Bad Influence

by Desmond Harding

  He looked at a piece of paper. “The Fairfax Room at the Regent Hotel.”

  “Don’t forget.”

  Andrew had kept people enthralled with his mimicry at the last Kelloway and Bains Christmas party. All he had to do, he said, was picture the person in his mind, and out came a perfect impersonation.

  “Time it right and it should come through as I’m speaking,”

  “Why?”

  “A little extra insurance. Something Annabel found out.”

  *

  “They’re late,” Norsteadt said. He poured himself another cup of coffee. He hated wasting time.

  “I checked with their office and they left ages ago,” Culpin said.

  Like Bonnie, Culpin had done his homework and prepared a report on each of the companies they were seeing. While they waited, Norsteadt and Nigel Waugh, Norton-Hunter’s finance director, looked at Culpin’s notes.

  There was a print-out of a story from the Daily Express social diary, picturing Bonnie at the wedding of the son of a senior Cabinet minister. One paragraph had been highlighted. “Among the guests was Bonnie Kelloway who at 35 now appears to wield an almost unprecedented degree of power-behind-scenes influence in the corridors of power.”

  Before Norsteadt could read any more, Culpin bustled in and said, “They’re here. Seems they were stuck in the Euston underpass.”

  As the door opened and closed, Bonnie caught sight of the men she had to impress. They looked tired after the two previous presentations.

  Outside, Will started feverishly unpacking the laptop. “No,” Bonnie said. “We’ll do without all that PowerPoint stuff.”

  “Is that a good idea?” Finian asked.

  “Absolutely,” Bonnie said. “And put these in your case,” she said, handing her prompt cards back to Will.

  Bonnie was about to lead them in when she stopped and turned to Finian. “In the world of newspapers you may have been a hot shot, but here, I’m the expert.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Keep your mouth shut,” The prospect of not having to be involved in this circus didn’t upset Finian.

  The four entered to a stony silence. Bonnie quickly studied Norsteadt. He looked well-scrubbed. So clean, in fact, she was sure that if she got close enough to smell him, he would have no scent at all.

  Norsteadt looked at his watch, pointedly. “How would you like to begin?”

  Bonnie thought for a moment. “On my knees,” she suggested. For a second there was silence and then Norsteadt burst out laughing.

  Got ’em, Bonnie thought.

  “Would you like time to set up your PowerPoint presentation?” Norsteadt asked.

  “Not using one.”

  “Thank God for that,” Norsteadt said. He slumped back in his chair relieved. Bonnie had always been skilled at picking up the mood of a meeting.

  She paced up and down in front of the three men, giving the impression that she was marshalling her thoughts. She knew what she was going to say. It was a speech she had made many times before.

  “I want to talk about your company’s most important asset.” She paused for effect. Bonnie could see that she had already caught their curiosity. “Your reputation is what I’m talking about. It can take an age to forge, but just a few seconds to wreck.”

  The three men nodded as she took a drink from a nearby glass of water. “Putting it another way, public relations is about avoiding “foot in the mouth disease”. Norsteadt laughed again.

  Bonnie was about to move onto her favourite PR joke when the phone in the corner rang. She stopped while Culpin answered. She knew what it was.

  “We’re in a meeting... Sorry... Who wants to speak to her?... Of course.” Culpin held the receiver to Bonnie. “It’s the Palace.” Bonnie pretended not to hear. “They want to speak to you,” Norsteadt and Culpin exchanged looks.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said with her hand over the mouthpiece.

  “Yes, sir... Certainly, Your Royal Highness... I wouldn’t worry too much about that. I’ll speak to the editor on your behalf... Of course... You’re welcome, sir. Good day.”

  Norsteadt was intrigued. It was Annabel who had discovered that Norsteadt was an out-and-out royalist.

  *

  For the next ten minutes, Norsteadt found it impossible to concentrate on Bonnie’s words as his attention came and went.

