Finian shuffled the photographs again.
“Don’t let his appearance deceive you,” Cook said.
Ashlin took Finian to the far end of his office. “To be honest, we need this campaign – as much for ourselves, as for the families. It will give us a reason for unity,” he said.
Finian knew that trades unions had been fighting falling membership for decades. Since their heyday in the 1970s, membership had more than halved.
Ashlin interrupted his thoughts. “It will give us a cause to show the rest of the employers they can’t get away with unsafe working conditions.”
Paula Getz took Finian’s hand. “You know Norton-Hunter and Norsteadt have to be stopped before others die.”
Paula’s daughter stood by her side. Finian looked at Vivian’s red eyes. He could never refuse a woman. Particularly one who had just been crying and was only ten years old. “I’ll do it,” he said.
Paula whispered something to Vivian. Her daughter got up and kissed Finian tenderly on the cheek.
“This won’t be easy,” Finian told Ashlin and Cook. “We’ll have to find new ways of fighting. It’ll be different for all of us.”
“Finn, we know this will be expensive, but the money will be there. We have an understanding bank.”
“One last thing,” Finian said. “This’ll be guerrilla warfare. The union will have to move into the twenty-first century and employ the same tricks the company will use against you.”
Twelve
Dr Giles Denny sat with his head in his hands. Norsteadt had heard about men going to pieces, but had never actually seen it happen. Until now.
“What will we do?”
“Go home. And don’t come back till you can control yourself.”
“But two men have died because of us.”
“There’s no way either the union or their families can connect us to the deaths – so long as you keep your nerve.”
“I’m supposed to be a scientist dedicated to saving life – not destroying it.”
“For God’s sake, pull yourself together.”
“But...”
“Continue like this and you’ll lose not only your life’s work, but your liberty as well.”
Denny looked at Norsteadt in horror.
“That’s right.”
“Oh no.”
“Bonnie Kelloway is coming in a few minutes and I don’t want her to see you like this. Go home.”
*
“If you’re serious about becoming famous, you’ve got to put yourself in my hands... totally,” Bonnie said. She looked out from her car as it cut through the London traffic.
Norsteadt leant across to her. He was intrigued.
“Before you can be the part, you have to first look the part.”
“What do you mean?”
“Seventy per cent of the impression we make with anybody comes from the way we look. Twenty per cent from how we say things. And just ten per cent is based on what we actually say.”
“Smoke and mirrors.”
“Maybe, but it’s true,” Bonnie said.
The car glided down Park Lane, swung around Hyde Park Corner and slipped along Piccadilly.
“British businessmen are slobs. But I’m going to change that... for at least one of them,” she said. “You ready?”
First stop was Gilbourne and Cutter. From a small mews workshop behind Savile Row, “Gillies” as they were known, made some of the finest clothes in the country.
“Start with five suits,” Bonnie said. “Wear them for one day and let them rest for the remainder of the week.”
As she flipped through pattern books, Norsteadt remained silent. He and Monty Train, the “meeter and greeter” at Gillies, exchanged knowing looks.
“Bram, the idea is to go for style – not fashion. These suits will never date,” Bonnie told him.
For all his success, Norsteadt had never had a suit made for him before.
“These,” she said. Bonnie chose three fabrics – a plain dark blue medium weight worsted, a plain medium grey and a classic City pin-stripe.
“Why not one of these?” Norsteadt showed her cloth with a mixture of light blue and red striping.
After the merest look she said, “Can’t call that classic. The stripes are not white and the distance between them is wrong.”
Norsteadt showed her another example of suiting that caught his eye.
“Wear brown in London and I’ll shoot you. You’re supposed to be a captain of industry – not the skipper of a paddle boat out of Southend
Jermyn Street was the only place for shirts, Bonnie told Norsteadt. From New & Lingwood she ordered ten plain white shirts, five light blue and five of their famous Bengal stripe.
“See how you go with these before we allow you out in pink.” She looked at him for a moment. “By the way, burn all those short-sleeved things of yours.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Makes you look like an airline pilot.” Norsteadt fingered the one he was wearing. “They’re plastic,” she said.
“Polycotton.”
“Same thing,” Bonnie said. “From now on, pure cotton.”
Next came ties. Bonnie told Norsteadt they should be nothing but plain or patterned silk. “In fact, a gentleman never wears any artificial fibres,” she added.
“How long is it going to take to remember all this?” Norsteadt asked.
“Depends on how hard you work,” she said. “The idea is that people notice you, not your clothes.”
Bonnie then revealed what she called the secret of perfect style – “two plains and one fancy’.
“What’s that?”
“There are three parts to a man’s appearance. Suit, shirt and tie. Only one of them should be fancy,” she said. “If the suit is a pin-stripe then the other two should be plain. If the tie is patterned, choose a plain shirt and suit. Follow those rules and you’ll never go wrong.”
Norsteadt didn’t want to admit it, but he enjoyed being taken in hand.
As they were near Piccadilly, Bonnie decided to replace Norsteadt’s briefcase. “A good one is essential. We’ll go to Swaine, Adeney, Brigg and Sons.”
