It's Gill with a 'G'

The next weekend I went looking for a home. Giving consideration to the housing market, which appeared to be gathering strength at that time, I wanted to buy in an area that was cool, but could possibly become hot in a few years. That meant East London. Not the environs of the City, or the inner city, but out in Essex, beyond the belt of social housing developed in the thirties. I found the place in Upminster. A three bedroom semi-detached property, looking a little bit worse for wear, and priced accordingly. Upminster was perfect for me as the District line Underground ran from there to Temple station just a few minutes walk to the office. The journey took about forty minutes. My salary got me the mortgage easily, and I was also given a bank loan to make the renovations to the house. I put in central heating, and had an extension over the garage, in effect turning it into a four bed roomed home.

London was a surprising place after Birmingham. The most obvious difference was that in Birmingham life stopped at ten-thirty at night. The buses stopped, except for the night service which ran mostly every hour. The cinemas turned out at ten-fifteen, presumable so their patrons could catch the last regular service bus home. The pubs called last orders at ten-thirty. There were no night clubs.

'The Smoke' as London was usually called affectionately, sometimes disparagingly was completely different. Life didn't start until ten-thirty. Walk the streets at that time and they were almost as full as rush hour, but with people, and not all young people, enjoying themselves. It took me some time to get used to, but as I was working many odd hours I got to see the place at all hours of the clock. Once I was settled I started to go out a bit. Now for me the theatre, the Opera, and the Ballet were the draws. I did invite some rather beautiful young ladies to accompany me, finding sadly that there was little enjoyment being with someone who did not share your interests. They were usually budding actresses who found commercial work while waiting for their big break. Sitting in the Stalls at the Ballet, with a lady who was not a good enough actress to disguise her yawns of boredom, highlighted the tie I had had with Gill. We had often gone to Stratford on Avon to the memorial theatre. Gill and I would watch enthralled, and at the interval would be so full of what we had seen, that the bell warning of the second half would come before we had time to drink our coffee. After my evenings in London I would get home with sadness and regret for what I had lost. I no longer had my natural half to talk to.

My work went well. I was enjoying myself as I was creating something with these commercials instead of just thinking up snappy phrases to go with a five second slot. Three and then four years went by so quickly that I hardly realised that I was settling into the fabric of the agency, becoming one of the pillars that held the thing together. I was reminded of that when out of the blue I got a letter from a recruitment agency. They were actually head-hunters, and I had been targeted as the right person for a rival advertising agency. I went along to see what they had to say, and they laid the package out for me in writing. I asked Alex's secretary if I could see him the day after I had the offer. I had no intention of blackmailing him. My motives were honourable although later I realised that he didn't quite see it that way. I laid the correspondence out for him to read, so that he could see I had not instigated this. He read them carefully.

"OK, Andy. Are you giving me your notice?"

"No Alex. I just wanted you to know what is going on. I am happy here, I like the work I am doing. I wanted you to see this, as rumours seem to fly around this industry like wildfire. I wanted you to know that I did not seek this offer." I don't think he could believe what I had just done. I was showing honesty and loyalty, something I found out eventually, he gave little creed to.

"Andy, I can't match this offer. I would like you to stay with us, you are doing a great job here. So what I will do is give you a raise of seven and a half thousand if you will sign a contact with us for the next four years. You will still get bonuses, but as we will be paying you well over the rate for your position, I cannot justify any interim increases for that period. What do you say. Yes or No?" I held out my hand.

"Yes." Call it naïve of me to accept that deal, but even after four years here I was still making comparisons based upon Birmingham rates of pay. I thought I was well paid. I managed the mortgage easily, I was no longer going out enjoying the temptations of the metropolis, apart from the concerts. Which I now attended alone. Glamorous girls who had little interest in their escort, apart from the expensive restaurants he could take them to had worn thin with me. I was quite happy with Fish and Chips after a night at the Opera, or an inexpensive Chinese meal before listening to the London Philharmonic playing Beethoven. That suited me, apart from wishing the seat next to mine was occupied by Gill.

