Chapter 9 (22 July 1988)

Bernice slept well that night.  She knew that the first stage of her insane endeavour, finding staff, was nearly over.  She could view the prospect of seeing the remaining five candidates for the post of Reporter with a certain equanimity.

When Pete came in she was surprised to see that he had his left hand bandaged, rather as Terence had the day before.

"Er, Peter, you haven't been near Euston Station??? by any chance have you?" she asked a little concerned that she might have an office full of violent psychopaths - though in Pete's case this seemed highly unlikely.

"No, why?" asked Pete, mystified.

"Oh, nothing," she said.  "What happened to your hand?"

"Just a scratch - I was doing some DIY last night and the Stanley knife slipped.  But don't worry," he added, concerned, "I'm still be able to type.  You'll have that other feature today."

"Great," said Bernice, pleased that somebody grasped the concept of a deadline.  There was no sign of work from George, and as he sat still chewing his pen she felt guilty that she did not have more time to spend with him at the moment to try to sort out whatever problems he was having.  Nor was there any work yet from David, though at least the latter seemed to be deeply immersed in something when he eventually got going.  He normally strolled in around ten or ten-thirty, working until the early evening.  When tackled on this he simply said that he preferred to be working when the phones weren't ringing all the time - hardly a danger at the moment, on a magazine whose existence was only now being announced to the world through the appearance of the job ads and promotional mailings.  Only Pete and Janice had come up with the goods, the latter producing a very creditable first attempt at a list of business events over the next few months.  With just a few additions and a little polishing it should be perfect.

Leaving the worryingly quiet office, she went across to the North tower and back to the claustrophobic interview room she had booked.  Janice would bring across the interviewees as they arrived.  Perhaps it was because she knew that she had most of her team in place, if not actually in the office, or perhaps it was just exhaustion caused by the strain of listening to people' life stories and then trying to judge them on that basis, but she found her mind wandering more during that day's interviews.  The applicants all seemed so callow, so unformed and uninteresting.  Surely there was someone out there with that extra something she was looking for?

Somebody who certainly had something extra walked through the door of the interview room at two o'clock precisely.  He was smartly dressed in an expensive-looking double-breasted suit, was tall and graceful in his movements, had a narrow face with high cheekbones, rich brown eyes and masses of chestnut-coloured curly hair.  His name was Christopher Hunt, and he had smile that made her feel that he was welcoming her to an interview, rather than the other way round.  His handshake was warm and sensuous, and she noticed how his skin was as soft as a baby's.

Although he was just 22 according to his CV, he had an ease and assurance that only good looks and an unshakeable faith in their potency can bring.  In fact Chris had yet to meet a woman - of whatever age - that he could not charm, and so when he saw that he was to be interviewed by Bernice alone he felt relaxed and confident, and this shone through in that smile.

If his first glance had revealed the basic fact comforting fact that Bernice was a woman, and hence susceptible, the second told him that she was also extremely attractive to boot.  As a result he suddenly became filled with a simple but real happiness at the thought that the next half hour or so would be much more bearable than he had feared.  This was important to Chris who tried to spend his life as pleasantly and with as little inconvenience as possible.

As for Bernice, she felt that Christopher had been sent to compensate for all the dull and desperate individuals she had been forced to endure over the last three days.  It was if some benevolent god had decided to disguise himself as a mere mortal and descend to earth to reward her.  It was with some difficulty that she turned her mind to the matter in hand.

"Right then, Christopher - "

"Chris, please.  Only my mother calls me Christopher, and that's when she is being serious," he said smiling that smile again.

"Right, Chris," she continued, "thanks for coming - to see us.  Just to let you know the structure of this interview, what I'd like to do...is to go through your CV and then chat more generally.  After that I'll try to answer any outstanding questions you have," she said, conscious that her last comment made it sound as if ordinary questions would be dismissed out of hand.

"I see that you were born not far from here, Guildford, and that you are still living there...," she began.

"Yes, that's right.  Basically I've been staying with my parents since I came down from university.  I decided some time ago that the only job I wanted to do was journalism, and I harboured no false illusions about how easy or how quickly I would be able to find an entrée.  My parents very kindly agreed to put me up while I dedicated myself to applying for jobs," he answered employing a prepared speech that he used when asked this kind of question.

It was not entirely true.  He had decided to become a journalist only just before leaving university, partly because he couldn't think of anything that sounded more appealing, and partly because he had this glamorous image of a reporter being sent all over the world and tapping out honed, government-toppling stories in Kuala Lumpur, a kind of cross between James Joyce and James Bond.

It was also not entirely true to say that he had harboured no false illusions: things that he wanted generally came easily to him, so it had been something of a shock to find himself turned down even for an interview for most of the other jobs that he had applied for.  Unfortunately those that did give him interview had so far given him short shrift after that.  For someone less sure of himself and his worth than Chris was, the experience would have been disheartening.  And as for his parents, well, they had been spoiling their only child for 22 years now, so when he turned up on their doorstep with nowhere else to go, they of course were happy for him to stay.

"OK," she said, delighted at his reply, perhaps a little too pleased that he was saying all the right things so far - early commitment, dedication to journalism etc.  "Perhaps we can explore your interest in journalism a little further."

"Well," began Chris, chuffed that another of his standard replies could be used - this is going to be easy, he thought.  "In my first year at university I wanted to concentrate on my courses, to bed myself in, so to speak."  This was certainly true: his first year at Sussex University he had spent bedding in all the attractive women who were taking the same courses for the English degree.  "After that, I decided that I wanted to broaden my experience" - that is, of women on other courses - "particularly my practical experience as regards language, so I joined the university newspaper, becoming Editor after a few months," he added as diffidently as he could, as if it were really nothing.  And it was really nothing, in that university politics were such that everybody got to be Editor for a few issues before being booted out in their turn.

"I see that in your last year you became President of the Union," said Bernice, already far more interested in Chris's personal history than the job really warranted.  But he's so handsome, passed through her mind from time to time as if of its own volition.

"Well, my work on the newspaper brought me into contact with a wide range of people" - women, actually - "and I found myself increasingly drawn into the political and social issues of that time."  What he meant was that he had fallen for one of the leading political ladies, and wanted both to impress her and to meet her as an equal on the political scene.  He therefore used some of his time as Editor of the university rag to build support for his candidature for the presidency of the Union.

"Excellent," said Bernice rather uncharacteristically.  "I mean commitment is clearly important for a journalist - don't you think?"  This was not the way to ask such a question.

