by Julie Caplin
Oh hell. No wonder the other agencies had fallen out with him. I knew from past experience that it was hard enough persuading journalists to turn up to things in London for one evening, let alone commit to a five-day trip abroad. If I managed this, it’d be a miracle. What had I done?
Chapter 4
You lucky cow. Connie’s message popped up as I was putting the finishing touches to a press list, a week later. I scribbled a few more notes before picking up my phone to text back.
I’ll bring you back some Lego.
Or you could take me too. I could pretend to be the Gazette’s travel correspondent. Who’d know?
If I get really desperate I’ll let you know.
I was still buzzing from exceeding everyone’s expectations and winning the pitch. Now all I had to do was find six journalists to go on the trip. Easier said than done. I got full honours mentions in the despatches at the Friday meeting and this time I did practise my modest, shucks-it-was-no-big-thing, Oscar winner’s acceptance look - with an additional helping of take that Josh Delaney.
The bastard gave me a mocking salute of well done. It might even have been touched with reluctant admiration. Although he got his own back in our very first meeting with Lars after I’d won the business. When I’d run through the proposed list of journalists for the trip, he just had to say something. He couldn’t resist showing off his knowledge. ‘Have you thought about approaching the Sunday Inquirer, Kate? They have double circulation of the Courier. Benedict Johnson is the new lifestyle editor there.’
Normally correspondents move from paper to paper, magazine to magazine and I would have come across them before. This guy’s name didn’t ring any bells. Trust bloody Josh to be one step ahead.
‘I’ll speak to him and see what he says,’ I said with a gracious smile at Josh. Still up to his rat-weasel tricks then.
‘Can I speak to Benedict Johnson, please?’ I’d put on my best friendly, perky voice.
‘Speaking.’ He sounded a little terse but it was difficult to tell in one word.
‘Hi, I’m Kate Sinclair from The Machin Agency. I’m–’
‘You’ve got five seconds.’ No mistaking the cynical hostility in those words.
‘Pardon.’ Shocked, I couldn’t quite believe that he’d said that.
‘Four.’
What I should have done was tell him to go do something anatomically impossible, but I was so taken aback and flustered, I went for the four second pitch.
‘I’m calling to find out if you’d be interested in coming on a press trip to Copenhagen to find out why the Danish have been cited as the happiest nation in the world. It would be a week-long trip that would take in a variety of destinations as well as a visit to the Danish Institute of Happiness.’
‘No.’ And then he put the phone down on me. I took the hand-piece away from my ear and looked at it disbelievingly. Rude sod.
I slammed the phone down. What an arrogant prick. Who the hell did he think he was? Where did he get off being so rude to people?
I redialled his number.
‘Are you always this rude?’ I asked.
‘No only to PR people, people offering to reclaim my PPI and timewasters. You’re all inter-changeable.’
‘And you’re not even prepared to think about it. You don’t know who I’m working for.’
‘No. And I couldn’t give a toss, even if it’s the Crown Prince of Denmark himself.’
When someone is so rude to you, it’s actually wonderfully liberating because you can be rude back to them.
‘Are you always this narrow-minded?’
‘How can I be narrow-minded? I’m a journalist.’
‘You seem it to me.’
‘What – because I don’t write PR puff articles or promotional pieces?’
‘I’m not asking you to write a puff or a promotional piece. I’m offering you an opportunity to find out more about the Danish way of life and what we could learn from it.’
‘Which would of course just so happen to include writing about your client’s product.’
‘Yes, a lot of the time, but this is different.’
‘If I had a pound for every PR that told me that.’
‘Excuse me, I’m not a PR. It’s not even a thing. A public relation. My name is Kate and I’m doing a job the same as you are. If you’d give me the chance to explain instead of barking at me like a mad fox, you’d see my clients want to promote a concept rather than their specific store.’
‘Mad fox?’
I heard a strangled laugh.
‘I’ve not been called that before. Plenty of other things but definitely not mad fox.’
