Bonnie had done a great job with Norsteadt. Behind the speaker’s rostrum he sounded great and looked even better. “A lawyer, an economist, a management consultant... and even an industrialist...” He paused for the amused chuckles to die down. “Yes, even industrialists can make a valuable contribution to a problem.”
Bonnie moved to the balcony to judge the reaction up there. “... not a bunch of faceless bureaucrats all stamped out on the same production line,” Norsteadt said, as she reached the top of the stairs. And when he described the Prime Minister’s present team of advisers as “civil service retreads”, half the audience burst into applause.
Norsteadt turned towards Frazer Drucas, who was sitting on the platform behind him. “I’m sorry, Prime Minister...”
“Nice one, Bram,” Bonnie thought.
“... but I fear that government has lost touch with business. Yet we are supposed to be natural allies. I urge the reopening of talks between us to get this country... and this great, great party moving once again.
“We are the wealth creators – and you are the natural party of government. Together we can do it.”
As Norsteadt left the platform, furious clapping broke out around the hall. Bonnie could see that even Drucas smiled in agreement. Some even gave him a standing ovation. That was something she hadn’t expected.
By the time the conference ended that day, Norsteadt had given five television interviews and held an open briefing in one of the bars for newspaper writers covering the conference.
“Come back to my hotel and have a drink. We both deserve it,” he said.
As the two walked along the seafront, he was constantly stopped by well-wishers. “Well done,” said one and another added, “Great stuff.”
Bonnie went straight to the bar while Norsteadt collected his messages from reception. There was a note to call his office, and a stiff white envelope with a government crest in one corner.
He opened it. Inside was a single page. Norsteadt read it once and then looked away. He read it again and then pushed it towards Bonnie. It was very short. Written on 10 Downing Street headed notepaper, it simply said:
Enjoyed your speech almost as much as your book
Frazer Drucas
“Try and stop us now,” Bonnie said. For the first time she realised that Norsteadt offered her the prospect of performing on the main stage... rather than behind the scenes.
“Let’s go back to London and celebrate. I haven’t touched you for days and I can’t stand it for much longer.”
He looked around the bar. Nobody seemed to be looking, so Norsteadt stroked the top of her leg. Playfully she slapped the back of his wrist.
“Later,” she said.
*
Bonnie sat on the corner of her bath. She had left Norsteadt asleep. Margaret Norsteadt thought her husband was still in Blackpool, attending the conference.
Bonnie knew the answer. All the same, she would follow the manufacturer’s instructions. She looked at her watch. Five minutes were up.
It was all very clever how a simple chemical test could detect such an important hormonal change, she thought. Bonnie checked the window of the tester stick. There were two blue lines. Was that right – or should it be something else? She checked the instructions one more time. It was okay. The future was blue.
She felt serene – like most mothers—when for the first time they learned they are pregnant.
A sharp rap on the bathroom door snapped Bonnie out of her trance. “Are you all right?” Norsteadt asked.
“Absolutely fine. Couldn’t be better.”
She unlocked the door. Norsteadt stood there in his dressing-gown, looking concerned. Bonnie threw her arms around his neck and said, “Good morning, Daddy.”
She pressed her head hard into his chest and asked, “Pleased?”
Bonnie couldn’t see the self-satisfied look on Norsteadt’s face. “Well I never. It works after all.”
He held her, thinking. Suddenly very proud. All this time Margaret had blamed him for there being no children in their marriage. It was never so obvious a taunt, but in their most private moments she talked sadly about such things as low sperm counts.
Now, in some silly way, he felt a total man. In the same way a collector might feel who finally found a long sought-after missing piece to complete a set of something or other. He longed to see Margaret’s face when he broke the news.
“I’d like to give you a present,” he said. “Something I’ve been thinking about.”
“There’s nothing I want – except you.”
“You want to expand your company. You’ve been saying so for months. I’d like to give you the money to do it.”
