by Simon Brett
‘Any idea what that hold could have been?’
Shelley shrugged. ‘Why you asking all this about her, anyway?’
Charles finally broke the eye contact. ‘Just interest, I suppose. You know, having been there on the day she died, and . . . well . . .’
‘Mm.’ Shelley stretched and looked up at the television screen. ‘Looks like the ladies is coming to an end. Must go and get my seat before the hunks come on.’
‘Yes,’ said Charles hastily. ‘Just something about one other person I met out at Stenley Curton . . . bloke called Trevor . . .’
‘Trevor?’ she echoed blankly.
‘Drives a forklift in the warehouse.’
‘Oh, Trevor, right.’
‘He been working there a long time?’
‘Well, certainly there when I started, so that’s got to be five years back.’
‘Yes. Was he ever involved in any of the parties you were talking about?’
‘Trevor?’ She let out a husky bark of laughter. ‘Trevor wouldn’t have fitted in to that scene at all. He’d have stuck out like a . . .’ She chuckled throatily. ‘Well, he wouldn’t have stuck out at all. Ladies are not Trevor’s thing.’
‘Ah.’At least he’d got confirmation of Robin Pritchard’s information.
‘So he had nothing to do with you lot at all?’
‘No, his social scene was very different from ours.’ She paused. ‘Only contact we had with him, we might borrow some stuff now and then.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
‘Video. Trevor was very into video. I mean, now everyone’s got a camcorder, but five years ago . . . none of us was that well off for a start . . . but, you know, some of the blokes – well, and the girls, let’s be fair – was quite keen to have themselves, like, recorded . . . you know, while they was at it . . . and then play it back and get turned on all over again. You ever done that, Chowss?’
Again her mocking blue eyes were very directly fixed on his. At one level, Charles didn’t take her brazenness seriously. It was a game she was playing, more for her benefit than his. At another level, though, he couldn’t help being titillated by it.
He laughed what he hoped was a man-of-the-world laugh, implying infinite confident experience of every known sexual permutation.
Shelley’s grin suggested that she didn’t believe the implication. ‘So, anyway,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘you used to borrow Trevor’s equipment?’
Shelley roared with laughter. ‘No, like I said, that wouldn’t have been any use to us at all. We borrowed his video.’
‘Yes, yes. You knew what I meant.’
‘Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.’
‘Did he just lend it, like that?’
‘Oh, I’m sure one of the lads bunged him a flyer. Only happened a few times. Then one of the other salesmen got a promotion and he bought his own camcorder and that was it.’
She went off into another of her giggles. ‘Do you know, Daryl once rigged it up in a bedroom and filmed this couple who didn’t know it was there. Then they come round to dinner couple of weeks later and he puts the cassette in the video and plays it to them. Ooh, it was funny. They was dead embarrassed. Got a really evil sense of humour, my husband,’ she concluded with some pride.
That kind of practical joking didn’t come under Charles’s definition of ‘sense of humour’, but he let it pass.
‘Just going back on what we were saying . . . you were never aware of any relationship between Trevor and Dayna, were you?’
‘Relationship? Trevor and Dayna? Well, from what I’ve said about their interests, I can’t see it, can you? She was only after rich men and he wasn’t after women of any kind – doesn’t sound like True Romance to me. No, if they did have any kind of relationship, you can bet your bottom dollar it was financial.’
‘Hm. You say Dayna was after rich men?’
‘Rich . . . powerful . . . comes to the same thing, really, dunnit? No, what Dayna wanted to do was sleep her way right to the top.’
They heard a throat clearing and turned to see Brian Tressider looking at them. Behind him was Ken Colebourne who instantly and protectively steered his Managing Director away to chat to one of their major distributors who was working his way down a brandy bottle.
But Charles had seen an unexpected look in Brian Tressider’s eyes. He felt sure that the Managing Director had heard Shelley’s last words.
And that they had had a particular relevance for him.
