Musings by Paul Wigmore

Wetting my pants: 2

Continued from last week. Scroll down to read last week’s if you missed it.

In the small hours, I sweated. I knew that at last I had bitten off more than I could chew. Here was I, launching myself and the company into a PR disaster.

Daylight made things a bit better. I sat down at my desk, pushed the current advertising copy aside and did some roughs on the layout pad. I made myself think. I thought: what about twelve shots of a girl who has a white horse and who rides it through the countryside and along a wide beach with blue sea and sky? And maybe inject a couple of small children for a bit of a-ah?

Portugal, I thought, for dependable weather and good backgrounds, and Jack had done a lot of work there and knew the location well. Cascais was the place. I worked out twelve scenes and had long sessions with Jack.

I said nothing to him about my misgivings.

We did the presentation to a cluster of senior management, got it approved and went to Cascais. We started work. I had too much to organise to worry any more. Our Portuguese fixer/driver had worked with Jack before and he was wonderful. The Portuguese model-agency girl we had hired was great. The small boy and girl models from the same agency were happy and businesslike. Their chaperone always kept her distance and was a model of non-interference. The only member of the party to spoil things now and then was the horse. Very unpredictable, that horse. But then horses have always frightened me. It’s something to do with their height and the way they jerk and lift their head up and bring it down like a hammer. Underneath it you would be driven into the ground. John Betjeman once told me he didn’t like horses because they sting.

The children fought occasionally and became bored but were generally trouble-free, the girl rode well and looked wonderful against the sky as she cantered across the dunes. We had a mackerel sky for much of the time and Jack called on me to tell him when the sun was about to squirt through the next crack. Apart from that I made sure not to interfere. I had learned long ago always to keep well clear of the photographer. The picture is the photographer’s baby: the organisation is the art director’s, as well as keeping the whole shoot on the right track. Any chatting about ideas was done during sitting-back time.

We ate magnificently in Monte Estoril at ‘O Escondidinho’; it was the sort of small café where the proprietress picks her way across a floor cluttered with her babies, chickens and cats, puts a complimentary carafe of wine on your table and invites you to tell her what you think of it. Jack knew Maria well; he often worked in the area and ate there whenever possible. All thoughts of being on a hiding to nothing were drowned in the smoky haze and the heady wine. On the last evening as we waited for the meal to arrive I idly played with the little triangular pack of toothpicks on our table and studied the printing on the yellow-and-red label. Jack was watching. He got up and went over to Maria. She laughed and handed him something small. He came back, sat down, grinned, put it in my hand and closed my fingers over it. Maria was watching us.

‘Compliments of the establishment, Paul,’ he said. ‘A small memoir.’ It was an unopened pack of toothpicks, with the message on one side:

O ESCONDIDINHO

(cervejaria, mariscos, vines e commodious)

MONTE ESTORIL

I still have it.

Back at my lightbox Jack and I went through the transparencies. They were stunning. Then over the months came the long and complex business of production. Eventually, distribution began. A copy was handed to me at my desk. Gingerly, I slid it from its packing and took a look at the glossy cover. It seemed all right. I opened the January page and then the rest. Reproduction perfect. Nothing wrong. But what would the Distributors say?

Within ten days or so comments would be coming in from overseas and from our own professional customers and sales centres in the UK. When they came they were reasonable. No actual complaints. I began to wonder if perhaps I hadn’t made such a mess of things after all. And then one day Alan, the print production manager, came in and waved a letter at me. An expression on his face told me something was up. He was stroking his jaw as though reminding himself that he hadn’t shaved that morning.

‘Just arrived, Paul’ he muttered.

‘What is it?’ Something in my stomach fell with a thud.

He looked down at the letter. ‘Well, Paul. It’s like this. We sent (an overseas Distributor) their usual consignment but, um -’

‘But what? They’ve sent them back?’

‘No. They need more. Seems it’s unusually popular.’ He burst out laughing and floated the letter on to my desk. Dan and the rest of them joined in. I nearly threw something at him but picked up the phone instead and rang Jack.

Postscript

Years later, Jack wrote me a letter after returning from a holiday with his wife in Cascais and Monte Estoril. He said he had wanted to share some of the memories with her and took her along the sea road and up the alleyway to the little Escondidinho café. He wrote, ‘We shouldn’t have gone, Paul. D’you know what that café is now? I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a bloody video hire shop and Maria’s dead.’

Not long after that letter came I had an email from one of the copywriters who worked with me. He had the shattering news that Jack, after a short illness, had died. A dear man with a great heart and a talent to match.

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All text and illustration at top of page ©Paul Wigmore 2010