Bad Influence

by Desmond Harding

  *

  Bonnie had ordered a light lunch of salad followed by poached salmon. She wasn’t counting on being at the restaurant that long. Geraldine Christie followed her lead.

  Christie forked a piece of lettuce and waited to hear the reason why she had been invited to lunch.

  “I’m looking for speaking opportunities for Bram Norsteadt.” Christie shrugged. “He has some new things to say about the role of business and government.”

  “Why should that concern me?”

  “You’re organising a major conference for the Institute of British Employers, on the involvement of Whitehall in industry.”

  “So?”

  “I want you to find a spot for him.” Bonnie knew the conference would be well covered by television as well as the business press and would help get him even better known.

  “I know he’s making a name for himself, but I don’t think so.”

  “He won’t let you down.”

  “That’s not the point, There’s no space.”

  “If he’s not asked, there most certainly will be space.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Bonnie pushed her empty plate away. “Sir Richard Honour and Arthur Towers are two of your key speakers.”

  “Yes,” Christie said warily.

  “They’re also clients of mine. If you remember, it was me who put them in your programme... and it’ll be me who takes them out again.”

  “But there’s only a few days to go. I couldn’t get anybody at this late hour.”

  “I know – so make up your mind.”

  *

  Angelo Nasco sat calmly opposite Culpin. He shook his head and shuffled the papers on his desk some more.

  “I’ve asked you here, Angela, to... um... discuss... talk about your invoice.”

  “Is there something wrong?” she asked innocently.

  “Well... it’s a lot more than I... than we expected.”

  “Only what the job... and you... are worth.”

  “Again please?”

  “I’m sure Bram Norsteadt doesn’t pay you what you really merit.”

  That was certainly true. Almost every in-house company PR chief he knew was paid a lot more. He was also one of the very few who didn’t drive a company car. This had been a sore point with Culpin from his first day with Norton-Hunter.

  “Look at the way Bonnie Kelloway is wheedling her way in – constantly getting Norsteadt’s ear.”

  Culpin started to brood on how hard done by he was.

  “Just thought you might appreciate some way of getting your own back.”

  “You’re confusing me.”

  “A way of unofficially fining the company for what’s happened,” Angela suggested.

  Culpin thought some more.

  “You obviously don’t like the idea, so I’ve brought another invoice for the same amount – less your commission.” She placed it gently on his desk. “So if you would...”

  “No. Um. This commission... how would it work?”

  *

  It was late in the afternoon and Reg Ashlin’s office already reeked of whisky. He had called Finian in to hear some “shit-awful news”.

  Ashlin pushed a large tumbler of whisky into Finian’s hand. “I know you don’t drink during the day, but you’re going to need this.”

  Finian held the glass but didn’t take a sip. “The bank has refused to extend our overdraft,” Ashlin said.

  “Oh God,” Finian said and took a massive swallow. Instantly he started to cough and splutter.

  “I didn’t mean you to drink it neat.” Finian held the glass out for a refill. “You certain?” Finian couldn’t say anything, but bobbed his head.

  The whisky made Finian’s eyes water. When he had wiped away the tears, he asked, “What reason did they give?”

  “Nothing specific. Reappraisal of credit facilities – worsening economic climate. Guff like that.”

  The two men sat silently looking at each other. “We might have to give up. I’m sorry Finn, and after all your hard work.”

  “Is there nothing we can do?”

  “Could sell some of our investments, but I don’t think the executive would agree.”

  “Which bank is it?”

  “Northern and Provincial.”

  Finian dived into the black canvas holdall he always carried. “Wait a minute.” He plucked out a copy of the Norton-Hunter annual report. “Thought so, Mr Scott Milligan, non-executive director of Norton-Hunter and vice-chairman of Northern and Provincial.”

  Finian tossed the annual report across to Ashlin. “You and Norton-Hunter share the same bank. Looks like Bram Norsteadt is learning to fight back.” Finian walked around the room, sipping steadily from his glass.