"Oh absolutely," said Chris, not slow to pick up on hints.  "I think that commitment is one of the most important things that I can bring to this job - that and enthusiasm."  Unfortunately his commitment and enthusiasm were mostly self-directed.

"OK, said Bernice, "we've covered your journalistic activities, and obviously you've been concentrating on applying for jobs since then, so what I'd like to do now is to ask a few questions about you."  Chris's favourite topic.

"For example, looking back at your three years at university, what do you think were the most important things you learnt - apart from the coursework?"

"Yes, well apart from the coursework," echoed Chris, who actually had learnt very little from the coursework, "I think the main thing I learnt was how to get on with people"  Here Chris was being modest: he had basically learnt how to seduce any woman and get on well with most men who were not perceived as rivals in his amorous pursuits. "It seems to me crucial for a journalist to be able to mix with people, not to be afraid to talk to strangers, but to jump straight in, to establish a rapport."  Whether this was sheer luck on Chris's part, or genuine insight, these chimed very well with Bernice's own views on journalists.  Too many of the people that she had seen recently would have been unable to say 'boo' to the proverbial goose, let alone winkle out sensitive information from reluctant and suspicious sources.

"And following this up," continued Bernice, "how do you think you grew during that period?"

"Growth..." - this had Chris stumped for moment: what on earth was she talking about? "well, I suppose I grew as a person in that I came to appreciate people more, and was able to put myself in a broader context."  He hoped that was vague enough to pass muster.

It did, if only because Bernice was admiring his deep brown eyes as he was answering.  Which may explain why she asked the next question, generally one that she avoided as being crass and unfair, but which now she felt an uncontrollable urge to ask:

"What do you regard as your biggest failing?"  The old favourite, thought Chris: you can't say that you have no failings, and yet to admit to failings would seem to incriminate you.  Fortunately Chris was ready for this one, just as Bernice had been with Martin:

"Well, I suppose that I have to confess to a particular fault: that of getting carried away by my enthusiasm.  Sometimes I get so wrapped in things, so swept along by them.  Often this means that up until all hours of the night, unable to stop something that I've started."

"What, like a book or a particular task do you mean?" asked Bernice.

"Yes, could be a book, or a task..." or other things....  He shrugged his shoulders and smiled as if to suggest that he knew that it was a terrible failing, but there you were, that was the way he was made.

Seeing that smile again she thought fleetingly about asking him what he would do if he came into the editorial office to find that everybody had flung off their clothes and were engaged in a wild orgy, but instead limited herself to asking:

"What about hobbies?"

"Well, at university I was either doing coursework or my journalism or union work, and since then I've really concentrated on my career, so hobbies have not really figured much recently," well, apart from one.

"What sort of hours do you think you would be doing if you joined our launch?" asked Bernice.

"Deep into the night - whatever was necessary.  As I said, I am a very committed person, and if I were fortunate enough to land this job, you certainly wouldn't find me stinting in my application."

"Well," said Bernice, I think that's more or less everything I need to know" - though not everything I want to know - "I'm sure you have some questions for me."

"Yes, just a few.  Could you tell me a little more about the job itself, what it entails?"

"Certainly, as Reporter - if you got the job - " she added hastily " - you would be writing news stories, features, attending press conferences, generally contributing to the running of the magazine."

"And would I be reporting to you?" he asked as intensely as he could.

"Well, there's an Assistant Editor, but your direct line of reporting would be to me."

"And prospects for promotion?"  

"Excellent I would say - in the sense that Wright's is a large company with many opportunities."

"And finally - if you don't mind me asking - what would the salary be?"  In fact for Chris the salary was not that important in that he knew that his parents would always help him out by stumping up if he needed money.  More important was getting the job, the kudos of being a journalist - and also the prospect of working with Ms Stuart here.  But he knew that it was a question that he was expected to ask, and so did.

"The starting salary would be £12,000.  There is also a tax-free reading allowance of £250 for buying magazines and newspapers to help you with your research."

"Excellent," said Chris.  "Well, I think that is everything I wanted to ask."

"Right, then.  Oh, stupid me, one other thing: when could you start - if you got the job, that is?"  If?

"Well, fortunately I am relatively free at the moment" - and aim to stay that way, he thought to himself - "so I could join more or less immediately."

"Excellent," Bernice said, unconsciously echoing Chris.  "Right, I'll be letting you know as soon as possible.  Are you around this weekend, I mean could I reach you at your parents to let you know?  Yes?  Good.  Right then, Chris, thanks a lot, for coming in, I look forward to, er, speaking to you."  And she showed him, reluctantly, to the door.

It was only after she had closed the door and sat down again that she began to wonder to what extent she was being objective in all this.  Was she just losing her head over a pretty face? - and it certainly was damn pretty.   She had never really allowed personal feelings to invade the space she reserved for work before, and she was worried that her judgement might be affected.  

But then she thought over his answers: very polished, to the point, very enthusiastic.  And there was his English degree, not a very good one, mind you, but surely that was some kind of guarantee?  And he had journalistic experience - was an Editor, even - which few of the other candidates did.

So as she began the last two sessions of interviews she already half knew in her heart that he would get the job.  She knew that he would fit in well with the office, indeed contribute much to it with his self-confidence and social ease.  Although utterly exhausted by these first two weeks of intense activity, she was already beginning to look forward to next Monday, when they could really start to get things moving, and when most of her team would be in place.  Once she had made a phone call to Chris that weekend....

Next chapter

Chapter 10 (25 July 1988)

When Bernice arrived early the following Monday, she had two surprises.  One was that Brenda, the receptionist and heavily painted company figurehead, had gone.  Bernice asked Brenda's replacement what had happened, and the woman - who introduced herself as Glenda - said that Brenda had married one of the building's security men, and having achieved the marital state, promptly resigned.  

Bernice's second surprise was to find a large bunch of flowers on her desk.  With it was a card that inside said 'Good Luck on the first day of this historic venture', signed Martin.  There was also a copy of the Penguin edition of The True History of the Conquest of New Spain by Bernal Diaz.  This was all very nice, she thought, but was it normal?  And why today?  In fact Martin had bought some flowers for Bernice a couple of weeks before, and had intended to give them at the end of their meeting that first Tuesday.  Unfortunately the direction the latter took meant that flowers for Bernice would have been out of the question.  Instead he gave them to Cristina, who seemed extraordinarily grateful to receive these cast-offs, Martin noted without understanding why.  Women, he thought simplistically.

