Goodfellowe MP (10 page)

Yet it had been no easy task to gather together the five men and one woman, Di Burston, who had made the journey. Weekends in idyllic locations were neither unusual nor irresistible to the industrial leaders who at this moment were fraternizing on his balcony; it was business rather than beauty that had drawn them here. A transformation of their corporate prospects, he had promised them, like some doorstep insurance salesman. He’d refused to take no for an answer, and his boots were considerably bigger than most.

They’d been there scarcely an hour but already the
informality of snow-draped Alps and invigorating air had relaxed them. The executive chairman whose company produced 400,000 cars a year had also produced his latest mistress, whom he was allowing to ‘synergize’, as he referred to it, with the others. She’d once asked him what the word meant. ‘Comes after synagogue but before syphilis,’ he’d explained. ‘Keep it that way.’ By contrast the European head of a tobacco multinational was there with his wife – ‘in my business we’re not allowed to misbehave even in private,’ he’d complained, but they were clearly a devoted pair and already at ease. So was the CEO of the world’s second-largest nuclear-reprocessing operation, who looked a little like Trotsky with glowing eyes and a moustache like a bramble which appeared to have taken root across his face. Released from the inhibitions of home, he had already propositioned the butler, who had refused, and he was now working his way broadmindedly towards Diane. She, as always, was stunning, standing centre stage in a Karl Lagerfeld tracksuit and explaining to the big-hitter from the UK chemicals industry how he might improve his backhand slice. Meanwhile to one side, cautious and seemingly diffident, stood a Japanese gentleman who everyone referred to simply as Mr Hagi. Hagi had one of those indistinguishable Oriental faces which to Europeans seem neither formed nor finished, with no striking feature to pick him out of a crowd. Yet he had found little difficulty in attracting attention after pouring a billion dollars into the virtual-reality ranch he had created in a cow pasture a few miles from Brussels
and its cross-Channel rail link. He drank only tea.

The sun had begun to slip, the final embers of day burning themselves out on mountain peaks as the shade temperature plunged several degrees. They retreated inside to the flickering hearth and the raw wood walls which acted as a backcloth to several fine pieces of art from the collection of the Corsa Foundation. The Japanese admired two slender Tang statues almost a metre high, remarking on how difficult it was to smuggle such large artefacts out of China without getting them damaged. Corsa promised to give him the name of his restorer on the Portobello Road.

A meal had been prepared which somehow managed to cater for all their dietary whims, even Mr Hagi, who seemed to enjoy little other than raw fish. He feasted on gravadlax. But no business was discussed, not during the meal.

‘A little like Poirot, isn’t it?’ the chemical king enquired, glancing around the dinner table. ‘When do you put on the funny accent and tell us who’s done the foul deed?’

‘According to much of your press coverage, you’re all as guilty as sin,’ Corsa replied. ‘That’s why you’re here.’

And with the minimum of fuss the table had been cleared, the fire replenished, drinks laid out and the staff dismissed. Wife and mistress were guided in the direction of the Jacuzzi.

‘My pitch is simple,’ Corsa began when all was quiet. There were no papers. ‘You have two things
in common. You are exceptional business leaders, corporate warriors of the first class. Yet you are all being slowly bled to death because you don’t control the most important weapon in today’s corporate warfare – your images.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the Japanese. ‘No, Mr Hagi, that doesn’t apply to you – yet. But I hope to show you that it will.’

Corsa handed each one a thin sealed envelope. ‘For later,’ he instructed with deliberate mystery.

‘You see, the media control your images. Yet none of you control the media. We, the media, are the king-makers. And the destroyers, if need be. It’s quite simple. We say the currency is about to weaken, so the following day there’s panic selling in the financial markets. And the currency becomes weak. We print a story which states that two friends are rivals for political honours and, by the weekend, they’ve become those rivals. And if we suggest a husband’s close relationship with an actress is the subject of his wife’s close scrutiny, then you can bet that by the time the milk has splashed over his morning cornflakes that’s exactly what she’s doing.’

