Bad Influence

by Desmond Harding

  Finian was the only one of Nathan’s children not in the family firm and therefore didn’t see the need to dress up like a public relations executive. Intentionally, he owned no suit and had just one tie, which he wore that day in honour of his dead half-brother.

  Finian had carved out a career as a reporter, making his way from local newspapers and trade magazines to the national press. At thirty he was too young to have ever worked in Fleet Street proper. But all the same, he often walked down “The Street” hoping to experience some of that old magic that still lingered here and there.

  Despite his casual appearance, he had one of the sharpest journalistic minds working on any national newspaper. Often he would turn up for interviews in just jeans and a t-shirt. This so disarmed people that they immediately dropped their guard. Many had underestimated Finian Kelloway, to their cost.

  Nathan and Finian watched Bonnie’s car disappear through the iron gates of the graveyard. “Finn, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you. No rush. Let’s have lunch sometime.”

  *

  The offices of Kelloway and Bains were discreet. On the sunny side of a fine, well-kept London square, a pair of Georgian town houses had been brought together to form a modern office complex. Behind this genteel exterior, smooth-talking consultants practised their black art.

  Kelloway and Bains had not always been so successful. Nathan had started the business on his own. There had never been a Mr Bains: Nathan picked the name from a telephone directory. In the early days he discovered that clients were reluctant to trust a one-man band. Nathan had learned quickly that in public relations, perception was more important than reality.

  At the best of times, Bonnie was no good at waiting. She drummed her fingers and shuffled papers around her desk. Finally, Annabel, her secretary, placed twelve neatly bound copies of the report in front of her. “All the changes in?” Bonnie asked, as she flicked through.

  “Everything you gave me last night is there,” Annabel said.

  “What time did you get away?”

  “About quarter to eleven.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t worry. I know how important it is.”

  Bonnie read the title page, “Kelloway and Bains: A Future Strategy for Growth”.

  Outside her office, Nathan greeted Willie Caroon, one of the consultancy’s non-executive directors. She watched the two men slap each other on the back and joke. “I can’t afford to be wrong,” she said intently.

  “You’ve worked so hard and so long on the plans. The board has to accept them,” Annabel said.

  “Are they all here?”

  “Mr Caroon was last to arrive.”

  “Then here goes.”

  “Good luck.”

  Annabel picked up the stack of reports and followed Bonnie to the boardroom.

  As she entered, everybody stood and started to applaud. She looked around the room, confused. They had never done anything like that before. Jeremy Stoppard took pity. He ran his family’s art gallery just off Bond Street and was another non-executive director.

  He pushed a copy of the weekly trade paper, PR Times, into Bonnie’s hands. She had been so busy finishing the report that her copy remained unread on her desk, still in its see-through plastic mailing envelope.

  Nathan passed a copy to Annabel, who was looking as bewildered as Bonnie. When she read the main front page story, she too joined in the applause.

  The massive headline across the front page read: “Public Relations Comes of Age”. Under it was the story of the £1 million fee earned by Kelloway and Bains for their work in the merger between British and Continental, the insurance and financial services giant, and Ajax, the international credit card company.

  Bonnie sat down and read the story. The article said that the fees were a “watershed for the industry” and meant that, for the first time, public relations advice was valued alongside that of lawyers and merchant bankers. She dropped the paper on the table and smiled at her fellow directors.

  Nathan insisted on a balanced board of directors. There were three non-executives, and three taken from senior consultancy staff, plus all members of the Kelloway family working in the business.

  Quickly, Nathan brought the meeting back under his control. This was the first time he had chaired the board since Robert had been taken ill. He formally thanked Bonnie for stepping in and doing “her best to hold things together in difficult circumstances”.

  “I thought I managed rather well,” she said tartly.

  Ignoring her comment, he said, “The first item on the agenda is Bonnie’s report.” He glanced at her. “Pity we didn’t have a chance to look at it before. You know I dislike papers being tabled at board meetings.”

  “There were some last-minute changes, and it was only completed this morning.” This was only half true. For the most part, Bonnie had held it back intentionally, as she didn’t want people preparing their opposition to her suggestions in advance.

  Nathan signalled Annabel to start handing out the document. “In that case, perhaps we should look at it for a while and then discuss...”

  Bonnie interrupted. “I’d prefer to do it my way.” A number of heads snapped round to look at her. “Highlight the key points... as I see them... and then pass out the report at the end.” Nathan had heard of Bonnie’s new sense of authority, but this was the first time he had seen it at close quarters.

  “I hope this story...” Bonnie pointed to the front page of the PR Times, “... will make what I have to say easier to accept.”

  She tapped the document cover. “This is a blueprint that sets out the future for our company. What I suggest will be controversial... but these things have to be said.”

  Nathan and Kit Thayer slid back in their seats and crossed their arms in front of their chests. Thayer, one of the non-family employees on the board, had worked in the company longer than anybody except Nathan, and supported him at every turn. They aren’t going to like what’s coming. But tough, Bonnie said to herself.