Bernice had little time for pondering on Martin's gifts too much.  Today they had to get moving if they were to stand any chance of launching to schedule and so keeping both The Board in the editorial office and the Board on the top floor of the North tower happy.  The copy from George and Dave had finally turned up on her desk on Friday evening, a week late in both cases.  George's was barely 500 words long, and seemed to be born of a real struggle to order his thoughts.  Dave's by contrast was ruled by a steely logic, and was a massively complete and deeply original analysis of the working of international stock markets and their effects on the man and woman on the Clapham Omnibus.  Pity it was 10,000 words long, rather than the 2,000 she had originally asked for.  Clearly she would face some interesting challenges managing George and Dave.

Meanwhile Wobs had been quietly getting on with his design in the corner of the office.  He had actually produced several, some wilder than the others.  For example, one of them used a completely square format instead of the more conventional rectangular one, and another was perfectly circular.  Unfortunately Bernice had to kill these fairly early on, and urged Wobs to concentrate on a boring A4 format.  He seemed disappointed, but not unduly so.  In fact he rather welcomed Bernice's discipline, her ability to judge.  This was one reason why he had wanted the job, to learn and understand such things, currently quite foreign to him.  As if reflecting this in some obscure way, today's T-shirt said 'Umpteen Squares', and showed a rather psychedelic array of shaded cubes.

Kate had already subbed Pete's article, massacring it mercilessly.  Bernice hoped this was just pre-launch restiveness, a desire to let rip with copy.  Certainly reading it through herself she had not thought it that awful - a little loose perhaps, but not actually badly written.  Kate had also subbed all the articles that Bernice had produced, snipping here and there to produce far tighter copy.  Now she was already working on the new features, muttering the while over George's, and slashing hard at Dave's in an attempt to bring it down to manageable proportions.  Now that she had something she could get her teeth into, she seemed very quiet and subdued, but this was hardly the case: in fact she was channelling all of her considerable energy on to the sentence currently before her - burning away superfluous material like some kind of mental laser beam.  The overall design of the dummy needed to be finished by Wednesday, and its production by Thursday, so that copies could be printed over the weekend.  Simultaneously Bernice would need by then to have the real launch issue off to a good start.

Chris arrived at 9 am exactly, as she had asked him to.  He entered the office rather uncertainly, suddenly looking even younger than his years.  He was on new ground now, never having worked in, or even seen, a real office before.  He was conscious that as the newcomer he was entering other people's patches, where there were all kinds of hidden dynamics that he would have to uncover and take note of.  In fact he was rather over-estimating the situation, as he soon realised, since the group of people there had failed yet to gell into that strange beast called a team.

Bernice introduced him and noted with interest the different ways he reacted to people.  With the women he was at ease, smiling, seductive even, while with Pete and Wobs he was more cautious.  She felt she was observing males of some exotic animal species sizing each other up in the jungle rather than the introduction of new staff.    She wondered how - and whether - the chemistry would work out.

Chris was due to go off to his induction course at 10, but first Bernice wanted to get the office layout sorted out.  One of the side-effects of having George and Dave dumped on her was that she turned up to an office that had already been staked out by them.  Bernice was not one to insist on rank or its privileges, but she did want a functional office.  This meant introducing some order into the disposition of desks.  She decided that George was the man for this.

"George," she said when he turned up at his usual 9.30 am, "let me introduce you to Chris."  Chris got up from his desk and shook hands with George rather stiffly, while the latter pressed his lips together and nodded briefly.  Fascinating, thought Bernice.  "George," she continued, "I need your help."  She knew that for most people, and for George in particular, an appeal for aid was the best way to win them over.

"Yes, Bernice, what can I do for you?" he said, his formality softening slightly.

"Well, I don't know what to do about this office.  It's at sixes and sevens at the moment; what it really needs is someone to take charge of it.  I was wondering whether you might do that for me?"

"Well, yes, I'm sure I could manage something," said George, glad to have a task he felt capable of shining at in a way that with writing copy to a tight deadline he did not.

"Perhaps if you could have a word with everyone in the office, find out what there needs are - who they need to be next to, that sort of thing, and then we could talk it over - tomorrow, say?"

"A pleasure," said George rubbing his hands together.  One down, some to go, she thought.

"Chris, while we've got a moment, perhaps we could have a chat."  She said, turning to Chris.  He had been sitting at a desk rather quietly, still rather bemused by this new and unfamiliar environment.

"I've been looking at the pieces you wrote for your university newspaper" - damn, thought Chris, I'm not going to be fired already, am I? - "they're fine as far as they go, but there's one or two things you could do to improve your style."  She was thinking much more clearly now - certainly more so than on Friday, when she had forgotten even to look at the samples of his journalism he had brought with him.  When she did, that weekend, she found his writing rather weaker than she expected, more self-indulgent, rather novelistic than journalistic.  But she supposed that this was simply a fault of youth that could be corrected.

"You need to write more sharply, pack more in to each sentence.  Keep it short.  Watch out for clichés as you write: well-worn phrases can be a useful way of conveying information compactly, but use them sparingly and consciously - not by accident or through laziness.  Make sure that the opening line of the first paragraph is a real winner: if you don't hook the reader then you may not be given the chance to do so later in the piece.  Also, each paragraph needs to follow on logically from the last.  Here," she said, drawing a series of boxes with lines connecting them, "this is quite a useful way of structuring a piece: each box is an idea, and should flow smoothly from and to the two boxes around it.  Never go back: if you find yourself repeating an idea put it with the first appearance.  Do you read The Economist?"

"Occasionally, yes," said Chris.  Once actually, in his local barber's when he couldn't find Punch.

"Well, I recommend that you use some of your reading allowance to buy it.  It's a good example of the kind of writing I'm talking about.  Though I wouldn't try to emulate their rather superior tone until you have gained their authority - which may take a decade or two.  Here's a few recent issues.  Read through them and see if you can find anything relevant that might make a feature.  I've not had time recently for luxuries like reading."

Chris was a little perplexed by this new tone in her voice as she explained the rudiments of good journalistic writing.  In the interview he had found her pretty much as a hundred other women he had sweet-talked, but now there was something else, something he decided had to be called authority.  He began to realise that the power relations between them were much more complex than he was used to, and that he would not always be able to smile and cajole his way out of difficulties as he usually did with women.

He went back to a desk - it didn't real feel 'his' in any way - and read the magazines for the few minutes that remained before his induction.  He was surprised that they made his head hurt.  Even though each news item was short, it packed a lot in and moved a long way in its arguments.  It was quite unlike the self-indulgent writing that he and other students had practised in their course essays, and indeed quite unlike the verbose and obscure academic texts they waded through.  Hitherto he assumed that he could write as naturally as he could speak, but reading The Economist he began to understand that journalism was a profession that required hard work, not a dilettante's pastime that could be swanned into.

