Corporate Bodies

by Simon Brett

  ‘Oh, right. With you, Charles.’ Robin Pritchard pursed his lips. ‘The Delmoleen “Green” is such a revolutionary concept in biscuitry that it’s very hard to define. I guess the nearest existing product to what we’re talking about here is a muesli bar.’

  ‘A muesli bar?’

  ‘Right. The Delmoleen “Green” has all the virtues of the traditional muesli bar . . .’ (Charles found it difficult to imagine that muesli bars had been around long enough to have their own traditions) ‘. . . and those of the current “State of the Art” muesli bar – I’m talking 100 per cent natural ingredients, high wholegrain dietary fibre content, low sugar, low saturated fat, the obvious stuff . . . The Delmoleen “Green” has all that and a bit more – but it also has the special feature which is going to take it rocketing to the top of the Crunchy Bar and Snack Biscuit Brand Share.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Will Parton, dead on cue.

  ‘It’s green,’ Robin Pritchard whispered reverentially.

  ‘Green?’

  ‘Yes, 100 per cent green.’

  Charles Paris, confused, couldn’t stop himself from saying, ‘But you said that. You said it was green. It’s called the Delmoleen “Green” –’

  ‘And it’s green.’

  ‘Ah.’ That still didn’t clarify things much for Charles.

  But the Product Manager’s next words did. ‘It is green in colour. Green like Nature, green like little green apples, green like the leaves of spring, green like . . .’ He ran out of poetic inspiration, ‘green like – green. Coloured, of course, from natural dyes, the Delmoleen “Green” will be the only product in the entire global muesli bar range that is actually coloured green.’

  An impressed silence ensued.

  Then, tentatively and sycophantically, Will Parton asked, ‘You don’t mean that the wrapper will be green in colour too?’

  ‘You said it,’ a complacent Robin Pritchard confirmed. ‘Now, is that marketing or is that marketing?’

  Will Parton shook his head in slow, stunned amazement. ‘I’d say that’s marketing.’

  The Product Manager smiled the kind of smile Tamburlaine might have allowed himself when he entered the vanquished Persepolis. He looked at his watch. ‘Now we have a table booked for lunch to get down to the nuts and bolts of the launch, but before that I have a little surprise for you.’

  ‘Oh?’ they all said, elaborately wondering what it could be.

  Silently Robin Pritchard pressed down the key of an intercom and murmured, ‘Ready, Janice.’

  The door opened and a smartly-suited secretary entered. She carried a silver salver. On it lay three rectangles of what looked like green fibre matting.

  ‘No? It isn’t?’ asked Will (overacting a bit, in Charles’s estimation).

  ‘Yes, it is. You three will be the only people outside Delmoleen ever to have tasted a Delmoleen “Green”.’

  Appropriately honoured noises were made, as the girl handed around the sacred batons.

  Among the many, many foodstuffs that Charles Paris enjoyed, muesli bars did not figure at any level. And a green muesli bar would, under normal circumstances, be something to be consigned instantly to the dustbin.

  The idea of eating a green muesli bar immediately before lunch was even more disgusting.

  But he, like Will Parton and the agency man, lifted one of the rectangles off the salver as if handling a Dead Sea Scroll.

  And he, like the others, looked to Robin Pritchard for the inestimable gift of permission, which was conceded by a gracious nod of the head.

  Charles Paris, Will Parton and the agency man lifted their Delmoleen ‘Green’ to their mouths in unison. Together, they took the first bite. Together, they shook their heads discreetly from side to side as they tried to dislodge a chunk from the sticky whole. Together, they munched.

  ‘Ah,’ they all said together, ‘wonderful.’

  Or that was probably what they said. It was difficult to be sure because their teeth were a bit glued together.

  The lunch did not hold much interest for Charles. The food was fine, good trattoria fare, but his enjoyment of it was marred by all the bits of green oats, nuts and other fibre stuck between his teeth.

  Then there was the drinking problem.

  ‘Now, what are we going to have to drink?’ Robin Pritchard had asked bonhomously on arrival.

