Colleen didn’t, only that it was going on.

“Damn!” Terese said as she hung up.

“Is there a problem?” Marsha asked solicitously.

“If Robert Barker has been in there all this time with Taylor, there’s a problem,” Terese said. “That prick never misses a beat to put me down.”

Terese snatched the phone again and redialed Colleen. “What’s the status on National Health? Do we have any comps or anything I can show right now?”

“I’m afraid not,” Colleen said. “We’ve been brainstorming, but we don’t have anything zippy like I know you want. I’m looking for a home run.”

“Well, goose your team,” Terese said. “I have a sneaking suspicion I’m most vulnerable with National Health.”

“No one’s been sleeping down here,” Colleen said. “I can assure you of that.”

Terese hung up without saying good-bye. Snatching up her purse, she ran down the hall to the ladies’ room and positioned herself in front of the mirror. She pushed her Medusa’s head of highlighted tight curls into a semblance of order, then reapplied some lipstick and a bit of blush.

Stepping back, she surveyed herself. Luckily she’d chosen to wear one of her favorite suits. It was dark blue wool gabardine and seriously severe, hugging her narrow frame like a second skin.

Satisfied with her appearance, Terese hustled to the cabin door. After a deep breath she grasped the knob, turned it, and entered.

“Ah, Miss Hagen,” Brian Wilson said, glancing at his watch. He was sitting at the head of a rough-hewn plank table that dominated the room. “I see you’re now indulging in banker’s hours.”

Brian was a short man with thinning hair. He vainly tried to camouflage his bald spot by combing his side hair over it. As per usual he was attired in a white shirt and tie, loosened at the neck, giving him the appearance of a harried newspaper publisher. To complete the journalistic look, his sleeves were rolled up above his elbows and a yellow Dixon pencil was tucked behind his right ear.

Despite the catty comment, Terese liked and respected Brian. He was an able administrator. He had a patented derogatory style, but he was equally demanding of himself.

“I was in the office last night until one A.M.,” Terese said. “I certainly would have been here for this meeting if someone had been kind enough to have let me know about it.”

“It was an impromptu meeting,” Taylor called out. He was standing near the window, in keeping with his laissez-faire management style. He preferred to hover above the group like an Olympian god, watching his demigods and mere mortals hammer out decisions.

Taylor and Brian were opposite in most ways. Where Brian was short, Taylor was tall. Where Brian was balding, Taylor had a dense halo of silver-gray hair. Where Brian appeared as the harried newspaper columnist always with his back against the wall, Taylor was the picture of sophisticated tranquillity and sartorial splendor. Yet no one doubted Taylor’s encyclopedic grasp of the business and his uncanny ability to maintain strategic goals in the face of daily tactical disaster and controversy.

Terese took a seat at the table directly across from her nemesis, Robert Barker. He was a tall, thin-faced man with narrow lips who seemed to take a cue from Taylor in regard to his dress. He was always attired nattily in dark silk suits and colorful silk ties. The ties were his trademark. Terese could not remember ever having seen the same tie twice.

Next to Robert was Helen Robinson, whose presence made Terese’s racing heart beat even a little faster. Helen worked under Robert as the account executive assigned specifically to National Health. She was a strikingly attractive twenty-five-year-old woman with long, chestnut-colored hair that cascaded to her shoulders, tanned skin even in March, and full, sensuous features. Between her intelligence and looks she was a formidable adversary.

Also sitting at the table was Phil Atkins, the chief financial officer, and Carlene Desalvo, the corporate director of account planning. Phil was an impeccably precise man with his perennial three-piece suit and wire-rimmed glasses. Carlene was a bright, full-figured woman who always dressed in white. Terese was mildly surprised to see both of them at the meeting.

“We’ve got a big problem with the National Health account,” Brian said. “That’s why this meeting was called.”

Terese’s mouth went dry. She glanced at Robert and detected a slight but infuriating smile. Terese wished to God she’d been there since the beginning of the meeting so she could have known everything that had been said.

Terese was aware of trouble with National Health. The company had called for an internal review a month ago, which meant that Willow and Heath had to come up with a new advertising campaign if they expected to keep the account. And everybody knew they had to keep the account. It had mushroomed to somewhere around forty million annually and was still growing. Health-care advertising was in the ascendancy, and would hopefully fill the hole vacated by cigarettes.

Brian turned to Robert. “Perhaps you could fill Terese in on the latest developments,” he said.

“I defer to my able assistant, Helen,” Robert said, giving Terese one of his condescending smiles.

Helen moved forward in her seat. “As you know, National Health has had misgivings about its advertising campaign. Unfortunately their displeasure has increased. Just yesterday their figures came in for the last open subscriber period. The results weren’t good. Their loss of market share to AmeriCare in the New York metropolitan area has increased. After building the new hospital, this is a terrible blow.”

“And they blame our ad campaign for that?” Terese blurted out. “That’s absurd. They only made a twenty-five-point buy with our sixty-second commercial. That was not adequate. No way.”

“That may be your opinion,” Helen said evenly. “But I know it is not National Health’s.”

“I know you are fond of your ‘Health care for the modern era’ campaign, and it is a good tag line,” Robert said, “but the fact of the matter is that National Health has been losing market share from the campaign’s inception. These latest figures are just consistent with the previous trend.”

“The sixty-second spot has been nominated for a Clio,” Terese countered. “It’s a damn good commercial. It’s wonderfully creative. I’m proud of my team for having put it together.”

“And indeed you should be,” Brian interjected. “But it is Robert’s feeling that the client is not interested in our winning a Clio. And remember, as the Benton and Bowles agency held, ‘If it doesn’t sell, it isn’t creative.’ ”

“That’s equally absurd,” Terese snapped. “The campaign is solid. It’s just that the account people couldn’t get the client to buy adequate exposure. There should have been ‘flights’ on multiple local stations at a bare minimum.”

“With all due respect, they would have bought more time if they’d liked the commercial,” Robert said. “I don’t think they were ever sold on this idea of ‘them versus us,’ ancient medicine versus modern medicine. I mean it was humorous, but I don’t know if they were convinced the viewer truly associated the ancient methods with National Health Care’s competitors, particularly AmeriCare. My personal opinion is that it went over people’s heads.”

“Your real point is that National Health Care has a very specific type of advertising it wants,” Brian said. “Tell Terese what you told me just before she came in here.”

“It’s simple,” Robert said, making an open gesture with his hands. “They want either ‘talking heads’ discussing actual patient experiences, or a celebrity spokesperson. They couldn’t care less whether their ad wins a Clio or any of the other awards. They want results. They want market share, and I want to give it to them.”

“Am I hearing that Willow and Heath wants to turn its back on its successes and become a mere vendor shop?” Terese asked. “We’re on the edge of becoming one of the big-league firms. And how did we get here? We got here by doing quality advertising. We’ve carried on in the Doyle-Dane-Bernback tradition. If we start letting clients dictate that we turn out slop, we’re doomed.”