‘You admit you print it even if it isn’t true?’ the car manufacturer interrupted.

‘You miss the point. If we print it, it becomes true.’

‘To you truth is simply a commodity?’

‘Look, in your industry you send off researchers to find out what your customers want. If they want their cars green with sun roofs and chromium headlamps, then you manufacture cars that are green with
sun roofs and chromium headlamps. If you run a television station or a newspaper you do exactly the same. Find out what the customers will buy.’

‘And manufacture it.’

Corsa let Nuclear’s remark stand to attention in front of them for a moment.

‘We don’t take hostages in the circulation war. If the great British public want to read that Martin Bormann is living as a bisexual vicar in Bognor Regis, or Five-A-Side Fiona does it with half the Chelsea team after every big match, they’ve got a right to it the same as any other customer.’

‘But that’s just the tabloids,’ Chemicals interjected.

Corsa beamed. ‘Think business! Not gutter press and respectable rag, but simply business.’

They looked nonplussed.

‘The tabloids encourage everyone to have sex at least nineteen times a week. If we don’t we’re all left to feel inadequate. Yet if we do, those very same tabloids splash our names all over the front page with illustrated highlights inside. Meanwhile the learned broadsheets make their living editorializing about the nation’s fall into moral turpitude. And who owns the respectable press? The same guys who own the gutter press. They all lie end to end and indulge in practices that would cause blushes even in Bangkok.’

The Japanese spoke next, slowly but distinctly. ‘You make it sound as if you are not a newspaper man at all, Mr Corsa.’

‘I’m not. At least, not like the rest. I understand my business better than any of them.’

‘In what way?’

‘Because I understand image, and because I control it. Hitler and Goering couldn’t destroy Winston Churchill, but I could have. Destroyed his reputation, his power, his place in history. The destiny of great people – and great companies – lies in the hands of the media. If the media say your new products are great, you’re a success. Yet every time they print a sensational front-page story about how you, all of you personally,’ – he pointed accusingly around the table – ‘about how you’re killing innocent kids through radiation leaks or tobacco smoke or drugs like thalidomide …’ His audience began to shift uneasily. ‘You spend hundreds of millions of pounds a year between you on advertising and corporate communications and lobbying to manufacture your images, your corporate truths. And practically every penny is wasted. Blown away by a single front-page exclusive branding you as no better than corporate child-killers.’

‘So what precisely is it you’re suggesting we do? Stop wasting our millions advertising in your newspapers?’ It was Diane Burston, the first time she had spoken.

‘Go direct. Buy the media. Buy the front pages, not just a couple of columns inside. Then use them. To sell your own industries – and, even more effectively, to bury your competition.’

‘That’s one hell of a sales pitch. Buy into an industry just when everyone else is selling.’ Tobacco’s tone indicated he was not taking the matter entirely seriously.

‘That’s the point. The Press Bill will force the biggest players to sell some of their titles. I’m suggesting we buy and take their place. Control your own fortunes. Buy the news coverage you want.’

‘But no one is going to be allowed more than twenty per cent …’ Tobacco objected.

‘No one. No
one
. But a private consortium made up of six or seven players, with the lines of ownership buried behind shell companies and investment trusts which no doubt you all have located in very private homes like Liechtenstein and Luxembourg …’

‘Or Switzerland.’

‘Precisely. Together we can control as much as we want without the authorities ever catching on. Newspaper shares are cheap anyway, and I’m offering you a means of increasing their value to you many times over. How much would it be worth to have free advertising? To poison the waters for your competitors?’

‘To hang the bloody pressure groups out to dry,’ Nuclear interjected with an edge of bitterness. He was catching on.

‘Dig away at their private lives, their finances,’ Corsa added. ‘They’re practically all deviants. And,’ his lips parted encouragingly, ‘the public has a right to know.’