  “What are we going to do?” Ashlin asked.

  “Two alternatives. Give up... or fight back ourselves.” Finian helped himself to more of Ashlin’s whisky. “How have the other unions reacted to our campaign?”

  Ashlin clenched his massive paw-like hands together on his desk. “Watching us very closely. Some are beginning to recognise that this is the way to go. They’re learning a lot from us – I mean you.”

  “Then they’re going to have to pay for their education.”

  *

  Geraldine Christie had given in. Norsteadt had his speaking spot, squeezed in during the end-of-conference dinner. Bonnie knew that was probably the best she could expect. Christie had got some measure of revenge by forcing Bonnie to host an entire table, at considerable expense.

  Bonnie and Andrew had arranged to meet Norsteadt and his wife, Margaret, in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel. It would be the first time the two women had met. Margaret wasn’t as Bonnie imagined. In her youth she must have been pretty, in a country sort of way. More at home in a Barbour than a Balmain .

  “Here’s your speech, Bram. All the latest changes are there.” Bonnie tucked the pages into his pocket. “Remember everything I’ve taught you and you’ll knock ’em dead.”

  Bonnie spotted the man she wanted on the far side of the room, peering through the viewfinder of his camera. When he finished she caught his eye. Tony Spindle made his money as a freelance photographer who often stood in for staff snappers.

  He hoisted a camera case on his shoulder and edged through the crowd towards Bonnie. “Looks as if you’re going to get your photograph taken.” Bonnie said.

  “Mr Norsteadt – look this way.”

  “Come on, Maggie.” Norsteadt put his arm round Margaret and smiled broadly at the camera.

  Before Spindle could take the shot, Bonnie walked between him and Norsteadt. “I think it’s time us girls went to powder our noses.”

  Before anyone could protest, Bonnie took Margaret’s arm and steered her to the ladies’ room. “Andrew will look after you,” she said to Norsteadt.

  After a few minutes, Bonnie returned and took Norsteadt to one side. “Don’t ever be photographed with your wife again.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you want your picture in the Financial Times – or are you just looking for something to stick in the family photo album?”

  It was only when Norsteadt entered the large dining-room and saw the size of the audience that he realised what he faced. All the coaching, all the comforting words had been in private; if he made a fool of himself, he could start again. But this was the real thing.

  Andrew looked at him. “You’ve suddenly gone very pale, Mr Norsteadt. Do you feel all right?”

  “You’ll be fine,” Bonnie said.

  “I don’t feel fine,” he said. “In fact I think I want to be...” He turned and walked quickly to the men’s room.

  “Andrew,” Bonnie snapped. “Go with him.”

  After Norsteadt had thrown up, Andrew washed his face with cold water.

  “That’s better,” Norsteadt said. “Thanks.”

  “Take a couple of deep breaths.” Andrew checked to make sure Norsteadt hadn’t splashed vomit on himself. Just a few spots on the
toe of one shoe which Andrew quickly wiped off.

  As a speaker, Norsteadt was on the top table and Andrew made sure he found his seat. When Andrew returned, Bonnie was talking to the other guests she had invited.

  Margaret Norsteadt stood alone, staring at what was going on around her. It was the first time she’d been to an event like this. She edged around the table, peering at each of the place cards, till she found her seat and sat down. Quietly, Margaret picked up the card and the specially printed menu and slipped that into her evening bag.

  “I’ve put you next to Stephanie Van Reedan from the Netherlands International Bank,” Bonnie told Andrew. “Her PR account is up for grabs.”

  “You mean...”

  “Yes, if you’re wearing a different shirt and tie tomorrow morning I’ll know you’ve failed and Miss Van Reedan will have missed a very pleasant experience.”

  Andrew followed Bonnie’s gaze. The other side of the table was a blonde beauty, equally as tall and almost as muscular as himself.

