Bad Influence

by Desmond Harding

  “What’ll it do?”

  “Supply conference material, brochures, marketing give-aways. Stuff like that.”

  “And how many clients will it have?”

  The woman who had come in at the same time as Angela got up and went to the ladies’ room. As soon as she left, the man started staring at Bonnie and grinned. Bonnie gently inclined her head to show she had noticed.

  “Just one.” Bonnie got out one of her business cards and wrote on the back. “Be prepared for a call from Norton-Hunter,” she said.

  Bonnie got up. “Must go.” As she passed the man, she dropped the card by his glass. On it she had written “Call me”.

  *

  It was a strange experience for Norsteadt. He stood on the stage of a small theatre, looking out at an audience of two. All the other seats were empty.

  Bonnie looked back at him from the front row. Next to her was Donna Templeton.

  “That’s much better, Mr Norsteadt. Your diction and projection show great improvement since last time.”

  Norsteadt grinned. Templeton was one of the country’s leading voice and acting coaches. She got up from her seat and moved to the rear of the theatre. “One last exercise. I want to be able to hear every word from back here.”

  Norsteadt took a deep breath and concentrated on his diaphragm, just as she had taught him.

  “Remember, project your words – don’t shout them. You want to stir your audience; not deafen them.”

  Norsteadt went through the vocal exercises that were a key part of Templeton’s theory.

  “Good. Now before you go, there’s something I’d like to show you.”

  In her office, Templeton inserted a CD into her PC. “The men you are about to see are – or were – the very best. Study them: copy them.”

  Bonnie and Norsteadt sipped from cups of coffee as Templeton pressed the play button. On the screen came a succession of shots of some of the world’s greatest orators – Adolf Hitler, Winston Churchill, John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King.

  “I’ve turned the sound down so that you can concentrate on what they’re doing. Not what they say.”

  Norsteadt and Bonnie leant forward. This was absorbing.

  “Look at the way Hitler spreads his arms – waiting to embrace the whole German people. Now watch this. He’s just standing there... looking at his audience... waiting for them to cheer.”

  Outside in the theatre lobby, Merv Getty was waiting. He was six foot, slim and black. Bonnie and Merv kissed.

  “Bram, this is the most important man in my life. With any luck he’ll be yours too.”

  Norsteadt shook Merv’s hand and Bonnie smiled at his confusion. “He’s my personal trainer.”

  Merv draped a long arm round Bonnie’s shoulder. “Nobody gets to look this good without a little help.”

  “Strength is the most important quality in business,” she said. “Strength to keep going for fourteen hours a day – strength to press on when the competition is knackered.”

  “Not bad.” Merv circled Norsteadt. “All the same, Bram, you could stand to lose a few pounds.”

  Bonnie picked up Norsteadt’s new briefcase and snapped open the locks. “We’ll start with these.” She picked out a plastic bag. “No more toffees.” She turned to Merv. “He’s become addicted to them and they’ll destroy his waistline.”

  Norsteadt looked guilty at having one of his silly weaknesses uncovered. “Merv did wonders for me,” Bonnie said. “He’ll get you in shape. Go off with him and do whatever he says.”

  Bonnie stopped by the door. “By the way, did you bring what I asked?”

  Norsteadt handed over a bulging manila envelope. “Here it is. But I can’t think why you need my CV and family photo album.”

  “When I give someone a makeover, I cover all angles.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Fake it, till you make it. That’s my motto,” she said. Norsteadt frowned. “I’ll explain everything – soon.”

  *

  Nathan remembered what it was like, and got there early enough to recover from the climb to Finian’s new office. Mike Cook, on the other hand, still gasped for breath.

  “Finn, if this is your idea of revenge for getting you involved, I don’t think it’s funny,” Cook said.

  “If you think this is revenge, wait till you taste his coffee,” Nathan replied.

  Finian put two steaming mugs in front of them. “Shut up both of you and drink this.”