Diane started laughing and the exchange began in earnest. ‘Someone would see through the scheme, bound to.’ – ‘Did they see through Maxwell?’ – ‘Safety in numbers. And in trusts.’ – ‘A consortium. A very private club. With our own club magazine.’ – ‘Might get the bloody Government off our backs.’
– ‘Great.’ – ‘The majesty of the press. Think about it. Always fancied being a king.’ – ‘Or queen.’ – ‘Oh, to stuff Greenpeace.’ – ‘And we’d still have the value of the newspaper shares.’

Tobacco, however, remained concerned. ‘But that’s it. I know nothing about newspapers, nor do any of us.’

‘Except me,’ their host interrupted forcefully. ‘And I want what you should want: to be part of the mightiest media group in the country. I know the business, I can make it work for you.’

‘But can we trust you, Mr Corsa?’

‘Trust me? What has trust got to do with it? Don’t trust me, control me! I’m willing to back my judgement in the most practical fashion, by allowing the consortium to start its work by buying a substantial stake in the Granite Group. Take hold of the reins. That’s my commitment. My business where my mouth is.’

Corsa’s frank enthusiasm was beginning to prove infectious until, cutting through the general hubbub that ensued, came a pounding from the far end of the table. The slap of Hagi’s hand summoned them to silence.

‘But what of me?’ the Japanese demanded, his voice quivering in offence. ‘Why am I here? My business is entertainment. Fun farms. Not death factories. I have no image problems. No …’ – he struggled furiously with the consonants – ‘pressure groups.’

‘Mr Hagi, there are pressures in every field. Even in fun farms.’

‘What pressures?’

‘OK. Let me ask you all to look inside the envelopes in front of you.’

They took up the envelopes, opening them with distinctive styles. Some tore at them like alligators playing with prey, others pecked like cranebills. Hagi approached his with such caution that for a moment Corsa thought he intended to reuse it.

From each fell share receipts. Ten thousand pounds’ worth.

‘I purchased these shares this morning. In your names. And you will see that they are shares in what Mr Hagi modestly calls his fun farm.’ He inclined his head in the direction of the Japanese. ‘By this time tomorrow they will be worth considerably more.’

‘What!’ Hagi’s voice and eyes were incandescent. ‘You screw around with my company!’

‘Not screwing around with your company, Mr Hagi. Screwing around with your opposition.’

Corsa crossed to a fax machine that had been sitting unobtrusively in the corner of the room and pressed a button. It began to warble.

‘Your main opposition – your only true competition, Mr Hagi – is the Wonderworld complex just outside Paris. Been having a particularly rough time, and they are in the process of major financial renegotiations with their banks. Big discussions about future attendance levels. Am I right?’

‘Correct.’

Corsa took the paper from the fax machine and laid it on the table. ‘I thought you might like to see tomorrow’s front page.’

The paper bore a miniaturized version of the
Herald
, with a splash headline.

‘
Child Sex Ring Targets Wonderworld.’

‘Sadly for your competition, my intrepid journalists have found evidence of paedophile activity at Wonderworld.’

‘It is true?’

‘Mr Hagi, several million children under the age of sixteen go through Wonderworld every year. Of course it attracts perverts. Just like every fun park in the world. But I have the feeling it won’t be attracting so many families, nor many bankers. Not after this.’

‘You manufacture story?’

Corsa smiled. ‘Manufacture? Such an ugly word. I prefer to see it more as a fishing expedition for the truth. Some newspapers like to fly-fish. I find it easier simply to chuck in a couple of sticks of dynamite.’

‘Boom,’ Di Burston offered, softly and very sensuously.

‘This will blow them apart,’ Hagi insisted.

‘And you will be there to pick up the pieces. You see, gentlemen, image is everything.’

Goodfellowe decided he might have been a trifle impetuous with Sammy. The ginger spikes had proved to be no more than a wash-‘n’-go frolic for the fashion show; the tattoo had also been nothing more than a temporary adornment, and even though the hole in the navel was all too lasting and left him feeling queasy, he’d been unable to articulate his objections with anything other than pompous flannel. His parables about how officers in World War I had been dragged to muddy deaths by their lanyards made him appear vaguely senile, while the fashion show – Sammy’s fashion show – had been a startling success, to which he had contributed exactly sod-all. Time to climb down from his mountain top and share a little humble pie.

