By the Wednesday of that week the assignments for the first issue had been given out on the basis of Bernice's initial ideas plus other suggestions from the writers themselves. Even though she was still working out her notice on her old job, Yasmeen insisted on contributing something to the launch issue, writing at night and at weekends, so they agreed that she should write a feature about Moonlighting.
Bernice had assigned herself two pieces, one on Writing Reports, which she had already produced for the dummy, and another, more nebulous, on How to Ask for a Rise, which was down for the lead and would be a re-hash of another piece already written. Pete was writing articles on What Your Boss's Boss Really Wants, and a more straightforward piece on Flexible Working Hours. Dave's piece on the stock markets, suitably pruned, would appear, as would another on Managing Your Time - if he finished it soon enough. To Chris she had given one entitled Office Romances, which she hoped would suit his rather soft-edged writing style. This just left the two main case studies - detailed reports on how real-life offices worked. Since these were crucial to the success of the book she took those on herself, though quite when she would have time to visit suitable offices and write them up remained something of a conundrum. Chris would write the news pieces drawn straight from press releases and somehow the other sections - analysis, more investigative news stories, opinion pieces, regular columns and a back of the book page called Funny Business - would either turn up from the commissioned authors or be ghosted, probably by her.
Despite all that remained to be done, she felt that first she owed it to Chris to introduce him to the world of press conferences so that he could then go out on his own. She was aware that it might seem a little ridiculous that a 22 year-old man needed hand-holding, but she felt strongly that press conferences could either be tremendously useful or totally useless depending on how they were approached. Contrary to most journalists' opinion, knowing how to approach a press conference was not innate: the event was simply too structured, too unnatural for that to work. To benefit from them meant understanding them.
After checking that things were running smoothly in the office, and that in particular the dummy was going to schedule, and would be out on Monday - according to The Board, everything was OK - she and Chris caught one of the frequent trains from Southdon up to Victoria. Although this made attending press conferences relatively simple, it was no real compensation for not working in London where press conferences were a few minutes away. Fortunately they were so busy at the moment that they did not really feel this lack, but later, she suspected, they would. The move of Wright's down to Southdon some years ago from central London offices had been prompted by the promise of huge savings in office costs. The fact that in doing so Wright's penalised its own journalists by their distance from the centre of the press universe seemed not to worry the upper echelons unduly.
In the train Bernice and Chris had chatted about this and that, not really concentrating too hard on work. Frankly, Bernice needed some respite, and Chris was not so driven that he wanted to divert the attention from pleasant trivia to more serious matters. They were both enjoying this limited intimacy, and in sharing their thoughts about nothing in particular were content to be just talking. Even though they had enough time to travel on the Tube, they took a taxi from Victoria to the hotel where the press conference was taking place, partly because she felt that they deserved some luxuries for the kind of hours they were starting to put in for no extra pay.
"The Grand," she said as they got in to the taxi. PR companies seemed to think that choosing a gaudy international-style hotel lent their events some kind of prestige, but instead it tended to make them anonymous and hence the same. But at least the food was passable.
"The Grand, eh?" asked the chirpy taxi driver. "Business meeting I guess, eh? Business pretty good at the moment, I should think, the way things are going. But take my word for it, it's too good to last. That Lawson - what a giveaway last budget. £4 billion? Do me a favour. The economy can't take it. Bound to overheat. Then it'll all be over - imports soaring, pound under pressure, high interest rates, high unemployment. Let the good times roll, eat, drink and be merry, then - smash, back to where we started. Tragic really."
This soliloquy, interspersed with sundry imprecations thrown at other drivers that dared to get in the way of the taxi's magisterial progress towards Marble Arch, where the Grand was situated, seemed to require no replies, so they gave none. Chris just ignored it, looking out of the window - at the women, Bernice suspected - but she couldn't help wondering whether there might be a grain of truth in want the man was saying. But she had enough on her plate at the moment without worrying about such far-off possibilities.
