Every agency has an art director like Sophie.

I walked into the meeting. You could cut the atmosphere with a wet biscuit, let alone a knife.

Sophie had poured herself into a chair and had that unique art director look that says don’t fuck with me. It’s part bohemian art school, part petulant teenager and part inferiority complex because the really good art directors never pout. They might frown but they don’t pout.

Robert was the client. Robert wore a thin pair of glasses, a snappy suit and an intelligent expression. He was the kind of client that runs the company, not the kind that lives in the marketing department and spends his life developing powerpoint presentations and talking in acronyms that don’t stand for anything.

Adnan was the account guy. Kind of half-sharp but not too sharp. You don’t want to challenge clients, do you?

That left me, the copywriter, coming in on a project I didn’t start. I was in an awkward position because the client thought the ad stank, the art director thought it was the Mona Lisa and the account guy was in the middle. Guess what? The ad stank. That’s the worst thing about being freelance. You walk in on some disgraceful work. It was a thirty-second spot for kitchen homewares and it was a mess. Sophie’s copywriter had resigned over it. She’d had her way. The music track was wrong, the voiceover was wrong and it was too rushed. It was the kind of fuck-up that clients usually cause but this one had been fucked up by the art director before the client even had a chance.

‘Guys, I just thought we’d get together and chat about a few editing issues in the final cut of the ad,’ Adnan started, hopefully. Meaning hopefully how it used to mean, not what it means now.

‘Thanks, Adnan,’ Robert picked up, briskly. ‘I love the ad,’ he continued, ‘it’s just that I can’t actually hear the voiceover.’

Sophie rolled her eyes. Adnan turned to her. ‘What did they say at the studio?’

‘They’ve brought the voice forward a little in the mix and they all said they could hear it perfectly,’ Sophie sighed, with a tone in her voice that suggested, politely, or maybe impolitely, that Robert was stone deaf.

‘Yes, but they’re listening to it on speakers the size of refrigerators in a room with more sound deadening than a jumbo jet, Sophie,’ Adnan replied gently, 'and our typical budget-priced kitchen homewares customer is listening to it on a fuzzy single speaker in an old TV on the other side of the room with children screaming, dogs barking, neighbours fighting, cars doing burnouts in the street outside and a drunk husband calling for another beer.' And he sat there with a smile, waiting for her reply.

There was a snigger. I couldn’t believe it came from somewhere very near me. Very, very near me. I do love a bit of sarcasm when it’s used exactly in the right manner and Adnan’s was perfect.

Sophie turned to me.

Call me a bastard. I was supposed to be on Sophie’s side. But the ad was crap. They’d used a soft female voiceover despite the fact that the corporate music was a harsh, brassy instrumental track that completely drowned out the voice.

I tried to be diplomatic. I don’t know why. Wait, yes I do, I wanted to be able to come to work again tomorrow because I needed to eat. Money wasn’t growing on trees that week.

‘I think we could drop the music track back a bit more and maybe even listen to a few more takes of the voice to find out if there’s one that’s a bit clearer, Sophie. What do you think?’

After the meeting, Sophie turned to me as she walked out of the meeting room. ‘Thanks for your support,’ she said over her shoulder and went to lunch.

I think I just heard my second sarcastic sentence of the day but I wasn't sure.