Except humble pie was not on the menu at The Kremlin, Westminster’s newest restaurant, which stood no more than a brisk umbrella walk from the House of Commons. This was to be a time for reconciliation, an opportunity for him to recognize Sam’s blossoming maturity and – if he must – to acknowledge that fathers had to grow up, too. It would be worth the damage to his fragile finances. Anyway, he’d been carrying a considerable burden of guilt and The Kremlin seemed an appropriate place
to offload it, although he’d have preferred it if they’d managed to recognize him when he arrived and made a little fuss for Sammy’s benefit. Instead he got the table by the noisy kitchen door.

‘You’ve never taken me anywhere like this before. I wasn’t expecting it. You’ll have to explain the menu.’

Sammy’s observation embarrassed him. It wasn’t so much the implication of meanness but her recognition that lunch was somehow part of the rite of accession, of passage from puberty to adulthood. To independence from him.

‘Be good to do it more often. It’s so difficult with you away and, you know, my job. We never seem to have enough time for each other.’

‘You’re always so busy.’

‘Suppose I am. Do you think I’d be better if I had any other job?’

She examined him with all the brutal honesty of a teenager, then shook her head. ‘No. Except we’d have more money.’

‘Money’s not everything.’

‘That must be why we don’t have any of it.’

He had hoped lunch would be relaxing, like a warm mineral bath. Instead she seemed intent on throwing in buckets of ice cubes.

‘I’m sorry about the fashion show. About not being able to help. I thought you were splendid. Your clothes were … splendid.’

‘Daddy, what do you know about clothes?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at yourself. That jacket’s a disgrace.’ More ice cubes showered down.

‘Yes, I had an accident. Tried to have it dry-cleaned, doesn’t seem to have worked.’

‘The button’s coming off!’

He looked down and began to fiddle, only to find the thread unravelling and the button falling into his hand. Diffidently he popped it into his pocket.

‘How’s school?’ he asked, trying to find conversation.

She merely shrugged.

‘The headmistress said you’d found some friends in town, outside the school.’ He didn’t entirely know how to handle this so he bundled on. ‘In fact she’s a little worried they might not be the best sort of influence on you.’

‘She’s a snob. Anyway, she’s only really worried because one of the girls in our group got drunk last term.’

‘You drink?’

‘You told me you did when you were sixteen.’

The temptation to produce more parental flannel was almost overwhelming. ‘But how do you buy drinks? You’re under age. And you can’t afford it.’

‘We know a group of boys who are older. Nineteen, twenty maybe. They buy the drinks.’

‘You go drinking with … older boys.’ He seemed barely able to get the words out as visions of teenage decadence and the back seat of his first Hillman Minx crowded his mind.

She laughed at his discomfort, sparkling like a spring dawn. ‘Oh, Daddy, you’re such a dinosaur. Don’t worry, I’m not going to disgrace you. I don’t do drugs, and I’m no silly slapper.’

‘Slapper?’

‘How would you like me to put it? A girl who lets her guard and everything else down for a miserable rum and coke.’

His eyes had become like oysters, swimming in confusion. His little girl …

‘I’m not like that,’ she said sweetly. ‘In my case it would take at least two rum and cokes.’

She was laughing at him again, but not cruelly, merely teasing for his inability to be anything other than a father. As she continued to splash the bath water at him he was rescued by a woman who appeared at his elbow. She apologized for the situation of the table. ‘We’re very fully booked. I’ll make sure you have a much better table next time, Mr Goodfellowe. So what can I get for you?’

Sammy frowned at the menu. ‘Have you got anything which isn’t dripping in blood?’

‘Would you prefer cremated meat or simply something vegetarian?’

