Chairman of the Bored

The boardroom bristled with money. That said, most of it was bristling around the Chairman’s end of the table.

Sir Raymond Lovegold oversaw one of the few remaining British-owned and operated manufacturers, having taken over from his father some 35 years earlier. He was a very large and indulgent man, who endeavoured to command respect through fear - for the most part it worked. For the most part.

In many ways, he was like a character out of fiction. He’d swim in his money, if he could, but sadly gold bars were less comfortable than the equivalent coinage could be (at least, that’s what he surmised). He had two nieces and a nephew, all of whom would dearly like to get their hands on his fortune - they were both stupid enough to think they could come up with a plan to despatch their uncle to obtain his fortune, but clever enough to realise that they could never get away with it.

He brandished a lit cigar that he shouldn’t be smoking in the boardroom; but then he didn’t give a damn about anyone else in the room and knew that no-one would dare to report him for it. He inhaled on his cigar and blew smoke rings directly upwards, sneering at the extractor unit that had appeared in the ceiling the last time he had taken a holiday. He was impressed that someone had the gumption to raise the vote, push it through and get the extractor installed over the course of 3 weeks. It meant that someone on the board was very clever. Unfortunately, he knew who that was.

He stopped glaring at the ceiling exhaust and instead levelled his gaze directly at the source of his recent stomach ulcer; sat at the other end of the table was Blair Fairchild. She was not just a thorn in his side - he considered her to be a threat to their position within internal trade.

Blair Fairchild had been just 26 years old when her father involuntarily relinquished his position on the board to his daughter. She used the word ‘relinquish’ to describe the sequence of events - an inquest had determined it to be a ‘massive cardiac event’, so it wasn’t really a conscious decision taken by Sir Stanley Fairchild. And given that unconscious decisions aren’t really a thing, Blair herself stuck to ‘relinquish’.

Now she was 29 years old and involved heavily in the business as Chief Operating Officer. She was a tough customer; being the daughter of a rich person did one of two things - it either surrounded you with lots of vacuous and ‘pretty’ people, who fawn over everything you say to your face and sink knives into your back when you’re out of earshot…or, they beat the crap out of you every day they can and make you realise that the only way to be gone with them (legally, at least) was to become tougher. So that’s what she did. And when you consider what she had put up with at a very young age - it started as name calling (‘Blairy the Fairy’) and things kind of went downhill from there. Mostly because that’s where they pushed her…repeatedly.

Ultimately, Blair solved the problem herself - as a result, the school had to concrete over the long jump pit. Shortly thereafter, they also had to fill in the outdoor swimming facility.

And now Blair was here, dealing with a new bully. She may be chronologically young, but she could spot them a mile off. Older bullies were worse than young ones, because they did it to make their victims feel bad, whereas the child equivalent usually just wanted to make themselves look or feel good. The difference for Blair now was that she didn’t just have money - she had degrees in both economics and engineering to back her up. Sure, you still had to live a business, understand what it did, where it operated, how it operated and get to know the people that actually made it tick - but that’s what Blair did. She got to know the people behind the company and its success. She got to know the people that Sir Raymond considered beneath him.

“Go ahead, girl,” began Sir Raymond, somewhat disrespectfully, “it’s clear there’s something on your mind.”

Blair cleared her throat and began. “We have received a letter from the Department for Health regarding the HFSS levels in our products…”

“And why,” interrupted the overbearing Chairman, “should I care what that jumped up minister has to say? I backed his predecessor in good faith - it shouldn’t be my problem if he couldn’t stay the course.”

“With all due respect,” and everybody in the room knew what those words really meant, “it’s not your problem for some time yet.” Blair was matter-of-fact in her response. She leaned forward slightly to enunciate her next point - “Actually, the main impact will be to the 3,000-plus employees who have to action their guidelines, within the next 18 months, or face losing their jobs.”

“Pah!” Sir Raymond snorted, “Guidelines are just that. Not rules at all.” He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. He turned to the weasel-like man seated to his right, “What real matters are on the agenda, Seymour?”

Seymour Nivell feigned clearing his throat, as if trying to quiet an already silent room, squared up some obsessively straight papers in front of him and pretended to recite from a document he had memorised in advance, “Well, Sir Raymond,” he began, “first item is…”.

