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hour so that the real owner would never know what his premises had been used for during his absence.
    Hugo and Farrow were already sitting in the control cubicle. Hugo looked tired and nervous.
    They started recording. The copy was so similar to the television version that any notes on performance given in those sessions were still applicable, but Farrow was determined to give them all again. Like all Brand Managers (indeed it is an essential qualification for the job), he was without artistic judgement.
    Charles had now done enough of these sessions to know how to behave. Just take it, do as you’re told even if it’s wrong, don’t comment, don’t suggest, above all don’t try to put any of yourself into it. The agency and, indirectly, the client had hired his voice as a piece of machinery, and it was their right to use it as they thought fit, even if the owner of the machinery knew it wasn’t being used in the best way. At worst, there was the comfort that the session was only booked for an hour and he was being paid for it. Thirty-five quid basic, with possible repeats.
    So, with his voice lowered an octave to recapture the coldy quality of his Victorian solicitor, Charles gave every possible reading of the lines. He hit each word in turn to satisfy Farrow. BLAND soothes away the day. Bland SOOTHES away the day. Bland soothes AWAY the day. Bland . . . It did seem a rather pointless exercise for a grown man.
    Within half an hour all possible inflections of the lines had been recorded and Charles went from the studio into the control cubicle Farrow was still not happy. After some deliberation, he pronounced, ‘I think it may not be the actor’s fault this time.’ Charles found that charming. ‘No, I think it’s the copy that’s wrong.’
    Hugo’s voice was extremely reasonable as he replied. ‘But you have already passed the copy as suitable for the television commercials, and I thought the idea was to keep the two the same.’
    â€˜If so, the idea was wrong,’ said Farrow accusingly.
    â€˜Well, it was your bloody idea,’ Hugo suddenly snapped.
    Farrow looked at him in amazement, as if he must have misheard. In times when there was so much competition for big accounts, no member of an agency would dare to disagree with a client. After a pause, he continued as though Hugo had not spoken. ‘I’m afraid you advised us wrongly on that. The radio campaign must be entirely rethought. I can see it’s easy for you to use the same copy but I’m not the sort of man to take short cuts. I care about this product arid I’m looking for a campaign that’s going to be both effective from the sales point of view and also artistically satisfying.’
    This was too much for Hugo. ‘Christ, now I’ve heard it all. Artistically satisfying – what the hell do you know what’s artistically satisfying? I’ve listened to enough crap from you and all the other jumped-up little commercial travellers who try to tell me how to do my job. Stick to what you’re good at – peddling pap to the masses – and leave me to get on with what I’m good at – making advertising.’
    There was a long pause. Mr. Farrow collected together his papers and put them in his briefcase. Had he left the room in silence, it could have been a dignified exit. But he let it down by trying an exit line. ‘More powerful men than you, Mr. Mecken, have tried to beat me and failed.’
    This delivered in his nasal London whine was suddenly unaccountably funny, and Charles and Hugo both erupted with laughter almost before the door had closed behind the aggrieved Brand Manager.
    Hugo’s laughter was a short, nervous burst and when it had passed, he looked ghastly, drained of colour. ‘Oh shit I shouldn’t have done it. I’ll have to go after him and apologize. I wasn’t thinking – or I was thinking about