  “Remember, Andy, I know how good you can be – if you set your mind to it. So let’s make sure neither of us is disappointed.”

  Seventeen

  Norsteadt looked out of the window of his home. Rain bounced off the roof of his car. He always insisted on driving himself, but on days like this he wished he’d taken up the offer of a chauffeur. He went back to the kitchen and finished the last of his breakfast coffee.

  Margaret was still in her dressing-down, reading the morning paper. Since Bonnie had taken him in hand, he had started to notice how his wife was not keeping up.

  He kissed her automatically on her forehead and said, “I’ll be late tonight. This battle with the union and Bonnie Kelloway’s brother is taking up more and more time.”

  “Shall I wait up?” she asked, her eyes still on her horoscope.

  “Better not. I’ve no idea when we’ll finish.”

  In the hall, he stopped in front of a mirror and straightened the knot of his tie.

  *

  Mark Levy, the Kelloway and Bains new business manager, waited for Bonnie to stop writing. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Y-e-s,” she said slowly, trying to recapture her thoughts. “Why has there been a drop in the number of approaches for new business?”

  “I don’t think that’s right.” Levy looked at some notes on his pad. “The number of outside enquiries is about the same.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen them.”

  “Strange. Nathan said he’s passed them on to you.”

  “Nathan?”

  “Yes. He wanted first look. Is that all right?”

  “No, it’s bloody well not all right. In future, everything comes to me and not that doddering old fool.”

  “Right,” said Levy and left Bonnie’s office as quickly as he could.

  “So that’s how my darling step-brother keeps going.”

  *

  Nathan was convinced that his regular climb to Finian’s office was doing him good. He certainly wasn’t breathing so hard.

  He opened the door and looked around. Things had changed from when Finian first dragged him up those stairs. Wendy, his former secretary, waved and blew him a kiss as she took notes from a phone call.

  “Hello, Dad.” Nathan turned to see Emma, Finian’s wife, tapping at a laptop. “Giving Finian a couple of hours each day after dropping Kiki off at school.”

  On the other side of the room, squeezed into a corner, were two young men Nathan didn’t recognise. Finian emerged from his room and draped an arm round Nathan’s shoulder.

  “Couple of freelancers. Had to bring them and Emma in. All this extra work that keeps popping up was making life too busy.”

  “I told you I wouldn’t let you starve.”

  “This is a veritable feast.”

  “Then why not take on some full-time help?” Nathan asked.

  Finian became serious. “Still not sure this is what I want to do.”

  “How does it look – getting back into newspapers?”

  “Had to cancel an interview the other day. Just run off my feet.”

  “Of course.” Nathan smiled knowingly to himself. “Bonnie’s suspicious. She’s insisted that all new business enquiries go straight to her.”

  “Oh dear,” Finian said and both men laughed.

  *

  The stretched Ford glided to a halt outside the headquarters of Norton-Hunter. The driver checked his watch. It was eight o’clock. Dead on time.

  He got out of the car and looked briefly at the building. It was completely dark, except for two sources of light: the ground floor lobby where the night security man sat and the tenth floor, which everybody knew was where the senior managers had their offices.

  The driver held open the rear door and three women – two blondes and a redhead, all in their twenties – got out. They walked up the steps to the building and the driver left. Nobody said anything.

  Inside the building, the women stopped in front of the night man’s desk. He spoke into a phone. “Your visitors have arrived.”

  “Follow me” he said.

  The lift doors slid open on the tenth floor. The night man led them down a corridor. It seemed odd moving around a near-deserted building. They rounded a corner and saw a thin edge of light shining through a partly opened door at the end.

  The night man led them into a well-lit office. “Your guests, sir,” he said and left.

  He was on the phone. “Got to go. The people for my next meeting have just arrived,” he said and put down the phone.

  “My dears, how lovely of you to come.” Norsteadt took their coats. “You’ll have a drink, of course.” As he opened a bottle of champagne, the phone started to ring. “We don’t need any of that,” Norsteadt said, and pressed the mute button that cut off the bell.

