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Here’s a tale from some time ago.
My first wife’s brother was a born entrepreneur. Karen, my first wife, had the gene too. She attempted to establish a couple of businesses while she was still at university. But Gareth was off the scale. He had at least one new idea every day. And more than a few of his ‘great ideas’ he tried to turn into ‘the new sliced bread’.
Looking back, I have known quite a few entrepreneurs. Discounting the ones who just aren’t very good at it, the rest seem to fall into one of two categories: those who know how to get justly-rewarded for having a good idea and taking the initial risk, and those who simply get bored and head off in search of ‘the next thing’. Gareth was of the second variety. By the time that I married his sister, he was already onto his sixth serious venture. But he certainly wasn’t getting rich from any of them.
‘You’re a writer,’ he said to me one hot afternoon when he and I were sitting outside a pub enjoying a cold beer. ‘Have you ever tried writing radio commercials?’
‘Commercials? No,’ I said. ‘Radio drama. Plays. And I worked on a successful serial for six months. The Baker’s Dozen. But not commercials.’
‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘I can see an opportunity.’ He didn’t elaborate. It was just an idea. Just an opportunity. ‘I need to think about it,’ he said. ‘I need to think through a few of the details.’
A few days later, Gareth and I met for another beer. His idea was to set up a business producing quality radio commercials for the kind of businesses that proper ad agencies don’t normally bother about. ‘We charge the businesses a fee,’ he said, ‘and the radio stations and networks pay us a commission. Two paydays for the price of one. Brilliant or what?’
‘Why don’t the businesses just go straight to the radio stations?’ I asked. ‘I’m sure that the radio stations will make them a commercial. Probably at no charge.’
‘Oh, they will,’ Gareth said. ‘But not a good one. We’re going to give them something off the top shelf. Something that will get people talking. Something that will put them on the map.’
Another few days went by and Gareth arrived to tell me that he had ‘everything set up’.
‘What sort of everything?’
‘I’ve got a radio station. And it’s part of a network. And I’ve got a client. A high end delicatessen and mini-market. Fancy stuff. With packaging in foreign languages. We’re meeting the owner for coffee tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Oh? We are, are we?’ I said. ‘I don’t remember agreeing to be part of this.’
‘You’ll love it,’ Gareth said. ‘I think you’ll like Greta too. She’s your kind of people.’
‘And what are my kind of people?’
‘Just come and meet her,’ Gareth said. ‘She’s fun. And she’s smart.’
As it turned out, Greta was quite fun. I agreed to write a couple of commercials on one condition: she either accepted them or rejected them. No tweaking. No adding bits. No subtracting bits. No endless faffing. Just accept or reject. She agreed.
I suspect more by luck than judgement, my first radio commercials turned out quite well. And they certainly got people talking. ‘What I now need,’ Gareth said, ‘is for you to meet the sales director from the radio station.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because he wants to meet you. He thinks you’re a bloody genius. And he’s paying for lunch.’
I hesitated. But, more out of curiosity than anything else, I agreed to meet him. Perhaps I could use him as a character in a radio play. I’d never met a sales director before.
We met at a restaurant that I’d never even heard of. Judging by the number of empty tables, I don’t think too many other people had heard of it either. But Bill, the sales director, seemed nice enough. And the wine certainly flowed.
‘We might consider buying Gareth’s business,’ Bill said. ‘But you would have to be part of the deal.’
‘I’m not a copywriter,’ I told him. ‘I’m just … well … I’m not Ankara travesti sure what I am. I just write stuff. Radio drama. Magazine pieces. Opinion pieces.’
Bill nodded. But not very convincingly.
After we had each drunk a couple of large glasses of wine, the waiter came over and asked if we would be requiring any food. ‘Or shall I just bring another bottle of wine?’
‘I think steaks all round,’ Bill said. ‘A bit of red meat. Lead in the pencil.’ And then, turning to me, he said: ‘The fancy food here is not up to much. But the steaks are pretty good.’
The waiter scribbled something on his pad. ‘Three times rib-eye. Medium rare. Sauce Bearnaise?’
Bill nodded.
‘Frites?’ the waiter said.
Bill nodded again. ‘And some more wine. Thanks.’
The waiter had just returned with the wine when a group of five fashionably-suited women of a certain age walked into the restaurant and headed straight for our table. ‘Billy! It must be Friday,’ one of the women called out.
‘I know. The days just fly by, don’t they?’ Bill said. And then, as Bill made the introductions, the women started rearranging the tables so that our table for three became a table for eight.
The waiter looked on with a slightly bemused expression. ‘Something to drink, ladies?’ he asked when they had things in place.
‘Bubbles,’ Moira, who I took to be the senior office present, said. ‘Bolly. After all, it is Friday.’
‘And will you be requiring menus?’ the waiter asked.
