“Your lineage rates still the same?”
Greer just smiled and then wished Finian luck.
*
Hollis Dorkley was scared. Bonnie had called the consultancy’s chief accountant in “for a chat”. For ten minutes she strung him along cruelly, talking about “getting rid of dead wood”. The chances of Dorkley finding a new job at his age were non-existent.
If he wasn’t reassured soon, Bonnie was convinced he would burst into tears. “Of course, this doesn’t mean you.” Dorkley gave an audible sigh of relief. “So long as we can agree on some important ground rules.”
“Of course, Miss Bonnie,” he said.
“You and your accounting team can stay... so long as you all use the back door. Under no circumstances do any of you meet clients.”
At that point Dorkley would have agreed to anything.
“One last thing.” She showed Dorkley a copy of an invoice. “Why was this paid without my authority?”
Dorkley studied the paper. “Well... err.... under Nathan... You see Miss Bonnie, he gave me authority to pay small amounts. It saved him time and...”
“That authority is rescinded as of now,” she snapped. “And if you ever do anything like that again, I’ll cut off what’s left of your shrivelled genitalia and feed them to my dogs.”
From nowhere that Dorkley could see, Bonnie whipped out a pair of secateurs she had asked Raymond to buy from the gardening department of Selfridges. She waved the blades under Dorkley’s nose.
“Nothing is going to happen round here without me knowing about it. Got it?” Dorkley nodded furiously and almost ran from the office.
*
Another letter floated down. It landed with the dozen or so that Finian had thrown there in the last ten minutes.
“We’ll make it,” Emma said.
“So far, there’s been replies to about half my applications.”
Emma stroked his hair.
“Not even an interview.”
Emma didn’t know what else to say.
Finian picked up a pile of that day’s rejections and let them fall through his fingers to the floor again. He was becoming more and more despondent. “The silly thing is,” he said, “a few weeks ago I wouldn’t have even considered working for some of these. Now I’d jump at anything.”
*
Bonnie got back to her house shortly after midnight. She had insisted that Andrew be there. She always felt horny after a long negotiating session. From the sitting room came the blaring sound of a television.
Andrew had his feet up on a table watching an old black and white war film. Bonnie moved between him and the screen, intentionally blocking his view. Andrew leaned to one side to see around her.
This was not what she wanted. Bonnie moved closer to Andrew, hitched her skirt up around her waist, and straddled him.
“What are you doing, Bonnie?” he asked.
She lowered herself onto him and started to move rhythmically. “Thought that was obvious.”
Andrew made a final effort to peer around Bonnie and watch the film. But she grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him back to her. Bonnie then unzipped his trousers and thrust in her hand.
“Attention,” she said. Then a moment later, “That’s better.”
There was nothing else he could do. She had won again. Andrew started unbuttoning Bonnie’s dress, and a smile of triumph spread across her face. She reached for the remote and, without looking, zapped off the television.
*
Her mobile rang at four in the morning. It was still dark and Bonnie fumbled for the light. She picked up the phone and managed a small grunt.
“This Miss Bonnie Kelloway? Cyrus Tylzack speaking.”
Bonnie came to, slowly. Cyrus Tylzack ran a medium-sized Texan oil company and was one of Nathan’s personal clients.
“Where are you calling from, Mr Tylzack?”
“Let me see. I’d guess about 36,000 feet and ten minutes west of the Irish coast.”
“You’re in a jet?”
“You bet,” he said. “One of my own.”
Andrew slowly sat up in bed and looked first at the clock, and then at Bonnie. Bonnie shrugged.
“I heard you put old Nathan out to pasture. That’s why I’m calling you instead.”
“Mr Tylzack, it’s four in the morning and perhaps...”
“We’ll be touching down at Heathrow sometime after six and I want to be met...” he said, interrupting. The line went dead for a moment.
“Mr Tylzack. You still there?”
The voice came back “... and I need a lift into town.”
“Mr Tylzack. I run a public relations consultancy. Not a transport firm.”
“I know what you run, young lady. You charge enough for me to expect some special treatment. Now get it done.” He paused and then added, “Make sure whoever you send is senior enough to give me some intelligent conversation. No bimbos or airheads.”
Andrew was awake now and wrote on a scratch pad. “Red Spot Oil – annual fee – $100,000 a year’.
She studied the figure for a moment and nodded. “Mr Tylzack. You will be met... by one of our top people.” She rang off.
“Sometimes I’d like to shoot my clients. Who the hell do they think they are?” She scrolled down the list of contacts on her phone till she reached the name of Alex Hanborough. She hit the call button.
“I’m sorry to call you so early, Alex, but this is an emergency. Cyrus Tylzack is touching down at Heathrow in a couple of hours, and he needs his hand held. Bring him to our offices and I’ll take it from there.”
Hanborough tried to object. “I know what the time is,” Bonnie said. “So you’d bloody well better leave now – or you’ll miss him.”
It was 6.15 when the phone rang again. Bonnie was up, doing her morning aerobic exercises. It was Hanborough.
“Tylzack said he’s misplaced his Vicuna coat. He thinks it was left at the opera the other night in New York. And he wants it found.”