When they arrived in the main reception of the Grand, which was an orgy of mirrors and gilt and gleaming marble, there were large signs pointing the way along heavily carpeted corridors to the press conference. It was being held by a major computer company, which claimed that their new products were about to revolutionise the way everybody worked. Bernice doubted it somehow, ever the sceptic about technology, but it was worth going along if only for the gossip that she might pick up. And it would all be good training for Chris.
They could tell that they were approaching the press conference zone by the increasing number of heavily-made up young women they encountered who were all wearing pearls, white blouses with the collars turned up, smart, designer-label jackets and tight skirts. There were also a few men amongst them, but in a reversal of the natural world, their plumage was far less distinctive than that of their female counterparts, consisting simply of a sober suit and plain tie. Perhaps the reason for this was that, as with birds, the more active, dominant sex did most of the courting and displaying, and in the world of PR - most unusually - it was the women who took this role.
"Who are they?" Chris asked with obvious interest in this throng of young women.
"These are Press Relation Officers, or Pro's as I prefer to call them," she said tartly.
"That's a little harsh, isn't it?" asked Chris smiling at her unwonted bitchiness - always a good sign, he thought.
"Wait and see," she said as they came up to the registration desk.
"Hallo, your names please?" send one of the bepearled, short-skirted Pro's. She was sitting behind a table covered with name badges as if in preparation for some kind of game. These were the various journalists who had accepted the invitation to attend the press conference. The fact that only about half of those that said they would come eventually turned up meant that the Pro's lived in a world of continual disappointment, of constant snubs, of putting on a brave face.
Bernice gave both their names, and while the woman looked for their respective badges, another, more senior, Pro shimmied up to them.
"Lovely to see you here again, Bernice. And I don't think we've been introduced..." she said smiling professionally at Chris.
"Chris - Christopher Hunt," he replied, correcting himself to project the right image. How strange, he thought, these women who are almost aggressively friendly.
"Here are your press packs" - she handed them huge folders bearing the host company's logo - "coffee is in the next room and the press briefing itself through there." She pointed with brightly painted nails through a double door marked "Ballroom". Let's dance, thought Chris, amused and delighted by the novelty of things so far.
As Bernice and Chris passed through to the next room, they saw various clumps of journalists drinking coffee and tea, sitting at low tables or milling around. They went up to the long table at the end of the room where a small foreign-looking waiter stood behind pots of coffee and serried rows of cups and saucers neatly laid out on gleaming linen.
Once they had received their coffees, they moved off to an unoccupied table, where there was also a plateful of biscuits.
"I should take some biscuits before the freelances get them," said Bernice.
"Freelances?" asked Chris.
"Yes. You see those rather shabbily-dressed hacks over there?" - she pointed to a group of journalists huddling together - "those are the freelances. This means that they write for anybody - the journalistic equivalent of the Pro's, I suppose," she said. Although she would have denied it vehemently, as a journalist with a senior position on a major title, even if currently inexistent, she felt vaguely superior to these floating scribblers.
"But what have biscuits got to do with it?" asked Chris.
"Well, you can always tell the freelances - apart from their dress sense - by the way they move round the tables gleaning biscuits to take home to save money. You sometimes see them stuffing bags of sugar into their briefcases too, though here it is loose, so unless they have brought suitable containers with them, I doubt whether they'll be doing that today. Notice how there are no Pro's in attendance: they are basically attracted to power, like moths to a flame. Freelances rarely have the requisite levels of power."
"So why are they invited at all?"
"Well, they may have some slight residual power from the days when they were staff journalists, or they may just be tolerated as ballast to fill out the press conference so that the PR company can keep its clients happy - who are generally ignorant of these subtler distinctions. They are often useful given the tendency of journalists from the national newspapers not to turn up to 'ordinary' press conferences: they expect personal briefings, at the very least in a top-class restaurant, and ideally somewhere sunny and abroad."