I did have sex, twice actually with a member of the opposite sex. Girls from the office, recommended to me as sure things. Well they were, but compared to Gill, they were like lumps of wood. Mostly I had sex with myself, using a number of interesting magazines I got from a newsagent not far from my office. He kept a few of the 'Soho' style literature. Far more explicit than the usual type of glamour magazine that could be found on the top shelf of most newsagents. Funnily enough he would actually give you a twenty-five percent credit if you brought them back in good condition. I would pick them up on my way home, making sure they were concealed within the pages of the 'Evening Standard' before leaving the shop. These I kept for emergencies, well concealed at home, against the visits my mum and dad made from time to time. Strange really. I lived alone yet still had the compulsion to hide them. My evenings with these magazines were evenings of contrast, exhilaration, followed by deep despair at what I had come to. Self-pleasure is self-defeating, the orgasm is called the climax, it isn't, the real climax is cuddling the warm body of the woman you love.

My raise gave me a sufficient excess of income over expenditure, so I bought a car. I had learned to drive when I was seventeen. Dad paid for my lessons, it was a kind of bribe to ensure that I carried on with my studies. One of the most attractive cars around at that time was the Ford Cortina, and the best of that range was the '1600E'. It had good trim, two tone paintwork, an engine with superior performance, and fat tyres. Just the thing for a single young man of means. I used it at the weekends, going off and seeing most of Essex and East Anglia. I would also go back to Birmingham to see my parents, the car was good on the motorway, and would comfortably do a hundred and five, although that wasn't recommended. There was no speed limit then, but there were too many drivers unused to long distances at relatively high speed, and in honesty I had to count myself amongst them.

Most people would suppose that I had a good life. Good well paid job, owning my own home, car, and relatively carefree. But I often asked the question of myself. What was I doing this for? For me? Or for some young lady that would walk into my life one day, for me to find the connection and love that I had with Gill. I longed for it and dreamed of it, but in reality I knew it wouldn't happen. Even after eight years had passed since our divorce, I couldn't get her out of my system. Any woman that I got involved with would inevitably be compared to Gill, and I knew that she would fall short. I hated myself for feeling this way. I hated her for making me feel this way. I told myself so often that it was gone, over, done with, forget her. Only to wake up next morning and know that she still held my heart as surely as she did on our wedding day.

My four year contract had expired, and I looked forward to a call to Alex's office to renew the agreement. The days passed, then the weeks, and no word. I carried on with the work we were doing. We were setting up a commercial for a new chocolate bar. They had asked for the serial commercial to roll out over a six month period. Each commercial would have a fifteen second slot, and would be repeated for four weeks before the next in the series would be aired. It was challenging but really interesting as all the ideas came in for consideration. I was leading the artistic team on this, responsible for the dialogue. When the layout was finished, Alex approved it, then the customer approved it, so the studio, actors and bit part players were booked and the whole series of commercials made back to back in just ten days. The first commercial went out, and I noticed that there were little changes of dialogue that I hadn't written. They were only small departures, but they affected the impact. I assumed these changes had been asked for by the customer. After it had run for a month there were serious faces. It wasn't performing. After two months it was a disaster. The point of sale wasn't working. It was placed just by the checkout in Supermarkets, the supplier paid heavily for those spots, and the bar was not being picked up. After three months the rest of the campaign was cancelled. That was when I got the call to Alex's office.

There had to be a scapegoat, and I was it. I got three months salary in lieu of notice, cleared my desk, and was gone by eleven that morning. A lesson learned. Trust few.

Chapter four

I would be a pariah in advertising in London for quite some time. I thought long and hard. I had little choice, but return to Birmingham and try and pick up some free-lance work there. There was always an undercurrent of suspicion in Birmingham circles about London practices and ideas. Anyone who was infra-dig in London, couldn't be all bad according to Birmingham. Londoners called it jealousy, Brummies called it common sense or shrewd. The silver lining that came with the dark cloud was that phenomenon called a housing boom. Property within easy reach of London was in demand. I put my house on the market, and was inundated with offers. I accepted the first good offer and couldn't believe how much the value had rocketed. Then the agent came back and said he had another offer, which was ten thousand over and above the first. I said no, I had already accepted the first offer. He could not believe it. His idea was to milk it for all it was worth, promising me that within a week I would be offered at least another ten on that. Me? I was brought up to believe that a man's word was his bond. I refused all later offers and stayed with the first. I had to sleep at nights. Another lesson, integrity costs you money!

