“Doesn’t take long for the vultures to smell blood,” Bonnie said after the last call. How many other clients were being picked off at that moment? she wondered.
She crossed to a window and looked out at the peaceful London square. “Fuck it. I’m still the best there is.”
*
Now that it was all over, Finian felt empty. He had just ended a phone call with Mike Cook. The entire union executive planned to throw him a party. Cook hinted they wanted to make him an honorary life member of the union.
“Nobody else could have done it,” Cook said and rang off.
Kit and Nathan had been beaming at him all morning, but he was in a state of anti-climax.
“I thought there would be more to feel,” he said.
He picked up a copy of his old paper, the Morning Journal, and dropped it almost immediately. Copies of every morning paper were scattered around the office.
Kit smiled. “God, there’s no pleasing some people,” he said and picked up The Times. “Every paper this morning credits you with the success of exposing Norsteadt. Listen, “Finian Kelloway, who carried out a sometimes lonely and often single-handed campaign’... What more do you want?”
“Finian, you’re a hero,” Nathan said. “The Mirror is calling you the cycling campaigner.”
Finian shrugged and said, “Nice alliteration.”
The phone rang yet again, saving him from more embarrassment. “Finn Kelloway,” he said and then added after a moment, “Jan, how nice to hear from you.” This was the first time he had spoken to the editor on the Morning Journal since he failed to get his old job back in... gosh, was it really that long ago?
“I saw you on the box last night. That was a brilliant piece of investigative reporting. And all the time I thought you were just some ordinary business journalist.”
“You never know what you have till you lose it.”
“Just so happens we’re creating a new investigative reporting department. I would like you to head it up. What do you say?”
At last, he thought. “Jan, could you hang on for a moment?” He put his hand over the mouthpiece, spun round to Kit and Nathan and told them what he had just been offered.
Both men immediately looked sad and then Nathan said, “You’ve been desperate to return to journalism. Here’s your chance.”
Finian looked round the room, at the staff that had started to grow again. He smiled and nodded. “Jan, this is a wonderful offer. If you’d made it a few months go – maybe even a few weeks ago – I would have jumped at it.
“Someone said success was the freedom to spend your own life in your own way. Right now I can do that, but going to work for someone else, I would certainly lose it.”
As he put the phone down he saw Nathan trying to dab away a tear before Finian could see it.
By the end of the morning, Finian had done no work. The phone calls hadn’t stopped. If it wasn’t a well-wisher, it was a company asking to become a client. Finian and his consultancy were celebrities.
“If you go on like this, you’ll need even more people,” Nathan said. “And a bigger office.”
“I know where we can get staff – and all properly trained.” He looked at his watch. “I have a strange appointment to keep. Can you do something for me, Dad?”
*
Bonnie looked up to see Raymond holding an envelope. “This was messengered here a few minutes ago. From the Association of Public Relations Practitioners.”
“What do they want?”
“It’s marked personal and confidential.”
She ripped open the envelope. It was a short letter.
Dear Miss Kelloway
A number of serious allegations have been levelled at you regarding your handling of the Norton-Hunter account, and other matters. In fact they are so serious that we feel compelled to ask you to attend a meeting of this committee to discuss them.
Last night’s Channel Twenty-Five Live programme started a chain of events that threatens to bring our profession into serious disrepute. We now regard the matter as one of great urgency and have therefore reserved a time of 6.00 p.m.
If we do not hear to the contrary, we shall expect you then at these offices at that time.
Yours sincerely,
Wilson Arquet
Chairman, Ethical Standards Committee
*
Bonnie closed her eyes. If she had known how to pray, she would have said one. She showed the letter to Will.
“What can they do?” he asked
“They can issue a public reprimand and show me up in front of my peers. They can suspend me, or maybe throw me out.”
“You’re going to fight it?”
She gave Will a half-smile: it was the best she could manage in the circumstances. “Of course I’m going to fight it. Those little small-minded bureaucrats don’t know what they’re taking on.”
Will made his hand look like a pistol, his index and middle fingers acting as barrels and fired an imaginary bullet. “That’s the way, champ.”
*
Normally, at any time of day, Norsteadt’s office would be buzzing: people popping in and out. That day it felt like a mainline station after the last train had left – lonely and empty.
At two in the afternoon, Angela Nasco put her head round his door. “Got a minute, Bram?”
“All the time in the world.”
She held a massive pile of newspapers in her arms. “I know you want to see all Norton-Hunter and personal cuttings – but do you really want to see today’s?”
“Probably not.”
He turned to look out of his office window, but Angela stayed where she was. “What are you going to do?”
“Bonnie thinks she can fight back. But that’s a lost cause.”
“But what do you think?”
Norsteadt looked at her closely. She was genuinely concerned. “Kind of you to ask. Most people in your position would be steering clear. And keeping an eye out for whoever was going to replace me.”
“Surely not.”
“Oh yes. Lord Rolley is already holding court in his office, deciding what to do with me. He broke his shooting holiday in Scotland just to deal with the mess. So the chances of me receiving any mercy are slim. After all, we all know how much our vice-chairman loves his shooting.”
