The Calling. Kim O'Neill

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       Chapter 7

       Angel John Reid to the Rescue

      The next day, the advertising agency was a typical whirlwind of activity. I was so upset with David that I couldn’t even stand to be in his presence, and I decided not to mention Monica or what had happened the night before. I didn’t have the time or energy to invest in a quarrel, and I knew that nothing I could say would make any difference. We had to make the big presentation together that morning, and I wanted David to concentrate on the business at hand. We were pitching a big, conservative, male-dominated funeral company, and they had given us a two-hour audience in which we had to demonstrate how Advertising & Design, Inc. was the best agency in town to handle their advertising and public relations. David and I instinctively recognized that they were going to respond more favorably if he handled the major part of the presentation, with me playing a supportive, subservient role. That was fine by me, as long as we won the account.

      As usual, David was running late, so we had to rush to be on time for the meeting. I drove so he could review the fifty-page, elaborate pitch that we had created the night before.

      “Kim!” he shouted in alarm, after reviewing the first part of the proposal.

      Startled, I jumped in my seat, almost swerving into another lane of traffic. “What?” I asked him.

      “Goddamn, son-of-a-bitch—we’ve lost the fucking account!”

      “How? We haven’t even gotten there yet! What’s the problem?”

      “Who proofed this goddamned thing?” he yelled.

      “We all did.”

      “You sent Shirley home early last night, didn’t you?” he asked accusingly. Shirley was our best eagle-eyed proofreader. She always caught all the mistakes.

      “Not until after midnight . . . she was exhausted! We were still working on it at 3:00 a.m.”

      “We’re doomed!” he whined. “Why don’t we just close our doors right now? Do I have to do everything? Can’t anything be done right without me being there?”

      I felt my blood pressure rising so high that I expected to have a stroke on the spot. I hated him so much at that moment I couldn’t see straight. He had never acknowledged that we remained at the office more than half the night after he had left to have fun, and now he was calling us all incompetent as well? He didn’t appreciate anything! We did all the hard work. All he had to do was review the proposal and waltz into the boardroom to do what he loved best—starring in the David Morgan Show—with me and all of the prospective clients serving as an admiring audience.

      “I can’t stand it when you get like this!” I shrieked. “What’s the frigging problem?” I wanted to pull over and start beating him over the head with the proposal he was waving in front of my face as I drove.

      “Your proposals are always so predictable,” he wailed, continuing to criticize. “Once again, you decided to promise a new client that Advertising & Design, Inc. is going to make them a recognized ‘force’ in their industry.”

      “Doesn’t that make sense? Why else would they hire us?”

      “Well, there’s a little problem with a typo.”

      “Tell me!” I demanded, as I drove.

      “Oh . . . it’s just that you promise that Advertising & Design, Inc. is going to make them a recognized ‘farce’ in their industry.”

      “That’s impossible!” Now I was wailing, too. “But spell-check didn’t indicate—”

      “That’s because ‘farce’ is spelled correctly,” he explained, as if to a simpleton. “Here . . . look!” he waved the proposal in front of my face. I rudely pushed it away from my field of vision, and it struck him squarely in the face.

      “You just cut me!” he hollered, as if I had just plunged a butcher knife into his throat. I glanced at the left side of his cheek, and I saw a minute paper cut. A pinpoint of blood started to appear. He pulled down the visor and peered into the lighted mirror. “I can’t spill blood on my new shirt. It’ll never come out!”

      “You idiot! Go in my purse and get a Kleenex,” I replied. He rifled through my purse and pulled out a tissue.

      “But it has lipstick on it,” he whined.

      “So? You’ve been exposed to my lipstick before. Just turn the tissue around and use a clean part.” He looked at me with a beleaguered, helpless expression. I saw him try to stifle a smile. Evidently, he had finished his tirade.

      Although his anger was now completely spent, I was furious. Since the recent divorce, I found it impossible to tolerate or ignore the mood swings that caused explosive outbursts one moment and funny, soft coziness the next. I was no longer drawn in by the extraordinary charm, humor, and charisma that compelled so many people to indulge the bouts of temper that erupted now with such increasing frequency. Everyone always enabled David to do just what he wanted to do without having to endure appropriate consequences. I narrowed my eyes, tightened my mouth, and returned my focus to the highway.

      “Don’t smile,” he teased in a melodic voice, trying to coax me out of my seething frustration. Rather than apologize, it was his way of making nice. When we first met, he had shared the story of how, when he was a boy and had done something mischievous, he would approach his exasperated mother and try to diffuse her annoyance by being charming and making her laugh. It had always worked, he had told me. After we were married, he started to use the same tactic whenever I’d get upset.

      “Shut up,” I snapped, keeping my eyes on the road. “I’m sick of your temper. You’re like a six-year-old.”

      “Don’t do it . . . ” he teased again.

      I did everything I could to keep from breaking into a smile, but the edges of my mouth started to quiver. I just couldn’t help it. It made me even angrier.

      “Don’t do it . . . ” he repeated, tickling my side as he coaxed.

      Despite all my efforts to resist, I started to chuckle. “David, I hate when you do that!”

      “I know,” he grinned. “That’s why I do it.” He picked up the proposal he had been waving and said, “We don’t have time to correct the typo, so let’s just hope they all have a good sense of humor.”

      And luckily for us, they did. When David reached that part of the presentation, he dramatically pointed out the typo; and, with a beguiling, self-deprecating smile and the most earnest of expressions, he promised that we’d never make them a “farce” in their industry. Although it was logically nonsensical, he created the impression that we had deliberately used the word “farce.” David stole a glance at me, and we collectively held our breath. Then all the conservative male board members had a hearty laugh. It was then that they told us that we had won the account. Nobody had more magic than David when he wanted something.