Charles had been about to go and watch some tennis, but Daryl had reappeared to claim Shelley for the ‘hunks’ match, and the risk of accompanying them to the Centre Court was still too great. To give the Custom Car danger time to recede, Charles had another glass of wine.
Then Ken Colebourne joined him. Patricia, he announced, was quite happy watching the tennis. In fact, she was sitting with Frances and they seemed to be getting on very well. ‘Still, I’ve never been much of a one for tennis – just knocking the ball back and forth over the net all the time, so far as I can see. Grand Prix racing, now that’s the sport I like to watch.’
Charles groaned inwardly. It would be too dreadful to have jumped out of the Custom Car frying-pan straight into the Formula One fire.
But, fortunately, the Marketing Director seemed to have no desire to expatiate on his hobby. Instead, he was in a mood to tell jokes and, after a few glasses of wine, Charles was prepared to indulge the mood. Even to join in it. So the two of them, fuelled by yet more wine, played that traditional pastime of mutual joke-telling which for centuries has kept men from talking about anything that matters, and given them the illusion of conviviality without any real contact.
At one point Charles did try to get the conversation on to Brian Tressider, but Ken Colebourne alertly deflected the subject. Charles was once again struck by the care with which the Marketing Director protected his boss.
And so the afternoon passed. Other Delmoleen guests drifted in and out of the marquee, tea and cakes were served at some point. Drinks were available as long as anyone wanted them, and Charles had a bonhomous sense of having chattered amiably with a great many really nice people.
They were a splendid lot, he decided, really, really nice people. All that nonsense that was talked about people in industry and the arts being different . . . People, when you came down to it, people were people – that’s what mattered. Not where they came from or what they did, but the fact that they were people. People.
He was saying this with some force to the major distributor who was working his way down a second brandy bottle and finding that, though his new friend was agreeing with him, it was still a point that needed repeating, when he became aware of a cleared throat behind him.
He turned round to see Frances. She still looked lovely in the navy suit. He told her how lovely she looked. Then, in case she hadn’t got the message, he told her again.
‘Yes, Charles,’ she said – somewhat coldly, he thought. ‘It’s time we went to meet our car.’
‘Oh, really? Feels like we’ve only just arrived.’ He rose to his feet. The marquee wobbled rather endearingly around him. ‘Must just have a pee.’
When he came back, Frances was thanking the Managing Director for Delmoleen’s hospitality. Brenda Tressider stood by her husband’s side, smiling graciously.
Charles joined in the thanks. It really had been a splendid day.
Brian Tressider was delighted he had enjoyed it.
Oh yes, it really had been a splendid day, Charles confirmed.
Brenda Tressider looked forward to seeing him on the television again soon. Were there going to be any more of that delightful Stanislas Braid series?
Well, no, there weren’t, actually, but there was still no denying that it had been a splendid day.
Frances led him away.
He told her how lovely she looked.
‘Yes, all right, Charles, you’ve said that.’
‘Have I? Well, it’s still true. I –’
> ‘I hope you didn’t make Ken Colebourne drink too much.’
‘What do you mean – make him? I –’
‘I was talking to his wife, Patricia. She’s very worried about the amount he drinks.’
‘Oh, come on, he’s Marketing Director. In that kind of job, I should think the drinking goes with the territory.’
‘Well, Patricia worries about it. She’s very dependent on him, you know.’
What a perfect cue, thought Charles. He took his wife’s arm. ‘And I’m very dependent on you, you know.’
Frances firmly disengaged her arm. ‘Ah, there’s the car over there.’
They got in the back. ‘Where to first?’ asked the driver.
‘Ah,’ said Charles. ‘Well, look, Frances, why don’t we go back to your flat? Then we can have a drink, and I’ll take you out for dinner and –’
‘Hereford Road first, please,’ said Frances. ‘My companion will be getting off there.’
Charles felt he should argue, but he was really too tired. As he stretched back into the comfortable upholstery, he looked through half-closed lids at Frances. Her mouth was a tight, tense line.
