Corporate Bodies Read Free

nodded thoughtfully, deciding that, given the awe with which the name had been mentioned, it would be inappropriate to ask who ‘B.T.’ or ‘Brian’ was.
    He wondered if the difference in the way the two men spoke of their superior was another reflection of the difference in their styles. ‘B.T.’ had a dated and distanced feel to it, while the ‘Brian’ implied not only a more informal approach, but also greater intimacy in the Product Manager’s relationship.
    â€˜And you’ve always been the midwife to Brian’s babies, haven’t you, Ken?’
    As Robin Pritchard said this, Charles was aware of an undercurrent in the younger man’s voice. It was nothing as positive as insolence, but the intonation implied some kind of challenge. And a flicker in the Marketing Director’s expression showed that he was aware of that challenge.
    They were a contrasted pair; Ken Colebourne short and thick-set, grey-haired but with eyebrows and moustache still black. The suit was bluish with close white stripes: the tie, red, blue and white bands of different widths that didn’t quite amount to anything regimental. Ken’s voice had a Midland roughness. He gave the impression of a tough pragmatist who had worked up the hard way. Not a man with a great sense of humour. Certainly not a man to cross.
    The Product Manager for Biscuits and Cereals was at least twenty years younger, and had more obvious educational gloss. University certainly, possibly business school as well. The brown suit on his long frame was more fashionably floppy than Ken Colebourne’s, the tie looked like a detail from some twentieth-century abstract painting. Robin Pritchard wore round tortoiseshell glasses, and had either a weak mouth or a permanently sardonic expression. Or possibly both.
    Suddenly Charles identified the quality in the younger man’s voice. Robin Pritchard was, ever so slightly, sending up Ken Colebourne. His older colleague was fully aware of this, and didn’t like it. Ken was the one who was meant to be running the interview, but Robin very subtly implied that it was taking place by his licence.
    â€˜The reason we wanted to see you, Mr Paris . . .’ the Marketing Director went on. ‘I mean, obviously we respect Will’s advice and his recommendation of you as an actor . . . but we had to check that you look right.’
    â€˜Right,’ Charles echoed reasonably.
    â€˜You see, this video will be seen all over the place. I mean, in-house, as induction to new employees . . . quite possibly for recruitment purposes . . . probably at trade fairs . . . It is going to cover the whole international scope of the Delmoleen operation – and that is big, as I may have said.’
    Yes, thought Charles, you have said it. A few times.
    â€˜So, it’s important that we don’t have anyone in the video who looks wrong for the Delmoleen image.’
    â€˜No, we do have a global profile to maintain, after all, don’t we, Ken?’ Now that Charles had identified the element of mockery in Robin Pritchard’s manner, it seemed more overt.
    As intended, the Marketing Director was a little flustered. ‘Yes, yes, of course. So, really, Mr Paris, we’ve called you in just to have a look at you, see how you fit in to the Delmoleen picture.’
    â€˜Well, here I am,’ said Charles, spreading his arms wide in an ingenuous shrug.
    â€˜Yes . . . yes . . .’ said Ken Colebourne, focusing on the actor as if for the first time, as though he hadn’t been able to form any visual impressions while he’d been talking. After a moment’s scrutiny, there was another thoughtful ‘Yes’; then another; then ‘I’m not really too sure.’
    â€˜Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ken. You’re not at a cattle market.’ Robin Pritchard turned to Charles with confidential bonhomie. ‘I do apologise for my colleague’s bad