Chris noted the disdain in Bernice's voice, and wondered whether this was just envy. In fact Bernice's feelings towards national journalists were sincere and well-founded: in her experience they had rarely earned their positions of power, often arriving their by chance, crude sycophancy or through Daddy's contacts. And once there, they proceeded to abuse the power vested in them, and in so doing blackened the name of journalists everywhere - including the hard-working, conscientious and responsible ones like Bernice.
Chris started going through the press pack. It seemed to contain everything: the speech of the company's Managing Director, the Technical Director's speech, the Marketing Director's speech, backgrounders to the company and its industry sector, market research reports, comparisons between the new products and their competitors, pictures of the chairman, the company's headquarters, sample corporate logos and so on.
"Well, this seems pretty comprehensive," said Chris. "Why don't we just leave now?"
"Many people do - which is why at some press conferences they give out press packs only at the end, rather like a thriller that only reveal whodunit on the last page. But in many ways the most important parts of the press conference are before and after. Before, you can talk to other journalists. This is useful because you find out all sorts of things that can be useful - some of it competitive information about rival journals: ironically, journalists are terribly indiscreet. The other useful part is after the press conference, during lunch. Here the company representatives start to relax, having survived the long-feared press conference without too many gaffes. As a result, they too become more confiding. And talking of fellow journalists, here comes Gervase - he's the editor of Business Monthly. Watch what you say - he is as slippery and as cunning as a snake."
Gervase Ingleton hardly looked like a snake. He had the most enormous moon-shaped face that seemed almost featureless, with two small piggy eyes floating above a constant, slightly superior smile. The rest of his body seemed tiny in proportion.
"Bernie," he said, "How's tricks? Haven't seen you around for a while. Working on this new launch for Wright's, I hear. Well, best of British. And this, one of your cub reporters, eh?" - Chris was not entirely happy to be described as a 'cub', and certainly not by Gervase - " showing him the ropes? Well, if you need any help, just let me know. I've just been conducting an in-depth survey of the new PR girlies, looking out the new talent. It's just like a disco, this press conference lark, isn't it?" he continued, smiling, "except that here it's the women that court the men, and the men that stand around the outside of the room being cruel and disdainful. Wonderful, I must say. Can't imagine why anyone would want to be anything but a journalist. But I must be going. Good luck with the launch - you'll need it."
And as he moved off, manoeuvring his huge head away from them like a hot-air balloon, he was newly besieged by a bevy of young, pearl-wearing Pro's who were soon laughing helplessly at his witty journalistic sallies. Gervase Ingleton was really quite powerful - that is, the title he worked for was - and so garnered a correspondingly intense PR treatment.
By now it was time to go through to the press conference itself. In fact it was a full fifteen minutes after the appointed time, but as usually happened, the PR company waited a little longer in the hope that more journalists would turn up. As so often, it was held in the hotel's ballroom - now little used for much else except the constant round of press conferences - which was an over-the-top concoction of chandeliers and mirrors. It had been laid out with a low platform at one end bearing a table with three of its sides covered in pleated cloth, and behind it on the fourth side three chairs, each placed behind three prominent name cards at the front of a table; a little off to the other side of the stage was a lectern with a small reading light a microphone. Facing the platform were several rows of seats for the journalists. Blown-up images of the company logo around the room attempted to personalise the space somewhat, but in vain.
Shepherded in by the Pro's, the journalists began to fill some of the seats. Bernice and Chris moved down to the front row, which Chris thought was a little excessive, but Bernice explained that this was the best place for watching the speakers for obvious signs of lying, for asking questions and for grabbing them immediately afterwards for a quick one-to-one. Chris noticed that many of the freelances had slunk to the back: for a snooze, he rather unkindly thought.
After a little while, three grey-looking men mounted the stage and took their seats behind the place-names. The lights dimmed, and some completely inappropriate bouncy pop music was played over the speakers. A synchronised slide-show on a screen between the seated men and the rostrum displayed various images that were meant to say 'high-tech', 'modern' and 'successful'. Bilious green laser beams scribbled will-o'-the-wisp designs on surfaces around the room, culminating in the company's logo that shimmered eerily in front of them. Perhaps Gervase was right, thought Chris, perhaps it is a disco. But instead it was all just a warm-up for the managing director who was opening the proceedings. Press conferences were as much occasions for managing directors and chief executives to perform before their admiring senior staff as it was one to convey information to outsiders.