“Mr Chairman!” Blair exclaimed loudly, making Seymour start suddenly. Sir Raymond hated that she ignored his title, instead referring to him only in his official capacity. He should be grateful too, as it was only because Blair refused to use his name that she didn’t just refer to him as ‘Raymond’. “We don’t have the luxury of ignoring the DoH’s guidelines. Firms up and down the country will see pressure from not just the DoH, but also the health service, campaign groups and focus groups. HFSS is a problem that this administration is keen to make a name with…”

She didn’t get any further, as Sir Raymond lifted his bulk out of his chair and leaned on the table for emphasis. The table creaked and groaned under his weight and more than one of the other board members seated chose that moment to lean back. If it was possible to look down on someone whilst simultaneously looking up at them - in Sir Raymond’s case, he was shooting daggers from his eyes through his immense unibrow as he spoke.

“I don’t care what the government claims about HFSS!” He thundered down the length of the table, “This company has all the relevant paperwork in place to withstand any inspection they wish to carry out. All our chemical plants and refinery operations are certified to the hilt…”

Now it was Sir Raymond’s turn to fail to complete a sentence. Blair wasn’t cowering back in her seat like she should be - she was completely motionless, still leaning on the table as before. Although, and this is the part Sir Raymond really hated, her face had gained a wry smile.

“Mr Chairman,” she began pleasantly, “I think we are all fairly confident of the substantial contributions you have made to various ’Department of’s to ensure that our most controversial operations are allowed to continue unimpeded. I’d go as far as to say that our paint production plant on the Lancashire coast is probably certified to be cleaner than a small, family-run tulip farm just outside Rotterdam.” You know the one, thought Blair, the only one that wouldn’t sell out, so that you could hedge your bets and grow biofuels instead.

Sir Raymond’s expression never changed. Seymour’s face however went bright red (on behalf of Sir Raymond, of course) and he pointed a long, thin and sweaty finger in her direction as he spoke.

“How dare you speak to our Chairman in such a manner!” Seymour was incensed and it showed.

“Quiet, Seymour.” Sir Raymond hissed under his breath to bring his head lackey under control.

“This Princess,” Seymour spat the word derisively and paused for effect, but it was clear he was lost for words after just two, “thinks she can level such accusations at you…”

Sir Raymond hissed a little louder this time. “Quiet Seymour!”

It was difficult to tell whose position it hurt more - Seymour for having to be shouted at in front of everyone or Sir Raymond for needing two attempts to control his most meek of direct charges.

“HFSS, Mr Chairman,” Blair began again after Seymour’s outburst, “stands for High Fat, Sugar & Salt.”

There was complete silence, save for Sir Raymond’s personal extractor unit.

“Now, I can’t speak for Mr Choudri’s crew at the paint factory,” she continued, “but given the exceedingly hard work Pietro and his riggers put in, I have a suspicion that they would benefit from a little HFSS.”

Milton Andrews, the very competent Finance Director at the firm (who had aligned himself to Sir Stanley within his first 2 months of starting, all those years ago), leant forward and whispered a little too loudly. “How do you know Amir and Pietro? I haven’t seen Pietro in almost 6 years.” he asked.

“Amir Choudri and I discussed the future of paint production in the UK over the course of a couple of days.” Blair also whispered loudly too. “He now leads a bi-monthly half-day seminar with our marketing team to discuss the strategy and direction for the products he is responsible for, so that he knows what he should be making over the next 12 months.” Blair paused and sipped from a glass of her own personal brand of water. “And I worked for Pietro Nasir, on the rig, for two months during that big freeze last Spring. It was hard work, but very rewarding and oh so very enlightening. Rumour has it that he slept inside the battened down helicopter, so that I could use his quarters during my short tenure.” She stopped and considered a moment, “I never caught him in there though.”

Sir Raymond had recovered his position whilst Blair and Milton discussed mutual acquaintances. “I suppose we can make a little time to tinker with a recipe or two,” he smirked as he spoke in a dismissive tone, “if that would keep her ladyship happy.” He switched to sarcasm towards the end.

“On the contrary, Mr Chairman,” Blair countered, “there is a day-long workshop booked for next week, for myself and a few select members of the board to spend time with this company’s Chief Food Technologist to discuss this very issue.” She paused to ensure she smiled before continuing, “At our main food production facility. I do believe you are expected to attend.”

