All Because of You (Lakeview #2) (7 page)

“I’m going to just pop out here,” she told the cab driver, and by his blatantly appreciative glance at her generous breasts, Natalie suspected he was thinking something quite different. This was something she was well used to, her curvaceous body having always appealed to the opposite sex. Such attention occasionally came in handy in her profession, but in truth she hated looking like a busty barmaid from
Corrie
. 

Having paid the cabbie, she nipped quickly through the Embankment gardens and out to the Savoy Hotel, where seventeen-year-old Jordan King and his father Joseph were already awaiting her arrival in the foyer.

A young black footballer of immense talent and skill, Jordan had just signed a lucrative contract with one of the country’s top Premiership clubs and had recently made his debut for England. Within minutes of coming onto pitch, he had changed the game and sent the team three-two up, scoring a hat-trick in the most spectacular circumstances. Since then, the newest England wunderkind was in high demand and for this reason, he and his family had been advised to employ someone to help deal with the ever-growing media appetite, and to manage his public profile.

“Jordan, Mr King – so lovely to meet you.” Natalie shook their hands. She knew instinctively that Joseph King would be a tough nut to crack. The man seemed suspicious and ill at ease in the hotel’s sumptuous surrounding, as though he’d rather be anywhere else but there.

It was understandable. The Kings hailed from a working-class background in Birmingham, where Jordan had begun his footballing career with a lower-league club, and Natalie wouldn’t have been at all surprised if this were the first time Joseph King had been to the capital. 

This made her even more determined to secure Jordan as a client; he and his family were so obviously guileless that they would need all the help they could get when thrust into the relentless and often unforgiving spotlight. 

“Let’s go in to eat.” Natalie led them towards the restaurant. She smiled at Jordan. “You’re a wonderful player, Jordan,” she said, “although I suspect you’re used to hearing that by now.”

“Um, thanks.” Jordan blushed a little and grinned sheepishly. 

Natalie sorely wished that the kid could remain like that, so innocent and so obviously unaffected by his superstar quality. But she knew such ingenuousness wouldn’t last long. The huge adoration and, concurrently, the vast amounts of money these young teenagers earned tended to quickly put a stop to that. Thinking of the train-wreck that was now Michael Sharpe, Natalie hoped that Jordan would not follow his England team-mate down the same path.

“And you must be very proud of him,” she said to Joseph King, as the waiter led them to their table. 

“I am,” Jordan’s father replied, smiling indulgently at his son as they all sat down. “But obviously, I want to make sure his career is managed properly. Since the new signing and especially after the England game, his mother and I haven’t been able to deal with all the calls we’ve been getting. Newspapers wanting interviews, TV companies wanting appearances, all that stuff. And now all these companies are wanting to use him in their advertising.”

“I presume you have a sports agency looking after your financial interests, club contracts etc?” Natalie enquired. It was important to explain that managing Jordan’s career as a footballer wasn’t what Blue Moon PR did. Instead they’d look after the valuable currency that was Jordan King’s public image.

His father nodded. “Chris Billingham. Do you know him?”

“Not personally, but he’s got a good reputation.” If there was such a thing, she thought inwardly, but at least some of the other vultures hadn’t managed to get their claws into him. “Shall we order drinks? Wine or perhaps a Coke for Jordan?” With potential clients of this importance, she’d normally break out the Cristal, but something told her that this would not be appreciated by the father of a seventeen-year-old. 

“A Coke would be great,” Jordan replied cheerily, while his father ran a brief eye over the lunch menu.

“Something for you, Mr King?”

“Yes, a Coke would be fine for me too.”

Yikes! So much for a liquid lunch, Natalie thought, eventually deciding on a sparkling Perrier for herself, although she could have killed for bubbles of the other kind. Oh, well, maybe later …

“So,” she began, when the waiter had finished taking their lunch and drinks order. “I suppose I might as well start by filling you in on what it is we at Blue Moon PR do, and perhaps more importantly on what we don’t do.”

