“Where is this county?”
“More or less the center of England, near Manchester, in the Midlands. They live off milk and sheep.”
“Right. Yeah, I don’t think we’re interested,” I replied dismissively.
“If you say so.” Nothing fazed Richard.
“It’s not bad what we’ve achieved so far, don’t you think?”
“Well, yes, but we’re not exactly a huge success,” he said disdainfully.
“Your friend Graham could get involved and find us more mayoral candidates, couldn’t he?” This was my way of riling him.
“My friend Graham is not the leader of the Conservative Party. We should already be grateful to him that we have more than thirty of his candidates.”
—
The next phase wasn’t easy either. We needed someone who knew television to play the role of “professor” to our aspiring mayors. Someone who’d know how to teach them to look at the camera and show them which hand gestures they should or shouldn’t make. Maggie suggested we find someone from a university.
“Professors don’t charge much. There must be someone who’ll want to collaborate.”
She was right, and we found half a dozen supposed experts in television. In reality none of them had ever been in front of the camera—they had all once been hardworking students who, after finishing their degrees, remained at the same university to continue their academic careers, so they knew all the theory and nothing more. But since we found nothing better, we hired them.
“You and I will teach them how to dress, what sort of tie to wear, things like that,” I suggested to Richard.
“And why us? Anyway, you were the one who said that Conservative candidates were born with their ties on.”
“But not all of them—we also have some candidates whom the press are so fond of because they say they’re self-made men. And remember that we have a number of Labour candidates as clients, and they haven’t studied at Oxford like you. And you know why we will teach them? Because, as Maggie says, we’re two little rich boys who have been taught from a young age not to pick our noses. We know what to wear to dinner and how to look polished even when dressed informally,” I replied, puffed up and in a bad temper. Richard always added “buts” to my plans.
“You really think the candidates won’t know what tie to choose?” he replied, his temper matching my own.
“So far we’ve met with a couple of hicks who want to be mayors of towns that aren’t even on the map. But they have ambition, so they want someone to tell them not to wear a plaid tie to dinner.”
“And what about Roy Parker? He’s called half a dozen times. He wants to hire us,” Richard reminded me.
“That hick? Forget him, he’s small-fry.”
—
The first tutor I hired was Janet McCarthy. I don’t know why I did it. I suppose it was due to pressure from Richard.
Neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, neither blonde nor brunette, the only thing that made her stand out was the liveliness of her brown eyes.
She taught communication theory and had never set foot on a television set. Nor did she know what a radio studio was like. But she was willing to work extra hours, since her teaching salary was meager and she dreamed of vacationing in the Caribbean.
The second candidate was Philip Sullivan, an acquaintance of Richard’s. He had been a professor of communications at the University of London, which had invited him to make a discreet exit as he liked to poke his nose where he shouldn’t. To be frank, he was well known among hackers, although his appearance was the exact opposite of theirs. He was tall and thin with slicked-back hair and thick-framed glasses and always wore a ridiculous bow tie instead of a tie.
“So this friend of yours, they nearly convicted him of rummaging around where he shouldn’t: in the private correspondence of the Prince of Wales, no less,” I remarked to Richard while I considered whether to hire Sullivan.
“Actually, it wasn’t Philip who was responsible, and that was proved during the trial.”
“Tell me the whole story…”
“As you will have realized, Philip…well…you’ll have noticed that…”
“That he’s gay. Is that what you’re trying to say?” I found Richard’s political correctness exasperating.
“Two years ago he was living with a journalist. This guy was working as a freelancer without much success. He couldn’t come up with a better idea than hacking the Bank of England’s IT system to look for some little secret to sell to one of the London tabloids. But they caught him. The problem is that he was using Philip’s computer, so then he had to testify, but his friend cleared him of all responsibility.”
“And I suppose that after this honorable behavior Philip must have married him to repay the favor and since the marriage they’ve been living happily ever after.” I couldn’t resist a sarcastic comment.
“Not at all. Philip was extremely angry, and although he helped him out by paying for a decent lawyer, he threw the guy out of his house and they ended their relationship. That business was very damaging for Philip and the university decided they’d rather not renew his contract, and now he’s unemployed.”
I hired him. I had no aptitude for new technologies, but I knew that in this era of communications it was essential to have someone on the team for whom IT held no secrets. The politicians would love him.
In spite of Richard’s insistence, I refused to hire more staff. An idea was buzzing around in my head. Cathy Major. No doubt she would not have forgiven me for what happened at Green, and she was right to think that I was an untrustworthy son of a bitch. But perhaps she would accept my offer, given that she still hadn’t found a job in the City and was getting by on freelance work.
Cathy had talent. She was a genuine PR expert and she would dazzle the string of politicians who’d hired us. She was attractive, elegant, and knew how to move in high society. Yes, I needed Cathy.
Richard did not agree with my idea of bringing Cathy on board, and Maggie frowned when she found out.