It was an odd sequence that followed; Sir Raymond struggled to maintain his composure as he turned to look at Seymour, who was frantically searching the electronic diary. Seymour’s complexion paled from his face right to the tips of his fingers as he looked at Sir Raymond and his lower lip quivered slightly. Sir Raymond on the other hand went a very dark shade of red, not too dissimilar from the colour Seymour has gone during his recent outburst.

“Nivell!” Sir Raymond thundered at his assistant. It was noticeable that a number of board members seated round the table took long draughts from their mugs at this development. It wasn’t through embarrassment; you could tell from their eyes that a number of them were smiling.

Blair and Milton were almost oblivious to the carnage the young heiress was leaving in her wake, as they whispered loudly again amongst themselves.

“I should have guessed that you would know Jean-Francois!” The joy in Milton’s voice was poorly disguised. “He’s an excellent asset to this company and a close friend.”

“He said as much,” Blair continued to smile as she conspired with her finance director. “He’s promised to invite me to the next dinner party he throws for the exec.” The look on Sir Raymond’s face suggested he wasn’t included in Jean-Francois’s version of the ‘exec’.

“How long did you spend with JF?” Milton rolled his eyes as he spoke, having an inkling of what was coming.

“About 6 weeks,” Blair confirmed. “He took me on a full tour of all our food production facilities and we spent at least 2-3 days with every factory’s individual R&D team, in preparation for next week.”

It was fair to say that Milton was impressed with Blair’s proactivity. Conversely, it was clear that Sir Raymond felt almost exactly the opposite.

“How dare you schedule my time without approval!” It was a loud admonition that impressed few sat round the table.

“I checked with your office before I scheduled the event,” Blair replied a little too innocently, as Sir Raymond glared at a rapidly paling (again) Seymour.

“She did not!” Seymour spluttered, as he struggled to retain his composure.

“Oh, that’s right,” the innocence was back again, as Blair remembered a previously omitted detail, “Seymour was out getting - now, what was it Ramona called it? - a mani-pedi-facial with a Thai massage chaser?” Blair threw her arms in the air and delivered the most cutting blow, “Ah, hell! Let’s just call it what it was - a spa day!”

Seymour shrank in his chair as Sir Raymond practically screamed his name at him once more, before settling back into his own seat. It was noted that he managed it gracefully though, in his defence.

“So,” Sir Raymond began, at a normal tone and after an uncomfortable pause. “What ideas do we have to achieve these reductions you speak of?”

“Of course, Jean-Francois and I have only laid out the bones of the workshop - it will be up to the assembled group to decide on the appropriate course of action.” Blair knew how to play the game sometimes, as barely imperceptible nods from around the table approved of her deference. Yes, thought Sir Raymond, very clever.

“Have you any personal thoughts on this matter, Miss Fairchild?” Raymond spoke too sweetly for anyone to be comfortable.

“Initially,” Blair continued to speak from memory, rather than constantly consult written notes, “the discussions are likely to surround packaging and portion control.”

“Can’t we just get away with charging more and paying a tax?” Sir Raymond’s opening idea wasn’t the most welcome, but Sir Raymond in particular knew that they barely paid tax anyway.

“It’s not an advert for brand loyalty, is it Mr Chairman?” countered Blair. “In fact…”

“Just put a darker colour onto the wrapper, reduce the pack size by a half and call it ‘luxury goods’.” Sir Raymond waved his hand dismissively, as this was already starting to bore him.

“Premium products will not be exempt from this new legislation, Mr Chairman.” Blair sighed as she realised that the workshop was going to go much like this, if she wasn’t careful.

“Make them smaller then.” Sir Raymond took a long draw on his cigar, the resultant exhalation not fully being caught by the extractor above his head.

“We’ve already taken that step to keep the price level, Mr Chairman. Make them any smaller and you run the risk of rendering the ‘fun-size’ variant obsolete and returning disappointing sales around Halloween.” Blair may be a bit too well prepared for what she knew would be pretty much the only ideas Sir Raymond had.

“Make them portion sized to match that 100 calorie nonsense and stick them in a multipack - we can put the price up too!” Sir Raymond laughed at the thought of increasing his fortune. Seymour attempted to join in, failing miserably.

“We already make those.” Blair rolled her eyes as she spoke quieter, unheard over the Chairman’s booming mirth.

“Well, why don’t we just…” Sir Raymond began again.