Angela placed the bundle of newspapers on the floor. “Would you like me to sit with you, till you’re called?”
“Yes, I would like that very much indeed.”
Lord Rolley was still dressed in his shooting clothes, just to underline the inconvenience that Norsteadt had caused him. He was well past retirement age but no one dared tell him. Early in his career, Rolley had created a reputation as a firebrand in the City and his six foot seven-inch frame made it easy for him to get his own way. Although he believed he had mellowed, nobody else could detect the change.
“I’ve spoken to Alison and Cosmo.” Rolley gestured toward the two Norton-Hunter non-executive directors seated to his left. Alison Rattigan and Cosmo Weldon both looked suitably sombre. “Those who couldn’t make it have also been contacted.”
Rolley got up and started to pace around his office. Nigel Waugh, who had perched himself on Rolley’s desk, had to jump out of the way to avoid being trampled on.
“After what has been revealed, we must ask you to go.” As an afterthought he added, “For the good of the company.”
And to protect your personal position with all the other companies in which you have an interest, Norsteadt said, under his breath.
“Waugh will take over till a full-time successor can be found.”
“Is it possible to delay this – till I get my affairs sorted out?”
“Absolutely not,” Waugh said, jumping in.
Rolley didn’t like to have his position usurped and glared at Waugh.
“I meant if Bram stays for much longer than today, it might look like we were condoning what went on.”
“Hmmmm,” said Rolley. “What wer
e you thinking of?” Rolley leant over his desk to study a document. Waugh’s face showed nothing, but Norsteadt knew that inside he was delighted.
“These clinics.” Rolley shook his head. “By the way, I’ve ordered them to be closed down as of this morning.”
Waugh had been busy, Norsteadt thought.
“Then there’s this secret loan to...” he peered more closely at the papers on his desk. “Kelloway and Bains.”
“It’s the public relations consultancy that Bram hired, Chairman,” Waugh offered.
“God knows what we’re going to do with that investment.”
Norsteadt had hardly spoken. If fighting words, a loss of temper or even screaming defiance could have achieved anything, he would have been on the offensive, and not sitting there taking all the humbug. He knew that would make matters worse. He reasoned that the fewer waves he made, the more the likelihood of him walking away with a golden, or at least silver, handshake.
“Sign it over to me,” he said suddenly.
“Pardon?” Rolley peered over his half-moon reading glasses.
The idea hadn’t occurred to him till then. “As part of my... shall we say, farewell package.”
“You know how much we’re talking about?” Waugh said, jumping in again.
Norsteadt ignored the finance director and focused on Rolley. “Look, Quentin. We both want what’s best for the company.” The sooner the scandal was squashed, the better Lord Rolley would like it. “The quicker – and quieter I go...” he flashed a warning look at Waugh, “the better it’ll be.”
Norsteadt had Rolley’s attention. “But I need to survive. Make over the loan to me – as part of my severance.”
“Lord Rolley,” Waugh said.
“We’re not talking about setting up a rival pharmaceutical company. It’s a public relations consultancy, for God’s sake.”
“You know nothing about PR.”
“In the last few months, I’ve learned quite a lot. Anyway, I think the business could do with a shake-up in its management.
“And you’ll leave today?”
“Yes.”
“Sir.”
“Shut up, Waugh, I’m thinking,” Rolley said. “We’ll want an undertaking that you’ll make no public statement.”
“You have it.”
“Well, I suppose that’s it,” Rolley held out his hand. “I don’t have to tell you how sorry I am. All the paperwork will be ready by the end of the day.”
Norsteadt shook hands with Rolley and left. Rolley waited till he was gone and nodded to Waugh. “Okay, bring him in.”
Waugh opened a side door and beckoned. Finian entered.
“Well, young man, you’ve certainly cause us some problems. Don’t know whether to cuss you or thank you.”
Tucked under Finian’s arm was a large bundle of papers.
“Sorry you had to lug all those out here, but I didn’t know if Norsteadt was going to deny the whole thing. Had to make sure proof was to hand.”
“I understand.”
“Bill us for your time. Waugh will see that it’s paid.” Waugh nodded. “So you don’t think too unkindly of us, we’ll be paying Getz’s and Potter’s widows compensation and I’ve asked Waugh to look at the possibilities of a trust fund for all victims.”
“I’m glad,” Finian said. “That will help.”
Rolley shuffled papers around his desk. “We’ll obviously need a new public relations adviser – to clear up the mess created by Norsteadt and your sister. As you know more about what went on than anybody, the job should be yours. Interested?”
Forty One
Bonnie was back in her office early. She was supposed to have had a lunch with Oscar Mason of the Morning Journal. Norsteadt’s rehabilitation should be started as quickly as possible. If Bonnie could show him how effectively she could handle the crisis, everything would be back as it was.
There was a storyline she wanted Mason to follow. The television programme was part of a vendetta organised by Finian and the Associated Union of General and Technical Workers. The whole thing was a mistake: there was some innocent explanation. But the little shit-heel stood her up. This was a new experience.