‘I’m a veggie.’

‘Are you?’ her father asked, startled.

‘If nothing on the menu appeals, will you leave it with me?’ the woman offered. ‘Chef does something with a stir-fry and home-made noodles which ought to get this place a Michelin star.’

‘Sounds fine. Come on, Daddy, let’s make it for two. Spirit of adventure.’

‘I’ll have the lamb. Medium rare. And a half-bottle of something red and Californian.’ He felt in need of a drink.

The woman finished taking the order and apologized
once more about the table. ‘We’ll do better for your next visit, I promise. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr Goodfellowe.’ And with that she had disappeared.

‘She fancies you, Daddy.’

‘Don’t be preposterous.’

‘Daddy, we girls can tell.’

He glanced after the woman but she had already gone. What was her name? He couldn’t even recall what she looked like. Preposterous.

‘How long have you been a veggie, anyway?’

‘’Bout six months.’

‘Truly? I didn’t know.’ He paused. ‘Quite a lot I don’t seem to know about my daughter, one way and another. Seems we’ve a lot of catching up to do. Look, it’s Easter in a couple of weeks. Let’s make some time together then, Sammy.’

‘I hate being called Sammy. It’s Sam.’ Her jaw tensed into a premeditated position. ‘And I’ve got other plans for Easter. Julie Rifkind’s parents have invited me to their place in France.’

‘But …’ He searched for an argument. ‘The cost.’

‘No cost. They’re driving. It’s all free.’

‘Your job at the pizzeria. They’re expecting you.’

‘Stuff the pizzeria. I want some fun.’

‘But …’

‘It’s a chance to practise my French.’

‘I’d hoped we could be together this Easter.’

‘Are you going to take me to the South of France?’

‘I thought … we could go and visit your mother. Together. You haven’t been for so long. I hoped we might get her to give you the locket herself.’
It was moral and material blackmail, a father’s duty.

‘Mummy won’t have the slightest idea whether I’m there or not. And the locket’s not my style anyway. I’ve changed my mind.’

Goodfellowe shuddered. The locket had become a symbol of the competing demands made upon him by wife and daughter; it had been tormenting him for days. Now she had thrown it away in a single offhand phrase. His world was spinning; he thought it might topple off its axis. The last piece of the universe which had once been his family was beginning to disintegrate.

It had been so different, five years ago. Then he had been a successful politician, surrounded by Ministerial red boxes and a devoted family. Elinor. Sammy. And poor Stevie. He’d thought it almost idyllic. Yet as he had scratched away at his soul throughout the endless nights since then he had come to realize how much he had taken for granted. The charge up the political slope with a wife at his side and children on his shoulders. Their unquestioning support. And particularly their immovable presence.

Then it had all disappeared, all except for Sam. They had been holidaying and he’d promised to take Stevie swimming. But Ministerial boxes take no account of holidays or promises made to energetic thirteen-year-olds, and he’d been buried in papers at the time he should have been with Stevie. Elinor had remonstrated, they’d argued, and she had been forced to take Stevie swimming in his place. Perhaps
it would have made no difference if he had been there; perhaps Stevie would have been too adventurous and the riptide would have dragged him under in any event; but what does a man do when his only son goes out to play and never comes back? What can he do, except blame himself? Just as in turn Elinor blamed herself. She had seemed to recover physically from the ordeal, but on the anniversary of Stevie’s death she had taken herself off to her room and had never again participated in a world which had taken Stevie away. Involutional melancholia, the doctors called it. First they had tried to cajole and persuade her back to normality, then stuffed her with pills, even though there was nothing physically wrong with her. She was simply inconsolably wretched, worthless, hating herself and all aspects of life without Stevie, and that included hating her husband. She had moved from bedroom to back room, then to stays in hospital, finally to the psychiatric nursing home, the best that Goodfellowe could afford – better even. Yet the size of the bills did nothing to diminish his own torment. The guilt of a father who should have been there, saving his child, not stroking his red box and its ambitions.