“Oh, Bram.”
“There’s a special sub-committee I chair at Norton-Hunter – just me and a couple of non-execs. I’ll get them to approve it.”
“I can now move into the States. That’s where the real money is. I’ve got my eye on one company already. It’s got great margins – far better than anything we have in the UK.” Bonnie paced the room, already planning her great move. “Have you heard of Ty Spielvogel?”
“No.”
“You will.”
“We’d want a small percentage of the company plus the usual option if the loan isn’t repaid,” Norsteadt said. “To keep the books straight.”
Bonnie was only half listening; her mind elsewhere. “Isn’t that the same deal you gave Lycad?”
“Yes,” he said. “But Giles Denny isn’t having my baby.” They both laughed.
*
Emma poured herself a second cup of coffee and blew away the steam. Finian was scanning the morning papers. “He’s everywhere. Northing but Bram Norsteadt,” he said.
Emma picked up her own paper. “Here he is again.” She read the headline. “‘Business Hero becomes Tory Darling’.”
“This is Bonnie’s handiwork. What are they up to this time?” he said.
*
Norsteadt arrived home deliberately late that night and slept in the spare room. If Margaret asked, he would have made up some story about not wanting to disturb her.
The following morning, over breakfast, Margaret said, “Thought you were away for another day.”
“Came back early,” he said. “Something to say.”
Margaret didn’t want to listen; she had things to say herself. “Everybody is talking about your speech at the conference. I had a call from Mrs Pearson, she’s Chairman of the local Conservative women’s section, wants me to join the committee and...”
Norsteadt tried to interrupt. “Maggie...”
“You must see this.” She rushed from the room and returned with a new dress. She held it up to her front. Norsteadt paid no attention, but Margaret pressed on anyway. “I watched the conference on television every afternoon and paid particular attention to what the women were wearing. Then I went out and bought this.” She gave a little twirl. “A real Tory wife?”
It was no good. Margaret saw Norsteadt couldn’t be diverted. “I don’t want to let you down... in your new position.”
“I’m going to live with Bonnie Kelloway.”
Margaret dropped the pretence of a lifetime. “You mean live with her openly.”
“Sorry?”
She tossed the dress over a chair in the corner. “Well you’ve been screwing her secretly since the summer.”
“You knew?”
“How stupid do you think women are?” she snapped back. “I’ve smelt her on you for months. At least her odour is more expensive than all your other tarts.”
Norsteadt was astonished. His mind raced on.
“Don’t worry. Nobody else knows. I’ll say one thing, you’ve both been discreet.”
“I’ll move out as soon as possible.”
“Just like that. After twenty-five years of building a home.”
“I love her. Well I think I do.”
“Don’t talk to me about love. I’m your wife and I deserve respect and loyalty. That goes b
eyond your so-called love.”
“What more can I say?”
Margaret wailed. “God, I hurt.” She said. “I won’t give you up easily, Bram.”
“You’ll be properly looked after. Whatever happens, you’ll want for nothing. That was taken care of ages ago.”
“Hope she doesn’t expect too much from you.” Norsteadt didn’t immediately know what she meant. Margaret pointed to his groin. “After all, that’s just for decoration. Ceremonial use only.”
“You should know that Bonnie’s pregnant.”
For a moment she was breathless and stunned, but recovered quickly. “Sure it’s yours?”
Norsteadt smiled and nodded.
“I see.” She picked up the daily paper from the table. “Be a good boy and bugger off to work. I’ve got my paper to read – and things to do.”
He stood there, not moving.
“Get out,” she said.
Margaret waited until she heard Norsteadt’s car crunch on the gravel as he drove off. Once the noise died away, she replaced it with another, infinitely more harrowing sound. “Nooooo...”
Twenty-Five
Kit Thayer saw no reason to hang around. All that macho rubbish about being seen in the office at eight, nine or ten at night wasn’t for him. He walked openly past her office, carrying his briefcase. Bonnie looked up and called him back.