‘If you’re this direct I’m not surprised. Perhaps I should offer you a week at charm school,’ I said, starting to enjoy myself.
‘Do such things still exist? Now that might be an idea for a feature.’
‘Are you typing that into Google?’ I asked hearing the tell-tale click of keys.
‘Might be. Or I might be doing some work, which is what I’d planned to do until you interrupted me.’
‘Look, I’ve phoned you because I thought you’d be interested.’
‘You don’t even know me.’
‘I know the paper, the kind of features the lifestyle section has run before. This isn’t a product placement sell.’
‘Ah, so there is a product.’
I paused.
‘Ha! I knew it.’
‘It’s a new department store but it’s a concept.’
‘A concept, that sounds a bit wanky to me.’
I winced. When you put it into words, it did. When Lars spoke about it, it all made perfect sense.
‘It’s called Hjem. It will be opening later in the year, but the owners want to take a small select group to Copenhagen to explore the idea of hygge in more depth.’
‘Candles and blankets. Been done to death.’
‘That’s exactly it. You see you’ve dismissed it without understanding what it entails.’
‘I don’t need to understand anything. I’m not interested. Not now. Not ever.’
‘And you don’t think that attitude isn’t perhaps a tad narrow-minded.’
‘No, it’s called knowing your own mind and not being influenced.’
‘Could I at least email you some more information and a copy of the itinerary?’
‘Nope.’
‘You won’t even look at one little email?’
‘Do you know how many emails I get every day from PR people?’ He spat the P out and groaned the R.
‘You’re really grumpy aren’t you?’
‘Yes, because I get bloody people like you pestering me constantly.’
‘I think you could do with a trip to Denmark; you might learn a thing or two.’
There was a pause and I waited, bracing myself for him to slam the phone down on me again. Instead I heard grudging amusement in his voice as he said, ‘Do you ever give up?’
‘Not if it’s something I believe in,’ I said playing semantics with the truth. I believed in Lars’ vision and what he wanted to achieve. But if I were being totally honest I’d probably side with him in the ‘when did a blanket and candle combo solve a problem’ camp.
‘Sorry, I’m still not biting, but nice to talk to you, Kate, whatever your name is. You’ve enlivened an otherwise dull afternoon.’
‘Glad to be of service,’ I said crisply, looking down at the stop watch app on my phone. ‘And this time you gave me two minutes and four seconds of your time. You might want to rethink the five second strategy.’
He began to laugh. ‘For a PR, Kate Sinclair, you’ve grown on me.’
‘Shame it’s not mutual,’ I said sweetly, putting down the phone.
I crossed him off the list and decided to try the other journalists on our list, hoping they’d be more receptive to a trip to Copenhagen than Benedict ‘Mad Fox’ Johnson. ‘Sounds lovely darling,’ said the lifestyle editor on the Courier, ‘but I’ve been offered a pres
s trip to Doncaster. Who’d have thought Doncaster or Denmark?’
‘Surely I can persuade you to come to Copenhagen.’
‘Sadly sweetie, you could persuade me all too easily. Problem is the person you have to persuade is She Who Must Be Obeyed, the old harridan in charge of advertising revenue. A man with lots of cash and a whopping advertising budget is paying for the press trip up north. Unless you can promise her that your client has an ad spend, I’m destined for the frozen north.’
Luckily after many, many emails, back and forth, Fiona Hanning a lifestyle blogger, Avril Baines-Hamilton from This Morning and David Ruddings of the Evening Standard all said yes, much to my relief. Conrad Fletcher somewhat to my surprise, being a cynical old devil, and a very old school glossy interiors magazine journalist said, ‘Why not? Haven’t been to Copenhagen in an age and the old expense budget could do with an outing. Christ, you wouldn’t believe how tight they are these days.’
‘That’s probably because you keep ordering three hundred pound bottles of wine at lunch on expenses,’ I teased. He referred to the rather fabulously over the top restaurant very near to the magazine offices where he worked, as his HQ. I’d enjoyed several lunches there with him. He wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea but I found him good company and his knowledge of the interiors industry was encyclopaedic as was his endless fund of gossipy stories about many of the people in the field.