  In the short time Finian had been there, his office had developed a lived-in look. A PC sat on the desk and Finian had already lined three shelves with reference books. In the corner, a pile of newspapers had started to grow.

  “My father asked to join this planning meeting, Mike. I hope that’s okay with you.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr Kelloway,” Cook said, “but this is very confidential.”

  “I’ll vouch for Dad. He has his own reasons for wanting to help us,” Finian said.

  “If you say so.”

  “Absolutely. Anyway, he still has the best PR brain in the country.”

  Cook spread his hands in acceptance.

  From the floor, Finian picked up three stacks of paper, each stapled together at one corner. “You’ll have to wait for fancy bindings till the client pays his bills.”

  “All right. All right,” Cook said. The three laughed.

  “Mike, the two of us worked together on these. Dad will take you through them.”

  “You have to hit Norton-Hunter where it hurts them – in the pocket,” Nathan said.

  As he took him through the plan, step by step, Cook followed in his copy of the document. Every so often, he scribbled a note in the margin alongside a key paragraph.

  “We’ll launch the campaign with a press conference. Here’s the theme we recommend: ‘Justice for the Norton-Hunter Two’,” Finian said.

  *

  Sweat poured down Norsteadt’s face and his lungs screamed in protest. He was lying on his back, with Merv Getty holding his feet firmly to the floor.

  “I want another ten reps,” Merv said. “Now go for it.”

  Norsteadt put his hands back behind his neck and started another batch of sit-ups.

  “One... two... three...”

  Norsteadt was slowing down.

  “Nearly there... four... five... six...”

  Norsteadt closed his eyes. The agony was unbelievable. What little breath he had left, rasped through his clenched teeth as he managed another two.

  “One last effort... nine... and ten.” Norsteadt fell back partly exhausted and partly proud of what he had just achieved.

  “Well done, Bram,” a voice behind them said. Both men looked up to see Bonnie, standing by a wall of the gym. “Just popped in to see how things were going.”

  Through his wheezing breath, Norsteadt said, “Don’t know whether to thank you for all this... or fire you.” He then fell back, unable to say anything more.

  “Can’t stop. Having dinner with the Permanent Under-Secretary at the Commerce and Business Department. One of our other clients has a problem that needs sorting out.”

  Despite his pain, Norsteadt sat up. He was interested.

  “The man had better play ball or his minister will get some nasty questions next time he steps up to the despatch box in the Commons.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ll write them – and make sure they’re asked.”

  Norsteadt looked puzzled. “I thought that sort of thing was banned.”

  “I do believe you’re right,” she said. Bonnie tossed Norsteadt a towel. “There are still a few things to do to you before I reveal all my secrets.”

  “I envy you,” Norsteadt said, wiping the sweat from his face. “Politics has been a lifelong fascination for me.”

  “By the way, I’ve brought you a present.” Norsteadt draped the towel round his neck and took a package from Bonnie. “For your office.” She watched him eagerly tear away at the gift-w
rapping.

  From the midst of string and paper he took out three framed photographs and studied them carefully. All were of himself, but at different ages. In one he was shaking hands with David Cameron, the next showed him standing beside Bill Gates, and the third, in deep conversation with President Obama.

  “But I’ve never met any of them.” Norsteadt shook his head. Was all this getting out of hand? he wondered.

  “You have now.”

  Bonnie pointed at the three pictures. “It’s a wonder what modern technology... and access to a good photo library... can do.”

  “What if people ask about them?”

  “They won’t – so long as you give them no reason for doubt.”

  While they talked, Merv exercised on his own. His speciality was one- arm push-ups.

  Bonnie admired her handiwork again. “Tell people something often enough and they begin to believe it,” she said. “If you don’t like these, I can have you meeting anyone you like. I even found old photos of David Livingstone.”

  “I’m not that ancient.”

  “Well, what about Elvis Presley or the Beatles? Would you have liked to shake their hands?”

  “But why?”

