Free Original Cyn by Sue Margolis

mockney accents—suddenly seemed to sharpen up and made it clear they had their doubts about a candidate who had left it until she was thirty before deciding to make a career in advertising. Graham Chandler lay back in his chair, hands behind his spiky gelled head, and suggested that her outlook on life was less than focused. “You see, focus is what it’s all about.” Then Phil Witty started asking her what she knew about brand building (not a lot, really), balance theory (umm, something to do with equilibrium?). What about awareness-consideration-reaffirmation-confirmation-action-reinforcement theory? (Right. Well, you’ve sort of got me there.)
    At this point Andy Price took off his narrow rimless specs, leaned forward and asked her if she knew there was such a thing as white salmon. She frowned, wondering where on earth this was leading, and said she didn’t. “Well, there is. Now, this is a true story. In the twenties, a fish canning company in Alaska got landed with tons of salmon, which for some reason was white. Now, as you know, salmon is either pink or red, but they managed to shift all their white salmon in record time and make a huge profit, thanks to a brilliant advertising slogan. Can you guess what that slogan might have been?”
    Jeez. How in the name of buggery was she supposed to know? “God, well . . . I mean . . . hmm.” By now she realized the whole thing was hopeless and was on the point of getting up and leaving.
    “It’s not easy,” Andy Price said, giving her a sympathetic smile. “Look, why don’t I put you out of your misery?”
    “No, hang on.” An idea had come to her. In a flash—in one of those “Holy-Riddler-Robin-Gotham-City-is-saved-fetch-the-Batmobile” moments—she had it. “OK, it would have to be something about white salmon being superior to the pink or red . . . What about ‘The salmon that doesn’t turn pink in the tin’?”
    Price, Chandler and Witty sat there stunned. Andy Price picked up a red rubber stress ball and kneaded it a couple of times. “Bloody hell. That’s right,” he said. “That was the exact slogan. Come on, you must have heard it somewhere.”
    She assured them she hadn’t. The three men exchanged gobsmacked glances and said the job was hers if she wanted it. “The post is junior copywriter, the money’s pretty crap, but we offer excellent opportunities for promotion.”
    “Yes, please,” she said.
    Her hope that people in the office would tire of the hemorrhoid one-liners after a couple of hours couldn’t have been more in vain. Like Hugh, they immediately christened the Smart Car the “Butt-Mobile” and not one of them got remotely fed up—even when the jokes became really infantile. All morning people kept trying to outdo each other by making more obscure pile references. Work was “really
piling
” up. Carpets had “a really soft
pile
.” “Ooh, what’s that terrible noise outside. Could it be a
pile
driver?”
    Chelsea came in about twelve. She’d spent the morning visiting a client.
    Cyn noticed her about fifteen minutes later, standing at the coffee machine. She decided there was no point going on the attack—at least not yet. First, she would listen to what Chelsea had to say.
    “So,” Cyn began lightly, “did you happen to notice my Smart Car in the car park?”
    “God, sweetie, what can I say?” Chelsea said, raking her highlights. “Everybody’s talking about it. I am so, so sorry. I was certain both cars were going to be carrying ads for painkillers or something. It was a complete shock when the guy at the showroom gave me the Stella McCartney car. I feel really bad. It’s awful the way everybody’s making fun of you. I’d give anything for it to be me. If it hadn’t been for this excruciating abscess on my tooth, I would have waited until the next day to go to the showroom.” She gave a sudden (rather theatrical, Cyn thought) wince and brought her hand to her jaw. Then she explained that the only