  Charles’s mouth was half-open before he caught the steel in Will Parton’s eye. ‘Mineral water for me,’ said the writer firmly.

  ‘Me too,’ said the agency man.

  ‘Charles?’

  ‘Yes, mineral water. Sounds terrific.’

  Ooh, it hurt. Not only because he’d really been promising himself a few nice glasses of nice wine, but because he so deeply hated mineral water. Charles Paris was not a party to the Perrier conspiracy. When he wanted water – and even he, occasionally, particularly if he woke parched in the middle of the night, did want water – he found the tap perfectly adequate to his needs. The idea of paying bubbled-up prices for bubbled-up water appalled him. Apart from anything else mineral water at lunchtime meant that all afternoon his stomach would rumble like a demented washing machine going into its final spin.

  He thought wistfully of the business world Ken Colebourne had referred to with such nostalgia, when deals were thrashed out between friends over a few beers.

  Still, Charles Paris was there solely to help Will secure the contract for Parton Parcel. Just as he had swallowed down every last crumb – and there did seem to be a lot of them – of the Delmoleen ‘Green’, so he would swallow down the mineral water. He was playing a part, after all. That thought, a direct appeal to his own professionalism, did bring a kind of comfort.

  It wasn’t difficult for him to maintain his pose of silence during the meal. Robin Pritchard went on and on about the brilliance of his product, the agency man went on and on about the brilliance of his ideas for its launch campaign, and Will Parton went on and on about the brilliant, though as yet unspecified, way in which he would present the Delmoleen ‘Green’ to the sales force at the Brighton conference in September.

  Charles, trying to imagine how Seb Ormond would play his part, looked grave and deep and nodded thoughtfully a lot.

  There was only one moment when the conversation caught his interest. Will was setting out his stall, expatiating on how brilliantly he had scripted the Delmoleen video, which brought up the subject of the day’s shooting in the warehouse.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Robin Pritchard. ‘That was when the factory bike got crushed.’

  ‘Factory bike?’ queried Charles, as if he had never heard the expression.

  ‘Used to describe a young lady who’s – what shall we say? – generous with her favours?’

  ‘Oh. So Dayna Richman had that reputation, did she?’

  ‘Quite justified, from all accounts. Cut a swathe through the warehouse lads like the First World War, I gather.’

  ‘Was Trevor one of the victims?’

  ‘Trevor with the forklift?’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Good heavens, no. Trevor’s gay.’

  ‘Oh?’ That was unexpected. On the other hand, it did explain the unidentified laugh which had greeted Trevor’s reference to Charles as a ‘bleeding fairy’.

  Charles couldn’t resist the follow-up question. ‘You don’t happen to know if she was going around with any of the other lads at the time she died, do you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought so. Having tested out her basic skills and found everything in working order, I think young Dayna was aiming a bit more up-market.’

  ‘What? Are you talking about anyone in particular or –?’

  ‘Charles . . .’ Will Parton hissed with a veiled look of fury. ‘Robin, about the actual sales conference . . .’

  Charles felt guilty. He mustn’t screw up the deal for Parton Parcel. No, his murder investigation would have to go on hold yet again.

  He would have to be content for the moment with the tiny fragme
nt Robin Pritchard had given him.

  The new information did put an intriguing new light on the situation, though.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘MY GOD, Charles, what on earth are you wearing?’ Frances stood aghast at the door of her flat.

  ‘It is possible for me to look smart, you know, Frances.’

  ‘Smart? Is that smart? Have you got a part in Godfather IV or what?’

  ‘I am just dressed as the young executive dresses these days.’

  ‘Since when have you been a young executive? I’ve heard of mutton-dressed-as-lamb, but . . . My God, Charles, what’s that smell? It’s not mint sauce, is it?’

  ‘It’s after-shave,’ he confessed sheepishly (or mutton-dressed-as-lambishly). Will had tipped him the wink that some kind of ‘man’s fragrance’ really was required to complete the executive image.

  ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘Come on. The car’s waiting.’

  Ken Colebourne had done them proud. Car to pick up Charles in Bayswater, on to Highgate to collect Frances, and then down through the traffic to Wimbledon.

  ‘This is very exciting,’ Frances said. ‘Haven’t actually been to Wimbledon for about ten years. Always used to queue up and go in my teens, but in later life being in charge of school parties rather took the gilt off the experience. Spent all the time watching my charges rather than the tennis, seeing they weren’t being picked up by randy young men or rubbed up by dirty old men. No, this really is wonderful.’

  She looked terrific that morning. With age, Frances had managed to stay elegantly thin rather than turning stringy. She was neatly dressed in a generously-skirted navy suit and cream blouse with a big collar, an ensemble Charles hadn’t seen before.

  It was still a shock that he no longer knew his wife’s wardrobe inside out, but that was one of the many rights he had given up by walking out on her all those years ago. Unreasonable though he knew the desire was, some part of Charles still felt she should consult him about the clothes she bought.

  Though he wanted the freedom to vanish off her landscape for months on end, he couldn’t quite reconcile himself to the idea of Frances leading a life of her own. Though he knew he was being a dog in the manger, a jealous arrogance kept telling him he really was the love of her life and, so long as he was alive, she’d never be truly independent.

  Increasingly, though, the evidence was turning against him. Charles was hoist with his own petard. He had left Frances in the hope of attaining his own independence, but over the years she had proved much more adept at making a life of her own than he had.

  He liked to think the mutual ties remained so strong, that, in spite of detours and diversions, the relationship was still central to both of them. And even that one day they’d get back together again.

  But he was decreasingly convinced that Frances felt the same. The coolness that she had at first affected as a defence against him now seemed more instinctive.

  ‘Juliet was so jealous when I told her where we were going. She still loves her tennis.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Charles had always intended to do more things, like play tennis, with his daughter while she was growing up, but he had been away a lot, and then of course he’d moved out, and suddenly she had been grown up and married and a mother three times over, and he had realised that his chance was gone and that Frances had been responsible for every aspect of Juliet’s upbringing.

  ‘I must get in touch with her,’ he said contritely.

  ‘Yes, you must,’ Frances agreed with some asperity.

  He looked sideways at her as the car negotiated the heavy traffic of Wimbledon High Street, and felt an ache of longing. He really must make a proper effort to get her back. Frances was too good to lose.

  He knew he had had such intentions many times before, but they had always been diluted by lethargy or diverted by skirmishes with other women. When he was actually with Frances, it seemed inconceivable that he could ever fancy anyone else. But he recognised the volatility of the masculine character, that resurgent and shameful inability to meet any woman without thoughts of sex intruding; and he knew that, given the right circumstances, with Frances off the scene and someone else attractive to him on it, the whole process would start all over again.

  But this time he really must put all irrelevant thoughts to one side, and work to regain Frances’s affection. He felt a sudden stab of lust as he looked at her.

  Greatly daring, Charles Paris put his hand on his wife’s knee.

  She didn’t remove it. She looked straight into his eyes and smiled a warm smile of complicity.

  That had to be a good sign.

  It was rather a good feeling to be whisked past the endless, patient lines of tennis fans to one of the main gates. Their driver sorted out a time and pick-up point for the end of the day’s play, and gave them a phone number to call if any change was required to these arrangements. Their tickets were checked at the gate and, following the map in the neat information pack which Ken Colebourne had sent Charles, they made their way to the Delmoleen marquee.

  As they walked through the crowds, Frances commented on how the atmosphere had changed since she’d last been there. ‘There weren’t all these booths and shops. There wasn’t nearly so much for sale, I’m sure.’

  Charles stopped by a display of clothes, indicating a green and purple track suit with ‘The Championships – Wimbledon’ logo. ‘Like me to buy you one of these?’

  ‘Not quite my style, Charles. But don’t let me stop you getting one for yourself.’

  ‘Don’t think it’s quite my style either.’

