Duncan was a public relations manager in a leading tobacco company. The PR department was large (understandably, given the increasing criticism tobacco producers faced) and he was one of many young men and women competing for promotion. Opportunities for promotion were scarce. It wasn’t quite a question of dead men’s shoes – but nearly. When there was a vacancy it was because someone had been moved sideways or left (usually poached by a PR agency who had worked on assignments for the company) or took early retirement.

Duncan was an ambitious chap but also a habitual approval-seeker. All through his schooling, undaunted by teasing from his peers, Duncan had gone out of his way to ingratiate himself with his teachers. Years later, the same polished behaviour patterns were still much in evidence. In the presence of anyone more senior or influential, Duncan would launch a cloying charm offensive – bowing and scraping, fetching and carrying, laughing a touch too loudly at their jokes, agreeing with everything they said. Surprisingly, most of his seniors were taken in and found themselves wishing that more young people were as agreeable and compliant.

So, all things considered, the chances of Duncan’s achieving a promotion were high. It was just a question of not making a blunder, keeping his nose to the grindstone and using every opportunity that came his way to enhance his reputation with his seniors. Duncan settled down for a long haul and regarded the challenge as a PR exercise in its own right – with himself, rather than tobacco, as the ‘product’.

When it came, Duncan’s opportunity for promotion was completely unexpected. Duncan’s immediate boss was, literally, caught with his pants down, having energetic sexual intercourse with a woman from one of the outside agencies. Apparently, in the grip of an uncontrollable lust, he had failed to lock the door to his office. A director, who happened to be passing, dropped in unannounced to discuss some amendments to a draft press release. He was astonished to find a half-clad woman spread-eagled on the desk with Duncan’s boss wedged between her thighs. The cavorting couple were only given time to adjust their clothing before being frog-marched out of the building to oblivion.

After the shock of this sudden turn of events had worn off, Duncan, among many others eager for promotion, put in an application for his disgraced boss’s job. The selection process was to be rigorous: a screening interview with an outside agency, some psychometric tests and a final interview before a panel of senior managers. Duncan fully appreciated that this was one of those rare, unplanned moments in life that need to be fully exploited. He made careful preparations for the interview, listing all the questions he was likely to be asked and devising impressive answers. He also worked out what questions he could ask that would distinguish him from the other applicants. He rehearsed, over and over again, the answers he would give to the questions he expected. Not surprisingly, he anticipated that one of these questions would be about his strengths and why he thought he should be offered the job.

He prepared a careful answer that included a long list of his relevant skills and affirmed his belief that customers were king and that the company’s reputation was totally dependent on good PR. It also went on to say that tobacco was a wonderful product that relieved stress and brought happiness to millions of people around the globe. It was rousing stuff deserving of a drum roll and a fanfare of trumpets.

Duncan sailed through the first interview. He was pleased to be on the shortlist but disappointed not to have had the opportunity to boast about his skills and make his speech eulogising tobacco.

However, at the final interview before a panel of senior managers, he was asked the question he had predicted and had rehearsed so thoroughly. Duncan drew in his breath, expanded his chest, and delivered his prepared answer like a Shakespearean performer overacting at a crucial audition.

When he had finished, there was a stunned silence. The chairman of the board cleared his throat, gazed unblinkingly into Duncan’s eyes, and said, ‘Right! I want you to go outside for five minutes and think of the real reason.’

Before leaving the room Duncan managed to splutter some feeble protests, but to no avail.

In the corridor, seized with panic, Duncan wondered what to do to retrieve the situation. Would it be best to stick to his guns and thus win points for consistency – even for holding his nerve under pressure? Or might it be more impressive to change his answer and demonstrate admirable flexibility? An appalling quandary – not helped by the fact that some of his rivals for the job passed along the corridor and asked him cheerfully how it was going.

After five minutes, Duncan went back into the lion’s den and repeated his pre-prepared answer with even more forced conviction than the first time.

He wasn’t offered the job and his wife berated him for having bungled the chance. Duncan comforted himself by recalling that PR was the art of making whole lies out of half-truths. It was just that he wasn’t yet good enough at it.