Know Your Place

Chapter One-3

Kay had fire-fought throughout that first day, dashing down to Gatwick on the train and standing shoulder to shoulder with her beleaguered client, Mighty Meals’ managing director Roger Wallace, who was frightened and totally out of his depth. He was surrounded by deadly serious policemen, and intelligence and immigration officials who, when not asking questions in a highly accusatory way, were busy filling boxes with paperwork taken from Mighty Meals’ personnel files.

In truth, there hadn’t been much that Kay could do. No mere PR representative could prevent the security services from doing their jobs. It was going to be a matter of damage limitation when all this broke, and it did just that two days later after the police gave the story to a national newspaper. A weasel-sounding reporter had called with a long list of questions that Kay knew she could never answer specifically. Having talked at length with Roger Wallace at Mighty Meals, Kay had discovered so many holes in the firm’s procedures for vetting employees that it was obvious that they were doomed if they engaged in any kind of straight-talking dialogue with the media.

So she had beaten the questions away with a prepared statement, which said next to nothing. The company could confirm there was an investigation, and it was co-operating with the security services to investigate the degree to which these people had been checked out before being given jobs. That was the gist of it. What it didn’t say was that these jobs just happened to involve working next to sophisticated aeroplanes that in the wrong hands could be turned into lethal flying bombs. The press would spell that out for everyone though, that much was certain. Well, Kay reflected, it was a complete mess. She almost hoped that Mighty Meals would get nailed.

Having sent the statement to the newspaper, Kay had then called Roger Wallace to confer.

“They’re asking if we will put someone forward to be interviewed,” she informed him. There was silence for a couple of seconds at the other end of the line. Kay was keenly aware that Wallace was like a rabbit caught in the headlights over this situation, and that made her even more certain that it could only work out badly for her client, and by extension Kay herself, if the company put itself in the firing line.

“Do you think we should?” Wallace ventured.

“No, absolutely not Roger. Believe me, after what we talked about two days ago, I don’t want you going anywhere near an interview. If you’d ever done that media training we recommended then maybe, but even so, on this issue, it’s really tricky. And when this story breaks and the TV and radio people get hold of it, the same applies then. Even more so actually. You’d get taken apart on national telly. It would be a disaster.”

“Couldn’t you handle it for us?”

“How do you mean?”

“Couldn’t you handle the interview? I mean, isn’t that what we pay you for?”

Kay had almost jumped out of her chair at that suggestion, but she had to keep her anger in check, realising that it would be unprofessional for her team to hear their boss arguing on the telephone with a client. Instead she lowered her voice to a tight-lipped, rasping whisper: “No Roger, it isn’t what you pay us for. We consult and advise but we don’t run your company. How do you think it would look if Mighty Meals put up a spokesman who doesn’t even work for the company to speak in front of the whole world? When Jeremy bloody Paxman asks me a question I can’t just say, sorry Jeremy I’ll have to come back to you on that one when I’ve checked with my client. You pay me to advise you, to brief you, and to issue statements on your behalf. We’re a PR company Roger; we don’t make food for airplane meals.”

“Okay, I was just thinking out loud. I understand. Now, what do you advise me to do then?” He seemed anxious to appease Kay’s anger, though she noticed that he placed extra emphasis on the word ‘advise’. She took a few deep breaths before answering.

“All we can do is put the statement out, and refuse interviews. You’ll get some stick but hopefully within a day or two some bloody war will kick off again somewhere in the world and they’ll forget all about it. We’ll say nothing outside of what we’ve agreed. Any media calls, direct them to me. You concentrate on working with the police to sort this out. And when this is all done and dusted Roger, make very, very sure that your procedures are as tight as a duck’s arse, because in six months’ time I’ll just bet they will try and get an undercover reporter in to stir it all up again.”

“You really think they would do that?” He sounded troubled, disbelieving of that possibility. “Yes, totally. If I was in their shoes I know I would. This isn’t a game you know, Roger. The police want the public to know they’re doing their job and protecting them, and the press just love exposing all this stuff. So let’s keep our heads down and get through this. I just hope to God they don’t discover a bloody Al Qaeda nutter working for you. Things would be so much easier if you just gave jobs to good English people, but I suppose they want too much money.”

And now, two days after that conversation, the story had broken. The newspaper had run it as a front page splash, with more promised on page seven. Police chiefs, airport bosses and MPs had all been quoted. Now Kay had the hottest telephone in England on her desk. She had been called by four newspapers, two radio stations and two TV stations already, and it was not even half past nine yet. The phone shrilled again, and she snatched it up.

“Kay Talbot.” Her south London dialect had instantly disappeared, and another voice – her ‘telephone voice’ – had kicked in automatically.

“Hi, it’s Rob Field from Sky News. We’d like to speak to someone from Mighty Meals about this Gatwick story. Can you get someone down to the London studio?”

“Rob – great to hear from you,” Kay lied. “I’m really sorry but I’m afraid there won’t be any interviews.”

“Oh. Why the hell not?”

