Free Goodfellowe MP by Michael Dobbs

than froth; he ordered a vintage Montrachet.
    ‘I was intrigued by your invitation, Mr Corsa …’
    ‘Freddy. Please. And I wanted first and foremost to apologize. I’ve read again some of the coverage the Herald has given you. I didn’t care for it. I’m sorry.’
    ‘A letter of regret would have been sufficient.’
    ‘No it wouldn’t. I mean what I say. The Herald was wrong.’
    ‘That’s kind of you to say so. Sadly, of course, the damage has already been done.’
    The waiter had finished laying out fresh cutlery, fish for her, côte de boeuf for him. Corsa picked up the steak knife, placing his thumb to the blade in thehalf-light as though checking its capacity to do damage.
    ‘I’ve got rid of the City Editor.’
    ‘Goodness,’ she replied, ‘what you men will do in pursuit of an advertising contract.’
    ‘Oh, no. Don’t misunderstand. This has nothing to do with your cancelled advertising. I’m in pursuit of something much bigger. And to avoid any confusion, as much as I appreciate your coming here this evening in a manner which is more than capable of starting a Cabinet crisis, I am not talking about trying to get into your bed.’
    ‘Then I have failed,’ she mocked. ‘When I talk business with men who don’t want to get into my bed I find I’ve lost half my advantage. Men are such little boys at heart. They seem incapable of concentrating on both coitus and contracts at the same time.’
    ‘I didn’t say I don’t want to get into your bed. But that’s not the point of this evening’s discussion. And I’m a very grown-up boy.’
    They paused as the waiter arrived with sparkling water. The fresh ice cracked and spat in the glass.
    ‘You told me when we met at Downing Street that your corporate image is everything.’
    ‘True.’
    ‘Then why don’t you start taking it seriously?’
    She refused to rise to his bait. ‘I spend tens of millions of pounds on it, as you know. Some I used to spend with you.’
    ‘On advertising, yes, but it’s an art form that has had its day. You’ve got to grow far more sophisticated. At least as sophisticated as your enemies.’
    ‘Enemies?’
    ‘You go into battle every day with eco-warriors who are trying to kill you. One oil spill, one rusting drilling platform being towed around the North Sea in search of a burial place, a baby seal which dies on a beach from unknown causes – any event like that, so long as it happens in front of a camera, and all the millions you spend on your image as a warm and caring oil company become about as effective as confetti in a Force Nine gale.’
    ‘Much the same can be said when newspapers like yours scurrilously and inaccurately accuse me of greed for getting a pay increase.’ She intended to wound but with Corsa it had no more effect than a soup spoon lobbed at a charging rhino.
    ‘Precisely! But have you ever asked yourself why you get such a hard time in the media? You’ve got to remember that even if journalists aren’t bone idle they’re all up against tight deadlines. We need news in a hurry. So the pressure groups lay a feast before us – videos, apocalyptic quotes, regular updates, even free propaganda T-shirts to wear in the garden at weekends. If we want a picture, they lay on one of their helicopters to get us the best shot.’ The bottom half of his face had grown animated, yet the eyes remained hard as coal. ‘D’you know the last thing they do before they chain themselves to trees or cut holes in the fence around a nuclear power station? They check to make sure that the batteries on their mobile phones are fully charged.’
    ‘But those bloody people make it up as they go along. They lie.’
    Her lips had tightened, he was getting to her. He raised a patronizing eyebrow. It was his turn to mock.
    ‘They lie!’ she repeated. ‘Doesn’t that matter to the press?’ Her nostrils flared in protest, then slowly subsided. ‘Forgive me. I’m not usually naive.’
    He leaned forward