  “Not only am I shaping your future, but I’m giving you a more interesting past. People in the world of antiques call it provenance – the right pedigree.”

  Satisfied that Norsteadt was beginning to understand, she gave him a sheet of paper. “I also want you to study this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your new CV,” she said. “Just a few embellishments. Nothing that can be easily disproved.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve sent you to public school,” Bonnie said. “Don’t look so worried. This one closed twenty years ago, and the headmaster’s dead, so you won’t be found out.”

  “Bonnie.”

  “I haven’t given you extra academic qualifications or anything like that,” she said pressing on. “Although I did think about it. That stuff is too easy to check.”

  “That’s enough rest,” Merv said. “Now on your front. I want ten push-ups... like NOW.”

  Fourteen

  Bonnie made Norsteadt stand up. “Let me look at you.” He came round from behind his desk. This was the first time he had got everything together: the hair, the new suit, the right shirt and tie. The shoes – and the briefcase. “Bram. You look great.”

  “Even my wife said I looked different this morning. Usually, she has to be hit by a brick before noticing anything,” Norsteadt said. “I think she’s beginning to feel jealous.”

  “There’s nothing to feel jealous about.”

  “Not yet.” There was a twinkle in his eye, a flash of personality that Bonnie hadn’t seen before. He’s changing, she thought.

  He patted his firm waist and stood sideways, so Bonnie could see the new profile.

  “We’re almost done. One or two more things to increase your stature and then we’ll let you loose on the world.” Bonnie paced the room, thinking. “You should write a book.”

  “I don’t have the time, or the ability.”

  “That’s the least of our problems. Ghost writers are ten-a-penny.”

  “What about?”

  “Biotechnology? You’re always saying it’s the great hope for the future. Call it Curing the World: The End of Hereditary Disease.”

  “I know one man who could write it.”

  “Good,” Bonnie said. “One last thing. There’s a company we use regularly for brochures, slides, conference material and things like that – DGS Communications. They’re very good – Culpin should use them.”

  “Give me their number and I’ll mention it to him.”

  “Back to the book,” Bonnie said. “I’ll sweeten a publisher I know. Offer to do the PR for nothing, and buy a couple of hundred copies for promotional purposes.”

  As soon as Bonnie had gone, Norsteadt phoned Ketler. “Hans, our new PR people are thinking about a book on biotechnology... as part of their publicity programme for the company. Would you be interested in writing it with me?”

  “That’s a coincidence. I’m already working on something similar,” he said.

  “Wonderful,” Norsteadt said. “I’m not sure whether you’d get joint credit as author. Our PR woman thinks there shouldn’t be more than one company spokesman. Seems they just want my name on it; can’t think why. You’re the expert.”

  Norsteadt could almost hear Ketler weighing his options. “You’ll be paid, of course, but I’m not sure how much.”

  “Very well.”

  Once again, Norsteadt was surprised at Ketler’s willingness to be so helpful.

  *

  Finian’s press conference, called to launch the union’s campaign, knocked fifteen pence off the company’s share price.

  When reporters started phoning the company for reaction to the accusations of poor safety throughout the company, Norsteadt insisted on taking a hotel room in London, to be on hand if necessary.

  Bonnie wanted Kelloway and Bains to handle all the reporters and set up what she called a crisis centre at their office. She didn’t think Culpin was up to it... or Norsteadt ready.

  Andrew followed Bonnie from the lift. Along the corridor to Norsteadt’s room, he stayed two paces behind her.

  The hotel room was a mess. Discarded newspapers covered the floor. Culpin was already there, looking pleased with himself. Thanks to Bonnie’s insistence, he was blameless.

  Norsteadt and Nigel Waugh were huddled in a corner. “Our shares will bounce back in a few days,” Norsteadt said.

  Waugh saw Bonnie and Andrew enter the room. “If we hadn’t hired these people, we wouldn’t be in this mess at all.”