These and the other thoughts that had come to him in his short time at Wright's so far occupied him rather more than the video that he was soon watching in the personnel department.  In fact had it not been for the distraction of a rather attractive young female who was also being inducted, and to whom he could not resist lobbing one of his most engaging smiles with the usual effect, he might almost have done some serious thinking for the first time in his life.

He came back clutching the standard worker's diary and calendar, and found the office much as he had left it.  The only difference was that George deeply engaged mapping out the office on squared paper, with little cut-outs representing desks and chairs.  Wobs, as ever, was engrossed in his work, listening to his Walkman and jigging from side to side as he also moved pieces of paper around prior to sticking them down, but to rather more effect than George.  Kate was shaking her head as she scored out entire paragraphs of copy.  The muffled cry of 'sugar' could be heard from time to time as she came across some particularly dreadful patch in the text she was subbing.  Bernice was scribbling notes on a pad.  It was nearly noon.

"Right, then," said Bernice.  "I don't know about you lot, but I'm hungry.  Since today is effectively the start of a new era" - she almost said historic venture - "I propose that we celebrate by going out to some local eatery."  Hitherto they had eaten in the worker's canteen on the first floor of the South block.  "And everything on the company.  Kate, you know Southdon, what's local, good - and not too expensive given that I've got to get these expenses past Martin?"

"Nothing really," said Kate, ever one to tell it as it was.

"Come on, there must be something - don't people eat in this town?"

"Well, there is Achilles'...." Kate conceded.

"Achilles, that sounds suitably heroic.  Shall we go there, then?" she asked, still trying to whip up some liveliness in the office.  Chris, sensing this, responded.

"Sounds good to me, I could eat a Trojan horse...."  He smirked, pleased with his wit, though no one else except Bernice seemed to be.

"Just wait..." said Dave lugubriously as they stood up to leave.

Achilles was a greasy spoon just the other side of the railway tracks, in the older part of town away from the high-rise blocks that hemmed in the dual carriageway.  From the outside it looked nondescript, with little cards offering standard café fare.  Bernice was a little disappointed, hoping for something rather more interesting.

Inside, the proprietor, Achilles Kokkos, greeted them expansively.  He was standing behind the tall counter that ran down half the length of the café.  Under the counter were various sandwiches and cakes, visible to customers through the clear plastic front.  Behind him were huge gleaming urns that were used for producing tea, and also a battered coffee making machine.  The smell of steam and fresh ground coffee filled the room, especially in winter.  Opposite the counter was a single row of fixed seats and tables at right angles to the wall, while further back into the café were several more clusters.  The walls were covered with various faded images of ruined classical temples and picturesque island harbours.  Although downmarket, it felt very cosy, very welcoming.

"I give you welcome," Achilles said in confirmation of this, spreading his arms as if embrace them all.

Achilles, as his name suggested, was Greek.  Now he was fat and balding, with a heavy black moustache touched with grey that hung over his mouth.  His twinkling eyes were deep-set amidst folds of fat and wrinkles.  Once, though, he had been a god.  Lithe and slim he had broken the hearts of Greek maidens throughout the Cyclades.  And proof of this was to be found in the three other residents of the café.  They were now dumpy middle-aged ladies, dressed in black like figures from an ancient tragedy, but in their hearts they were still swooning maidens, just as Achilles was still their Adonis.  For reasons that were never explained, all three of them - unrelated except through their unswerving and unquestioned devotion to Achilles - had followed him when he had come to England, and now helped him run his café, working long hours for little except one of his haughty looks.

"Right, then," said Bernice when the seven of them had colonised a couple of tables.  Pete had remained in the office to eat his sandwiches which he brought with him everyday, and even Bernice's offer to stand him lunch was insufficient to tempt him to abandon the food that had been prepared for him so lovingly by his wife.  Not to have eaten it would have been disloyal, he felt, much as he would have liked to join them in Achilles'.  He also had to wait for his daily lunchtime call.

"What are the specialities here?" she asked Kate, but before she could answer Dave said:

"Ask."  So she did.

"Well, today we have many good things," Achilles began.  "All good sandwiches and toasts.  We have the banana and peanut butter, the strawberry jam and yoghurt, the liver and melon, the spicy rice and calamari, the sausages and walnuts and many, many, many more, including of course, our Special," he said, proud of his inventive selection.

"Well," said Bernice, taken aback by this bounty.  "What's the Special?" hardly daring to imagine what outrageous combination of foods it might contain.

"The special is cheese."

"Have you got honey and chocolate?" asked Wobs.

"But certainly we have it.  You want it big or small?"  Achilles asked.

"I'll take it small - but I'll also have a rice and calamari.  And a Lucozade to drink."

"Coming up soonest.  Yeenekess - " he shouted to the women who were in the kitchen, and then followed this with a stream of spiky consonants and flat vowels as he ordered the food for Wobs.  "And the other ladies and sirs?" he asked in his most ingratiating voice.

The other ladies and sirs made their choices, which duly appeared.  Despite their monstrous appearances, the sandwiches were surprisingly good to eat.

"Well," said Chris after enjoying an appetising mackerel and apricot sandwich, "I can see myself coming back to this particular heel bar quite often...," he said, trying once again to raise a smile.  This time Bernice and Dave laughed out loud, Kate smiled despite herself - she did not, on principle, approve of puns - while George and Janice looked mystified.  Bernice felt it incumbent on her to help them along: "You know, Achilles' Heel and all that."

"Oh right," said Janice, laughing slightly, still afraid that she was missing the point.  George smiled weakly.

"A bar for heels indeed," added Dave somewhat blackly, dragging on one of his cigarettes.  Ah, well, thought Bernice, a little cynical, but better than nothing.  And after these first attempts from Chris to break the social ice that was clogging the group, she felt she had another reason to be glad she had taken him on.

Next chapter

Chapter 11

After chatting over coffee they came back to the office to find that Yasmeen had arrived.  Bernice had arranged with her that she would be there that afternoon for the first editorial meeting, using part of her remaining holidays.  As she introduced Yasmeen to the rest of the team, she noted with some annoyance that she was rather displeased by the light that came into Chris's eyes as they shook hands.  Yasmeen showed no similar response.