  “We would recommend a publicity master plan that targets newspapers, magazines, television and radio to place key stories...” And when she got to speak about social media – well, all her words were lost.

  The same thing happened when Bonnie described the value of attitudinal research; and the right and wrong way to influence Westminster and Whitehall. So taken was he with the idea of a call from Buckingham Palace that Norsteadt only caught half the benefits of good relations with shareholders and stockbroker analysts. And the good that could come from a credible and consistent communications programme with his staff was totally lost.

  Nigel Waugh, on the other hand, was down to earth and unimpressed. Like most finance directors, Waugh never liked spending money, even when it wasn’t his own, and he was opposed to the idea of paying out “heavens knows what on a fancy West End consultancy”.

  Slapping him down was going to be a pleasure, Bonnie thought. “Research proves that an editorial is read more than twice as much as an advert... and is believed ten times as much. Because it can’t be bought, media coverage is literally priceless.”

  Even Finian had to admire Bonnie.

  “Got you there, Nigel.” Norsteadt chuckled.

  “Surely, as the finance director, you’ll appreciate the fact that public relations is as effective as advertising at a fraction of the cost.”

  Norsteadt looked away to hide his grin. He liked anybody who could put Waugh in his place.

  Culpin was anxious to join the battle. The arrival of an external consultancy would undermine his position. He raised his pencil, as if asking Norsteadt permission to speak. Norsteadt said, “Go ahead.”

  “What experience do you have in the pharmaceutical industry?” Culpin asked, knowing the answer already.

  “Right now, none.” The three men seemed surprised at Bonnie’s honesty. “We’re here today because of our expertise as communicators... not scientists.”

  “But...” Culpin tried to say.

  “Let me finish. Good PR people are like barristers. They can take an instant brief. Our learning curve is very short, and in no time at all we will be able to hold our own with any expert.”

  When given the choice, Bonnie always opted to present last to a prospective client. The most recent image in the company’s mind was always the strongest, she believed.

  There was another reason. While the first two consultancies had spent no more than forty-five minutes with the Norton-Hunter people, the Kelloway and Bains team were there for nearly two hours. By the end, Bonnie had skilfully turned the presentation into a conversation between herself and Norsteadt.

  The Fairfax Room had been booked until mid-afternoon and it was now time to leave. Slowly, Bonnie edged Norsteadt away from the rest of the group towards a separate bank of lifts.

  As they waited, Norsteadt said, “I never realised...”

  “What?” But she knew exactly what he meant.

  “You know... the Palace... your links there.”

  “I help out where I can. But I’m sure you’ll understand, I can’t really talk about it.”

  Norsteadt gave an understanding nod.

  There was a “ping” and Bonnie led Norsteadt to the empty lift. She quickly pressed the button to close the door.

  Culpin, who had been talking to Waugh and Finian, saw Norsteadt and Bonnie disappear. He rushed to catch the lift, and rammed his foot between the closing doors. As he entered, Bonnie glared at him furiously.

  Outside, Norsteadt asked Culpin, “What was behind that performance of yours at the lift?”

  “My job is to protect you and your reputation, just as Miss Kello
way said.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Miss Kelloway is not the only person to do research. I learnt the other day that senior managers at SunGold are forbidden to travel alone with her in lifts.”

  “Explain.”

  “How do you think she won their margarine account in the first place?” Culpin said. “Some even insist on keeping their office doors open when she visits.”

  “Really?” Norsteadt said, as he watched their car drive away.

  “They’re all the same, PR agency women. Either dragons in armour-plated knickers or airheads. Bram, they’ll promise anything to get the account and then deliver sod all.”

  “You wouldn’t be just a little prejudiced?”

  In the car Bonnie thought a lot about Bram Norsteadt. This was surprising, as he was not the most impressive industrialist she had ever met. All the same, there was something.

  *

  When the three arrived back, Nathan was excited. Bonnie thought he wanted to hear how they had done. She was about to relive the presentation, when he grabbed Finian’s hand and shook it hard.