Norsteadt said he had always wanted one of those airline bags; a big leather square box that opened from the top.
“A briefcase is to establish your status. Not for carrying tons of files.”
Bonnie chose a simple, slim black model. The idea of something with raised stitching or corners covered with “silly brass bits” was out.
Shoes were most important, Bonnie told him. “Most people who know, judge others by what they have on their feet.”
Like the suits, Bonnie insisted Norsteadt bought a pair for each day of the working week – three brogues, a pair of tasselled slip-ons and a pair of regular loafers. All black.
“Socks should always be black and long enough to stop anyone showing a skinny white leg when he sits down.”
*
Many men concerned about their appearance became clients of Raoul. But few admitted it. His services were special.
First he photographed Norsteadt; both profiles – there was a difference he said – as well as full face. Within a few minutes that image appeared on a computer screen – minus his hair.
“Okay. This is what you look like now. Raoul touched a button on a keyboard and Norsteadt’s iron-grey thatch reappeared.
“Let’s part it the other side,” Bonnie said. Raoul touched the pad again. “See the difference?”
Norsteadt was amused, but what would his wife say when he went home with a new look?
“Try it shorter,” Bonnie wrinkled her face when the new image appeared.
“How about straight back?” Raoul asked. He hit different keys.
“That’s it,” Bonnie said.
“Do you want to try a change of colour?” Raoul pressed another series of buttons and Norsteadt’s hair colouring went rapidly from ginger to blond and then black.
“No. Leave it as it i
s.”
Raoul pressed another key on the pad and three pictures of Norsteadt – left and right profile and full face – hummed from a printer. All showing him with his new hairstyle.
“Clever, isn’t it?” Bonnie said. “It means you can try any hairstyle and not have to wait for it to grow out if you make a mistake.”
Raoul called over Bruce, his chief stylist, and gave him the printout.
“This way, Mr Norsteadt,” he said.
*
Dr Hans Ketler watched Norsteadt closely. He had read the report once and was going over it again.
“It’s worth much more than I ever dreamed.”
“Surprising isn’t it?” Ketler was pleased with himself. Through his contacts he had managed to get an advance copy of a long-awaited study by Prince and McCorquodale, the international management consultants, into the future of biotechnology.
“Can this be right?” Norsteadt pointed to a figure.
“That’s what everybody is now saying.”
“In the next couple of years the worldwide healthcare biotech market will be worth close to nineteen and a half billion pounds.” He did a quick calculation. “That’s some thirty-five billion US dollars.” Norsteadt had difficulty believing the figures.
“Not bad, eh?” Ketler said.
“You were right to bring this to me,” Norsteadt said. “Has Giles seen it yet?”
“No. It won’t be made public for another ten days.”
“Good.” He buzzed his PA. “Get me Denny at Lycad.”
“Dr Denny is in the building and asking to see you sometime today,” she said.
“That’s convenient.” Ketler smiled smugly. “You’d better go. Don’t want you two bumping into each other.”
He looked at the numbers again. “We’ve got to have some of that,” he said and put Ketler’s report in a drawer.
*
By the third flight of stairs, Nathan was done in. He leaned against the wall, breathing hard. Stairs in Soho buildings should be no steeper than in other parts of London, but they felt a lot worse.
“Where are we going?”
“Not much further,” Finian said.
“Should have done this before lunch. Not after a big meal.”
“Keep climbing.” Finian was ten steps ahead of Nathan.
“What’s this all about?”
“You’ll see.”
Nathan came round a bend in the stairs and found Finian leaning on a door.
“Now what?” Nathan asked.
As if after an imaginary fanfare of trumpets Finian moved to one side. To reveal a freshly painted sign. It read: “TIME-PLAN PUBLIC RELATIONS”.
“Can’t be any good. Never heard of them.” The climb was playing havoc with Nathan’s good nature as well as his breathing.
“They’re new. Opened this morning with their first client.”
“And who runs it?”
“I do, Dad. I do.”
It took Nathan a few seconds to take in what Finian had said. “Oh my boy. My boy.” Nathan threw his arms around Finian. Finian returned the hug.
“I’ve got a six-month lease,” Finian said. He opened the door. “Come in. It’s not like Bonnie’s office, but at least it’s mine.”
There were two rooms, one for a PA – when he could afford it – and an office for himself. Both rooms were large enough to take two or three people in comfort and four or more if they didn’t mind being cosy.
“I know you’ll be a success.”
“It’ll pay the mortgage till I get back into newspapers.” Finian plugged in a kettle and set it to boil.
“Of course,” Nathan said. He had no intention of deflating Finian’s enthusiasm.
“Why don’t you join me here? It won’t be the same at Kelloway and Bains, but at least I won’t try to kick you out.”
“Bless you, but I’m too old. And your stairs are too steep.” They both laughed. “But I’ll make sure you don’t starve. That’s a promise.”
The kettle clicked off. “Coffee?” Finian said.
“You’re going to need someone to look after things when you’re not here.” Nathan took a sip from his cup and pulled a face. “And someone to make your coffee.”