Bernice had arranged for Martin to come in to start the meeting off.  Although he had met all of the staff with the exception of Chris, she thought it would be useful for him to say a few words to pass on management's view of their endeavour.  When he arrived at 1.30, she introduced him to Chris.  It was interesting to see the two size each other up.  How primitive men are, thought Bernice again.  She could see Martin almost visibly puffing out his chest, the lead primate in the group, his position established but by no means irreversible.  Chris on the other hand, knowing that he ranked lower, smiled a smile that seemed to express all his advantages of youth compared with this middle-aged man, and hint at the possibility of one day supplanting him.  In truth, Martin was particularly annoyed to see this obviously handsome young man in Bernice's office: George, Dave, Wobs and Terence - though the last to a lesser extent - hardly figured as challenges to his male supremacy.  But in Chris he recognised a formidable rival, however lowly he might be in the corporate hierarchy.  Martin knew well that desire is no great respecter of official demarcations.

So it was with a faint residual feeling of irritation that Martin began his short speech - largely unprepared, but one that he had made many times before in slightly different forms.

"Well," he said, as he surveyed the editorial team looking up at him as he stood in their midst.  "I don't want to waste your time this afternoon making long pompous speeches.  I know as well as you do how precious that time is: we have a steep deadline to meet.

But it is at moments like this that I like to think of another venture, apparently very different from ours, but in many ways surprisingly similar."  Oh no, thought Bernice, he's not going to, is he?

"When Cortes - " yes, he was " - found himself on the coast of Mexico with just 550 men and the might of the Aztec empire before him, he might have been tempted to give up.  Or later on, when he lost many of those men, and was trapped within the very citadel of Mexico City, surrounded by a half a million warriors.  But no: he believed in himself, and in the task before him.  He was a great leader, one able to carry with him even the sceptics among his men, to enable them to endure privations, hardship, hunger, suffering.  He could even literally burn all his boats - their one hope of escape back to Spain - and still keep their spirits up.

It is with this indomitability" - how he loved that word, how it seemed to sum up everything about Cortes - "in mind that I would like to baptise our endeavour Operation Cortes.  For we too find ourselves facing apparently insuperable odds.  Business Monthly, as you know, is an immensely powerful and respected publication.  But, like the Aztec empire, I believe that it is also ripe for conquest.  

So do not be disheartened by the task that lies before you: it can be done, and together I am sure that you will do.  Of one thing you can rest assured: unlike Cortes, who found himself at loggerheads with the Court of Spain and its representatives in the West Indies, you have my and my superiors' full support.  We are behind you every inch of the way.  Thank you."

Should they clap?  wondered Chris who was not use to this kind of pep-talk.  Dave had no doubts: he groaned quietly at the metaphor, and flinched at the rhetoric.  Bernice stepped in.

"Right, great, thanks, Martin.  Has anyone got any questions?"  she asked, hoping that they hadn't.

"What kind of research back-up will we have?" asked Yasmeen.

"Glad you asked about that," said Martin.  "We are carrying out a full in-depth survey of the sector" - Tim Phipps in marketing was reading a few rival magazines  - "and we will be presenting the results to you soon."

"How long will the company support the title in the face of losses?" asked Pete.

"Well, I don't think we should focus on the negative aspects of the situation, but I can say that the company will support the title as long as is necessary for its success."

Hah, thought Dave, the company's success, that is.

"Will there be national advertising when we are launched?" asked Chris, who rather liked the idea of 'his' magazine being famous.  He also thought it might be sensible to ask a soft question: wanting to be noticed, but not wanting to earn any black marks.

"Yes, certainly, though this is something I'd rather leave to Tim to tell you about when he briefs you on the promotional plans."

Bernice found it interesting to see Martin in publisher mode, particularly the way he ducked and weaved in and out of the awkward questions.  She had always assumed that the ability to do so was one of the prerequisites for being a publisher - and one reason why she could never be one.

"Well, if there are no more questions," said Martin, and then went on before anyone else had a chance to ask one, "I'll let you get on with things.  Thanks for the opportunity to chat to your people," he said to Bernice moving to the door, as if she had granted him this singular honour.

"Right," she said after Martin had left, "I hope that that's clarified everything."  She tried to tread the delicate line between being disloyal to Martin and being overly stuffy.  People smiled.

"Sorry if I'm being a bit thick," said Chris, "but could somebody explain all that Aztec stuff?  I didn't really get the relevance...."

Full points for honesty, thought Bernice.

"Good question; I suppose it's a kind of metaphor, an allegory if you like," she answered.

"Obsession, you mean," chipped in Dave.  "Like all of us, he has a dream..." he said mysteriously.

"Anyway," continued Bernice, hoping to get back to the main issue, "what I'd like to do now is provide you with a kind of conceptual framework - no, that sounds to pompous -  with some background, that will help us work together to produce a unified product.  Because the important thing to remember is that everything in this book - the style, the design, the choice of news and features, the cover, the headlines - everything must speak directly to the reader and reinforce their belief in us.  After all, we are asking for something very precious: their time and their trust.  We must always repay that with our effort and honesty.

OK, I could witter on like this for hours, but to give you l what I hope is a succinct idea of The Business, I'd like to read to you the editorial I've written for the dummy and first issue.  Don't worry, I won't make a habit of this, though it is worth noting that this is an excellent way to test prose.  Things that look fine on paper often show their true colours when you read them out aloud and find that they sound absurd.  I recommend that you try it.  Anywhere, here goes.

Welcome to The Business.  The Business is your business, whatever that might be.  Because The Business is about what it is like to work in business today, whether you are a member of staff, middle manager or senior director.  It is not about high-flying yuppies or mind-boggling mergers: it is about the Monday-to-Friday world that most of us live in, and yet which has remained strangely invisible.

Until now.  Because every month The Business will be bringing you articles that look at the reality of business in Britain today.  It will explain the truth about company structures and analyse what makes your bosses and their bosses tick.  It will reveal the hidden forces that shape the business of business today.

But it will do more: it will provide you with practical help in negotiating the obstacle course of modern business life.  Every issue will have tips for making life easier and more enjoyable in the office; ways of saving yourself and the company you work for money; real-life stories of how the other half - us - lives, and regular case studies looking at what makes an office a successful environment, and what can make it hell. 

To do that we need your help.  We want you, the reader, to be an active partner - through your stories, your advice to fellow workers, and comments to us.  Because we want you to tell us what we can do to make your office life better, to make The Business better. 

And remember, business is not just where you go during the day: it is where you will spend most of your waking hours.  Get more out of those hours - or even pass less of them in the office - by reading The Business - the magazine for the rest of us - every month.  Because your business is our business.

Chris had no hesitation in applauding now, and Janice joined in immediately, followed by Yasmeen, Wobs, Kate and Pete.  Only George and Dave resisted the urge.  