Even after settling the mortgage, I had capital of almost a hundred thousand. I moved back to Birmingham in early spring, staying with my parents and started looking for work. I roughed out a C.V. and took it to a typing agency, who typed it and photo-copied it, with twenty copies. The woman who ran the agency called me just as I was leaving.

"Mr. Gresham, do you think I could have a word?" I nodded and walked over to her. She invited me into her office. She offered me coffee and got to her reason for asking me to chat.

"Mr. Gresham, I couldn't help noticing your C.V. I have rarely seen one so succinct and inviting a positive response. I assume that your Honours degree from Cambridge would explain that." I thanked her for the compliment and waited for her to go on. "A lot of the work we do is for small companies. Usually just run of the mill typing, but some of them are getting small adverts set up to run in the local papers. These are small businesses, self-employed people, who don't have the knowledge or expertise to set out an advert and make it interesting enough to catch peoples attention." I knew exactly what she was saying. I had seen these little adverts in papers, and could see at a glance that few of them had any chance of success. I said this as I agreed with her, but as she hadn't introduced herself I had no name.

"Oh I am sorry. I am Mrs. Holden. Ruth Holden." She was embarrassed at her slip. "I wondered, Mr Gresham, if you would be prepared to run your eye over some of these adverts as we get them and, shall we say, put a polish on them."

"I could do that. But as you see I am looking for work in the Advertising industry, and I doubt that I would have time for that."

"Yes of course." She replied. "I do understand. But I would be willing to pay you. I could offer my clients a service at a little extra cost. I am sure that most of them would be happy, if their adverts had that professional shine to them."

"Let me think about it, Mrs. Holden. I'll get back to you shortly and let you know."

I spent the rest of the day, mailing out my C.V. to the agencies I knew of, those who had no connection with Wellman Goff. I gave Mrs. Holden's offer some thought and rejected the idea. What she wanted was a greater income from her typing jobs with no additional cost. I on the other hand could probably do the work very quickly, but I was sure that Mrs. Holden wouldn't be wanting to pay me professional rates.

Dad asked me if I would like to walk down to the 'Horse and Jockey' that evening for a pint. I was happy with that, and after dinner, we took a leisurely stroll over the hill and down to the road junction where the pub was. I had a moments quiet as we got to the junction, as the bus stop where I had first seen Gill was just fifty yards along the main road. Memories crowded back into my mind.

At first I thought dad had an ulterior motive for suggesting this, but no. All he wanted was a quiet convivial drink. That is what we had until suddenly a hand clapped on my shoulder.

"Andy? What the hell are you doing here. We all thought that you were off in London living the life." It was Barry Mason, one of the crowd that I knew when Gill and I socialised.

"Barry! Good to see you. What are you doing with yourself these days?" Dad interrupted to tell me he was going to go and chat with a friend, explaining.

"Roger took a fiver off me at Golf last week. I need to set up a return and get it back. Won't be long." I turned back to Barry and we did the catch up bit. Along the way he expressed surprise at the divorce.

"None of us could understand that, Andy. You and Gill were so right for each other."

"That's what I thought. But Gill found this bloke and went to be with him. End of story." Barry was shaking his head.

"From what I have heard, she isn't living with anyone."

"She must be."

"No, Andy. I am certain of that. From what Becky said she has never lived with anyone since you and she parted." This was astonishing. Her boss at the revenue offices had confirmed that she was there with Berryman. She had replied to all letters from my solicitor from his address. She didn't get her own solicitor, seemingly accepting her guilt and similarly accepting her fate. I still had copies of the correspondence. Becky was Barry's wife, and although she didn't work for the revenue, did work for an accountant, and had frequent contact with Gill and her co workers. I decided not to pursue this further, but I also determined that on Saturday afternoon I would go and find out for myself. Perhaps I could finally kill this ache inside me.