He had been left with only Sam. Now even she would not be there for him.

‘I particularly wanted to spend this Easter with you. For us both to visit your mother. She deserves it.’

‘And I deserve France.’

‘That may be just a fraction selfish, young lady.’

That was too much for her. ‘Selfish? Is it any more
selfish than sending me away to school? Shuffling the responsibility onto others?’

‘It’s a very fine school. It costs … hell, it doesn’t matter what it costs. What else could I do?’

‘Show you loved me.’

‘But I do.’

‘All I wanted was a bit of time, Daddy. Can’t you see? I had no mother, no brother. I needed a father, not a boarding school. But you never had time for me.’

‘Sammy …’

She ploughed right through him. ‘I’d get more time with you if I were one of your whining constituents. You make time for everyone else in this world but me. So now I’m making time for myself, doing what I want to do. For once. I’m going to France. Whether you like it or not.’

The meal was arriving and they paused to save general embarrassment. It was true, he reflected. He’d given up his Ministerial office to sort out his personal life, yet he had only immersed himself in other work to dull the pain, to exhaust himself so that he could somehow sleep at night in the frozen wastes of his bed. How could a single parent living half the year in Westminster take care of a teenager? She had to go away to school. Yet had he in truth also sent Sam away because she reminded him of all the things he’d lost?

They began their meal in silence.

‘It’s not been easy for me,’ he started again. ‘I’ve tried to do my best for you. Perhaps you don’t realize the sacrifices I’ve had to make.’

‘Oh, I do, Daddy.’ Her eyes were beginning to rim with tears. ‘Every time I want to take piano or horse-riding lessons, and you say no. Every time I have to borrow a pair of shoes even to appear in a fashion show. Every time I spend my holidays working in the pizza parlour wondering what my friends are up to in Florida or the Far East. I think I understand your sacrifices very well indeed.’

‘Look, I can’t afford to take you off on trips.’

‘Then why, for Christ’s sake, are you trying to stop me taking myself?’

Her voice had risen, his voice too; others were noticing. He began to be grateful they weren’t sitting in the centre of the restaurant after all. She knew about wounds, how to be on the receiving end; now she’d learnt how to inflict them. If this was growing up, he didn’t care for it.

‘Watch your language,’ he growled.

She was sobbing, silently.

‘You want some pudding?’

She shook her head, wiped her eye, wouldn’t look at him. ‘I want to go.’

He was going to argue with her but could think of not a thing to say. He waved for the bill.

Its arrival gave him more pain. His whole week’s allowance gone in one disastrous hour. Enough to have bought her two pairs of shoes. Then the woman was at his elbow once more. A telephone call for Mr Goodfellowe. He followed her to the small bar, where she apologized. She had deceived him. There was no telephone call but, a private word, there was a problem with the credit card. The terminal was rejecting
it. Rejecting him. Even the machinery was joining in.

He seemed to have lost the will to fight back, even to concoct a pathetic excuse. It was over the limit again. He paid by cheque and left with his cheeks burning. He desperately wanted to get out of this place and leave all its memories behind.

As he collected their coats he fumbled in his pocket for a coin, thrusting it at the cloakroom girl.

Only later did he realize he had given her his button.

With heavy head – the Californian Cabernet had driven deep, especially without cheese – and with still heavier heart, Goodfellowe found a place on the green leather benches behind his Front Bench. During his days at the Dispatch Box he had been in the very midst of the battle, at the point of the Opposition’s bayonet charge, so close he could almost smell the fried onion. Now he was drawn back from the front line, a soldier no longer expected to lead but simply to obey, to do the right thing, whatever and whenever his generals required. Cannon fodder. Yesterday’s Man in an arena which had time only for the moment. It was galling enough to a man with pride, let alone opinion, and the many fine moments when he had led his own oratorical charge against the Opposition had been cast into the pit of history. Now he rarely spoke, content to growl and grumble from a sedentary position – ‘sitting on my principles’, as he described it to Mickey.