  “Congratulations, Finn.”

  “For what?” he asked.

  “You know the managing director of Kingsworth Engineering?”

  “Yeah, I had lunch with him two weeks ago. I’d written a lot of stories on his company.”

  “He phoned this morning. Apparently, he liked what you said and wants you to handle his PR.”

  “What?”

  “Finn, this is your first account win. Well done.”

  “What’s the fee?” Bonnie asked.

  “Fifteen thousand,” Nathan said.

  “Is that all?”

  “Finn’s been here one day. It took you more than a year to bring in your first piece of business.”

  *

  As Bonnie sat in her office cursing the arrival of Finian, her sister-in-law and widow of her late brother, Robert, phoned with the first piece of good news she’d had that day.

  Eight

  Norsteadt handed the folder of newspaper cuttings back to Culpin. “It seems Bonnie Kelloway was right. We can’t handle our own publicity.”

  Shamefaced, Culpin remained silent.

  Almost every national newspaper and many of the regional dailies carried the story. Cook’s union had called for the closure of a Norton-Hunter manufacturing plant until the mysterious virus that had made two of the company’s workers ill, was identified.

  “They’ve got a quote from Kegworth, the local MP, saying he’ll raise the matter in the House of Commons.”

  “I’m sure it’ll blow over,” said Culpin, hopefully.

  “Bollocks. It’s more likely to blow up... right in our faces.” Norsteadt reached for a phone and dialled. “Miss Kelloway... Bram Norsteadt. I have some good news for you,” he said.

  *

  Bonnie whooped with delight. She ran to where the majority of the consultants sat, and grabbed the old taxi horn from its hook. She moved to the middle of the floor, honking hard. Other executives on the floor picked up the rhythm and banged their desks with the flats of their hands, newspapers or magazines, or anything else they could find. Will even took off his shoe and used that.

  The sound of the beating reached Finian and Beatrice. “Looks like Bonnie’s bagged another one.”

  “Another what?”

  “New client. There’ll be buckets of fizz all round tonight at the Piccadilly Hotel.”

  *

  The day was turning out better and better. Back in her office, Bonnie got down to work. From one drawer she took a large yellow legal pad and from another a dozen freshly sharpened pencils. Like Nathan, she too liked to write her first draft in longhand.

  In front of her, Bonnie placed what she regarded as her most important piece of equipment: a large clock. It had a single sweep-hand, like a massive stopwatch, which calculated the elapsed time and how much money she had earned for Kelloway and Bains while working for a client. At five hundred pounds an hour, she didn’t want to miss a single drop.

  Bonnie tapped a lever on the side of the clock to set it running. “Never knowingly undercharge.”

  Across the top of the pad she wrote “Norton-Hunter’ and then drew a line down the centre of the page, dividing it into two. At the top of the first column she wrote, “The Unions and What to Do with Them”.

  At the top of the second, she wrote, “Bram Norsteadt – What Does He Want?”. She followed it with a row of question marks. Bonnie knew that once she answered the question, she would have found the way to his heart and the password to the Norton-Hunter bank account. Offer to meet his most secret desire and Norsteadt would be hers.

  *

  It was Finian’s first board meeting and his father explained what would happen. Nathan took his usual place at the head of the table. Finian was about to sit in the one remaining seat – between Kit Thayer and Alex Hanborough – when Bonnie interrupted.

  “I know I’m being pedantic, Mr Chairman, but I think Finn should leave. He hasn’t been voted on to the board yet.”

  “That’s just a formality,” Nathan protested.

  “It’s okay, Dad, I’ll wait outside.”

  “Close the door on the way out please,” Bonnie said. “This is a private meeting.” Finian left and Bonnie said, “Thank you.”

  “Let’s cut short this childish nonsense,” Nathan said. “Those in favour of Finian Kelloway being elected to the board, raise your hands.”

  “I’m sorry, but I must object,” Bonnie said. From her papers she took the Kelloway and Bains Articles of Association that she had forced from Hollis Dorkley. It had made excellent bedtime reading. “I must remind the board of the three-quarters rule.”