“Jordan’s been offered a contract from MagicBurger,” Joseph King said, before Natalie had a chance to speak further. “It’s great money and the agency thinks we should jump at it. I’d like to know what you think.”

Aha, Natalie thought, the first test.

She sat back in her chair. “Well, as I said before, Blue Moon are not a sports agency in the sense that we don’t secure endorsement contracts for you. However, what we
will
do is give advice as to how the endorsements you choose can affect your long-term career.” She paused as their drinks arrived, then continued. “Now, if I were managing your image, Jordan, under no circumstances would I recommend that you endorse products from a fast-food company. You’re young, talented and athletic and an inspiration to millions of young people out there.  You don’t want to give out the wrong impression.”

“But the money is unbelievable,” Joseph told her. “The agency reckons that no one in their right mind would turn down a contract like this. And it’s a five-year commitment –”

“Of course it is,” Natalie replied brusquely. “The company are simply making sure they’re tying up England’s hottest young footballer for the long term, because they know that if they don’t, someone else will. I wouldn’t recommend it, Mr King, not in the long run. In the current healthy-eating climate and with the huge backlash against junk food, the media would have a field day with Jordan endorsing MagicBurger. We’d much prefer he be involved in promoting healthy products, sportswear, energy drinks – items like that. We don’t want him peddling heart-attack food to teenagers.”

Joseph looked thoughtful. “Still, the agency fought hard to get this contract for us – they must see it as beneficial to his career.”

“The agency is there to manage the business and financial side of Jordan’s career, Mr King – a PR agency has to see beyond the money and look to managing Jordan’s public profile long-term. As you know, footballers are valuable currency these days when it comes to the media. And you don’t want your son being dragged into everything that’s being offered to him. A clean-cut respectable image is what I’d be looking at for Jordan if he were a client of our agency. Limited media appearances, very few TV interviews other than a couple of minutes post-match, and negligible contact with the newspapers and magazines. The lower the profile, the more Jordan can concentrate on what’s important – his football. Think Michael Owen or Jamie Carragher. How often do you see those guys in the papers falling out of nightclubs or details of their love lives splashed across the Sunday papers?”

At the mention of those names, Jordan’s eyes brightened. Thank goodness for that, Natalie thought, breathing an inward sigh of relief. Thank goodness this kid saw balanced and upstanding footballers like that as role models, and not imbecile piss-heads like Michael Sharpe or arrogant coke-heads like Nathan Corrigan.

“Michael Owen’s the greatest,” he said, sounding like any other teenage school-kid, and nothing like the world-class superstar he’d undoubtedly turn out to be.

Natalie was more determined than ever to work on this kid’s behalf, not because she thought she’d get an easier time of it than she did with some of her more problematic clients, but because deep down she wanted to help shield him against the ugly side of professional football. The side of fast cars, booze and blonde bimbos who one night treated players like gods, and the next were gone running to the papers with stories of wild sex. The side that tore families apart, the immense success and pressure of the spotlight turning the game the players adored into a noose around their neck. No, it might be idealistic, but Natalie wanted to help Jordan King avoid all this. Keeping this kid’s feet on the ground would do no harm to her beloved England’s chances in the long run either, she thought wryly.   

Their food arrived at this point and, when the waiter had departed, Natalie took the plunge.

“So what do you think?” she said, addressing the boy but really asking his father. “Do you think you’d like to have the public side of your career managed by Blue Moon PR?”

“I think we’d certainly like to hear more,” Joseph King replied, his manner relaxing considerably as he and his gifted son sampled the menu of one of London’s finest establishments.

****

Three hours later, Natalie arrived back at Blue Moon HQ, still buzzing, despite the lack of lunchtime bubbly.

Jack Moon, the company’s fifty-something MD accosted her on her way upstairs to her office.

“Well,” he queried, his curiosity almost palpable, “how did we do?”

Despite her optimism, Natalie was non-committal. “Well, it’s not official, but I did get the handshake.”