“Kit, have a seat. I’ve been meaning to speak to you for a while.” She came round to Thayer’s side of the desk and perched on the edge, crossing her ankles.
“What is it, Bonnie?” he said cautiously.
“We all feel very guilty about you.” His brow furrowed. “You’ve been doing the same job for the last ten years. I feel the company has failed you.” She walked behind Thayer, allowing her fingers to run along the back of his chair. “We’ve allowed you to stagnate and not develop your career.”
She returned to her side of the desk. “For that I’m sorry. We’re going to give you your freedom before it’s too late.”
It took a few seconds for it to sink in, “Have I just been canned?”
Bonnie looked hurt. “No Kit – liberated. We tried to find you something else to do, but it didn’t work.”
The look on Thayer’s face told Bonnie there would be no resistance. She softened her tone. She was never one to waste energy unnecessarily.
“What are you – fifty, fifty-one?” she asked. “Kit, face it: PR is a young man’s game... and you’re over the hill.”
“At my age I’ll never get another job.”
“We’ll ease the blow,” she said. “You may even pick up the odd bit of freelance work.”
He left Bonnie’s office without saying another word.
“Ah, well,” she said. “One down – two to go.” Thayer was one of the three long-serving directors of the company who had always sided with Nathan against her. She called Raymond and asked him to find Pete Sinclair and Alex Hanborough.
*
Morris Bradman watched Gloria Train tap the keys of her laptop. “How does that read?” she asked and scrolled back to the top of her screen.
Following Bradman’s calls to City investors, it was Train’s turn to join the anti-Lycad campaign. She had just finished an article for her newsletter, claiming that the biotech company was trying to trick the City.
“I do like that,” Bradman said. He pointed to a particular paragraph and read “‘Lycad should stand for, Leave Your Cash at the Door’. Delightfully cruel, Gloria.”
“Have you got that list?” she said. Bradman produced three sheets of closely typed paper containing the name and email address of every major investor in the City and every newspaper financial editor.
“Pat, email this story to everyone on this list,” she told her PA.
“Had a call from Lycad’s PR man. Wants me to go down and talk to the company in more detail,” Bradman said.
“You going?”
“Waste of time.” He looked at his watch. “Fancy a quick one at the Bunch of Grapes?”
*
Despite the continual undermining by Bradman and Train, the anti-Lycad campaign still needed the killer punch. Bonnie decided to deliver that herself.
She looked up a contact on her phone and made a call. “Bonnie Kelloway here,” she told the voice who answered.
“Hello treasure, it’s been ages.”
“Is the ‘Friday Night Drop’ still operating?”
“Let me call you back.” Within two minutes, Bonnie’s phone rang.
“Driff, who did you think I was?” Bonnie asked.
“Just checking, petal.”
“Come on, where is it?”
He consulted a list and said, “Tonight we’ll be at the Blue Anchor. Know it?”
“I’ll be there.”
The Blue Anchor stood at the corner of two of the many narrow streets that criss-crossed the area north of the Bank of England. Bonnie arrived a little after seven that evening. She found everyone starting to gather in one of the back bars. In a corner, two girls tried to stem the steady flow of blood coming from the mouth of Ned Allard. Ned Allard ran a small financial public relations consultancy.
“Trying to eat champagne glasses. Thought Ned had grown out of that pathetic party trick by now,” Driff Burnaby said. “Stupid tart.” He shook his head in disgust and led Bonnie away. Over his shoulder he told Allard, “Better have that seen to, sweetie.”
“Entry fee still the same?”
“There, I have some sad news, treasure,” Burnaby said. “We had to raise the price from a bottle, to a magnum of bubbly.”
“No problem.”
“And a bottle to stay in the party every half an hour.”
“Very well.”