Moira shook her head. ‘We’re watching our figures,’ she said. ‘Just bring us a big bowl of frites.’
‘And some aioli,’ Sandy said. ‘Thanks.’
‘So …,’ Heather said, looking across the table at me, ‘you’re the genius copywriter.’
‘Not really a copywriter,’ I said. ‘Not as such.’
‘But you write copy?’
‘Sort of,’ I said.
Heather nodded. ‘A sort of copywriter then. Yep. That works for me.’ And then she added: ‘Me … I’m a sort of sales rep.’ And the ladies all laughed.
It didn’t take the ladies long to finish off the bottle of Bollinger and start in on a bottle (or two) of new world Sauvignon Blanc. And, despite the fact that they were ‘watching their figures’, the frites and aioli didn’t last long. ‘I think we’d better have another bowl of those,’ Moira told the waiter.
Happily, Bill was not wrong about the steaks. They were brilliant. Thick, crusty on the outside, and pink in the middle. ‘OK?’ Bill asked.
‘Better than OK,’ I told him.
Bill smiled and nodded. ‘Yes. Not sure why the rest of the fare here is so average,’ he said.
Moira volunteered that the frites were also pretty good. ‘A bit of a crunch on the outside; fluffy on the inside. And the aioli tastes just like the real thing.’
Again Bill nodded. ‘Right. What now?’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘Are we going to have some more wine? Or shall we find a cab? See who’s at Lenny’s.’
‘We could go back to mine,’ Janet said. ‘I’m only just along the road.’ And so the eight of us set off, pausing along the way to collect a few supplies from the offy.
Janet’s gaff was a bit of a surprise: a full Georgian townhouse; a narrow slice of a very tidy-looking terrace.
‘This is very nice,’ Bill said. ‘Are we paying you too much? Or are you a secret millionaire?’
‘My parents bought it as a London bolthole,’ Janet said. ‘Back in the days when you could still do that sort of thing. Now … what do we need?’
‘Glasses,’ Bill said. ‘Or, judging from the thirst you girls seem to have, maybe straws would be more appropriate.’
‘Hey. It’s Friday,’ Sandy said. ‘No point in trying to call clients on a Friday afternoon. They all be off lunching somewhere. Or doing the other thing. So we may as well at least enjoy a drink.’
Bill opened a couple of bottles of wine and grabbed himself ‘a cleansing ale’. ‘Gareth …,’ he said, steering me into the kitchen, ‘how Antalya travesti well do you know him?’
‘Reasonably,’ I said.
‘Is he up to this sort of thing? Is he reliable?’
‘Define reliable,’ I said.
‘Is he in it for the medium term at least? He’s not just going to suddenly go off chasing another pretty butterfly is he?’
‘Umm … I think you would need to decide that for yourself,’ I said. ‘He does tend to get bit distracted. But maybe that’s because he hasn’t quite been able to find the right thing yet.’
Bill nodded. ‘And you … what do you want to do.’
‘Write a best-selling novel,’ I said. ‘And then have George Lucas pick up the film rights for megabucks.’ And I laughed.
At least Bill smiled. ‘And where does copywriting fit in?’
‘It doesn’t. Not really. It was a bit of fun, but I’m not sure that I could do it on a fulltime basis.’
‘You could make a good living,’ Bill said. ‘And, as a creative superstar, you could certainly have your pick of that lot in there.’
‘I’m already married,’ I said.
Bill laughed. ‘I’m married,’ he said. ‘Moira’s married. But everyone’s single on Friday afternoon. Give it some thought.’ And we went back to join the others. Except ‘the others’ were now minus Gareth and Sandy. ‘Upstairs?’ Bill said.
Moira smiled and nodded. But only very subtly.
We sipped and chatted for a bit longer, and then Janet – who had come to sit beside me – leaned in a said in a quiet voice: ‘I should probably show you around, shouldn’t I?’ And, just in case there was any doubt as to when she should probably show me around, she got to her feet, took my hand, and helped me to my feet. ‘You can bring your glass,’ she said.
She led me straight to the stairs and led the way. There were two doors leading off the first floor landing. One was closed, the other was slightly open. Janet steered me through the door that had been slightly open and then closed it quietly behind us. She also locked it. ‘There’s nothing quite like a leisurely Friday lunch, is there?’ she said, removing her suit jacket. And then she kissed me.
I could pretend that the kiss was just a friendly hello-how-are-you kind of kiss. Or perhaps a nice-to-see-you-again kiss from my favourite aunt. But it wasn’t. It was a and-this-is-the-part-where-we-fuck kind of kiss.
‘This skirt,’ she said, fiddling with the fastening behind her back. ‘I might need some help.’
‘You do realise that I’m married,’ I said.
‘I wasn’t absolutely sure, but I somehow assumed so,’ she said. ‘However, it’s Friday afternoon. And everyone’s single on Friday afternoon.’