  ‘I don’t know, love. Now I’ve seen that suit, nothing you wear’s going to surprise me.’

  She put her arm in his. And she had called him ‘love’. It was nice having a wife.

  He felt this even more when they reached the Delmoleen marquee. Following the map, they had turned into an alley of corporate entertainment. There were rows of marquees on either side, fronted by neatly fenced-off areas with white chairs and round tables shaded by beach umbrellas. Men in suits and smartly dressed ladies stood sipping champagne in the various pens.

  From the small signs on the entrances Charles recognised among the corporate entertainers a major bank, an insurance company and the BBC. On the forecourt of the BBC marquee stood various well-known television faces, pretending they weren’t aware that everyone recognised them.

  The Delmoleen marquee’s number was clearly marked on the map and its entrance discreetly signposted by the company logo. Charles was glad he had Frances with him. Much easier to make an entrance into a crowd of strangers as a couple. There really was a lot to be said for marriage. Good system.

  As it turned out, there were some faces he recognised. Brian and Brenda Tressider were there, so was Ken Colebourne, but he looked in vain for Robin Pritchard. Charles had rather hoped to see the Product Manager again and follow up on their last, incomplete conversation. However, it looked as though the murder investigation would have to remain on hold.

  The other guests were smartly anonymous, presumably substantial customers or suppliers having their relationships with Delmoleen cemented and massaged by a corporate freebie. Charles had been a little worried than Brian Tressider might question his right to be there, wondering what possible benefit could accrue to the company from scratching the back of an unemployed actor – even one supposed to have some ill-defined connection with the Parton Parcel production company. But of course the Managing Director, whatever his true feelings on the matter, was far too urbane to let them show.

  Well-rehearsed on the guest-list, he effusively welcomed Charles and Frances, telling her that her husband had done excellent work on the video they were making.

  Brenda Tressider was equally punctilious, and her social filing system did not let her down. ‘Yes, of course, Charles Paris, how delightful to see you again. You entertained us so much in that splendid Stanislas Braid series. It must be really strange seeing your husband on the television s
creen so often, Mrs Paris.’

  ‘Well, it’s not that often,’ said Frances – rather traitorously, to Charles’s mind.

  ‘Oh, but much more than the average wife. I mean, I’ve seen Brian interviewed once or twice on business programmes and it always gives me a very odd feeling. But I suppose, like most things, you get used to it.’ A uniformed waitress with a tray of champagne materialised at her elbow. ‘Now do help yourself to a drink, and let me introduce you to some people . . .’

  They were impeccably introduced to everyone and Charles found, as he usually did on these occasions, that the names went straight in one ear and out the other. So did all the useful background detail that Brenda Tressider supplied for her guests. She was doing her job wonderfully, presenting innumerable prompts to conversation; it wasn’t her fault that Charles Paris seemed incapable of retaining the information.

  Frances was much better at this sort of thing than he was. She plunged instantly into conversation with one of the women about the latest American infant tennis sensation, and was quickly whirled away, leaving her husband stranded.

  Charles stood grinning fatuously round a group of three couples, whose names and companies he had instantly forgotten. He sipped at his champagne, then took a longer swig. The waitress manifested herself once again beside him. He put down his empty glass and picked up a full one.

  ‘What a lovely day for the tennis,’ he said, opting to keep his remarks uncontroversial.

  The three couples agreed it was a lovely day for the tennis.

  ‘Yes, lovely day for the tennis,’ Charles confirmed.

  He had a sense of déjà vu. For a moment he couldn’t place it, then recalled that he had spoken exactly that dialogue in one of those fifties french-window comedies about a publisher. (They had all been about publishers; to the dramatists of the time, publishing represented a lucrative profession whose demands were in no danger of impinging on anyone’s private life.) Now what had the play been called . . .? Oh yes, Service Not Included, he remembered it now.

  He also, unfortunately, remembered the review the Halifax Evening Courier had given his performance. ‘Charles Paris wanders dementedly through the play, like Van Gogh trying to decide which ear to cut off.’