  “What the hell’s that?” Pete Sinclair asked.

  “If there is opposition to a new board member, there must be a seventy-five per cent vote in favour.”

  “Is there opposition?” Nathan asked.

  “Yes. From me.”

  “On what grounds?” Nathan insisted.

  “I don’t have to reveal that.”

  “Very well. I still think that three-quarters of us around this table will accept Finn.”

  “No,” Bonnie said. “The articles specifically state it is seventy-five per cent of the shares.”

  “In that case,” Nathan said, “I can vote my forty-eight per cent now. I’ll need time to gather the remaining...”

  “And now – I’ll vote my fifty-two per cent.”

  The silence that descended on the meeting was eventually broken by Nathan. “My, my, you have been a busy little girl.”

  He slumped down in his chair.

  “The next item of business concerns you, Mr Chairman. To avoid embarrassment, we would like you to leave the room.”

  Nathan emerged from the boardroom. Finian was sitting in a chair in the corridor. When he saw his father, he jumped to his feet.

  “Not yet, Finn. I think there’s been a change of plan.”

  *

  Half an hour later, Nathan was called back.

  “The board wants you to resign,” Bonnie said.

  “The hell I will.”

  “If you don’t, I’ll force you out. That’ll be a sad end to a distinguished career.”

  “Go ahead and sack me. The consequences will be on your head.”

  He looked at each of the directors in turn.

  “Nathan. We voted against the idea,” said Hanborough. Nathan believed him.

  Kit Thayer was almost in tears. “This is corporate murder.”

  “What about you?” he asked the three non-executives directors.

  “We think Bonnie deserves a chance,” Stoppard said.

  “On your way out, ask Finian to come in.”

  “Not Finn. You’ll wreck his life.” He stared at her hard. “I don’t know you anymore.”

  “Finian please.”

  It was all very clear in Bonnie’s mind and should have come as no surprise to Nathan. Was it not from watching
how a father treated a mother that daughters learned how to behave towards men – all men?

  Finian had no idea what to expect. Corporate in-fighting was foreign to him. He had often written about boardroom blood-letting but had never experienced it first hand – till then.

  Finian crossed to a seat.

  “That isn’t necessary. We won’t keep you that long.”

  Finian held on to the back of a chair for support.

  In her iciest tone, Bonnie brought Finian’s career with Kelloway and Bains to an abrupt halt. “There’s been a change of strategy in the company. The new scheme of things means there is no longer any room for you.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s the chop,” Thayer said in disgust.

  Hanborough added, “Paraphrasing Shakespeare, the fault dear Brutus lies not in the stars, but in office politics.”

  “Of course, you will be paid for the remainder of your contract,” Bonnie said. “You do have a contract with us?”

  “Yes.” Finian’s voice was shaking.

  “Just checking.”

  “What does Nat say about this?”

  “Our father is no longer chairman of this company. I am.”

  Finian emerged from the room shaken. He found Nathan on the phone. Bearing in mind what had just happened, he seemed relaxed.

  “George. Just called to say goodbye.” He explained what had happened. “Win some, lose some... sorry. Can’t say who will be handling your company’s work in the future.” He hung up. “That’s everybody I think.”

  He picked up the receiver again. “No. One last call, Finn and then we’ll go for a drink,” he said.

  “Hello PR Times... news editor please...”

  Nathan and Finian walked around the corner to their local pub. “What were all those calls about?” Finian asked.

  “Just a little bit of misinformation to get Bonnie worried,” Nathan said. “Now we stand back and wait for things to develop.”

  “Like what?”

  Nathan put a silencing finger to his lips.

  *

  Bonnie perched herself on Annabel’s desk. She had just returned from lunch. The phone rang. “Tell them I’m not here,” she said.

  Annabel picked up the phone and listened. “I’ll see if she’s back.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and Bonnie frowned.