Robyn Hogan

Although the weekly meeting of Dole and Dole Advertising was in its closing stages Ben’s chair remained empty and Susan felt a secret glee. Their trial term of employment was almost up. And only one of them could count on joining the firm.

‘Now, to new accounts.’ At Stewart Dole’s change of tone she felt her muscles tense, a pulse throb deep in her throat. ‘“Eagers” are to launch a semi-soft drink based on glut. We thought, Susan, you and Ben might try this one but, as he is not here, it seems it’s all yours. Interested?’

‘Sure am,’ she answered smartly, willing herself not to blush. Then Ben King strolled in and, swinging a backpack onto a chair, clattered into his place. She would have to share the project. Once, in their first College term, she had liked him, thought him a friend but soon realised he could steal ideas, slant them with flair.

Susan’s brain drummed with ideas. Copy oozed from her fingers as she typed in the plans, coined her slogan into a curling font, saw the graphics develop and mapped the costs. Saturday she drove the four hours to Echuca. Spring flood waters swelled the banks of the Murray, ripples swirled through slender eucalypts and a hazy scent hung across the park. She boarded the River Gal, rolled the film forward in her video camera and tuned the sound to catch the slop-slopping of the paddle wheels. Panning across the wide, glistening stream: she caught the pinkness of fresh acacia pods, flickering bank-side breakfast fires and the lazy flip of a fish in the dappled sunshine. And, returning to the wharf, to cap it all off, a wedding in period clothing on board a little white paddlewheel chapel, the St. Mary.

Susan’s Monday presentation was good. The carbonated fruit juice, Riverine, flowed across the soothing visuals of river currents, holiday makers, action and nostalgia.

‘I agree with Susan’s plans: concept, name, format, are all just fine with me.’ Ben, at his turn, smiled at her; a chill crinkled her spine. ‘Everything, in fact, but the visual. Or, rather, the angle of the visual. This is my humble presentation,’ and stroked the play button into action. The same river swirled into the scene, green waters lapping river gum trunks, paddlewheels churning, white cockatoos screeching overhead and a young woman, long, red curls swinging, shooting anything that took her fancy. Even a posed little riverside wedding. And in every frame a can of fruit juice gyrated, hopped, swayed or beckoned.

Susan sat glued, horrified, watching herself cavorting along the decks of River Gal, long limbed and gleeful.

‘Don’t be too upset, Susan,’ Stewart Dole spoke gently, ‘we’re all friends here.’ ‘Anyone can see the boy’s work is the better pitch,’ Ray Dole growled, ‘and with just that necessary touch of sex. We run with Ben.’

‘I’m sorry, Suse, but this job means a lot to me. I can be a bit slack, y’know.’ Anger seethed, flaming white, through her. ‘Look, we’re friends aren’t we? As Big Stew says, ‘“we’re all friends here”’.

Shaking, Susan picked up his videotape, idly glanced at it and realised the tabs were intact. Careless. Slack indeed. ‘Sure thing,’ she agreed, voice slightly off-key, ‘let’s run your pics again.’

He swung himself into a chair as she re-inserted the cassette and pressed the buttons. The machine hummed gently but no picture brightened the screen. ‘Hey, what’s the problem?’

Susan flipped the VCR buttons, removed the cassette and checked it momentarily. ‘No problem,’ she said, smiling grimly as she handed him his now blank tape, ‘we’re all friends here.’

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