“There’s no-one available I’m afraid. I can send you a statement, but that’s it at the moment. Mighty Meals are helping the police with the investigation and there’s nothing more to say at this point. These things take…”

“Kay, this is important. You can’t just brush over it. Our viewers expect answers to some important questions.”

“I can’t help what your viewers expect Rob. You guys give them plenty of great stuff as it is. There won’t be any interview and I’m saying the same to everyone that calls me today. I’m sorry, but my hands really are tied on this one.” There was silence at the other end for a second, and Kay imagined the journalist was glowering at her down the telephone; then the TV man said:

“Kay – this really is such crap. What the f**k are these people thinking about? There are some big questions that need to be answered about security at airports. What the hell are they doing that’s more important than this?” Kay winced. “Rob, I understand you perfectly but it isn’t going to happen at this moment. When it does, I promise you that you can have the exclusive. Until then, how about we do lunch sometime and I can give you an off the record briefing on what’s happening.”

There was another pause. Kay had uttered the magic word: exclusive. Rob Field was obviously thinking about it. “Well…I suppose that would be something at least. What does this statement say anyway?”

“I’ll send it to you if I can just check your email address. It doesn’t say much that you probably don’t already know though. Mighty Meals are co-operating with the police. There’s not much else they can say at the moment. I’m sure you can appreciate how sensitive it is right now.”

Field simply responded with a weary snort that suggested he’d heard it all before and all too often. Seconds later the conversation was over, and Kay replaced the handset. The entire morning was spent reiterating these same points to one journalist after another. At one point she had to read the statement over the telephone for a radio broadcaster to record. There was plenty of criticism flying around for the stance she took, but she knew in her own mind that it was the best way, in fact the only way with this story. It would be too easy for Roger Wallace to get tripped up on air. Soon, by way of cracking a few jokes and fibbing that the decision was not in her hands, she was even eliciting some sympathy from the reporters that called.

Her business partner and fellow director, Wilf Palmerston-Prior, came round mid-morning to check how things were going. He was posh and privately educated; the chalk to Camberwell-born Kay’s cheese. It was a combination that worked though. She admired his smooth charm, and the ease with which he could ingratiate himself into the most highly esteemed of company. Wilf adored Kay, and always had since they had met working for a PR agency early in their careers. Her strength of character, her daring and her total disregard for the possibility of failure at times made him choke with amazed laughter. They had decided to break away and set up their own agency when they were both in their late 20s, some seven years before. Wilf was a homosexual, and that was a welcome relief to Kay. He didn’t take any of her crap, and he wasn’t about to be swayed by her looks either.

“So, Mrs Talbot,” Wilf greeted her now. “How goes the good fight? Are we winning?”

She gave him a dark look. “Wilf, I’ve just about had it up to here. If one more journo rings that phone I think either it or me will go into meltdown.”

“Indeed, so I see from those tired, frustrated eyes of yours. But the question remains: are we winning?”

She tossed it around in her mind for a second and said: “Yeah, I think so – as much as we can on this one. We’ll see what happens on the lunchtime news, and then this evening, but hopefully come tomorrow lunchtime it will all have gone away. Roger is clucking like a f*****g chicken with the foxes after it, but unless something really heavy comes out of the investigations I think we might be okay.”

“Excellent, I knew you were the man for the job Mrs T.” It was their standing joke. She wore the trousers in the partnership.

“Plus,” she said, suddenly conspiratorial, “I’ve got lunch arranged with the very attractive Rob Field from Sky, so I can give him a ‘background briefing’ off the record. Can you believe it?”

“I can believe anything of you, you brazen hussy. Anyway, can we sit down this pm and have a chat? Bring Belinda and we’ll do some blue-skying on that Plaxaco pitch next week – we need some of Bel’s creative spark to make this one breathe I think.”

“Okay, what time?”

“3pm any good?” She nodded that it was. “Righto – there goes your phone again. The chase heats up! Back into the fray Mrs T. See you later.”

She gave the phone a nasty stare before snatching up the receiver. “Kay Talbot!”

“It’s me.”

She slumped back down in her chair. It was her husband. “Lee, I told you I was going to have a s**t morning and not to disturb me. Which bit of that didn’t you understand?”

“Excuse me for breathing. Listen, I was just ringing to tell you I’m playing squash with Dave tonight and then we might go for a curry, so don’t wait up.”

“Fine, I’ve got used to cooking for one. Now goodbye, I’ve got too much to do.”

They hung up, and Kay covered her face with her hands for a couple of seconds, breathing hard. It was hard to believe how cold and harsh things had become between her and Lee. Displays of affection were a distant memory, and the nastiness that seemed to mark most of their conversations was getting worse.

After more than ten years of marriage, Kay could see that things were starting to crumble badly. Every conversation quickly degenerated into a bitter slanging match. Lee seemed to have little interest in anything to do with her. He ridiculed her attempts at cooking and criticised her housework, yet he was rarely there to help, and when he was there he sat on his backside watching sport on the TV, being obnoxious with apparent effortless ease.