“If that’s what it takes to make the man happy, do it.”
“I’m not his servant.”
“So long as he continues to pay his very large bill and you continue to draw your very large salary, you’re anything I say you are.”
Bonnie slammed down the phone and sat on the edge of the bed. Andrew who was not into aerobics, was still between the sheets and slowly massaged her shoulders.
“I’m sick of wiping that man’s backside.”
*
Cyrus Tylzack looked every inch the wild-cat oil man he was: Stetson, cowboy boots, jeans, fancy belt. The works. He finished his coffee and put the empty cup to one side. “There’s one more thing you can help me with,” he said.
“That’s what you pay us for, Mr Tylzack,” Bonnie said. She crossed to Tylzack to collect his empty cup and accidentally kicked a small briefcase resting by his chair.
“Sorry,” she said.
“No bother. Betsy’s suffered worse treatment than that.” From the case Tylzack pulled a chrome Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum pistol and gave the barrel a shine on his suit sleeve.
Bonnie stared at the pistol open-mouthed.
“Never go anywhere without her,” Tylzack said.
“Get caught with that and you go to jail,” Bonnie said. “And I’m not having one of my clients in that kind of shit. Not if I can help it.”
Bonnie grabbed the pistol.
“Careful, Betsey’s loaded.”
“How the hell did you get it through customs?”
“Fly in on a private plane and the security is crap,” Tylzack. “There was a guy who came and checked passports but it looked like it was the end of his shift and just wanted to get the hell out of there and to bed.”
Bonnie couldn’t believe what he said. “And after nine-eleven.”
Tylzack shrugged. “That’s what it looks like.”
“Oh my God.” She stuffed the gun into its case, and took it to a small safe in the corner of her office. �
��It stays there till you leave the country.”
“Miss Kelloway...” he started to say.
“I mean it. In England we don’t go around shooting people.”
*
The following Monday, Alex Hanborough found Andrew working on one of his personal accounts. When he demanded to know what was going on, all Andrew would say was, “You’d better see Bonnie.”
Bonnie had wondered how long it would take Hanborough to storm in.
“We’re reorganising, Alex.”
“Balls.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“This is one of your hatchet jobs.”
“You’re over-reacting,” she said. “I’ve got something else for you to do. It’s a new assignment.” Hanborough sat down and listened. “I want you to investigate new areas where the firm should be operating.”
“Such as?”
“If I knew that, they wouldn’t be new.”
*
Winston Culpin jabbed at the report with his finger. “Here... here... and there.”
Bonnie had emailed Norsteadt the Kelloway and Bains proposals for the coming year’s public relations activities. Norsteadt had asked Culpin for his views.
“Everything in there came from me. All they’ve done is mirror my recommendations back to us. Not one original thought. Bloody cheek,” Culpin said.
Norsteadt flipped through the printed-out pages. He didn’t seem worried.
“No, this is theirs. But what’s the point of it? Why suggest extensive television training? You never appear on TV.”
“That’s because you never get me there.” Norsteadt tossed the report into his open briefcase. “They may be your ideas – but Kelloway and Bains sold them.”
As Culpin left, Bonnie was waiting. Both glanced at each other but said nothing. Their dislike of each other was growing daily.
“Need to get something straight from the beginning,” Bonnie said as she sat down. “That man has asked my staff to report to him.”
“He is my head of public relations.”
“That’s not how we work. They report to me – and I talk to you.”
He shrugged. Culpin wouldn’t like it. But so what? .
Bonnie studied him for a moment. On the surface, Norsteadt still appeared almost featureless. All the same, she felt that there was something there – to be worked on and moulded.
“If our relationship is to work there must be honesty.”
“Of course.”
“Is there any truth in the union’s accusation? Is this wasting disease anything to do with you?” Bonnie asked.
Norsteadt framed his reply carefully. This was their first meeting and he had no idea how far he could trust Bonnie. “The union claims they contracted some sort of virus while carrying out maintenance work. That’s total rubbish.”
“Good,” Bonnie said. “First lesson in PR is never let an accusation go unanswered. If you do, it becomes pseudo-fact. Deny everything as vehemently as possible.”
“You know Culpin thinks an outside consultancy is unnecessary,” Norsteadt said. “In fact, he doesn’t think much of your company at all.”
“Research we carried out before the pitch showed that your image was boring. That’s down to Culpin,” Bonnie said. “What do you expect from a man who wears those ridiculous shoes to the office – I bet they came from France. And then there’s that plastic briefcase he carries.” She flinched. “Yuck.”
Norsteadt stood up and came round from his side of the desk. He pointed to his shoes, which were identical to Culpin’s, and at the cheap black plastic briefcase adorned with bright bits of chrome, leaning against the wall.
“Yes, but in your case there’s hope.”
“Explain.”
“First things first,” she said. “Before we start any programme, I like to know what my new clients really want.”
Norsteadt thought for a moment. “We at Norton-Hunter want to be appreciated for our achievements and...”
“Not that self-serving corporate crap.”
“Pardon.”
“What do you – Bram Norsteadt – want?” She picked up the copy of her PR proposals from his desk. “Out of all this?”
