Henbury sat in his chair, puffing on a large cigar. He knew this was not a popular look anymore, and the young advertising executives winced with every exhalation.
‘I want luxury,’ he said. ‘Real luxury. Henbury soap is a luxury brand, and this must reflected in every part of the advert. Understand?’
The two advertisers waved away the smoke, and nodded.
Henbury smiled, and wrote them a check using a gold plated pen.
Two months later he stood outside of a cardboard palace on a sound stage. A different, but equally long cigar, hung from the corner of his mouth. He frowned at the cardboard gargoyles.
‘No. None of this. Nothing like this. Henbury soap is a luxury brand.’
Four months later he stood in front a polystyrene Taj Mahal. Real bars of soap were embedded like jewels in the wall. Henbury’s doctor has demanded he give up the cigars, but still he smoked. The advertising executives gazed at him, still buzzing from their lunchtime coffee. He dropped ash on their shoes.
‘Henbury soap is a luxury brand,’ he said. 'What part of this is confusing you?’
A full year later Henbury stood in front of a chateau. Every brick, spire and rooftop was carved from real soap. Inside ornate furniture, chandeliers, paintings and wine glasses decked out every room, all imported from the finest homes of Normandy.
Henbury beamed. 'It’s perfect,’ he said. 'We can shoot the advert now.’
Henbury reached in his pocket for a cigar. The cigars were all gone. Even if his doctor had not banned them, he no longer had the money for such luxuries.
It started to rain.
He turned to the advertising executives, but they were no longer there. Everyone was gone now.
The very first suds touched the back of his shoes. The rain drummed on the ground, drowning out the sound of breaking glass, and collapsing furniture.