tall and thin, with a full head of white hair, and Mathews was short, tubby and completely bald. They had two things in common: They were brilliant advertising men who had created some of the most famous slogans of the past decade; and they were absolute tyrants. They treated their employees like chattels, and the only reason the employees stood for such treatment was that anyone who had worked for Berkley and Mathews could work at any advertising agency in the world. It was the training ground.

Also present in the office when Alexandra arrived was Lucas Pinkerton, a vice-president of the firm, a smiling man with an obsequious manner and cold eyes. Pinkerton was younger than the senior partners, but what he lacked in age, he made up for in vindictiveness toward the men and women who worked under him.

Aaron Berkley ushered Alexandra to a comfortable armchair. “What can I get you, Miss Blackwell? Would you like some coffee, tea?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“So. You’re going to work with us here as a copywriter.”

“I really appreciate your giving me this opportunity, Mr. Berkley. I know I have a great deal to learn, but I’ll work very hard.”

“No need for that,” Norman Mathews said quickly. He caught himself. “I mean—you can’t rush a learning experience like this. You take all the time you want.”

“I’m sure you’ll be very happy here,” Aaron Berkley added. “You’ll be working with the best people in the business.”

One hour later, Alexandra was thinking, They may be the best, but they’re certainly not the friendliest. Lucas Pinkerton had taken Alexandra around to introduce her to the staff, and the reception everywhere had been icy. They acknowledged her presence and then quickly found other things to do. Alexandra sensed their resentment, but she had no idea what had caused it. Pinkerton led her into a smoke-filled conference room. Against one wall was a cabinet filled with Clios and Art Directors’ awards. Seated around a table were a woman and two men, all of them chain-smoking. The woman was short and dumpy, with rust-colored hair. The men were in their middle thirties, pale and harassed-looking.

Pinkerton said, “This is the creative team you’ll be working with. Alice Koppel, Vince Barnes and Marty Bergheimer. This is Miss Blackwell.”

The three of them stared at Alexandra.

“Well, I’ll leave you to get acquainted with one another,” Pinkerton said. He turned to Vince Barnes. “I’ll expect the new perfume copy on my desk by tomorrow morning. See that Miss Blackwell has everything she needs.” And he left.

“What do you need?” Vince Barnes asked.

The question caught Alexandra off guard. “I—I guess I just need to learn the advertising business.”

Alice Koppel said sweetly, “You’ve come to the right place, Miss Blackwell. We’re dying to play teacher.”

“Lay off,” Marty Bergheimer told her.

Alexandra was puzzled. “Have I done something to offend any of you?”

Marty Bergheimer replied, “No, Miss Blackwell. We’re just under a lot of pressure here. We’re working on a perfume campaign, and so far Mr. Berkley and Mr. Mathews are underwhelmed by what we’ve delivered.”

“I’ll try not to be a bother,” Alexandra promised.

“That would be peachy,” Alice Koppel said.

The rest of the day went no better. There was not a smile in the place. One of their co-workers had been summarily fired because of this rich bitch, and they were going to make her pay.

At the end of Alexandra’s first day, Aaron Berkley and Norman Mathews came into the little office Alexandra had been assigned, to make sure she was comfortable. The gesture was not lost on Alexandra’s fellow workers.

Everyone in the agency was on a first-name basis—except for Alexandra. She was Miss Blackwell to everyone.

“Alexandra,” she said.

“Right.”

And the next time they addressed her, it was “Miss Blackwell.”

Alexandra was eager to learn and to make a contribution. She attended think-tank meetings where the copywriters brainstormed ideas. She watched art editors draw up their designs. She listened to Lucas Pinkerton tear apart the copy that was brought to him for approval. He was a nasty, mean-spirited man, and Alexandra felt sorry for the copywriters who suffered under him. Alexandra found herself shuttling from floor to floor for meetings with department heads, meetings with clients, photographic sessions, strategy discussion meetings. She kept her mouth shut, listened and learned. At the end of her first week, she felt as though she had been there a month. She came home exhausted, not from the work but from the tension that her presence seemed to create.

When Kate asked how the job was going, Alexandra replied, “Fine, Gran. It’s very interesting.”

“I’m sure you’ll do well, Alex. If you have any problems, just see Mr. Berkley or Mr. Mathews.”