“Any messages?” she asked Raymond.
Raymond checked his pad. “Nothing.”
“Not even that little tosser from the Morning Journal saying where he got to?”
Raymond shook his head.
“Surely Bram... I mean Mr Norsteadt.”
“Nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“Not a soul.”
In her office Bonnie grabbed the phone and punched in Mason’s number. Without even bothering to introduce herself, she tore into him.
“Do that again,” she screamed “and you’ll seriously endanger our business relationship.”
Mason sounded more self-assured than ever before. “I was going to call you about that. I think it would be best for everyone if we stopped our little arrangement.”
“What?” she snapped.
“Surely you watch television?”
“I see.”
“I have a reputation to protect and anyway, my editor is questioning my over-eager support for Norsteadt.”
“Nobody talks to me like that.”
“Listen love. You and Norsteadt are yesterday’s news. Both dead in the water,” he said. “Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t call again. It’s such bad manners being rude to a lady – I mean woman.”
The laughter stopped her thinking about Mason and what he had said. The noise seemed to be coming from the main open plan area.
More than a dozen people crowded around something on the wall. Bonnie said nothing and stood at the back. The laughter was getting more hilarious.
“Who had the nerve to do that?” said one voice.
“Went up during lunch.”
“Might be worth a chat,” another said. “See what they’ve got going.”
“Wait till Medusa sees it,” a fourth said.
“Do they still call me that, Eric?”
The three closest to Bonnie spun round and scuttled back to their desks. Followed by another two and then three, till she was left alone, looking at a poster someone had blue-tacked to the wall.
It was addressed to:
Our Old Friends
As a result of recent successes, we are in urgent need of well-trained executive. From our experience we know they can be found at Kelloway and Bains.
If you are interested in developing your career, give one of us a call.
Your future colleagues
Finian Kelloway and Kit Thayer
Every eye in the office was on Bonnie, but she didn’t care. “Bastards. Evil, grave-robbing bastards.” She ripped the poster from the wall and tore it in half. “Bastards.” She tore it in half again. “Bastards.” In half yet again. “Bastards.” When she found she could tear it no more, she said, “Bastards, bastards, bastards,” and dropped the ripped pieces on the floor.
From somewhere among the staff came, “Temper, temper.”
She looked around the room, eyes flaring. “Who was that?” Nobody answered. “You’re fired. All of you – fired.” Bonnie grabbed one girl by the hair and dragged her to her feet. She pushed her towards the door. “Get out.” Sending chairs spinning, she stumbled towards a man who was speaking on his phone. She wrenched it from his hand. “Piss off,” she screamed, hardly an inch from his face. She hurled a half-open briefcase across the room. “Pick that up on your way out,” she bellowed at the owner. The girl stared at her, unable to say anything. “Now.”
Within minutes, the entire staff were at one end of the room. Nobody moved. They stood there, staring at Bonnie, half in defiance, half in bewilderment, hardly able to believe what was happening.
“I’ll replace the lot of you. You’ll see. You... you... you...” Bonnie raked her hands through her hair and ran towards her office.
“Get me Cavanaugh on the phone.” Raymond looked blank. “Under head hunt
ers, dummy,” she said slamming the door behind her. Reid Cavanaugh was the industry’s leading body snatcher and had introduced many of her staff.
She took a deep breath to compose herself as Raymond put Cavanaugh through. In through the mouth, out through the nose. In through the mouth, out through the nose. In through the...
“Reid, darling, how are you?”
“Fine.” Cavanaugh’s voice seemed more formal than usual. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m going to need more staff. Having a shake-out here and...”
“Let me stop you there, Bonnie. I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’m repositioning my client base.”
“What does that mean?”
“Putting it simply, I won’t be working for Kelloway and Bains any more.”
Bonnie looked up to see Will standing in front of her desk. He came behind her and gently kneaded the knot-like muscles at the top of her shoulders. She patted his hand.
“Who’ll be looking after our business in future?”
“Nobody here,” Cavanaugh said. There was a brief silence and then he added,” I hope I’m making myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” she said and slowly replaced the receiver.
“What’s the matter?” Will asked.
“Cavanaugh has just sacked us as a client.”
“So?”
Bonnie shook her head. “Dear Will. You don’t understand. Cavanaugh can smell the blood. If he no longer works for us, he’ll be free to raid this company for staff for other clients.” She said. “He thinks we’ve had it. The message couldn’t be stronger.”
Bonnie rested her forehead on her hands. “How much longer can this go on?”
Being an American, Raymond had a strong sense of natural justice. If Bonnie wanted to behave like an over-strung harpy, he could reply in kind. He strode into her office and placed a small note on her desk. Written on it was a phone number with the curt request to call.
“When did this come?” Bonnie asked. Raymond continued walking, pretending not to hear.
She immediately recognised it as Norsteadt’s direct line at Norton-Hunter. “Would you like me to go?” Will asked.
Bad Influence Page 28