‘You know me so well, Kate dear.’
I saved Sophie from CityZen for last, confident she’d be an easy nut to crack. She was a friend of Connie’s from university and I’d met her a couple of times and liked her a lot. I gave my watch a quick glance as I picked up the phone. Just enough time before I had to dash home and get ready for the awards do this evening. Now I was going on my own it was imperative Josh knew what he was missing.
‘Hi Sophie, its Kate Sinclair, I’m looking for a journalist who might be interested in coming along on a press trip to Copenhagen.’
‘Ooooh, pick me, pick me.’
‘Oh, alright then.’
There was a stunned silence.
‘Really? You’re inviting me?’
‘Yup. A week in wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen.’
Sophie made a funny sort of noise, an office friendly suppressed squeal before saying, ‘Hmm, I’ll have to think about that … for about a nano second.’ There was another funny squeak. ‘Eek. Yes. Yes. I’m in! How lovely. It will be so great.’ Her words bubbled out.
‘I haven’t even sent you an itinerary yet.’ I laughed. ‘What if it’s a tour of the local coal mine, steel works and plastics factory?’
‘Who cares? There’ll be food. That’s all I need. Oh, how exciting.’
‘I’ll email you some more details.’
‘I can’t wait. I’ve never been to Scandinavia. I’m going to have to buy one of those duvet padded coats, like they all wear. With white fur round the hood. And some thermal gloves.’
‘Er Sophie, the trip’s at the end of April, it’s going to be a bit warmer then. I think you can put Barbie’s arctic exploration outfit back in the wardrobe.
‘Talking of which, I need to go and nick a dress out of Connie’s wardrobe.’
‘How is she and where are you off to?’
‘She’s fine. Still knee deep in children at work. And I’m off to the National Newspaper Circulation Awards.’
‘That sounds deadly, apart from free booze.’
‘It’s at Grosvenor House and dinner is included.’
‘Get you.’
‘Only because the company has sponsored an award. We’ve got a table. Unfortunately my ex will be there.’
‘Oh, bad luck.’
‘Yes, although Connie did offer to fix me up with one of her teacher colleagues.’
‘That was nice of her.’
‘His name was Crispin,’ I said indignantly.
‘Oh, is that a problem?’
‘I’m not sure I could take anyone called Crispin that seriously. It sounds like a small horse to me.’
Sophie giggled. ‘You can’t dislike someone just because of their name.’
‘True, although I spoke to a Benedict today and I’d have thought a Benedict would be a hottie.’
‘Not Cumberbatch?’
‘No, this one wasn’t nice at all. But thankfully he doesn’t want to come on the trip, so I won’t ever have to find out.’
Chapter 5
Pulling up outside the hotel where the awards were taking place, and having the top-hatted concierge open the door I felt a bit of a fraud in my borrowed dress. One of the poshest hotels in London, it was a long way from the budget hotel in Hemel where I’d been a chambermaid in the student holidays. Men in smart dinner suits with elegantly attired women were milling around the entrance to the ballroom.
Thanks to Connie’s make-up, my eyes were now a smoky grey, with a lot more eyeliner and shading than I’d have dared and her dress was fabulous.
Only she could pick up a Vera Wang bridesmaid’s dress in a charity shop when she was looking for costumes for the school. The simple stylish unembellished design was one of those that looked nothing on the hanger, sleeveless with a stark boat neck but when you put it on the heavy satin slithered into place wrapping itself around your upper body down over your hips while the skirt swished sinuously like waves frothing around your feet. Dead simple except for one killer feature, the low back which dropped in sinuous folds to just below the waist. It required a very careful choice of underwear.
I smoothed my fingers down the silky fabric with a smile as I stepped out of the cab, marvelling at how close it had come to being cut up for the three kings’ cloaks for the Ashton Lynne Primary School nativity last year.
As I tripped down the steps holding Connie’s silver beaded clutch, a couple of heads turned which was rather nice.
