In reception a tall bank of TV screens flickered quietly with images from the latest show-reel. The work was acceptable, but tame — too much sunshine, too many smiles; if Jimmy had his way, all this would change. He passed two dark-blue sofas and paused in front of the wall that faced west. One vast expanse of plate-glass, it offered a dizzying view of London’s drab extremities. The slate rooftops of Acton and Ealing. The lazy ribbon of motorway reaching towards Oxford. The endless planes making identical descents, one after another, into Heathrow. Initiate. That’s what he had to do. Initiate, and be seen to be initiating.
‘Morning, Jimmy.’
He turned. ‘Morning, Brenda.’
Brenda was the receptionist at ECSC, though with her many layers of foundation, her pendant earrings and her heavy, fleshy arms, she had always reminded Jimmy of an opera singer.
‘You’re early,’ Brenda said.
‘I’ve got a lot on. Good weekend?’
Brenda made a face. It was never good, Brenda’s weekend, but you had to ask.
‘Did you hear about the American?’ she said.
He looked at her. ‘What American?’
‘I don’t know. Some American. He’s flying in this week.’ Brenda had opened a gold-backed pocket mirror. She was applying more mascara.
‘I haven’t heard about that.’
‘I thought you were up on everything, Jimmy. I thought you were the hot shot around here.’ She smiled at him over her mirror, her eyes bland as ponds behind the wrought-iron railings of her eyelashes.
For the next few hours Jimmy had to push Brenda’s gossip to the back of his mind. At nine-thirty he had a meeting with a new below-the-line promotions agency. Between ten-fifteen and eleven he was briefed on how the US packaging for Kwench! had performed in UK research groups. By eleven-thirty he was discussing distribution levels with two members of his sales force. Towards midday, though, he ran into Tim McAlpine by the coffee machine. McAlpine worked in the financial division. He had white hair, even though he had only just turned thirty-one. At some point in his life, it seemed as if his hair had decided to conspire with his name. Jimmy thought of him as McPyrenees — or sometimes, if he had impressed Jimmy in some way, if he had risen, so to speak, in Jimmy’s estimation, Jimmy thought of him as McEverest. Watching the coffee splutter down into his polystyrene cup, Jimmy asked McAlpine if he’d heard anything about an American. McAlpine told him that a trouble-shooter was being flown over from Chicago. The trouble-shooter’s name was Connor. That was all McAlpine knew.
So it was true.
A tense week followed. The idea of an American being appointed to the UK office sent tremors of unease throughout the building. One or two of the leading brands had been under-performing during recent months, and the aggressive in-house slogans were beginning to sound hollow. Obviously there was going to be some sort of shake-up. Walk down any corridor, look in anybody’s eyes. You could see the same question lurking there. Who’s he going to fire first?
On Friday morning everyone who worked for ECSC UK received a memo. They were asked to assemble in reception at four o’clock that afternoon. No reason was given. Delayed by a phone-call, Jimmy pushed through the swing-doors with his watch showing two minutes past. Fifty people stood about, all talking quietly but urgently. A kind of voltage in the air. A negative charge. Jimmy moved towards the vending-machine in the corner. He saw Tony Ruddle, his immediate superior, throw himself almost recklessly into an armchair and lounge there, scowling …
Then two men entered from the right and took up a position in front of the plate-glass wall, the sun setting behind their heads. The buzz of voices died away. Slowly, though. With a curious reluctance. Like the sound of a car disappearing into a silent landscape. Bill Denman, the Managing Director, spoke first. He would not be talking for long, he said, not long enough, in any case, to do justice to the many accomplishments of the man who stood beside him. One of Denman’s jokes. The staff laughed, but only out of duty, or habit; the laughter was half-hearted, thin. Denman went on to announce the appointment of Raleigh Connor to the post of Marketing Director. He outlined the unique opportunity this presented to everybody in the company, himself included: they could all benefit from Raleigh Connor’s wealth of experience etc. etc. Jimmy leaned against the vending-machine, its metal case vibrating sleepily beneath his shoulder. A brief burst of applause signalled the end of Denman’s speech. Then Connor stepped forwards.
If Jimmy was disappointed, it was perhaps because he had been expecting someone who resembled Kennedy — or, if not Kennedy, then Charlton Heston — but Connor was a squat, bald man, his round head just clearing the Managing Director’s shoulder like a full moon rising from behind a mountain. He had a benign face, almost avuncular; his fingers were the fingers of a gardener. As soon as he opened his mouth, however, his authority, his true stature, became apparent. He described his appointment — rather cockily, in Jimmy’s opinion — as ‘a simple transfer of expertise’. He talked at length about ‘the future’, making it sound big, as people from that side of the Atlantic often do. He spoke in particular about Kwench! which was the first ECSC product to be launched in the UK for three years and which should, he said, substantially broaden the UK company’s brand portfolio. It was a premium product, with high profit-margins. It promised taste and satisfaction, and it was healthy too: no caffeine, very little sugar, and a unique recipe of life-enhancing ingredients which, like Coca-Cola’s Merchandise X, was a closely guarded company secret and which made it, potentially at least, the soft drink of the twenty-first century.
At that point Connor paused, and then continued in a quieter, more meditative vein. Success could not be guaranteed, he said. You had to work for it. ‘There’s nothing soft about the soft-drinks industry,’ he concluded, ‘nothing soft at all.’ His eyes drifted amiably around the room. ‘I’d like you to take that thought away with you.’
On his way home that night Jimmy found himself in the lift with Neil Bowes. Neil waited until the doors slid shut before he spoke. ‘Don’t let that smile fool you,’ he said. ‘The guy’s an axeman. An executioner.’
Jimmy looked across at Neil. There’s one in every office. A hawker of hysteria, a walking Book of Revelation. But he liked Neil. For his sickly pallor and his doomed blue lips. For the fervency with which he played his role.
‘He was in Korea,’ Neil went on. ‘Or Vietnam. One of the two, anyway. They taught him to kill with his bare hands. He carried on the same way in peacetime. A few years back he was sent to the office in LA. Fired thirty-five people in his first week.’ Eyes filled with dread, Neil watched the glowing floor numbers being extinguished, one by one. ‘Know what they call him in the States?’