Chapter 8
***
A buzzer buzzed. “Your visitor is here” a nasally, disembodied voice announced.
“Send him in. And take a break and get something for that damnable cold. It’s hardly seemly for a company involved in the creation and production of edible delicacies, is it?”
“Aahhh-chooo!”
The door opened and the visitor entered. He sat down in the seat opposite, and placed his case on the desk in the universal language of “I have the goods, let’s talk business”. He blinked.
Mr Kipling waited a beat.
“Good afternoon, Mr Nutkin. A pleasure to see you this soon.”
“When we say we’ll do something, we get it done. I have operatives everywhere…” he broke off, almost sounding angry “…almost everywhere, that is” He glanced around “And your side of things?”
“Ah. Well. You see, a campaign of that size, and of the necessary quality takes some time to develop, to write, to script, to film, to edit, to manipulate to release. The message, you see, has to be perfect and perfectly in keeping with our, ahm, friendly image”
Mr Nutkin peered at Mr Kipling through unnervingly beady eyes.
“You aren’t thinking of reneging on our deal are you?” he cocked his head to one side. “I needn’t tell you there are many others who will pay handsomely to get their hands on this.” He shrugged “they may not have the clout you do, but they have money. And, to be frank with you, if you back out now, I will happily sell to the highest bidder for both the money and the pleasure of pissing you off as revenge.”
“Now now…” Mr Kipling waved a placatory hand “we have drafts. Ideas. Concepts. Storyboards. I thought that once we were both happy that the other party could, ahm, close their side of the deal, then we’d, ahm, deal.”
Mr Nutkin made a sound that sounded alarmingly like a snigger “Alright then. You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
Mr Kipling looked at Mr Nutkin in a way that could only be called old fashioned, then beckoned him over to a drawing board. They went through several concepts before Mr Nutkin was mollified enough to open his briefcase. Mr Kipling looked inside and gasped.
As far as he could see, the briefcase was empty. There was nothing in it. Not even a single, solitary scrap of paper.
“What outrage is this?” he bellowed.
Outside his office, his secretary decided now was a good time to take that break and get something for her cold. Possibly a glass of wine or two, until things subsided.
Mr Nutkin look confused.
Mr Kipling spoke slowly, as if to a backwards child. “There. Is. Nothing. In. The. Briefcase. Nothing. Nada. Empty.”
Hearing the tone through the door, his secretary grabbed her bag, coat and her two favourite gossip companions, and they fled to the pub.
Mr Nutkin looked in, and pointed.
Mr Kipling looked. And looked again. And then he saw it. His face slowly started to turn as red as the cherry atop a bakewell tart.
“YOU’VE BROUGHT ME AN ACORN? WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS OUTRAGE?!”