Thankfully our party was already gathered in one corner of the bar around a table with a champagne bucket and several glasses, one of which had my name on it. As I approached, the first person I saw was Josh, handsome in his dinner suit, reminding me very briefly of what I’d seen in him.
He gave me a slow smile and I saw the spark of interest in his eye. ‘Wow, you look–’
‘Thank you,’ I said primly cutting him off quickly. ‘Have you seen Megan? Is she here yet?’
‘Yes,’ he gave a rueful smile. ‘You’re not going to forgive me, are you?’
‘Nothing to forgive.’ I smiled and turned to walk away to check the table plan to his right.
He caught my arm. ‘Kate, you’re being pig-headed about this. We can still be friends.’
I shook him off. ‘I don’t think so. Work is the most important thing in my life right now. I’m not letting you or anything else get in the way again.’ I spotted Megan with a couple of other people from work and edged my way through the crowd towards her.
‘Kate, hello. Would you like a glass of fizz? And this is Andrew.’ She introduced the short bald man at her side.
Before I could say hello, she’d thrust a full glass into my hand. ‘He’s on our table.’
Which was short-hand for play nice, he’s one of the agency guests on the table the company had paid a lot of money to sponsor.
‘He works for the Inquirer,’ she said a tad too enthusiastically. ‘Sorry I forgot, what is it you do?’
Andrew turned and thrust a small sweaty paw my way. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he brayed, his tone so rich and plummy he was almost a caricature. ‘Andrew Dawkins. Sales Manager. The Sunday Inquirer. And you are?’
‘Kate. I work with Megan at the Machin Agency.’
‘Another PR?’ He literally shouted the words, his mouth wrinkling in a subtle, ‘well you’re no bloody use to me’ expression, but he bore his disappointment well, with consummate good manners. ‘And how long have you worked there?’
‘Five years.’
‘Time to move on then,’ advised Andrew, waving his glass at me. ‘Keep moving. That’s my motto. Never stay anywhere for lon
ger than two years.’ With a burst of laughter, he added, ‘Otherwise you get found out. That’s how I got to be Sales Manager.
‘All about networking, y’know. Getting to know the right people. I could introduce you to a few people. Agency bosses.’ He slipped his arm through mine, terribly chummy and enthusiastic, so that it was hard to decide whether the graze of his hand on the far edge of my breast was inadvertent or not.
I took a good slug of champagne and moved out of range so there’d been no room for doubt again.
‘You work at the Inquirer, do you know Benedict Johnson?’
Disgust wreathed his shiny forehead. ‘I meant proper contacts, not hacks. I could give your career a serious boost,’ he boasted and gestured with his glass towards a series of men picking them off like target practice. ‘CEO, Magna Group, Finance Officer, Workwell Industries. Name someone you want to meet.’
‘I’m fine thanks.’
‘So why do you want to meet Johnson?’
‘I don’t want to meet him, I’m curious about him.’
‘Fancy him, do you?’
‘No,’ I gave him a disdainful look his comment deserved. ‘I’ve never met him.’ I frowned remembering our conversation. ‘I had words with him earlier today. He’s quite hostile to PR people.’
‘That’s because he thinks himself a serious journalist. Or at least he was.’ Andrew’s smile was malicious. ‘Got booted off the business desk. Too good for lifestyle or so he thinks.’ His eyes sparkled with malevolent glee.
‘I er …’ I felt almost sorry for Benedict Johnson.
Andrew smiled. ‘How the mighty are fallen. He’s one of them. Your typical serious journalist. They all think they’re God’s gift and about to uncover the next Watergate. What they don’t realise is without,’ he rubbed his fingers and thumbs together, ‘advertising revenue they wouldn’t have a job. So what do you want with him?’
‘I invited him on a press trip. He didn’t fancy it.’
‘I’d go on a press trip with you.’
‘That’s kind but I’m not sure the client would buy it.’
‘Who’s the client?’
‘A new Danish department store opening in London. We’re taking a small group of press to Copenhagen.’