"Could do with some subbing," observed Kate as if to mitigate her enthusiasm.  

"Make a good ad," observed Dave cuttingly, and Bernice knew that he was right.

"Well, it's really just to give you all an idea of what I'm trying to get at," she said hurriedly, feeling rather strange and vulnerable as she exposed her writing and herself to criticism in this way - something that few editors ever had or dared to do.  "Obviously I'll be expanding on the key ideas over the next few weeks.  But let's get down to some specifics for the moment.

First of all press releases.  These are the life-blood of a magazine.  They are not a substitute for working your beat, but they can often act as useful triggers and can help you avoid embarrassing gaffes or glaring omissions."

Bernice then when on to outline the process for dealing with press releases, plus the setting up of an appointments book for external meetings, interviews, press conferences etc, so that everyone knew where everyone was.

"Next, newspapers.  We need to read all the main ones every day, so I've arranged for them to be delivered to us.  And on the basis of RHIP - "

"Sorry?" said Chris.

"Rank Has Its Privileges," Bernice explained, "I will take The Guardian.  Any offers for the rest?"

"FT please," said Yasmeen.

"Telegraph is my preferred daily," said George.

"Er, Times?" said Chris wondering if this was some kind of test.

" - Congratulations," said Bernice as if he had won the jackpot, "you also get the Sunday Times."

With characteristic gracelessness Dave said that he'd take The Independent if no one else was going to - and promptly received The Observer from Bernice as well.

"Right, as far as mags go, we must all try to read the oppo as much as possible."  Kate groaned.  "Yes, I know that Business Management - or BuM as I prefer to think of it - is dull, dull, dull."

" - Especially its BOMs," added Kate.

"Who?" said Janice, intrigued by all these new concepts - BuMs, BOMs....

"Boring Old Men," said Kate.  "You know, the interviews they do with the same White, Male, Senile Bosses who trot out the same cheery platitudes - completely faceless and uninteresting - BOMs, in other words."

"That's as may be," said Bernice, delighted that Kate was stirring things up a little, "but it is vital that we keep an eye on what they are doing - and who knows? - they may even have some gem buried deep in the copy one day that we can use.  And remember, there's no room for false pride in this game: if someone comes up with a neat trick, nick it quick," - she was beginning to sound like her diary's Thought for the Day.

"OK," concluded Bernice, "BuM's for everyone, so to speak.  Plus the other usual suspects" - she suggested a few among the myriad business titles serving the market, all with confusingly similar names - "and generally keep your ears and eyes open - you never know where you might come across an idea for a good story."  People jotted down various notes and reminders.

"Right, now on to features and columns.  I'm currently massaging a few big names to write some columns for us - " she mentioned some leading figures in British industry  " - you know, 'My Rivetting Day in the Office' kind of stuff."

"How on earth can you hope to pay them enough to write for us?"  Asked Yasmeen.

"I can't - so I won't try," answered Bernice.  "But you see, I have this theory that we all have various buttons: once you find the right button and press it, you can obtain some pretty amazing results.  Getting nominal hot-shots - who, in actual fact, know little more than we do, but are simply better-known - "

"And better paid," chimed in Pete.

" - quite, so getting them to write for us is just a matter of sitting down with some background on them and finding what look like the buttons.  However, this takes a little bit of time, so for the first issue, I'm afraid it's going to be all our stuff."

"Won't that look at little desperate?" asked Kate.

"Absolutely," said Bernice.  "So what we going to do is cheat - well, only slightly.  I want all of the writers to come up with a plausible pseudonym that we can use in the magazine to leaven things slightly.  Anyone got any ideas?"

"Paul Templeton," said Chris, who liked these kinds of games.

"Sounds real," said Bernice.

"It should be, he's my godfather."

"Fine.  Next?"

"Elaine Sinder," said Pete.

"Interesting choice, any reason?" asked Bernice, intrigued.

"Well, my wife's name..." said Pete.

"OK.  Anyone else?"

"Eyam Shah," said Yasmeen, her eyes twinkling.

"Nice," said Bernice.

"Like it," added Chris, quite unnecessarily, thought Bernice.

Neither Dave nor George were volunteering, but since Bernice suspected their contribution to the first issue was like to be quite limited, she was not too worried.

"And what about yours?" asked Chris.

"Mine?  Well, following Pete's example, I think a little transsexual activity is called for here.  So, true to my Scottish origins I'll go for 'John McTaggart'" said Bernice.

"Sounds very authoritative," said Chris.

She made a mock bow to Chris in thanks.

"Right, finally, features ideas.  I have one or two suggestions but I'd like everyone to put their thinking caps on and come up with ideas.  Remember the kind of audience we going for, and that we're trying to make life easier for them.  And more fun: don't get too solemn, even if it's a serious subject.  Remember that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down etc."

"Pyramids,"  George suddenly said.

"Er, sorry, George?" said Bernice.

"Pyramids, we really must do something about the damn pyramids," he said, his face strangely set.

"More relevant to a travel magazine, I would have thought," smirked Chris, but Bernice was not laughing.

"What exactly do you mean, George?" she asked.

"Pyramid selling  - you know, selling useless things to your family and friends.  It's a curse," George said.

"Well, I think we'd all agree with that, but it's probably a bit marginal for our audience," said Bernice, trying to deflect George as gently as she could.

"Marginal?  Marginal?!?"  George was appalled.

"Well, I'll have another think and we'll talk about it later, OK?" Bernice said, anxious to defuse the situation.

"If you want to write about pyramids, George, you could always look at freemasonry in business - that's certainly not marginal in business..." suggested Mowley only half joking.  George harrumphed and said nothing.

"Right, anyway," said Bernice, trying to restore some of the sense of purpose she had engendered and which was now in danger of being dissipated.  "I'll leave you all to come up with ideas for features, columns, news - whatever.  One final thing before I let you do some real work.  Without wanting to make any references to Spanish Conquistadors, I would just like to echo slightly Martin's point: however crazy it looks, we are going to do this, and it's going to be great.

Many people think that magazines are just second-best newspapers: don't believe a word of it.  Magazines are where the action is: in fact if you look at newspapers today, they are becoming more and more like daily magazines.  No, we are in the right place and at the right time.  Believe me, with The Business we are really going to do the business."

"Eat your heart out Citizen Kane," commented Dave in the thoughtful silence that followed, but this time he was grinning with approval.

Next chapter

Chapter 12 (27 July 1988)

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.