That was the last thing Alexandra intended to do.

On the following Monday Alexandra went to work determined to find a way to solve her problem. There were daily morning and afternoon coffee breaks, and the conversation was easy and casual.

“Did you hear what happened over at National Media? Some genius there wanted to call attention to the great year they had, so he printed their financial report in The New York Times in red ink!”

“Remember that airline promotion: Fly Your Wife Free? It was a smash until the airline sent letters of appreciation to the wives and got back a flood of mail demanding to know who their husbands had flown with. They—”

Alexandra walked in, and the conversation stopped dead.

“Can I get you some coffee, Miss Blackwell?”

“Thank you. I can get it.”

There was silence while Alexandra fed a quarter into the coffee machine. When she left, the conversation started again.

“Did you hear about the Pure Soap foul-up? The angelic-looking model they used turned out to be a porno star…”

At noon Alexandra said to Alice Koppel, “If you’re free for lunch, I thought we might—”

“Sorry. I have a date.”

Alexandra looked at Vince Barnes. “Me, too,” he said.

She looked at Marty Bergheimer. “I’m all booked up.”

Alexandra was too upset to eat lunch. They were making her feel as though she were a pariah, and she found herself getting angry. She did not intend to give up. She was going to find a way to reach them, to let them know that deep down under the Blackwell name she was one of them. She sat at meetings and listened to Aaron Berkley and Norman Mathews and Lucas Pinkerton tongue-lash the creators who were merely trying to do their jobs as well as they could. Alexandra sympathized, but they did not want her sympathy. Or her.

Alexandra waited three days before trying again. She said to Alice Koppel, “I heard of a wonderful little Italian restaurant near here—”

“I don’t eat Italian food.”

She turned to Vince Barnes. “I’m on a diet.”

Alexandra looked at Marty Bergheimer. “I’m going to eat Chinese.”

Alexandra’s face was flushed. They did not want to be seen with her. Well, to hell with them. To hell with all of them. She had had enough. She had gone out of her way to try to make friends, and each time she had been slapped down. Working there was a mistake. She would find another job somewhere with a company that her grandmother had nothing to do with. She would quit at the end of the week. But I’m going to make you all remember I was here, Alexandra thought grimly.

At 1:00 P.M. on Thursday, everyone except the receptionist at the switchboard was out to lunch. Alexandra stayed behind. She had observed that in the executive offices there were intercoms connecting the various departments, so that if an executive wanted to talk to an underling, all he had to do was press a button on the talk box where the employee’s name was written on a card. Alexandra slipped into the deserted offices of Aaron Berkley and Norman Mathews and Lucas Pinkerton and spent the next hour changing all the cards around. Thus it was that early that afternoon Lucas Pinkerton pressed down the key that connected him to his chief copywriter and said, “Get your ass in here. Now!”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Norman Mathews’s voice bellowed, “What did you say?”

Pinkerton stared at the machine, transfixed. “Mr. Mathews, is that you?”

“You’re damned right it is. Get your fucking ass in here. Now!”

A minute later, a copywriter pressed down a button on the machine on his desk and said, “I’ve got some copy for you to run downstairs.”

Aaron Berkley’s voice roared back at him. “You what?”

It was the beginning of pandemonium. It took four hours to straighten out the mess that Alexandra had created, and it was the best four hours that the employees of Berkley and Mathews had ever known. Each time a fresh incident occurred, they whooped with joy. The executives were being buzzed to run errands, fetch cigarettes and repair a broken toilet. Aaron Berkley and Norman Mathews and Lucas Pinkerton turned the place upside down trying to find out who the culprit was, but no one knew anything.

The only one who had seen Alexandra go into the various offices was Fran, the woman on the switchboard, but she hated her bosses more than she hated Alexandra, so all she would say was, “I didn’t see a soul.”

That night when Fran was in bed with Vince Barnes, she related what had happened.

He sat up in bed. “The Blackwell girl did it? I’ll be a sonofabitch!”

The following morning when Alexandra walked into her office, Vince Barnes, Alice Koppel and Marty Bergheimer were there, waiting. They stared at her in silence. “Is something wrong?” Alexandra asked.

“Not a thing, Alex,” Alice Koppel said. “The boys and I were just wondering if you’d like to join us for lunch. We know this great little Italian joint near here…”