  “We have a problem. The company is the most prestigious PR agency in Britain. But others are coming up fast. We can’t stand still. We have to grow, if only to keep our place.”

  “What do you suggest?” Nathan asked.

  Bonnie took a deep breath. “Acquire new companies. Both here, and in the United States.” Now it was out. “The world’s top PR firms earn their big money in the US and it would be foolish of us not to look at the opportunity.”

  This was against everything that Nathan had stood for. “No. No. No.” He banged his fist to emphasise each word. “This company has always grown from within and that’s the way things will continue, so long as I’m in charge.”

  “It would lumber us with unnecessary debt,” Alex Hanborough said. Hanborough and Pete Sinclair were the other two staff members with seats on the board.

  “We need new sources of earnings,” Bonnie pleaded. “And that could come from the States.”

  “I feel you’re not happy with what we’ve already achieved,” Nathan said. “I think you want Kelloway and Bains to become the biggest consultancy in the world.” A mocking giggle spread through the meeting.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Bonnie snapped.

  “Why not be content with being the best in the world?” he said.

  “Why not both?”

  “Instead of going on a spending spree, we should be putting more money into our training scheme for new entrants into the profession,” Nathan said. Kelloway and Bains’ training was recognised as the best in the business. “PR is always accused of being a resting place for flakes and phonies,” Nathan said.

  It was Bonnie’s turn to oppose the idea. “What a waste. Why spend our money to train people, only to have them headhunted by rivals who know what a good job we do?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” asked Thayer.

  “We’re not a bloody charity.”

  Bonnie had one final salvo to fire. What the hell, she
thought. Here goes. “Finally, I strongly recommend we introduce a retirement age of sixty for everyone... including the chairman.”

  “Whaaaat?” Nathan screamed.

  “You’ve given up on the company.”

  “That was because of Robert.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You’ve been losing your grip for years.” For a moment there seemed a hint of sadness in her voice. “If things had gone on as before, we would have made a loss. I held this company together. I returned it to profit.”

  “One moment, young lady. While I’m still the majority shareholder in this company, things will stay exactly as they are.”

  “Chairman . . Nathan... Dad... why won’t you hand over control of the company?”

  “To whom?”

  Here goes. “Me.”

  Nathan didn’t answer. He stared at her hard for a moment and got up. As he left, Thayer, Hanborough and Sinclair followed. None of them bothered to ask for a copy of her report.

  She looked at the non-executive directors. “I suppose you all feel the same?”

  “On the contrary. We know you’re right,” said Willie Caroon.

  “Bonnie, you’ve done a great job,” Stoppard said.

  “Would you like me to continue?”

  “We might insist on it,” Caroon said. “We talked about this privately, and would like to offer you our support – in anything you do.”

  *

  Nathan sat in his office, thinking. It was dominated by a massive desk that he always claimed was one of only two in the world: the other once belonged to Stalin. He picked up the phone and dialled.

  “Finn. Things have changed. Could we meet... soon?”

  Three

  The pub was empty; it was still too early for lunchtime drinkers from the surrounding Whitehall offices. Finian Kelloway found Mike Cook leaning against the bar, draining the last drops from a glass of lager. They always met in the Marquis of Granby, just off Smith Square.

  “What can I get you?”

  “A small bitter would be fine.”

  Cook called the barman over and ordered. “Still going round London on that bike of yours?” he said pointing.

  Finian looked down at his feet. “Keep forgetting.” He bent down and tugged his jeans free from his socks.

  Cook was the deputy general secretary of the Associated Union of General and Technical Workers, one of Britain’s new super unions. Over the years, Cook’s tips had provided Finian with some of his best stories for the Morning Journal.

  Finian sipped his drink. “Got your call. What’s up?”

  “Norton-Hunter. There’s a battle brewing.”

  “The drug company?”

  “Two of my members who work there have come down with a strange disease,” Cook said. “Been off work for nearly six months.”

  Finian got out a small notebook and started writing. “So?”

  “Some sort of industrial poisoning. The company already has a lousy safety record.”

  Finian screwed up his brow. “Didn’t two men die there last year from inhaling some poisonous gas or something... after cleaning out a production tank?”

  “In the last ten years, six men have died at that company from various causes.”

  Finian chewed at his lip. “What does the company say?”

  “Just what you’d expect. Denies any responsibility.”

  “Okay. I’ll make some enquiries. If it stands up, I’ll do a piece. What are their names?”

  “Ivan Getz and Laslo Potter.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “They’re wasting away.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Shrinking, almost daily. Soon there’ll be nothing left of them.”

  *

  Bonnie stared hard at the wall, reliving every part of the board meeting. She was determined not to cry. “Fools,” she said out loud.

  “Who’s that?”

  Bonnie spun round. Will Lorimer stood smiling gently at her.

  “Never mind.”

  “Want to talk?”

  “Thanks for the offer, but it’s something I’ll have to solve on my own.” She pulled a pile of papers towards her. “Did you want anything particular?”