  *

  Bonnie could hear the phone ringing, but there was no reply. It was important that she speak to Norsteadt and she phoned Margaret a second time.

  “Sorry to call again, but I do need to speak to your husband. I’ve rung his office but there’s no answer.”

  “We spoke five minutes ago. He was about to start a meeting.”

  As long as Bonnie was working, Roger regarded himself as on duty. The earlier heavy traffic on the M4 had eased and Roger made good time reaching Norton-Hunter.

  “Won’t be long,” she said. In the car park at the front of the building, Bonnie saw Norsteadt’s white Mercedes still in its parking place.

  The night man stared intently at the small television he brought in each evening. The sound was turned up and he didn’t hear Bonnie say, “Mr Norsteadt, okay?”

  It was only when the lift door opened with a pinging sound that the security man looked up. He stared at her in surprise. “Mr Norsteadt,” she said again and the lift doors slid closed.

  “Christ,” he said. He turned off the television and grabbed the phone. “Come on. Come on.” He could hear it ringing out, but there was no answer.

  Norsteadt had his jacket and tie off. His shirt was half unbuttoned and he was topping up the glass of one of the blondes. She was still in her bra and pants. The other two were well ahead of her.

  Bonnie looked round the room. “Ladies, I think it’s time you went.”

  “Our car won’t be back for hours,” the redhead protested.

  “Planning to make a bit of a night of it?” She looked at Norsteadt and shook her head. “Naughty boy.”

  The three women gathered up their clothes to get dressed. “You can do that outside,” Bonnie said, pushing the last of them through the office door.

  Norsteadt was knotting his tie. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. She took a mobile phone from her briefcase and tapped in a short code. “Roger. There’ll be three women coming out of the front door in a few minutes. Take them to wherever they want to go. Then come back for me in about...” She glanced at Norsteadt, who shrugged, “a couple of hours.”

  Norsteadt poured champagne into a clean glass and
handed it to Bonnie.

  “In public relations we get very close to the people we represent. We know more about them than their wives, husbands - even lovers.”

  “I don’t have a regular lover.”

  “Well, it’s about time you did.”

  *

  Mike Cook stood in the corridor and peered through the window into the large meeting-room.

  He could see Finian walking up and down, talking.

  Cook wasn’t a member of the Finance and General Purposes Committee of the Federation of British Trades Unions, but Reg Ashlin was. He sat at the far end of the group.

  The door to the room opened as someone went in. Cook heard Finian say, “... more expensive than Reg’s union anticipated. If it is to continue, we need your support and...” The door swung closed.

  Everybody listened carefully to Finian. Cook saw Ashlin whisper to a man on his left. The man scribbled something on his pad and Ashlin got up.

  As Ashlin emerged, Cook caught another part of Finian’s speech. “... and if we win, and I think we can, other companies will think twice before...” Ashlin winked at Cook and walked down the corridor.

  The door was about to close again, but Cook held it open with his foot. Through the crack he heard Finian say, “If we give in now, it could be years before we’re in such a powerful position again. We’re hurting Norton-Hunter like they’ve never been hurt before.” Cook felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Ashlin returned. “How’s it going?” Cook asked.

  “Finian’s great. He got a rough ride from Bert Sixsmith.” Ashlin puffed out his chest and, in his best impersonation of Sixsmith’s Black Country accent, said, “You’re hurting the other companies where my members have jobs.” Back in his normal voice, Ashlin added, “So much for solidarity and brotherly love.”

  The doors behind them opened again and Finian and the committee spilled into the corridor. “That was a brave speech,” said Bruce McDonald, leader of one of the new public service unions. “I hope it’ll be worth it.” Finian smiled at McDonald – and then beamed at Cook and Ashlin.

  “They’ll underwrite the campaign for another month,” Finian said. Cook and Ashlin started to slap his back.