“If you had problems with her once, you’ll have them again,” declared my experienced secretary.
“Truth be told, it was she who had problems with me. I stole her job and commission.”
“She’ll never forgive you and she’ll try to get back at you,” Maggie warned me.
“Yes, of course she’ll try, but when the moment comes I’ll get her out of the picture again.”
“If you can,” murmured Richard.
I found it amusing to call Cathy and I was surprised she didn’t hang up on me.
“I’ve got a proposition for you. What do you say to a drink this evening? You choose the place.”
“I’ll see you at Le Gavroche, in Mayfair, at seven,” she said, and hung up without asking me a single question.
I don’t know whether Cathy set out to impress me that night, but in fact all the men in the restaurant stared at her as she made her way to the table where I was waiting.
A fitted black dress, Jimmy Choo shoes with skyscraper heels, and earrings with multicolored stones. I don’t know quite what it was about her, but she looked spectacular.
I went to give her a kiss but she dodged me and sat down without giving me time to pull out her chair. She motioned the waiter over and ordered a cocktail, then turned to me and looked me in the eye.
“What’s your proposition? Because I assume that if you’ve called me it’s because you need me for something.”
Her hard tone of voice made it clear that she still harbored a deep resentment but was willing to negotiate with me if this would get her out of the hole into which I’d thrown her.
I didn’t waste time and I explained what I wanted from her. She listened to me in silence without interrupting until I finished my speech. Cathy was sipping leisurely from her drink, watching me as if she weren’t interested in my proposition, but I knew that wasn’t the case.
“Before you give me your answer, why did you agree t
o meet with me?”
“Because you work for Scott and Roth, which is one of the most respected PR agencies in the sector.”
“Does that mean you’ll accept my proposition?”
“We’ll see. I may accept, with conditions.”
I was about to reply that her circumstances meant that she was in no position to impose conditions on me, and the fact that she was there having a drink with me was proof of that. But I held my tongue. Once again it was I who needed her and, in spite of her precarious situation, Cathy was more than capable of leaving without accepting my offer.
Her main condition was an armor-plated contract with a generous payout in case of dismissal. And also that Mark Scott would mediate between us should any conflicts arise.
“Oh, so you want to play with a referee. I thought you had more faith in yourself.”
“I’ve got plenty, Thomas. I’ve got plenty. The person I don’t have faith in is you. I’ve known Mark Scott for years and he’s a decent guy, so I’d prefer that he have the final say.”
“He’s the head of the agency, so he’ll always have the final say,” I replied, irritated.
“I would rather have this conversation with him present.”
“You’re in no position to—”
“Yes, I am in such a position. You’re a son of a bitch, Thomas, and I’m not playing games with you again. If you’ve called me it’s because you think I can do the job. If not you wouldn’t have risked being turned down by me.”
“I’m the head of the department and I don’t want the people who work for me to have divided loyalties.”
“I won’t be loyal to you, Thomas. I will merely work in your department but in reality my boss will be Mark Scott and he is the person who will know exactly what I’m working on at all times.”
“You’re unemployed, Cathy, and as far as I know nobody’s made you an offer worth your while. I’m the one offering a job and you’re trying to get me to give the green light for you and Scott to go over my head.”
“You’re the one who called me.”
“And if you’re here it’s because you need a good job.”
“Thomas, I haven’t come to argue with you. Give it some thought. You have my number. Oh, and thanks for the drink!”
Cathy stood up without giving me time to reply. She left the restaurant with a confident stride, ignoring the gazes that focused once again on her behind and her extremely long legs.
I decided to spend the rest of the night at Madame Agnès’s. It was a place as good as any other to have a drink in the company of a beautiful woman. As beautiful as Cathy, or even more so. Madame Agnès’s girls were renowned for their beauty.
I called Cathy the next morning after speaking to Scott, who seemed, for the moment, to have lost the enthusiasm he showed when hiring me.
“Of course I know who Cathy Major is and I heard she was left out in the cold on the Green deal. So she won’t trust you…smart girl.”
“She wants you to know exactly what she’s working on at all times. Perhaps you could put her in her place and make it clear that I’m the department head and you are the overall boss and she can’t go pestering you with trivial nonsense.”
“I would be delighted to accept her conditions and meet with Ms. Major from time to time, so if you want to hire her, go ahead,” Scott agreed, to annoy me.
I went ahead even though I knew that Cathy and Scott would become allies and screw me over if at all possible. If I continued working at the agency it was thanks to Denis Roth, who was clearly more concerned about the numbers adding up than Mark Scott’s scruples.
Janet McCarthy, Philip Sullivan, and Cathy joined my team, which until this point had consisted of my assistant Richard Craig and Maggie.
Cathy immediately became friends with Janet, whom she in turn made her assistant. As for Philip Sullivan, I decided that we would use him to teach the candidates about new technology for contacting their voters. Mind you, this service wasn’t part of the package and they would pay for it separately.