  “No. You just looked upset and I thought I could help.”

  Bonnie mouthed a silent “thank you” and waited for him to leave. She dialled an internal number. “Andy.” Andrew St Norris was a junior account executive with the consultancy.

  “Is this a Miss Kelloway-type call, or can I use Bonnie?”

  “A Bonnie call,” she said. “My house – nine o’clock tonight.”

  “Bit of a problem.”

  “Tell her something has come up. And make sure you’re not shagged out. You’re no use to me second-hand.”

  “You’re making things very difficult.”

  “If you want to continue affording all those nice new suits... be there.”

  *

  “Look, Mr Kelloway, all I can say is the two men do work for this company, but they’re away on sick leave. Anything beyond that, the answer has to be “no comment”. By the way, if you do have any more enquiries with this company, bring them directly to me and don’t bother senior management with silly rumours.”

  Winston Culpin was being unhelpful, but so what? As head of public relations for Norton-Hunter, his main task was to protect his employers from people like Finian, and keep his job, which went without saying.

  Finian slammed down the phone. “Stone-walling PR men.”

  Ginny Yakomura looked up from her desk. “If you feel so strongly, help me with this questionnaire. Somebody wants to know what journalists think of public relations.”

  “With pleasure.” Finian rattled off his prejudices. “They can’t write a press release to save their lives, and their ability to reply to a reporter’s question is piss poor. They always...”

  “Hang on a moment. I can’t write that fast.” Ginny was a Japanese-American working on an exchange scheme between her paper in San Francisco and the Morning Journal. She giggled and said, “Finn, you English are so reluctant to say what you feel.”

  Finian picked up speed and continued with a list of the industry’s failings.

  “Better listen to him, Ginny. He knows what he’s talking about.” Greg Goldman looked up. “His father all but invented public relations in Britain.”

  “If that’s true, I’d like to talk to you some more.” Ginny said.

  “Maybe later. I’m off to have lunch... with a PR man.” Both Ginny and Greg looked surprised. Finian smiled and said, “My father.”

  *

  Finian chained his bike to a set of railings in Frith Street. As far as he was concerned, Soho was the best place to eat, particularly when someone else was picking up the bill. There were so many restaurants to choose from, he felt he could eat in the district every day for a year and not see the same menu twice.

  Nathan’s long-time favourite was Le Bon Vivant and he had made the table in the corner by the window almost his own. He didn’t know of any other restaurant that sent its best-loved clients a Christmas card or gave them advance sight of changes to the menu.

  Even before Finian sat down, Nathan had a large glass of Chardonnay waiting for him. Nathan always ordered the same: Swedish pea soup, made to a recipe known only to the owner’s wife, followed by steak maison. Trusting his father’s judgment, Finian ordered the same. Nathan stayed with the Chardonnay: he never had time for such pretensions as having red wine with a steak and was happy to drink a good white wine with anything.

  “I used to bring Frazer Drucas here,” Nathan said.

  “Before he became Prime Minister?”

  “He was a junior minister in those days, at the food ministry. And I was lobbying on behalf of some trade association or other.”

  “Does he still ring you up for advice?”

  “We spoke last week.” Nathan smiled. “You know, that really pisses off his advisers at Number Ten.”

&nbs
p; “I interviewed him the other day. His party seems to have lost its way.”

  “Probably been in power too long.”

  “They’re even out of touch with business and that was their strong point. Remember the slogan: ‘the party who got industry moving again’, Finian said. “I didn’t use it, but he admitted he desperately needs new blood at the Department of Commerce and Business.”

  Nathan leaned closer to Finian. “Even Sir Felix Axton says he can no longer get through to the PM and is fobbed off with arrogant junior ministers.”

  Sir Felix was a personal client of Nathan and chairman of one of the largest electronic companies in Europe and, during the time of Drucas’s predecessor, had constant access to Number Ten. At one time his company was also among the largest financial contributors to the party, but not any longer.

  “Finn, I’ve never been any good at small talk, particularly with you and Bonnie and... Robert. Let me get straight to the point. What are your plans?”

  “For what, Dad?”

  “Career and stuff.”

  “Largely what I’m doing now. Might move to a different paper in a year or so. Normally, I don’t think much further ahead than tomorrow or what I’m writing next.”

  “What about becoming an editor?”

  “Don’t see myself sitting in an editor’s chair. For one thing I don’t dress like an editor and the Morning Journal’s owner is influenced by appearances.”

  “Hmm,” Nathan said. A waiter brought the first course and they both ate in silence. Nathan suddenly plonked down his soup spoon. “Come and work at Kelloway and Bains.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “What did you think I wanted?”

  “A free puff for one of your clients.”

  “Fill Robert’s place. Learn the business and then take over from me as chairman. As Bonnie is fond of pointing out... I’m getting old.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I gave both Robert and Bonnie a twenty per cent stake in the company when they joined. You’ll get the same.”