‘So I gather,’ I said. ‘Although … I think I may have missed that memo the first time.’
‘Well …,’ she said. But that was all she said.
If I’m honest, Karen and I didn’t have a great sex life. We got on very well. We shared many interests. But, once we were between the sheets, Karen did what needed to be done – or at least she did what she thought needed to be done – and no more.
As Janet stepped out of her tailored skirt, I was delighted to see that she was wearing stockings and a suspender belt. She was also wearing high-cut knickers. But not for long. And as she stepped out of the knickers, I was delighted to see that she was sporting a dark, silky, patch of snatch thatch. Beautiful. Sexy. I could feel my cock starting to respond.
‘Right. This is me,’ Janet said. ‘Now it’s time for you to show me yours. Or shall I just help myself? Yes. That’s probably easier, isn’t it?’ And she laughed, kissed me again, and began unbuckling my belt.
Up to that point in my life, the women I had ‘known’, all five of them, had been younger than me. Janet was probably 15 or so years older than me. I rather felt that, as an unashamedly self-taught fucker, I was about to get a lesson in how to do it properly.
‘Nice,’ Janet said, as she lowered my zip and reached İstanbul travesti inside to free my growing cock. ‘And I think he’s pleased to see me – which is always nice – when you get to my age.’ She gave my cock a couple of encouraging pumps, and then she said: ‘I think we had better have those trousers off completely.’ And, yes, she was probably right.
We kissed again. This time I think that I might have initiated it. And, with our spare hands, we each attended to that which suddenly needed attending to. Janet expertly fondled my cock; I explored her proper grown-up womanly cunt. And then she softly said: ‘But enough of this foreplay. Time is limited and I need you inside me.’ And she turned her back on me, and leaned forward, resting her forearms on the bed. Apparently, Friday afternoon was also dog-day afternoon. And not of the sleepy variety.
I slipped my hand, palm upwards, between her slightly parted thighs and then gently dragged my fingers back along her warm, slick, cuntal valley, reserving just enough of her magic juice to prime the tip of my cock. And then it was time to make my entry. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’
Yes, yes, yes indeed. For some reason, Karen was not a fan of ‘the doggy’. I got her to try it once or twice, but she chose not to be convinced. Perhaps she thought that I was going to ‘accidentally’ slip in through the exit-only door. But Janet appeared to have no such qualms. In fact, she seemed to encourage my thumb when I took the opportunity to massage her rosebud. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said.
We began with long, slow, almost leisurely strokes. But we soon picked up the pace. And then we were really going for it. ‘Oh, fuck yes,’ Janet said. And then, when I reached around and engaged with her clit, she exploded, shuddering and giggling and yelping like some small animal. ‘Oh. Fuck. Yes,’ she said. And I confess that I was just behind her in more ways than one. Except I don’t think that I yelped as I came.
For a moment or too afterwards we remained at our stations. And then Janet turned around and kissed me once more. ‘You and I must do this again,’ she said softly. ‘But, right now, we should probably go back downstairs.’
‘We should,’ I said, somewhat reluctantly.
The following week, Gareth and Bill got together for a ‘what next?’ chat. The way that Gareth put it to me was that he, Gareth, decided that there were other possibly more productive paths that he might follow. And Bill agreed. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ Gareth said.
‘No, not at all,’ I said. ‘It was always your project. I’m still in half a mind to try for a best-selling novel. And I’m not sure that that would leave much time for writing radio commercials.’
‘Oh, there is one thing,’ Gareth said. ‘Bill wonders if you would be prepared to spend a couple of hours with the station’s on-staff copywriters. Give them a few tips. Teach them how to think outside the box. I’ve told Bill that you’re expensive. But that’s OK. He has a budget. He can pay.’
I did go and spend a couple of hours with the copy team. There were three of them. And they were OK. They just hadn’t quite grasped the idea of radio being theatre for the mind. Their commercials were almost universally information-heavy. ‘Whatever you’re writing, overloading the listener is never a good idea,’ I told them. ‘Engage them. Entertain them. Involve them. And then you can slip in the telephone number.’
As I was leaving the station’s offices, I ran into Janet.
‘How are you?’ she asked, with a twinkle in her eye.
I told her that I’d just been conducting a mini-seminar for the copywriting team.
‘And now?’ she said.
‘Not sure. Might go and visit a bookshop. See what’s new,’ I said.
Janet nodded. ‘You realise it’s Friday,’ she said. ‘And it’s almost the afternoon.’
‘Oh. Yes. So it is.’
‘And?’
‘And everyone’s single on Friday afternoon?’
‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Just give me a moment or two to dump this stuff and we’ll get a cab. I have champagne in the fridge. Veuve Clicquot. Non-vintage, but … well … champagne’s champagne, isn’t it? And I really like the Veuve Clic label.’
‘And, anyway, I can always go to the bookshop tomorrow,’ I told her.
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