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Chapter 13 (1 August 1988)

The following Monday, Terence joined.  He had managed to find local digs quite near to Wright's, and had sent down his belongings from Berwick-on-Tweed.  He arrived on a day of some excitement: the first dummy issues were coming through.  Somehow they had managed to put together that first mock-up, using mostly copy provided by Bernice, plus a few other pieces to fill out 32 pages.  This was then repeated six times and then enclosed in covers to give a surprisingly convincing magazine of 196 pages - the pagination planned for the launch.  As Bernice had hoped, Wobs had come up with a suitably smart, modern yet businesslike look for the magazine: she remained impressed that someone who looked the antithesis of business should have such an intuitive understanding of design for it.  She decided that it was simply a matter of professionalism.

In fact the extremely tight nature of the schedule meant that Wobs was already working on the launch issue itself.  The first 'real' copy was starting to come through, some of it re-hashed versions of articles in the dummy, some of it genuinely new, and Wobs was also carrying out fine-tunings of his design.  But what they really needed were the dummy issues so that they could start to gauge other people's reactions to it.  In particular the advertising and marketing departments were desperate for copies: the former so that they could show prospective advertisers the kind of wonder they were talking about, and the latter so that they could use shots of it in promotions and brochures.  In short: everyone was in a high state of expectancy that Monday morning.

By now there was a real buzz in the office.  The phones were ringing, people were calling out across the office various kinds of information, clarification or vilification, and press releases were arriving by the bucket-load with every post, to be opened and date-stamped by Janice before being sorted by Bernice and then passed on to the appropriate person.  Everyone was starting to loosen up and to grow together into a group.  In this, Chris was proving a tremendous help.  He was a natural social fixer, and helped establish bridges between people all the time.

Perhaps one of his most valuable contributions to the office had been the nicknames.  They had begun after Kate had given his first submitted copy what Chris thought was a particularly hard time.  In fact she was just helping him, though her manner made it seem more of a grilling than it was in reality.  As a result, at the end of the process, Chris stood to attention, clicked his heels smartly together and said:

"Jawohl, Herr Obersturmbannführer!"

Bernice wondered whether Chris knew that Kate had read German at university: she doubted it, if only because Dibbs was such a private person, but perhaps she had opened up to Chris in some odd moment.  In any case, it was an appropriate nickname, and one which started to stick when Mowley made some reference to being chased for copy by Herr Obersturmbahnführer.  Thereafter this became Kate's almost official designation.

Nor was Chris slow to note how well the nickname had gone down not just with the office, but with Kate herself, who was secretly rather flattered to have this alter ego, despite its origins.  Without taking a conscious decision to come up with names for the others, Chris found that certain situations suggested new names which he tried out and saw being accepted.  Luckily he had a real gift for this: like a good caricaturist he could sum up a person by seizing on a single element.

The next to fall victim was Dave.  Chris had been struck by how late Dave always seemed to arrive.  In part he was rather envious of the freedom allowed to his rival - for as the other reporter, albeit of many years' standing, that was how Chris saw him, already thinking in terms of hierarchies and career progression.  And so it was with a certain mischievousness that Chris started to announced Dave's eventual arrival, until one day he cried out: "Holy Mowley, it's Dave," - who thereupon became Holy Mowley.

Similarly George became Gorgeous George, and then just Gorgeous, while the indispensable Janice was transformed into the Janissary.  Although glad to be included in Chris's re-baptism of the team, Janice was a little unsure whether she liked this particular name - the word was new to her - until it was explained as referring to her role as office guardian, which pleased her no end.  Wobs's name was already so extraordinary that his nickname became John, while Bernice was first of all Queen B, and then just Queenie which soon superseded Kate's somewhat less regal alternative of 'Bernie'.  Pete, being the Assistant Editor was the Ass Ed, before somehow turning into The Ass - Bernice was not so sure she liked this one.

So before Terence arrived, the only person in the office lacking a nickname had been Chris himself, and he realised that it would have been inappropriate to suggest one.  Luckily the Janissary came up with the answer that seemed to encapsulate him perfectly: Chris the Kiss, soon abbreviated to just Kiss.  Before Terence arrived that Monday Bernice had asked Kate to tell him about the office organisation.  Overhearing the request, Chris chipped in with "Yes, tell Tel," so when Terence arrived he found that he had been given a nickname in absentia.

Tel was booked in to attend the company's induction course later that morning, but first he waited expectantly with the rest of the office for the issues.  Everyone tried to get on with other work, but in fact they were all straining their ears for the tell-tale sound that would signal the arrival of the dummies.  

"I can hear a whistle," said Wobs who seemed to have surprisingly acute hearing.  And as a silence fell on the room the others too could make out the faint but unmistakable sound of a formless, tuneless whistle in the corridor.  It had to be Trevor: the issues were coming.
Trevor Trumblelow was one of the buildings' maintenance men, which meant that he did all the moving and shifting of heavy objects.  Trevor was six foot four in his socks, but despite his great physical strength - people in Wright's called him Southdon's Arnold Schwarzenegger - he was as gentle as a child.  His was one of Chris's less amusing nicknames: Clever Trevor.  Another dubious creation was The Slug - the unkind name he gave to the strange, shambling creature Bernice had seen on her first day at Wright's, and who was periodically encountered by the others in the corridors as they went about their business.  Though just as cruel as Trevor's name - but without the sarcasm - the office had less compunction about using it, partly because they never had occasion to deal with him on a personal level, as they did with Trevor, and so found it easier to reduce him to something less than human.

"Hello, everybody, how we doing then?" Trevor said cheerily as he came through the door pulling a trolley laden with bound bundles of magazines.  "I've got a little something for you here - where d'you want 'em?" he asked as he picked up a few heavy bundles with his massive hands.

"Down there on the floor will be fine, thanks, Trevor," said Bernice as the whole office rose as one and converged on the issues, like bees to a honey pot.

"Righty-ho," said Trevor, "I'll be seeing you again - we've got some moves coming up, okey-dokey?" - George had finally put together a new office plan that seemed to meet everyone's needs and even some of their wishes.   As Trevor moved off down the corridor, pulling his empty, clanking trolley, he started blowing that strange whistle again, happy in the knowledge that he would soon be doing what he most loved: moving offices.  For he knew that even the Chief Executive was dependent on him, Trevor Trumblelow, if he wanted to carry out that particular kind of company re-organisation.

Almost before the bundles hit the ground feverish hands were tearing at the old magazine pages wrapped around them, and scissors were wielded to cut open the tough plastic straps securing them.  And finally, there they were, the issues.  To hold an issue for the first time is always a solemn moment, but when it is the dummy of a launch the feeling is magnified.  Here, at last, was something concrete: this was what their concentrated efforts had been working towards in part.