“I can’t afford it.”
“Maybe not, but I can.” Nathan said. “Because of Bonnie, Wendy has had to go. She worked with me for years.”
“I couldn’t accept that.”
“You deserve it. After all, I’m responsible for what happened. I’ve got to put things right.”
*
At Norton-Hunter everyone was too polite to say anything about Norsteadt’s new hairstyle. But when he produced a pair of spectacles, Denny said, “I didn’t know you wore those.”
“My eyes have started to get tired.” Norsteadt’s eyesight was perfect, but Bonnie thought they would be a useful theatrical prop.
“Giles. I want to apologise for my attitude the other day. That sodding finance director had given me a hard time. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Denny was confused.
“Your request for further investment,” he explained.
“Oh.”
“I’ve thought some more and it occurred to me that we weren’t being fair,” Norsteadt said. He looked quickly at Denny. “I’ll raise it with the board, but I’m not certain how they’ll react.”
Denny frowned.
“You’ll have my support. The difficulty will be that creep Nigel Waugh. You know what money men are like.” Norsteadt pretended to think.
“You could have more equity. Say another five per cent.”
“That may forestall his objections... may not.”
“What else is there?”
“Knowing him, he’ll probably insist on an option on the rest of the shares.” Norsteadt made this sound as matter-of-fact as he could.
Denny looked worried. “How would that work?”
“Lots of young companies like yours agree to such a thing. It’s pretty standard. All it means is that if we ask for our money back and you can’t pay, control of the company comes to us.”
“I don’t know.”
“The only circumstance I could see that happening would be if we were strapped for cash,” Norsteadt said nonchalantly. Norton-Hunter had yearly sales of more than £10 billion and he hoped he made it sound as though their investment in Lycad was insignificant.
Norsteadt knew that Denny had no other option.
“If that’s what it takes...”
Thirteen
Bonnie arrived late at the restaurant, but she had a good excuse. Even before she sat down, she pushed a copy of the Morning Journal in front of Norsteadt. “Look at this.”
At the top of the business section was a profile of Bram Norsteadt. The headline read, “The Man to Watch”.
It was written by Oscar Mason, the reporter whose job Bonnie had saved by emailing one of Will’s articles when Oscar was too drunk to write. And the same Oscar Mason who had just been appointed business correspondent of the Morning Journal after the resignation of Finian Kelloway.
“I had to convince Mason there was a good story to tell.” All Bonnie really had to do was remind Mason of the debt he owed her – and come up with the usual payment. “But as you can see, we did it.”
Norsteadt read it eagerly. “This doesn’t look very good.” He pointed to a paragraph about his less than dynamic personality.
“You can never totally control reports,” she said. “Anyway, that’s all going to change.” He looked again at the headline. “You know what this is?” Norsteadt shook his head. “Your first step on the ladder to fame.”
“We should have dinner to celebrate.”
Bonnie looked around at the restaurant’s midday customers. “Lunch is business... but dinner is dangerous.”
*
Norsteadt had gone back to his office and Roger was collecting Bonnie’s car. She tapped Mason’s new number into her phone.
“First, thank you for that nice story
this morning.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Secondly, never again put one of your cheap comments into a piece about any of my clients.”
“Thought it made the story sound more balanced and impartial.”
“I don’t care,” she said. Bonnie saw her car round the corner at the end of the street. “You’ll get your payment in the usual way. Still at the same address?”
Roger pulled up to the kerb as Bonnie made another call. “Raymond, raise a cheque for a thousand pounds, payable to Oscar Mason. Put it down as freelance work on the Norton-Hunter account. His address is on file.”
“From the usual slush fund?” Raymond asked.
“I wish you wouldn’t call it that. It’s our insurance policy.”
*
The man was there again. The same one who had shown interest in Bonnie when she was with Elizabeth weeks before. He looked even better than she remembered. If Angela Nasco failed to turn up, the evening might not be totally wasted.
Two women walked into the bar and looked around. The first was Angela, who crossed immediately to Bonnie. The second went to where the man was sitting and kissed him politely on the cheek.
“Sorry we couldn’t meet till now but I’ve been so busy,” Bonnie said.
Angela and Bonnie were old friends. Both had joined Kelloway and Bains on the same day. While Bonnie had stayed put, Angela led the life of an industry vagabond, flitting from one PR consultancy to another.
As so many times before, Angela was between jobs. She had sent Bonnie her CV in the hope of landing something – anything. Bonnie said there was nothing at present but “let’s have a bottle of fizz together anyway.”
“Bonnie, love. You’re sure there’s not one little vacancy? Angela said after her second glass. “I’ve missed two months’ rent and I’m getting desperate.”
“How desperate?”
“My landlord and I no longer talk,” she said. “I’m willing to do anything.”
Bonnie cocked a questioning eyebrow. “Yes, even that,” Angela said. “But unfortunately he’s gay.”
“I could have a job with one of our subsidiary companies – DGS Communications.”
“Never heard of them.”
“That’s because they didn’t exist till a few moments ago.”
Bad Influence Page 8
