Conflict of Interest

Chris didn’t have a problem with long hours or early starts. He’d got into the habit of arriving at MIRA early to put in ‘quality time’ before colleagues started arriving and the phones went mad. But as he discovered now, by eight o’clock Lombard was already in full swing, with clients in reception, couriers rushing out deliveries, the switchboard lit up like a Christmas tree. To be first in at Lombard he’d have to show up a lot earlier. Quite how early, he had yet to find out.

Moments after he reported to reception, the lift doors slid open, and out stepped a tall, svelte brunette who walked directly towards him. Arm outstretched, with a certain formality she introduced herself to him as Charlotte Oxted, and told him she was to be his secretary. Chris smiled, but not too broadly, as he followed her back to the lift, thinking how she was, every inch of her, what he expected a Lombard woman to be like. Dark, shoulder-length hair framed her flawless features and she possessed the manner of a polished professional even though Chris estimated her age to be about twenty-five. Encased in a sculpted black suit and richly coloured scarf which set off her dark colouring to perfection, it wasn’t only her looks, Chris realised, which set her apart, it was also her manner. There was a certainty about her, an absence of self-doubt, almost as tangible as her beauty. It was an impression instilled by good breeding and elegance, and the Lombard agency ethos of simply being the best. It was an impression that was initially daunting but which, if Chris’s past experience was anything to go by, was only part of a more complex and immeasurably more interesting whole. For the moment, however, impressions were all, and so he played his polite best. Making small talk on the way up in the lift, he quickly established that Charlotte had obtained a degree in classical history and lived, appropriately, just off Sloane Square. He’d also established that she arrived at work at seven-thirty every morning, ‘in time for the stock market opening’.

He’d known his office was to be on the fourth floor, but hadn’t been aware of the significance of this until they arrived. ‘This is the executive floor,’ she told him in a smoky voice.

As they stepped out of the lift, Chris couldn’t fail to be impressed by the wide, deep-pile carpeted corridors, the wood-panelled walls bedecked with tapestries, and the softly lit semi-darkness which lent the floor an air of hallowed reverence.

‘On the other side of the lifts’, she said, gesturing, ‘are the client meeting rooms. If you want to use one, I’ll need to book it for you.’

‘I see. And whose offices are along here?’

‘Human Resources. Finance. Mike has his suite at the end.’

Chris noted the way she purred the name ‘Mike’ – boldly familiar, but with a certain respectful distance, too.

‘What about Kate Taylor?’ he asked. Apart from running Lombard’s mighty financial PR department, Kate was to be his ‘Personal Manager’ while he found his feet.

‘Second floor, with the client servicing teams,’ Charlotte told him. ‘The fourth floor is for directors with an agency-wide remit.’

She paused by a door long enough for him to note its brass plaque announcing: ‘Chris Treiger, Director of Research and Strategic Planning’ before opening it and showing him in.

Chris couldn’t help being astonished; never, in his wildest dreams, had he imagined he was to occupy such an imposing office. It was huge, and had an imperial grandeur about it that was guaranteed to overawe. The far end was dominated by a massive mahogany desk, while to his right was a meeting area – where a Chesterfield and two armchairs were arranged about a polished coffee table. Behind them, discreetly in the corner, a television screen blinked the current share prices of Lombard clients. An Egyptian marble fireplace dominated the centre of the wood-panelled room which was hung with gilt-framed oil paintings of seascapes. Behind the desk a window looked out across the City, the dome of St Paul’s visible on the horizon.

Judging it would be a mistake to react too effusively, all he said was, ‘Very nice.’

Leading him through the soft-lit shadows of his office, Charlotte pointed out two boxes of business cards bearing his name which awaited him, and showed him how, at the press of a button, a computer screen appeared from the desk top, its keyboard accessed by flipping back a wooden panel.

‘You use Windows?’ she queried.

He nodded.

‘You have your own laser printer under here,’ she opened a cabinet running along the wall beside the desk to reveal an array of technology, ‘along with your mobile telephone and charger. Numbers are as marked.’

Chris put his briefcase down.

‘We’ve registered you an e-mail address. You’ll find all the details printed on your business cards. You had about a dozen e-mails in your in-tray when I checked half an hour ago.’

‘Right.’

‘We operate a clear-desk policy throughout the agency. Because of the sensitivity of the documents we handle, they must all be locked away when you leave the office in the evening. Your filing cabinet’, she opened a cupboard to reveal four drawers of hanging files, ‘is locked when you turn this key. Level One security. I also have a safe in my office for any reports that are Level Two security.’

‘Fine.’

‘Level Three security only operates on the third floor. You’ll find an explanation of it all in the Corporate I

dentity manual, which I suggest you read.’ She tapped a laminated file in his cabinet with a perfectly manicured nail.

‘Suggest’ Chris took to be an order, rather than a recommendation. ‘OK.’

Charlotte caught him glancing about the room. ‘The pictures are all movable. We have a roaming art collection – as you probably know, Mike Cullen collects young artists.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Quite an aficionado. He also supports a few art charities. But if there’s anything you’d like changed, just tell me and I’ll arrange a showing of some alternatives.’

Chris nodded.

‘I’ve left out this morning’s press cuttings of all your clients.’ She gestured towards a neat pile of folders on the corner of the desk. Then, glancing at her watch, she noted briskly, ‘Your agency tour with Kate starts at nine. That gives you forty minutes to get settled. If you’d like a coffee, there’s a percolator in my office.’ She gestured towards a door to the right of his desk. ‘Do help yourself at any time.’