For years Burnaby had organised the infamous “Friday Night Drop”, or “FND”, where the financial editors of the major Sunday newspapers met secretly in a City of London wine bar or pub to be fed juicy stories – sometimes true and sometimes not – by public relations consultants.
“Sorry about the silly performance earlier. Matter of security,” Burnaby said. He explained that the venue for the Drop now changed every week, as the Stock Exchange were getting unhappy at the amount of price-sensitive information regularly appearing in the weekend papers. “As if they could stop us.” They both smiled. “You have something for us?” Burnaby asked.
“A little company called Lycad.”
Walker Cranstun of the Sunday Chronicle and Kari Melina from the Sunday Graphic looked up, interested. “We’ve written about them before. Nice little company.”
“Not any more. Seems it has run into major patent problems.”
“How sad. We’ll miss it,” Cranstun said, as he poured from a bottle Bonnie had just placed on the table.
*
Bonnie sat up in bed, scanning the Sunday papers. Five carried the same story. The Graphic and the Chronicle had it in their first editions. The other papers picked it up later. She giggled at one headline. “Biotech Company Faces Float Problems”.
All the papers reported rumours circulating in the City that many of the products on which Lycad were pinning its hopes were developed by Denny when he still worked for Abercrombie Healthcare – and rightly belonged to them.
It was followed by a comment from the chief executive of Abercrombie’s parent company, Norton-Hunter. Mr Bram Norsteadt was quoted as saying, “If this is true the float should be halted until all the facts are known.”
“Get out of that, Finian.”
She nudged Norsteadt in the back. “Wake up, Bram.”
“Norsteadt rolled over and reached for the bedside clock. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Time to celebrate,” she said and dived under the bedclothes to attack him with her teeth. He screeched for her to stop, but was pleased when she wouldn’t.
Over breakfast, Bonnie allowed Norsteadt to recover, but not get dressed. She was determined to have him again.
*
On Monday, four major institutions wh
o were thought to be “in the bag’ cancelled their order to buy shares. The next day, six national newspapers carried stories attributing the pull-out to doubts about the ownership of various Lycad products. For the first time there were suggestions of legal action over the patents. That afternoon, the London Evening Standard reported that Lycad support had collapsed to a “small rump”.
*
Margaret Norsteadt had replaced the terrible emptiness she felt when her husband first left, with a sense of anger.
Would that cow, Kelloway, have gone on her back for him if he weren’t so successful? The hell she would, Margaret told herself. The taxi stopped and she hauled a large suitcase from the cab.
“Want a hand with that?”
“No thanks. I’ll manage,” she told the driver and paid the fare.
Margaret was disappointed at how smart the offices of Kelloway and Bains were. She would have felt better if they were more down-at-heel.
“Bonnie Kelloway, please,” she told Madope on reception.
“Miss Kelloway is with a client. Is she expecting you?”
Margaret pointed to the suitcase. “I have this for Mr Bram Norsteadt – Norton-Hunter.” Margaret was sure that at the mention of Norsteadt’s name, Madope’s back actually straightened a bit. “It must be handed over to her personally.”
“I’ll find out if she can see you.” Madope made a phone call.
Margaret noticed that access to the rest of the building was through a door controlled by a numbered key pad. There was no way to find Bonnie on her own, unless...
Gerald was well meaning and thought the best of everybody. He was the general handyman and when he struggled through reception with boxes of stationery, Margaret offered to hold the door open for him – in fact all the doors he needed to negotiate.
In payment for this kindness, he would be delighted to show Margaret where to find Miss Kelloway. He pointed to the boardroom door and thanked her again.
Was she being silly? Of course, but so what, she told herself. Margaret hit the boardroom door with the case and it flew open.
Bonnie turned to see a middle-aged woman with her back to her, lugging a suitcase into the room. Around the table sat five men and two women; a mixture of Kelloway and Bains staff and the senior marketing team of Rendall Cosmetics. “I think you have the wrong room,” Bonnie said.
Bad Influence Page 17