Oh dear, what had he done wrong this time? He reached across to put his hand on her knee.
Frances removed it.
Well, what had he done wrong? It had been a splendid day. A splendid day.
It was only as he slipped into sleep that Charles realised he hadn’t seen any tennis.
Chapter Fourteen
‘I MEAN, if you like,’ said Will Parton, ‘we could do the presentation as a song-and-dance routine.’
‘I think that could be terrific,’ Robin Pritchard enthused. ‘Really give the salesmen and their wives a bit of entertainment. Get across how exciting and up-to-the-minute the Delmoleen “Green” is going to be.’
‘Look, we don’t want things to get out of hand.’ This voice of restraint was Ken Colebourne’s. He had overall charge of the Brighton sales conference and for him the whole undertaking was already quite complicated enough. The Ambassador Hotel and Conference Suites had been long booked, but there were still many details of the programme to be arranged. Song-and-dance routines sounded like potential trouble. ‘I mean, the salesmen and their wives are going to get a full professional cabaret after the Thursday evening banquet. They don’t want any more of that kind of stuff. Let’s keep the presentations simple.’
The Product Manager for Beverages agreed. Paul Taggart was a pugnacious little Scot, clearly suspicious of Robin Pritchard’s empire-building. ‘All we need to do is tell the salesmen the facts. Bring them up to date on existing products, tell them the state of play on the new products, show them the packaging, commercials if they’re ready, and leave it at that.’
‘But the Delmoleen “Green” is such a new concept, we want to communicate the excitement we all feel about it.’
‘Robin, it is no more a new concept than Delmoleen “Surge”, which I will be introducing in Brighton.’
‘Of course it is, Paul. “Surge” is nothing more than a repackaging job. It’s just your basic Delmoleen “Bedtime” in a different jar.’
Knocking his product was hitting a Product Manager where it hurt, and Paul Taggart responded angrily, ‘It is not. The sugar content has been reduced to almost zero, the glucose content boosted, and a whole bunch of different vitamins added.’
‘But it will still be perceived by the public as a simple bedtime drink.’
‘No, it will not!’ Paul Taggart was almost beside himself. ‘That is the whole point. “Surge” is the first Delmoleen product to get away from that “bedtime” tag. It’s an “any time you feel like it” beverage. “Surge” is being marketed as a health drink – not a relaxant, but a stimulant.’
‘Mind you,’ said Ken Colebourne judiciously, ‘that is the way the basic Delmoleen drink is marketed round the world. In every other country it’s sold for its stimulating and energy-giving qualities. Britain’s the only place where it sells on its relaxing qualities.’
‘Why is that?’ Will managed to chip in curiously.
‘Something to do with national character, I think,’ said the Marketing Director.
Charles Paris was enjoying himself. He and Will were out at Stenley Curton to attend the first ‘nuts and bolts’ planning session for the Brighton sales conference. It was an evening meeting in Ken Colebourne’s office. Lavish salvers of sandwiches lay on the green baize cover of the table in front of them. There were also liberal supplies of coffee and mineral water (but unfortunately nothing else).
Charles had anticipated a fairly boring session and was cheered by this entertaining conflict between the Product Managers.
‘So,’ Paul Taggart went on, ‘the marketing of “Surge” is going to be a whole new concept for the salesmen.’
‘So’s the marketing of “Green”.’
‘But, in the long term, “Surge” is going to be the more important product. The Beverage market is much steadier. Confectionery’s very volatile, always subject to changes of fashion.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ blustered Robin Pritchard. ‘And, anyway, the Delmoleen “Green” is not Confectionery. If it were, it’d attract VAT, apart from anything else, and wreak havoc with our pricing strategy. There is no way it’s going to be marketed as Confectionery.’
‘Well, people are hardly going to pick up a muesli bar from the Cereals display, are they?’
‘The Delmoleen “Green” is a bit more than just an ordinary muesli bar, Paul. Anyway, it’s not being marketed as Cereals – it’s being marketed as a Snack.’