Norsteadt remained silent.
“Can I guess?”
“Go ahead.”
She might as well say it now as later. “You want to become famous.”
Norsteadt still refused to comment.
“Good. Because I want to make you famous.”
*
Andrew was waiting for her in the car. He had been interviewing Norton-Hunter’s head of marketing for a possible press release. As the car slipped on to the M4 and headed back to London, Bonnie’s thoughts surfaced. “That man Culpin has to go.”
“He’s no threat,” Andrew said.
“Wrong. He’s the one man who can ruin it for us. He can see through what we say and challenge our recommendations.”
Andrew shook his head. He wasn’t so sure.
“He’s the one person in that company who has the ability to shout “the emperor has no clothes”. He’s a threat to getting our contract with Norton-Hunter renewed.”
Eleven
The Associated Union of General and Technical Workers had bought their headquarters in the 1930s as part of an early investment in property. The building, in a wide north London street, had once been the home of the renegade heir to the Hunter soft drinks empire.
Finian arrived ten minutes early. He was amused at the thought that it had been the merger between Hunter and the Norton Patent Medicine Company that created Norton-Hunter.
The receptionist asked Finian to take a seat and phoned through to Mike Cook to say he was there.
After a short while, a girl came from an inner office, looked quickly around the reception and vanished. Five minutes later she returned, looked around the area again and disappeared.
After twenty minutes, the receptionist said to Finian, “I told them you were here, Mr Kelloway. I’ll ring once more.”
Almost immediately the same girl as before appeared again. “Are you Finian Kelloway? She asked. She seemed embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I was told to collect a PR man and...”
“And I don’t look like a PR man.”
“Not really.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
Mike Cook apologised as soon as Finian entered his office. “Susie was looking for someone a little more formal. Not t-shirt, jeans, and...” He looked down at Finian’s feet. “... work boots.”
“I told you before, I’m not in PR.”
“We hope to change your mind about that.” Cook went across to a cupboard and produced a bottle of whisky. He showed it to Finian.
“Too early for me.”
Cook poured himself what he called “a small, morning bracer”. “Things have changed since we last spoke. You’re without a job and we want to give you one. Why not start your own business; we could be your first client?”
“That’s what my dad suggested.”
“Well?”
“I doubt whether you and the union have any idea what it would take. We’ve been good friends, and done a lot of business together. But I have to say the entire union movement is still in the Dark Ages when it comes to fighting a modern communications battle.”
“Come and talk to Reg. He’s asked to see you.” Reg Ashlin was Mike Cook’s boss and the union general secretary. Finian had interviewed Ashlin many times and liked him. It would help fill his empty day, so he agreed.
“Good to see you again.” Ashlin grasped Finian’s hand. His grip was still as strong as in the days when he worked as a builder. With him in his office were four other people: two women in their thirties, one of them holding tightly onto the hand of a young girl, and a man who must have weighed at least twenty stone.
“Come over here. There’s some people I want you to meet.”
Finian followed him across. “You know Linda Potter – Laslo’s widow.” Finian looked hard
at Ashlin. “Yes. Both Laslo and Ivan died the day before yesterday.”
Finian wouldn’t have recognised her as the same woman he’d met a few weeks before.
“This is Paula Getz.” Like Linda, Mrs Getz looked much older than her age. She managed a thin smile. “And their daughter, Vivian.” Her eyes were still red from crying.
“And this is Freddy ‘Two-Pies’ Gough.” Finian shook hands with the fattest man he had ever met. “Freddy is an engineer with Norton-Hunter and was a close friend of Laslo and Ivan,” Ashlin said. He slapped Two-Pies on his back.
On Cook’s desk were scattered a number of large photographs. “Look at these, Finn.”
For a moment it was difficult to work out what they were. Slowly, it became clear. Finian could now make out the gaunt shapes of both Laslo Potter and Ivan Getz, only moments before they died.
“These were taken with the permission of both families. I make no apology for showing them to you.”
Finian looked at the photographs again. Potter looked even more haggard than the last time Finian saw him, if that were possible.
“Both were down to four stone at the end. The doctors could find no cause of death,” Ashlin said.
“There have been autopsies. They may show something,” Cook said.
Finian was moved, not just by the photographs, but by the families of the two men. They sat perfectly still, totally dignified.
Two-Pies picked up one of the photographs and said, “We were part of the same team at Norton-Hunter. Wherever they went, I was there too.”
“Could the men have become infected outside Norton-Hunter?” Finian asked.
“We checked. They never mixed socially. Their only contact was at Norton-Hunter,” Cook said.
Ashlin came out from behind his desk and perched on one corner of it. “You’ve been asked before... and said no before. But things are different now. Will you help us?”
Cook and Ashlin had engineered Finian into an impossible position. If it were the two men on their own, then he could have toughed it out. But bringing in the families? That wasn’t fair.
“The union executive will go along with anything you recommend,” Ashlin said. “You’ll have a free hand.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t want to help us,” said Linda Potter. “We’re not being rude, Mr Kelloway, but I was hoping for someone a little... Well, he’s not what I expected.”
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