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‘We can’t know how many children work as slaves in Vishnu’s old factory,’ Ellen continued, ‘how many are tortured, raped or simply worked to death. But I would guess about two hundred at any one time.’
She paused for the flurry of indignation to subside, regaining the audience’s full attention before she announced, ‘This photograph was taken last week in Jaipur, India. The factory costs less than four hundred bowls of rice a day to operate, and as such is one of the most productive garment manufacturers in the world. Its location, indeed its very existence, has been one of the most ruthlessly guarded secrets of recent times. But I can reveal tonight that this factory, and others like it, is knowingly and all too willingly operated … by Starwear.’
At that moment, the Great Room erupted in emotion, undignified bellows of denunciation sounding above a chorus of outrage. Across the room from where Ellen Kennedy stood beneath the image of unimaginable misery, cameramen on the television platform had broken away from her address to follow proceedings below. There was shocked bewilderment on the faces of famous politicians; tears on the cheeks of a supermodel; alarm as businessmen called out in incredulous voices.
The table of Jacob and Amy Strauss was the very epicentre of a volcanic explosion. Completely abandoning the pretence of charming civility he’d adopted all evening, Strauss had leapt to his feet and, face purple with fury, was screaming at North, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
North’s expression was one of wild panic. The vein in his forehead had swollen to dark crimson.
‘I had no idea!’
Opposite North, Cullen experienced a rare moment of complete bewilderment. Then his survival instinct kicked in. ‘Jacob, sit down!’ he shouted above the cacophony. ‘There are TV cameras everywhere. Don’t draw attention to yourself!’
But Jacob Strauss had lost it. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ He picked up a wine bottle and smashed it on to the table.
North looked over at Cullen. ‘Should I get Bonning?’
Cullen had already glanced across the room to where Bonning had been standing – but he’d disappeared.
‘Too late,’ he correctly surmised.
All about them, diners who only minutes before had been congratulating Jacob Strauss on his third ascent to the stage were now staring at him in shock and confusion. There were bellows from tycoons, City Editors and merchant bankers:
‘Explain yourself, Strauss!’
‘That’s how he’s getting those figures!’
‘Unbelievable!’
Ellen Kennedy waited a while for the waves of outrage to peak, before she held up her hands. For all the exploding passion in the room, her gesture commanded rapid respect. It was as though her scandalised audience could hardly wait for further explanation.
‘I fully realise the seriousness of the accusation I am making,’ Ellen said, ‘but Starwear is guilty of very serious crimes. While carrying out the systematic abuse of children in India, the company has been completely misleading its shareholders about the true source of its profits.’
Her next slide showed Starwear’s last annual report, with a red circle around the figure for India.
‘This figure is attributed to Starwear’s Quantum Change factory, which is also in Jaipur. A very impressive figure, I’m sure you’ll all agree. But even at maximum output, the Quantum Change factory was never designed to produce even half of the output shown.’
She now showed the relevant page from the Forbes report, a substantially lower figure also ringed in red.
This time, the reaction in the room was of even greater ire. If anyone had been in doubt before about her accusations, they were evidently convinced now. All heads were turning in the direction of the Starwear table, where an undignified slanging match had ensued between Strauss and North. Amy Strauss, who had arrived resplendent in Versace, was making a hasty exit from the room in floods of tears, Helen Cullen following closely after to provide moral support. Starwear’s guests at the table were standing, throwing down their napkins in disgust and making their way towards the stairs. All this time, Mike Cullen sat, absolutely silent, shaking his head with an expression of stern disapproval.
When Ellen Kennedy raised her hands again, her audience seemed less inclined to calm down. Furious taunts and bitter recriminations rebounded across the room. ‘Quiet, please.’ She had to raise her voice. ‘Please let me continue.’
Then, as the noise subsided, ‘I regret that Starwear’s deceits do not end there,’ she said loudly above the continuing row. ‘In fact, we are all unwitting participants in the company’s attempts to present a false image to the outside world.’
That had the effect of alarming her audience to a chastened silence.
‘When I accepted a position on the Executive Council of GlobeWatch, I was reassured by the breadth of corporate support for the objectives of the organisation. I am sure you will share my sense of outrage to discover, as I did a few days ago, that in fact GlobeWatch has only one major donor – the company which, by coincidence, has been awarded three of tonight’s prizes, and which I was due to present with a fourth. Your majesties, my lords, ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid that GlobeWatch is nothing more than a phoney front group set up by Starwear to give itself prizes, thereby distracting our attention from the horrors it is perpetuating in the developing world right at this moment.’
There was no stopping the storm of protest unleashed now. Dignitaries behaved in the most undignified fashion as they stormed out of the Great Room, hurrying for the staircases amid howls of acrimony directed at the Starwear table – all captured by television crews and newspaper reporters who could scarcely believe the scene unfolding around them. There were demands for Claude Bonning, who was suddenly nowhere to be found. Even the production company lost control of their slick, audio-visual management – the image of child slaves appeared once again on the screen and was jammed there, whipping up still further agitation, until someone
found the switch for the chandeliers, and turned them up to maximum brightness, so that the Great Room was suddenly bright as day.
Ellen Kennedy stepped down from the podium and made her way directly to a concealed exit with as much dignity as she could muster. She had just made, she knew, the address of her life. Amid the chaos of hasty evacuation, the few Starwear directors remaining had slunk off into the crowds, leaving only Jacob Strauss and Elliott North to face the scorn and wrath of those same people who, only minutes before, had been applauding Starwear with vigour. Strauss was now incandescent with rage, the ‘golden boy’ of American business transmuted into a seething cauldron of violent resentment.
‘You’re fired, you dumb fuck!!’ he screamed at North, before shoving his way through the crowd of appalled cabinet ministers, film stars and City Editors. ‘I had no idea,’ he bayed to anyone who would listen, ‘I had no idea it was going on.’
‘It’s your company, Strauss,’ someone called out.
