The Player - Roland Rudd

About once a fortnight Roland Rudd and his wife Sophie give a dinner party for a dozen-odd people in their house overlooking Holland Park. The front door is opened by a discreet figure in black and you are ushered past the dining room with its 16 chairs and into a large drawing room where eye-catching modern paintings and good antique furniture make a statement of understated yet evident opulence. A glass of Dom Perignon is placed in your hand.

On the evening I went there, the next to arrive was Sabrina Guinness. Then a top financial commentator, followed by a City grandee or two, and a distinguished author; and finally, Gus Christie, the owner of Glyndebourne, with his drop-dead gorgeous fiancée Danielle de Niese, who is also his lead soprano.

"How do you know Roland?" I asked the lucky man.

"I don't," came the answer. "He rang up and invited us."

A month later, I am waiting for Rudd in the lobby of Number One Aldwych, and he arrives bang on time.

He has hardly changed since we knew each other at Oxford, almost 25 years ago. Greying about the temples, but probably fits into the same clothes he wore then; and still notably good-looking in a Darcy-ish way. Now, however, he is about £50m richer, and the most influential PR man in the country.

His suit is not as sharply tailored as one might perhaps expect, nor his shoes as immaculate - there is a dent on one of the toecaps. But perfect manners and understated charisma. He is not, in other words, a too-sauve Mayfair auctioneer. His mobile is switched off.

Born in 1961, Rudd spent his early years with three sisters in family houses in Knightsbridge and Wiltshire, before being sent to Millfield. In spite of being dyslexic, he got into Oxford to read theology and philosophy at Regent's Park. This was one of the least prestigious colleges, barely accepted as part of the place. But as a result of energy, determination and a fair dose of charm, he was elected President of the Union, the university's debating club.

In 1985, and already with an address book that would have done credit to any captain of industry, he went to work for David Owen, first as a researcher and driver, and later as policy co-ordinator. He then moved to The Times in 1986 as a graduate trainee (Boris Johnson joined him a year later, and they are still friends). The switch from politics to journalism is easily explained. "I felt I needed a proper job," says Rudd.

Then in 1990, after brief spells at the newly-founded Sunday Correspondent and at The Independent, he joined The Financial Times as a business reporter. One incident is revealing. Lord Hanson had taken a stake in ICI and the FT wanted to know why. However, he was famous for never speaking to the press. Undeterred, Rudd picked up the phone, talked his way through to Hanson, and got his story.

But journalism failed to satisfy his entrepreneurial ambitions. "I always wanted to set something up from scratch," he says. As a City journalist, Rudd felt that financial PR was often too amateurish. Here was an opportunity. So he and a friend set up their own company, insisting that all staff should be financially literate. "I wanted them to be more disciplined and more rigorous than in some other companies," he tells me.

He adopted a similar approach with the local restaurant where they would be entertaining City clients. On day one, Rudd strode in and addressed the manager. "Now listen," he said (or words to this effect), "we're going to be giving you a great deal of business, and we want the very best service at all times, without exception."

So that was that. Fixed.

The new company, called Finsbury, enjoyed a meteoric rise, and in 2001 Rudd sold his 80 per cent stake to Sir Martin Sorrell for £41m, while still staying on as senior partner. By this time they were advising numerous companies on the FTSE 100 and oiling the wheels of dozens of deals and mergers. Rudd was now a major mover and shaker, with connections in the City and also in politics; most notably at the top of New Labour, where he enjoyed privileged access to Tony Blair and Peter Mandelson.

All this was the result of a punishing routine, which still continues unabated.

Six or seven hours' sleep, always sound, and up at seven, he tells me. Then breakfast with clients or politicians at the Wolseley, near the Ritz, or at home with his ten-year-old son Olly (his two other children are away at boarding school). The day is non-stop meetings and telephoning, with every moment spoken for, and he goes out every evening. There is no demarcation between business and social life, and all big dinner parties are given at home, rather than in restaurants. "It's more relaxing and fun, and more intimate," he explains. Since he eats out at least twice a day, he keeps in shape with long runs, at least four times a week, following a circular route round Hyde Park and St James' Park.

Oh, and he is also a practising (though he claims "lazy") Christian, does work for the NSPCC, and is chairman of the advisory boards both at the Tate and the Royal Opera House. Among other things.

Merely contemplating this schedule is exhausting.

I suspect that Rudd is no mean taskmaster, either. Apart from being disciplined, rigorous and financially literate, his staff, he tells me, are also expected to be "diligent, hard-working, confident, and always prepared". Lunchtime work-outs in a nearby City gym are viewed with approval.

Nor, surely, is it a coincidence that his capable private secretary Edward Lane Fox is a former officer from the Blues and Royals who, if he were not working for Rudd, might easily be an equerry in the Royal Household.

But what lies behind the almost limitless drive and self confidence?

"I come from a very strong family," he says, "and that gave us self-confidence." As for the drive, it seems to run in the genes.

Not only was Rudd's father a successful businessman, but the young Olly raised £1,000 for charity while handing round canapés at a recent dinner party.

Nor are the women of this family any less capable. As president of the Kensington Society, Rudd's mother successfully campaigned against a proposed memorial to Princess Diana which would have involved tarmacing over several acres of Kensington Park. His sister Amanda is European manager of Aveda, the global cosmetics company. Another sister, Melissa, is a governor of the prestigious St Mary Abbots school, which is attended by David Cameron's daughter Nancy.

A third sister, Amber, is the Tory candidate for Hastings and Rye. Formerly married to AA Gill (by coincidence, dyslexic like Rudd and his son Olly), she was responsible for recruiting extras for Four Weddings and a Funeral. The rule was that anyone who owned a tailcoat qualified; and both Rudd and his wife Sophie are visible in the scene in which Rowan Atkinson makes his disastrous speech.

As for Sophie, she is a successful dress designer, specialising in made-to-measure classic and retro women's eveningwear in often unusual fabrics (sophiehale.com). It comes as little surprise to learn that her twice-yearly shows are 'compre'd by none other than her husband Roland.

Is there, indeed, any activity in which Rudd is not involved? Famously, he was one of the so-called 'wise men' who in 2007 advised Tony Blair on what he should do after resigning as Prime Minister; and he is on friendly terms with numerous prominent public figures across the spectrum. So does he harbour any residual political ambitions?

"I think that one has passed me by," he replies.

My suspicion, however, is that he knows that he can enjoy a good deal more freedom, influence and fun outside the public arena. Nor do his various more or less controversial sympathies militate in his favour. A pro-Europe activist and passionate supporter of Turkey's candidacy for the EU; an advocate of high levels of immigration into the UK; a campaigner for the third runway at Heathrow (Finsbury acts for British Airports Authority)... none of this has much electoral appeal.

"I prefer to keep my head below the parapet," Rudd tells me. Quite.

Far better, surely, to remain Britain's most influential éminence grise. As the Tory MP-turned-novelist David Faber commented when I mentioned that I had seen Rudd: "He virtually rules the world, doesn't he?"

Nor does he intend to let up. Retirement, he says, is "out of the question".

This, then, is Roland Rudd: consummate networker and facilitator, the ultimate Mr Fixit... although it has been suggested that he is not destined to remain a commoner for much longer.

The Player - Roland Rudd

Members Comments

Add a Comment