I drove over to Stechford on that Saturday afternoon about two-thirty. I found the address and was immediately dismayed. This was a Victorian house, converted into flats. The paint peeled from the woodwork, the front garden was full of overflowing dustbins, with only little tufts of grass braving the hazards of the rubbish. The glass in the windows was dirty and smeared. Gill was living here? The only saving grace was the buzzer system for the four flats. I pressed number three. There was no response, so I pressed again. Suddenly there was a click from the speaker box and a disembodied voice asked.

"Who do you want?"

"I was calling flat three, looking for Gill."

"Oh, Gill Gresham. She's not in. I saw her go out about an hour ago. She is probably shopping. Shouldn't be long." Click! The woman cut off. I went back to the car, undecided whether to wait or not. "Give it half an hour." I told myself. Then it struck me. She was still using my name! Now there was no reason for a divorced woman to go back to her maiden name, but I had convinced myself that Gill would be Mrs. Berryman by this time. The thoughts tumbled through my mind. I waited half an hour then decided to wait another half an hour, there was a dilemma here and if I could, I wanted some explanation.

Ten minutes later I saw her a long way down the road. Too far away for recognition, but my senses knew it was her. She was holding the hand of a young child! As she got closer I saw her attitude, one of weariness, melancholy, sadness and defeat. My heart went out to her. I hadn't got out of the car yet, but she looked up and fixed on the car as if she knew there was something there for her attention. She drew close, keeping her gaze on the car. I got out. She looked shocked at first then gave me a wan smile.

"Hello, Andy."

"Gill. How are you?"

"How do I look?" I shook my head from side to side. There was no need for an answer, she understood exactly how she looked.

"Why are you here? Have you come to gloat?"

"No Gill. You should know me better than that." Her bitterness had overcome her natural disposition.

"Yes. I do. I'm sorry for saying that. Understanding and compassion were instinctive to you." The child, it was a little girl, I assumed to be Berryman's daughter watched this exchange with a serious expression. Gill bent down to her.

"Anita. This is Andy, he was..." She stopped and started again. "He was a friend of mine, years ago." Anita smiled.

"Hello Mr. Andy."

"Hello, Anita. And how old are you?" What else do you say to a child? Their age is very important to them.

"I am eight. I will be nine in September." Gill interrupted before Anita could say anymore.

"Well, as you have come all this way, would you like a cup of tea?"

"That would be nice. And it's not far from Sutton to Stechford."

Anita lead the way up the stairs. Gill following and me bringing up the rear. I had taken one of the shopping bags from Gill as we went in the front door, and she turned and for a moment I saw a flash of emotion. Her flat was on the first floor. It was a complete contrast to the rest of the building. It was clean, painted brightly if inexpertly, and lacked that old house smell that pervaded the common areas. Gill disappeared into a kitchen and I could hear the rattle as she filled the kettle. Anita took off her coat and took it past the kitchen into what I assumed would be her bedroom. She was Gill's daughter for certain. Gill always hung up her coat immediately. The times she scolded me for just leaving my coat anywhere.

Gill came back and gestured for me to sit. She sat in a wing chair, covered by a bright throw.

"Well, Andy. You can see where I am, and what state I am in. I know you better than to think you are happy about this, but why are you here?"

"Gill. I have lived with so many unanswered questions for these last years. I wanted to see you to try and put paid to the hurt and see if I can put my life back together." Gill looked sad.

"Yes. I did hurt you, and in doing so hurt myself. I'm sorry, Andy." Her face brightened a little. "I thought you were doing so well. You went off to London, and from what I heard have a great job. You didn't come all this way back to just see me?"

"No, Gill. I did have a great job. I got sacked!" The surprise on her face was evident.

"Sacked?"

"Yes. A campaign went badly wrong, and I, it would seem, was the reason." She looked doubtful.