“Mr Chairman!” Blair’s voice carried louder than even she expected, startling Sir Raymond, Seymour and a few other members present. A few coffee mugs were slowly sipped from again. “Whilst these are all options, please take the time to collate all of your ‘ideas’” - yes, she used air quotes - “and bring them with you to the workshop. Jean-Francois has some excellent new concepts to present and a team of people at every factory working on options to meet the standards.”

Sir Raymond did his best not to miss a beat before resuming talking again. “Well, er, thank you Miss Fairchild, for your presentation.” Sir Raymond didn’t sound particularly thankful for Blair’s contribution and it didn’t disguise well either. “Now then, if we move onto the actual agenda points…”

Sir Raymond paused, mid-sentence. Now, this was an unusual event - Sir Raymond despised stopping whilst talking, more so when interrupted. And then, a smile crept across his enormous face. More than one person at the table recoiled, as if the devil himself stood before them.

Sir Raymond retained his grin and considered his smouldering cigar closely.

“What if we went a bit more subliminal?” Sir Raymond’s voice was barely above a whisper as he spoke. Blair and her co-conspirators at the other end of the table struggled to hear him.

“What did you have in mind, Sir?” Seymour had returned to his usual sneering self and goaded his master on.

“You!” Sir Raymond pointed his cigar at the man sat to Blair’s right. “Ovski, or whatever your name is!”

“He has an actual name!” Blair was quick to leap her colleague’s defence.

“So do I,” Sir Raymond countered, “and yet he only ever refers to me as ‘Mr Chairman’.”

Blair was indignant and spoke through gritted teeth. “He only uses the names of people he respects.”

“So. Do. I.” Sir Raymond repeated the words slowly, mockingly.

“Yevgeni.” Blair tapped the arm of the ageing man with grey stubble sat beside her and pointed at Sir Raymond once she had his attention.

“Da?” Yevgeni said simply.

“Do you still own that silicone processing plant in Uzbekistan?” Sir Raymond asked.

“Da.” Yevgeni replied monotonically.

“Is the equipment still serviceable?” Sir Raymond further enquired.

“Da.”

This is hard work, thought both Blair and Sir Raymond, separately.

“Could that equipment be relocated to the UK, say the paint factory?” Blair was struggling to see where this was going and she instantly worried about Amir Choudri.

“I would speak to Amir first, smooth things with him.” She reassured her thus far positive comrade.

“I see no reason why not.” Yevgeni finally gave them something to work with, in a heavy Russian accent. Truth be told, Yevgeni Imaovski was of Serbian descent and grew up in Iceland. He only knew three words of Russian - da (or ‘yes’), vodka (is it technically a Russian word?) and a third word that he refused to repeat in female company.

“Is this little exchange working into a point, Mr Chairman?” Even Blair was struggling to suppress her impatience now.

“What’s the angle?” Milton pushed, somewhat more contemptibly than he should to the board chairman.

“Silicone bakeware.” Sir Raymond fired back, a bit too patiently.

“And how,” Blair began, “will the health of this nation’s current and future generations rest on some old Russian silicone moulds?” She snorted the question and Seymour smirked widely at the outburst.

“Silicone bakeware is non-stick,” clarified Sir Raymond, “but I’ll be damned if I’ll do the marketing department out of some work and let them figure out how to make it sell to the gullible masses.” Respectfully put, Blair groaned inwardly as she suffered through more of Sir Raymond’s nonsense.

“And…” Sir Raymond stood with his arms raised and spoke triumphantly, “silicone spatulas!”

Blair said nothing, just held out her hands and shook her head, not understanding what Sir Raymond was driving at.

“You’ll like this,” Sir Raymond was smirking now - no-one in the boardroom liked that look (except Seymour) “silicone spatulas will save the fat kids!”

“But for goodness sake, how?” Blair had lost all patience and was only just managing not to shout.

Sir Raymond was composed as he levelled his gaze at every single member of the board, before finishing up talking directly at Blair. “Silicone spatulas will mean cleaner baking bowls! Your little crusade will benefit everyone from disappointed 3-year olds, who have no spoon to lick, right up to 103-year olds who remember the joy of licking the bowl!”

“You monster!” Blair’s sudden realisation manifested into screaming hatred, as she climbed onto the table and lunged for the Chairman of the Board…