"Good morning, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Press," Mr Managing Director began, his fine white bristly moustache bright in the lectern's light, but the upper part of his face disconcertingly dark, as he employed the traditional mock sycophantic welcome used at press conferences. "First of all, let me express my own deep thanks, and those of the company I have the privilege to represent as Managing Director, for your great kindness in turning up to today's special press conference. We all realise how very busy the Fourth Estate is in these challenging days of giddy change. But I am absolutely convinced that you will find your gracious availability amply repaid. For indeed, today's announcements will address just those pivotal issues of change and progress, humbly presenting to you a development which, if I may be allowed the liberty, I feel can truly be described as epoch-making. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, I know that worldly-wise and experienced as you are, you will have heard these claims a hundreds times before, that you will be justifiably sceptical: but the products you will shortly hear about today are verily poised to changed business as we know it, offering a total paradigm shift together with price-performance ratios hitherto unseen in this or any other industry.
And so to tell you more about these thrilling products, please allow me to pass you over to our Technical Director, who is far better placed than I am to give you the low-down on the high-tech wizardry. Our Marketing Director will then follow to give details of pricing and distribution, and then we'll throw the floor open for your questions. After that we hope that we can prevail upon you to stay to partake a little of our poor hospitality over lunch. I thank you."
And so with Mr Managing Director's introduction out of the way, Mr Technical Director shambled awkwardly to the microphone, a few tell-tale pens peeping out of his jacket pocket. This passing of the baton was not just a matter of hierarchy or courtesy: in truth the Managing Director knew little about the new products apart from their names and the over-run on their development costs. The Technical Director knew much, much more, and unfortunately was going to share it with everybody by means of incomprehensible diagrams full of improbable things like handshakes and protocols. Then, without warning, he stopped, as if the flow of ideas had suddenly been cut off, and introduced Mr Marketing Director - a man who in his youth had probably looked rather like Chris, and who now had the handsome but deeply lined face of one who turned on his smile far too often and far too easily. The smile went on to explain why these products would take the world by storm, the market segments they were directed at, pricing and projected sales.
After all this propaganda came the question and answer session. This was always nerve-wracking for the both the company and its PR. So far, the event had been relatively controlled. But now they were inviting - almost despite themselves - these assembled journalists to pull everything apart. Which they proceeded to do. Chris was initially confused as to why the questions seemed to be designed to cause as much embarrassment to the companies as possible, rather than to elicit as much information as possible. But Bernice pointed out that if you had a really incisive question to ask, you would do it privately so that the other journalists did not hear the answer and steal your story. The format of the Q&A session was more a matter of journalistic bravado, showing fellow hacks how clever you were in spotting the gaps in the company's presentation.
What everyone was really waiting for was lunch. Although not up to the standard of the top London restaurants to which journalists were frequently invited for more personal indoctrination, the food at the main London hotels was quite passable. More than passable for the freelances, who were frequently to be seen going around for seconds or even third helpings at the popular buffet formats. The lunches were also useful for asking the really important questions - like: When was the next press trip to Japan?
After eating the food and drinking the coffee Bernice was keen to get back to the office. For her the event had been averagely useful. She had spoken with a few colleagues on other titles, gained one or two pieces of useful information, and even found the conference itself stimulating, if in an indirect way. This networking technology they talked about sounded like it could be important one day; she made a mental note to get someone to write a feature on it sometime - probably something for Dave, she thought.
Chris, though, was vaguely disappointed. He had rather imagined press conferences as grander, more exciting affairs, real clashes of titans. Instead, after a promising start, it had turned out to be a rather formalised process, a kind of stiff dance between slightly bored partners. For the first time, he had the tiniest doubt about whether journalism was all it was cracked out to be.