“Oh, well done, you!” he replied effusively. “Securing someone like King is a massive coup for the agency, Natalie. I knew I could rely on you.”

“No problem, Jack.”

“Did I hear you correctly?” Danni squealed as Natalie approached her desk. “Did you just tell Jack that we’re representing Jordan King?”

“Yep,” she replied proudly. “The father was a tough nut to crack but I think I impressed them both in the end.” They wouldn’t officially be representing Jordan until the contracts were signed, but after this afternoon’s lunch things were definitely looking good.

“Oh, I can’t wait to tell Lee! He’s such a Reds fan and – ”

“Don’t go shouting about it to your hubby too soon, Danni – not until we get the signature,” Natalie warned. 

“Oh, all right, I suppose I’d better keep my mouth shut.” Danni slumped glumly back in her seat. “So what’s he like?”

“Jordan? A nice kid – a little bit naïve, but that’s probably a good thing.”

Danni sniffed. “A full season in the Premiership will soon knock that out of him.”

“True, but it makes a nice change from the usual prima donnas we get here. Any calls while I was out?”

Her colleague grinned wickedly. “Plenty, now that you ask.” She flicked through a list of messages. “Dean Phillips wants to know if you can arrange to get him tickets for The Murderers concert on Saturday night,
Heat
magazine want to know if Melanie Adams is available to talk about her divorce, Ken Forde wants to go over publicity plans for Blast’s new single and – ”

“OK, OK, just give me the bloody list,” Natalie said, groaning. She still had to try and sweet-talk the
Sun
over the Michael Sharpe scandal, never mind arranging concert tickets for a fussy MD, interviews for a soap star and media appearances for a teenage boy band. But that was the job and, despite her apparent exasperation, Natalie loved every second of it and in any normal day would approach each task with gusto. But not today. Today – or more accurately –
tonight
could very well be the most important night of Natalie’s thirty-two years, and as the evening drew ever closer it was difficult to concentrate on anything else. 

“Just one more thing,” Danni added, her voice dropping to a whisper. “The clinic phoned to confirm your next appointment for …” she trailed off and cast a furtive glance around the office, “you know.”

“For my lipo?” Natalie finished out loud, and Danni’s eyes widened. Natalie didn’t care if the entire world knew she was having lipo-dissolve injections – everyone over twenty-five was at it anyway. Natalie dealt with excess flab as she did with most things in life: if you didn’t like it, do something about it. Not for her the furtive sneaking in and out of clinics for lipo or botox. How different was it than going to the gym? The end result was the same (and admittedly a lot faster) so what was the big bloody deal? “Great, I’ll phone them later. Did you manage to speak to Michael, Danni?”

“Yeah.”

“So how did he react to my suggestion about the awards ceremony?”  

“He said he’ll do it because he trusts you, but if the press start giving Clara a hard time about anything, he’ll deck them.”

“Wonderful.  Pity he doesn’t think more about his wife’s feelings when he’s off screwing his bimbos,” Natalie replied tersely. “And tell him if he even
thinks
about going off on another cameraman again, I’ll …” She shook her head and went towards her office. “On second thoughts, don’t bother, I’ll give him a call myself.”

“Sure.” Danni was only too happy to offload this particular client to someone who knew exactly how to handle him. “But don’t forget to call Ken Forde, will you? He was insistent.”

Insistent, insistent,
Natalie echoed inwardly – they were all bloody insistent, weren’t they? Retreating into the sanctuary of her third-floor office with its relaxing views over the Thames, she sat down and slipped off her heels. She used one hand to massage her aching feet and the other to dial the first number on her list – Ken Forde, the increasingly demanding manager of boy band Blast.

“Ken, hi, Natalie here,” she began. “Just returning your call. Yes, we’ve got lots of publicity in the pipeline for the guys this time – nothing confirmed yet though.” She spoke quickly in the hope of heading him off at the pass. Ken was the type of manager who wouldn’t be pleased even if she’d arranged for the group to make a special appearance on MTV.