Goodfellowe MP. Michael DobbsЧитать онлайн книгу.
for it. I’m sorry.’
‘A letter of regret would have been sufficient.’
‘No it wouldn’t. I mean what I say. The Herald was wrong.’
‘That’s kind of you to say so. Sadly, of course, the damage has already been done.’
The waiter had finished laying out fresh cutlery, fish for her, côte de boeuf for him. Corsa picked up the steak knife, placing his thumb to the blade in the half-light as though checking its capacity to do damage.
‘I’ve got rid of the City Editor.’
‘Goodness,’ she replied, ‘what you men will do in pursuit of an advertising contract.’
‘Oh, no. Don’t misunderstand. This has nothing to do with your cancelled advertising. I’m in pursuit of something much bigger. And to avoid any confusion, as much as I appreciate your coming here this evening in a manner which is more than capable of starting a Cabinet crisis, I am not talking about trying to get into your bed.’
‘Then I have failed,’ she mocked. ‘When I talk business with men who don’t want to get into my bed I find I’ve lost half my advantage. Men are such little boys at heart. They seem incapable of concentrating on both coitus and contracts at the same time.’
‘I didn’t say I don’t want to get into your bed. But that’s not the point of this evening’s discussion. And I’m a very grown-up boy.’
They paused as the waiter arrived with sparkling water. The fresh ice cracked and spat in the glass.
‘You told me when we met at Downing Street that your corporate image is everything.’
‘True.’
‘Then why don’t you start taking it seriously?’
She refused to rise to his bait. ‘I spend tens of millions of pounds on it, as you know. Some I used to spend with you.’
‘On advertising, yes, but it’s an art form that has had its day. You’ve got to grow far more sophisticated. At least as sophisticated as your enemies.’
‘Enemies?’
‘You go into battle every day with eco-warriors who are trying to kill you. One oil spill, one rusting drilling platform being towed around the North Sea in search of a burial place, a baby seal which dies on a beach from unknown causes – any event like that, so long as it happens in front of a camera, and all the millions you spend on your image as a warm and caring oil company become about as effective as confetti in a Force Nine gale.’
‘Much the same can be said when newspapers like yours scurrilously and inaccurately accuse me of greed for getting a pay increase.’ She intended to wound but with Corsa it had no more effect than a soup spoon lobbed at a charging rhino.
‘Precisely! But have you ever asked yourself why you get such a hard time in the media? You’ve got to remember that even if journalists aren’t bone idle they’re all up against tight deadlines. We need news in a hurry. So the pressure groups lay a feast before us – videos, apocalyptic quotes, regular updates, even free propaganda T-shirts to wear in the garden at weekends. If we want a picture, they lay on one of their helicopters to get us the best shot.’ The bottom half of his face had grown animated, yet the eyes remained hard as coal. ‘D’you know the last thing they do before they chain themselves to trees or cut holes in the fence around a nuclear power station? They check to make sure that the batteries on their mobile phones are fully charged.’
‘But those bloody people make it up as they go along. They lie.’
Her lips had tightened, he was getting to her. He raised a patronizing eyebrow. It was his turn to mock.
‘They lie!’ she repeated. ‘Doesn’t that matter to the press?’ Her nostrils flared in protest, then slowly subsided. ‘Forgive me. I’m not usually naive.’
He leaned forward tenaciously, both hands gripping the table. ‘You told me yourself that it’s a war out there. And how do you fight it? Maybe you call a meeting of some planning committee, prepare a holding statement, discuss what, if anything, you dare to say. By which time it’s already too late. As far as the media are concerned you give us nothing but yesterday’s sardines wrapped in slices of stale bread.’
She paused, running her finger around the rim of her wine glass, listening to the mournful note.
‘Forget about advertising,’ he insisted. ‘It’s hard news you need to worry about. Play the enemy at their own game. Get your retaliation in first. Screw ’em!’
The wine waiter had returned with the Burgundy. Grand Cru. Exceptional. From a chateau that nestled against the rising hills outside Puligny which the waiter knew and much loved. He handled the bottle with almost phallic respect, presenting it formally, running his fingers gently down its shaft, demanding both their attention and admiration. Then he produced a corkscrew, sheathed it around the long neck and twisted and turned and screwed until the arms of the corkscrew seemed to rise gently above its head in a gesture of feminine surrender. The cork came out with a sigh of silk sheets. It was a wonderful performance, a gesture so rich in overtones that Corsa shivered in appreciation, as he did with all good business. She’d noticed too.
She raised her glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ She stared directly at him across glasses filled with fine, honeyed liquid. ‘It sounds, Freddy, as though you want to lend me your front page.’
‘Oh, no,’ he smiled, ‘not lend. I’ve something much better in mind for you.’
Goodfellowe had fallen for Werringham School as soon as he had driven into the grounds on his first visit – and well before he had discovered the cost. By that time it had been too late, his heart was committed, and the expense was simply another part of life that his thought processes struggled desperately to cordon off and ignore. The school was set in thirty acres nestling in the cupped hand of the Somerset uplands as they pushed towards the River Exe. That first time, as he had driven along the school drive – when he still had a licence to drive – there had been azalea and maple and pleached limes. Buzzards rested in the huge cypress trees before gliding gracefully up on the thermals that gathered in the bowl of the hills. If it couldn’t be home for Sam, it was as close as she was likely to get in any institution. Warm and protecting. But it could never be home.
The day of the fashion show he arrived unannounced after a slow train journey from Waterloo. He had hoped to remain inconspicuous, the reminder about term fees still burning in his pocket, but no sooner had he reached the porch of the old sandstone manor house which formed the centre of Werringham than he was intercepted by a regional television crew. ‘Bright girl, your daughter,’ the female interviewer smiled as they stood him in front of the camera. ‘Badgered us into sending a crew. Made us feel that if we refused we’d be responsible for famine throughout the whole of central Africa. Didn’t tell us you were coming, though.’
And he had said a few words about the school and the girls and the example that the young could give us all. Then he had run straight into Miss Rennie.
‘An unexpected pleasure, Mr Goodfellowe,’ she acknowledged, looking him sternly in the eye. She had the sort of Presbyterian stare which seemed to go straight through to his bank balance. ‘I hope you’ll have a chance to linger after the fashion show. I would welcome the chance of a quiet conversation.’
‘I’m afraid I must be back in Westminster for seven. A vote.’
‘A pity. We need to talk. It’s not ideal but … perhaps we could sit together during the show. The opportunity for a few words, at least.’
There had been no question of a refusal and, much out of sorts, Goodfellowe had gone in search of Samantha. But it was not to be. Parents were not welcomed in changing rooms where twenty teenage girls were in a state of considerable excitement and undress. Instead he spent a few minutes strolling around corridors which smelt of lunch and wood polish, remembering his own school days. The memories stirred once more, making him grow angry, stubborn.