Things weren’t as simple as I had expected. We had to travel the length and breadth of the United Kingdom to work with each and every one of the candidates who had engaged our services. Not one of them was prepared to come down to London given that the clock was ticking and they were spending every minute doing the rounds of their constituencies, greeting their neighbors and promising to turn their towns and cities into paradises if they were elected.
Cathy’s presence was vital. As soon as a candidate saw her, he seemed to willingly accept all our recommendations. An attractive, well-dressed woman with such personality—she clearly knew what she was doing.
We had also hired a television crew and a radio crew who traveled with us and set up improvised studios wherever they could so that the candidates could receive special lessons in how to look at a camera and when to move their hands.
Janet would give them a talk, explaining all the academic theories on the subject. I realized that the candidates were benefiting from these sessions. They played at being actors for three or four days, which was the length of the little course. They let themselves be directed without resistance, eagerly accepting all our suggestions. “Your left side is your best side.” “You’ve got lovely hands—move them; emphasize your message with your hands.” “Always look for the red light below one of the cameras: that’s the one that’s on you.” “Never get angry, no matter what they ask you.” “Be gracious to your opponents. Don’t even think of showing your superiority.” These were some of the lines we would repeat to them, and, in addition, Cathy would advise them on how to consolidate their campaign messages, making them attractive to their potential voters. “Talk about what the people want to hear, not what you think is important.” “These are local elections; your constituents need you to guarantee that the pothole right outside their front door is going to disappear, not explain how to resolve the problems in the Middle East.”
Richard performed the role I had assigned him, advising some of the men on how to dress and even going with them to buy suitable clothes for their public appearances.
“Steer clear of brown. It’s not a flattering color. Go for blues and grays.” “If you want to be mayor of this town don’t wear a tie. You’re in the middle of the countryside and here a tie is considered over the top. Dress like you normally do.”
I found it amusing that they would pay us for these snippets of advice culled from a few manuals.
The candidates for both Labour and the Conservatives spread word of what we were doing with their colleagues and we signed several more contracts, which prevented me from having the time to respond to the endless calls from Roy Parker. He didn’t belong to any party and was desperate for us to take on his campaign. His calls to the office were constant, and Maggie was so fed up that she asked me to at least speak to him and tell him personally that we couldn’t take on his candidates.
“What do I need you for if I still have to waste my time on this hick?” I replied grumpily.
On Fridays we would return to London. We normally held a meeting in the afternoon to plan for the following week and review what we had done so far.
Normally there weren’t many people in the office, as the weekend is sacred for the British, although both Mark Scott and Denis Roth would sometimes surprise us by turning up in our meeting room to check on our progress. They didn’t want to lose their grip on the venture we’d embarked upon, however much their friends from the Labour and Conservative Parties congratulated them on our efficient services.
Denis would repeatedly tell us to tread carefully, as working for both parties was an extremely difficult undertaking.
One of those afternoons Maggie interrupted us just as we were finishing our regular meeting.
“Mr. Parker would like to see you,” she announced, holding back her laughter.
“He doesn’t have an appointment.”
“No, he doesn’t, but it turns out he’s come to London, and he says
he won’t leave without seeing you. You tell me what I should say to him.”
“Tell him to go. I don’t see anybody without an appointment.”
The door opened and on the threshold appeared the figure of a tall, stocky man with ginger hair and shockingly intense blue eyes. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his large worker’s hands. At first he looked at us angrily, then he took a deep breath and began to speak.
“I apologize for interrupting you, but I’ve been trying to speak with you for two months, Mr. Spencer, and yet it seems that you’ve been unable to find the right moment to get to the telephone. Well, here I am, so let’s talk. Is this your team? It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Roy Parker.”
To our astonishment, he went around shaking hands with each of us. His large hand enveloped each of ours, squeezing them in such a way that there was no way of disengaging until he decided to let go.
“Mr. Parker, I’m sorry I’ve been unable to respond to your calls, but we are very busy and, as my secretary has already told you, we don’t have time to take on your campaign.”
I gave it to him straight in the hope that he would leave me alone. But it was foolishness on my part to expect something like that. Roy Parker had turned up in London because he was one of those men who won’t take no for an answer.
“We’ll talk, Mr. Spencer, and after we’ve talked, then you can decide what to do. Do you keep secrets from your team? If not, I’ll explain what I want in front of them,” he said with such firmness that he completely threw me.
“We’ve already finished our meeting. Guys, we’ll see each other Monday at the station,” I told my team, adding, “I’ve got a few minutes to spare, but I’ve got plans and I need to get going.”
Maggie looked at me, waiting for me to tell her she needn’t stay in the office. It was Friday and she wanted to go home. I nodded that she should go, although I regretted it. That man was making me feel quite disconcerted and it suddenly struck me that it wasn’t a good idea for me to be alone with him in the office.
“Well then, Mr. Parker?”
Story of a Sociopath Page 19