Although the contents inside were the same, there were several different covers.  As a magazine that was to be sold on the newsstand, the cover was crucial.  Unless people could be encouraged to pick it up in the first place they would never discover how wonderful were its contents.  So Bernice had asked Wobs to come up with several alternative covers, ranging from the abstract, using just typography - the cover lines - through the outlandish, with a commissioned illustration - to the straightforward, using a picture of an average office.

While Bernice was comparing the different effects of these contrasting covers she heard a cry to her side.

"Aaargh, the bastards!"

It was Kate during one of her 'critical' moments.  It is an immutable law of publishing that the typesetters or the printers will do something horribly wrong in every issue.  And it is just as inevitable that the production editor will be driven close to suicide and/or murder when she or he finds this error.  Kate had just found the error and was now contemplating murder.

"What is it, Kate?" asked Bernice.

"Look at this, the bastards.  Sugar."  The Herr Obersturmbahnführer was not happy: the printers had managed to reverse a couple of pictures and then print the colour tints on other pages incorrectly, causing all kinds of garish pinks and yellows to appear.

"Oh, no," said Wobs, showing himself unusually moved by the way his work had been 'ruined'.  His T-shirt today was witty and cross-cultural: 'La Vie en Brosse' it said, under a cartoon face sporting a crewcut and round, vacant eyes.  For a moment his own eyes were just as unseeing, unwilling to contemplate further the desecration of his labour.  Terence said nothing, but was clearly sympathetically disgusted.

"OK, OK, come on team," said Bernice, trying to put things in perspective, "that's why we have a dummy, to dry run this kind of thing.  I've got a management meeting soon so I'll bring all this up then.  What I suggest you all do is to go through and mark up an issue, showing all the errors, blots, smudges and other failings.  Then I'll have something concrete to wave at Martin.  Talking of whom: Janice could you kindly take say five copies across to him please, plus a bundle for ads, a bundle for marketing and a few copies for production?  Thanks."  Meanwhile she wanted to take a hard look at this dummy and make some decisions about what to change.

After a lunch at Achilles' to celebrate the arrival of Terence, during which the dummy was discussed in some detail and numerous suggestions made for its improvement, everyone except Pete, who had stayed in the office as usual, trooped back for the talk from Tim in marketing that had been promised by Martin in his welcoming speech.  Both Martin and Bernice wanted to give the other journalists a sense of context in which to work.

Tim arrived in their office at two, armed with flipcharts and various photocopied handouts.  He rather enjoyed having an audience like this, and had spent some time preparing his materials.

"Right, then," he began briskly.  "What I'm going to try to do today is to place The Business in the appropriate context, giving you some idea of what the market is, readership demographics and competitive profiles.  If anything is unclear please feel free to interrupt but you'll probably find it more useful to wait until the end for questions " - not least because everything will be clear, he thought.

"So," he said, "we're basically talking segments, penetration, coverage and overlap."  Perfectly clear.  He then launched into a lusty discussion of surveys, methodologies, variances and a host of other details that left most of them cold - except Dave, who seemed to be genuinely fascinated by it all, even taking down notes on odd scraps of paper that added to his desk's general chaos of overflowing ashtrays, magazines, newspapers, files and pens scattered everywhere.

However, things picked up a little when Tim moved on to described the rival publications.  Once again, he had a rather novel way of looking at things, using a graph with corporate seniority along the vertical axis and company size along the horizontal to represent what he called the universe of readers, which made it sound very grand.  He then started drawing various shapes which he said represented the various magazines and their stated or implicit audiences.  For example Business Monthly was a smallish blob that huddled in the top right-hand corner of the chart.  Then he drew The Business.  It was the entire chart.

"Which is why the potential for this title is so huge.  It really is about business and for anybody - 'the magazine for the rest of us' as the cover so beautifully puts it - well done, on that, Bernice, wish I'd thought of it.  And I must congratulate you all on the dummy," he said, his patronising tone being more a result of living in marketing's ivory tower than due to any desire to assert a personal superiority, "which from my brief look seems to be going in the right direction.  Are there any questions?"

What about the details of the promotions?  George wanted to know.  Bernice was pleased to see that he seemed to be more committed to the title now.

"Ah, yes, I had hoped to go into that," Tim said, "but I thought it better to concentrate on concepts in the time that was available.  I'll be giving a full report at the management meeting, so perhaps Bernice you could pass that back?"

"Sure," said Bernice, conscious that this was not very satisfactory, but also conscious that Tim had another meeting to get to - not to mention a launch promotion to organise. "Don't worry, George" - she narrowly avoided calling him Gorgeous - "I'll make sure you get all that information."  Just as soon as she had it.

After Tim's rather unsatisfactory reply there were no further questions, and once he had gone, taking his flipcharts with him, they all settled back down to work.  Only Pete seemed unable to concentrate.

"Pete," she said, worried by this and his general attitude recently, "could we have a chat?"

"I'd, er, really rather not," said Pete.

"No?" asked Bernice, more worried.

"You see, I'd rather not leave the office at the moment," he replied, looking rather tired and careworn.

"You never leave the office - you never come with us to Achilles'..." Bernice pointed out.

"No...please don't think that I wouldn't like to, but - " he didn't go on.

"Pete, look, here's not the place to talk about such things," she said, conscious that several pairs of ears were following the conversation with interest, journalists being an inquisitive bunch.  "Let's go to the coffee lounge."

"I can't...you see...Elaine is expecting, she's liable to go into labour at any moment...."  He sounded both proud and yet worried.

"Oh, Pete, that's wonderful, why didn't you tell me?" said Bernice.

"Well, I didn't want to worry you - about me not being able to cope with the work - I'll get it finished, don't worry, I've only got one article left," he said rather desperately.

"Oh, don't worry about that, this is much more important," she said in her best manager's voice.  Oh my God, was what she was thinking.  Why didn't Martin tell me?  Did he know, even?

"You see, I really wanted to - " but before he could continue, his phone rang.  He stared at it stupidly, as if he had never seen one before, then looked at Bernice.

"That'll be the phone," Chris said, using one of his catchphrases.

"Answer it, then," she said encouragingly to Pete as if it were the first time he'd ever encountered the technology.

He did, and went pale.

"I've got to go," he said.  "Sorry to mess things up, I'll finish - I must go."  And with that he rose and rushed out of the office in a single fluid movement, as people cheered and wished him good luck.

"Hope it all goes well," said Bernice to his back.  Hope it all goes well for us, too, she thought ruefully, now that we are one writer down....

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