  Bonnie planted herself squarely before Waugh. “It wasn’t Kelloway and Bains who had two men die on them. It’s not Kelloway and Bains who operate suspect manufacturing plants. And it wasn’t us who called the press conference.”

  Waugh seemed to wilt under her onslaught.

  “Now back off, Nigel, and have the courage to accept responsibility for your own shortcomings,” she said.

  Right then, Norsteadt would have forgiven Bonnie anything. She really is getting the measure of the creep, he thought.

  “The fact is, we haven’t had such a bad press in years,” Waugh said lamely.

  Almost absent-mindedly, Norsteadt caught sight of his reflection in a mirror and gave his new hairstyle a quick comb through.

  “Instead of blaming each other, let’s work out what we’re going to do,” Norsteadt said.

  “I suggest we do nothing,” Bonnie replied. “The man who’s running the campaign for the union is just marking time until he returns to journalism.” Bonnie had wasted no time in discovering who was behind the union’s new-found voice.

  Culpin suddenly joined the discussion. “Who’s that?”

  “Finian,” Bonnie said. She suddenly knew she had said too much.

  Culpin pursued her. “Finian who?”

  “Finian Kelloway.” And then, almost in a whisper, “He’s my brother.”

  “Holy Mother of God,” Waugh said. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “He’s just playing at it,” she said anxiously. “He’s an out-of-work hack who rides around London on a bike.”

  The phone rang and Culpin answered it. “Which one of you wants to speak to Penny Dexter?” he asked. Penny Dexter was the chairman for Metropol Life, one of Britain’s most influential insurance companies and Norton-Hunter’s largest shareholder.

  Norsteadt took the phone. “Penny, what can I do for you?” He listened for a moment. “I’m discussing that with our PR advisers at this very moment...There’s no need to worry. The union’s claim is rubbish. In fact, the man who’s running things for them won’t be there much longer. I have that on very good authority... Any time, Penny,” he said and rang off.

  “You’d better be right about your brother,” Norsteadt said and flicked a small fleck of something from his shoe. �
�I have a funny feeling we’re not dealing with sandal-wearing extremists.”

  *

  Cook pushed a bottle of whisky into Finian’s hands. “Call it an office-warming present – or a bonus on your fee.”

  “I don’t drink whisky – not in the day anyway.”

  “But I do. Judging by the success of your first attack on Norton-Hunter, I’ll be here a lot.” Cook opened the bottle. “Reg Ashlin and the executive are delighted.”

  Cook looked round the office. “Got any drinking glasses?”

  “Use this,” Finian slid a coffee mug along the desk. “We’ve hardly started.” From the top of his desk he took a brightly coloured brochure. “What do you know about these?”

  Cook scanned the pages. “My wife uses that... and that... and we’ve always bought those.” He turned to the front cover and read the title, “Premium Products for a Premium Life”.

  “For Premium Products, read Norton-Hunter.”

  “You’re joking. I never knew they made all this stuff.”

  “It’s a catalogue of all Norton-Hunter’s non-drug products. The business is worth millions of pounds a year.”

  Cook flipped through the pages again.

  “Now we’re going to mobilise your union’s most powerful weapon,” Finian said.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Its membership,” Finian said. “Can you get this booklet copied?”

  “No problem. How many?”

  “One for each of your one-and-a-half million members.” Cook swallowed hard at the thought of the cost. “We’re going to ask them, their families, their relatives, and their friends... to boycott all Norton-Hunter’s products.”

  As soon as Cook left, Finian started work on the next stage of the campaign. At first he didn’t hear the two women enter. “Hello, Mr Kelloway,” one said. They both peered round the corner into his inner office. “Can we have a word?”

  He looked up. “Mrs Potter, Mrs Getz. Come in.”

  Finian found them a couple of chairs.

  “It was wrong of me to doubt you,” said Linda Potter. “You’ve already achieved so much.”

  “We want to become involved,” Paula Getz said. They both looked a lot better than the last time Finian saw them.