‘Huh. The Snack market’s even more volatile than Confectionery.’
Ken Coleboume decided it was time for mediation in the war of Cereals and Biscuits against Beverages. ‘Please, please, we’ve got a lot to get through. But I would like to endorse Paul’s point. Given all the other entertainment the sales force’re going to get, I think we want to keep our presentations at the conference as simple as we can.’
The Product Manager for Beverages smiled complacently. ‘Thanks, Ken. Always the voice of sanity. What entertainment are they going to get, by the way?’
‘All the usual stuff’ll be laid on for the wives. Then at the Thursday banquet there’s a dance band and, of course, the cabaret.’
‘Who’ve you got?’
‘Not absolutely finalised, but looks likely to be . . .’ He mentioned the name of an American girl singer who’d been big in the charts in the early seventies.
‘What, is she here doing a tour?’
‘No, we’re flying her over just for this.’
‘That’s going to cost you.’
Ken Colebourne nodded grimly. ‘Got to go bigger and better than Torquay last year. Don’t want any more of the salesmen thinking of moving.’
‘Suppose not.’
‘And then the comedy cabaret – assuming we get the contract sorted out OK – is going to be Nicky Rules.’
They were all impressed by the name. Nicky Rules was one of the country’s top comedians, a television game-show host known chiefly for the viciousness with which he insulted its contestants and the glee with which the contestants lapped up his abuse.
Charles was possibly more impressed than anyone else present – not because either of the names mentioned were favourites of his, but because, being in the business, he had some idea of the kind of fees they could command. It had never occurred to him that a company like Delmoleen would be prepared to pay that sort of money just to entertain its sales force.
Robin Pritchard had been silent for the last few minutes, but not because he had conceded defeat on the presentation of his product. He had been merely biding his time, and now came back forcibly to the attack.
‘I still want to put across the Delmoleen “Green” with a bit of razzmatazz. I want the salesmen to see a presentation they’re going to remember.’
‘They’ll remember it perfectly well if it’s done straight,’ said Ken Colebourne coldly.
&nbs
p; ‘No, they won’t. They’ll just doze off, as ever. Look, the presentation’s in the afternoon – thanks to someone else getting the morning slot for their product . . .’
The Product Manager for Cereals and Biscuits looked daggers at the Product Manager for Beverages, who grinned smugly.
‘And we all know what that means – the salesmen will have had a few too many at lunchtime and, if they just get a straight presentation, they’ll see it as a good excuse for a kip.’
‘You’re out of date, Robin,’ said Ken Colebourne. ‘That old hard-drinking image of the salesman has changed. They’re much more responsible and accountable these days.’
He had chosen the wrong line of attack. ‘Out of date?’ Robin Pritchard echoed contemptuously. ‘Out of date? You have the nerve to call me out of date?’
‘Well –’
‘For one thing, I don’t believe that salesmen ever really change. For another, this company is going to do nothing for its image if it keeps using presentation methods out of the Ark.’
‘Look –’
‘I want the Delmoleen “Green” presented to the sales force in an exciting way, not just a talking head and slides.’
‘Talking head and slides has worked perfectly well in the past.’ As ever, when pressured, Ken Colebourne summoned the name of his hero as evidence. ‘B.T. doesn’t even bother with the slides.’
‘No, but Brian’s a charismatic speaker. People’d listen to him, whatever the circumstances, whatever he was talking about. Other people need more help.’ Robin Pritchard looked at the Marketing Director with an expression that fell little short of insolence. ‘Will you be doing your usual marketing overview?’
‘Yes,’ said Ken Colebourne, trying not to sound defensive. ‘End of the afternoon, just before B.T. speaks.’
‘With slides, as ever?’
The Marketing Director’s lips were tight across his teeth. ‘Yes.’
‘Hm. You haven’t ever thought of getting someone else to do that, have you?’
‘Who else? I’m Marketing Director. It seems pretty ridiculous to have anyone else talking about marketing.’
