“I haven’t done the brain yet,” Jack said.
“Then get to it,” Laurie said. She walked back to table three to finish her own case.
2
* * *
WEDNESDAY, 9:45 A.M., MARCH 20, 1996
NEW YORK CITY
Terese Hagen stopped abruptly and looked at the closed door to the “cabin,” the name given to the main conference room. It was called the cabin because the interior was a reproduction of Taylor Heath’s Square Lake house up in the wilds of New Hampshire. Taylor Heath was the CEO of the hot, up-and-coming advertising firm Willow and Heath, which was threatening to break into the rarefied ranks of the advertising big leagues.
After making sure she was not observed, Terese leaned toward the door and put her ear against it. She heard voices.
With her pulse quickening, Terese hurried down the hall to her own office. It never took long for her anxiety to soar. She’d only been in the office five minutes and already her heart was pounding. She didn’t like the idea of a meeting she didn’t know about being held in the cabin, the CEO’s habitual domain. In her position as the creative director of the firm, she felt she had to know everything that was going on.
The problem was that a lot was going on. Taylor Heath had shocked everybody with his previous month’s announcement that he planned to retire as CEO and was designating Brian Wilson, the current president, to succeed him. That left a big question mark about who would succeed Wilson. Terese was in the running. That was for sure. But so was Robert Barker, the firm’s executive director of accounts.
And on top of that, there was always the worry that Taylor would pick someone from outside.
Terese pulled off her coat and stuffed it into the closet. Her secretary, Marsha Devons, was on the phone, so Terese dashed to her desk and scanned the surface for any telltale message; but there was nothing except a pile of unrelated phone messages.
“There’s a meeting in the cabin,” Marsha called from the other room after hanging up the phone. She appeared in the doorway. She was a petite woman with raven-black hair. Terese appreciated her because she was intelligent, efficient, and intuitive—all the qualities lacking in the year’s previous four secretaries. Terese was tough on her assistants, since she expected commitment and performance equivalent to her own.
“Why didn’t you call me at home?” Terese demanded.
“I did, but you’d already left,” Marsha said.
“Who’s at the meeting?” Terese barked.
“It was Mr. Heath’s secretary who called,” Marsha said. “She didn’t say who would be attending. Just that your presence was requested.”
“Was there any indication what the meeting is about?” Terese asked.
“No,” Marsha said simply.
“When did it start?”
“The call came through at nine,” Marsha said.
Terese snatched up her phone and punched in Colleen Anderson’s number. Colleen was Terese’s most trusted art director. She was currently heading up a team for the National Health Care account.
“You know anything about this meeting in the cabin?” Terese asked as soon as Colleen was on the line.
Colleen didn’t, only that it was going on.
“Damn!” Terese said as she hung up.
“Is there a problem?” Marsha asked solicitously.
“If Robert Barker has been in there all this time with Taylor, there’s a problem,” Terese said. “That prick never misses a beat to put me down.” Terese snatched the phone again and redialed Colleen. “What’s the status on National Health? Do we have any comps or anything I can show right now?”
“I’m afraid not,” Colleen said. “We’ve been brainstorming, but we don’t have anything zippy like I know you want. I’m looking for a home run.”
“Well, goose your team,” Terese said. “I have a sneaking suspicion I’m most vulnerable with National Health.”
“No one’s been sleeping down here,” Colleen said. “I can assure you of that.”
Terese hung up without saying good-bye. Snatching up her purse, she ran down the hall to the ladies’ room and positioned herself in front of the mirror. She pushed her Medusa’s head of highlighted tight curls into a semblance of order, then reapplied some lipstick and a bit of blush.