Linda returned to St. Louis. “So, Emma-the-Rookie, you’ve shown a real burst of creativity based on you own initiative. You’ve been listening after all.”
It was impossible to keep a step ahead of her but I managed to stay abreast by steeping myself in all things cosmetic, including company newsletters and trade publications. I confessed ignorance only to Andrew who implored me to dig deeper into Women’s Wear Daily for hard news on the high-end brands. Sheer determination and midnight oil paid off. I detangled finance-speak within managerial information. The gist of inner workings, from Chanel and other powerhouses to unfamiliar companies like ‘sleepy’, ‘strapped’ Platinum Beauty made sense.
All of it educated me and helped connect the dots within regional buying offices and familiar faces at executive levels. My co-worker support system fell away as the Olympia fast track propelled me at breakneck speed.
I ran on Linda’s hamster wheel while she lectured in fuchsia silk, and plastic bangles. “I’m untouchable. I can wear, do, say, even act any way I want which is what happens when you hold the record for highest sales in the history of a Fortune Five Hundred company. I’ll grant you this, you finally get it.” I must have looked perplexed because she rolled her eyes. “Achieving your goals. You’ve done a damn good job of integrating your personal drive with Olympia’s bottom line.”
“As if I’d dare do otherwise.”
“Smart girl. If you have a prayer of any sort of career in this beauty business, you go through me. I own you, Emma.”
My success was her success. She could not have spelled it out more clearly. When she deemed me qualified, I accompanied her to seasonal corporate office summits. We joined senior managers and staff at their big round tables for tailored, thoughtful business discussion. Professionals in suits. More than once I kept a poker face as introductions produced names, I recognised from employee gossip floating after a launch party.
The first time it happened, I hissed, “Good lord, remember the August launch at Dillard’s?” to Linda over drinks; she pressed my arm. “Commit this to memory: bad behaviour and dirty little secrets stop with you. I don’t care if a co-worker whines about condescension toward employees, or you witness a VP trading hotel keys. Unless it’s criminal behaviour, listen all you can; record all you want. Then keep it to yourself. The beauty industry is a very, very small world.” Words to live by. With the exception of Andrew and a few others, my long-distance marriage, prickly personality, and headstrong dedication to work already kept me at arm’s length from industry social connections. For once I felt good about it.
Although there was never a lull in the Olympia pace, I convinced Linda to send me to a three-day industry conference at the Manhattan Midtown Hilton. She may have thought she owned me, but I needed the seminars on unfamiliar topics and a chance to fine-tune my business small talk.
I wore Donna Karan, knew Midtown, and enough to keep quiet during gossip sessions as juicy as elevator speculation over Kearny, New Jersey, warehouse raids for packaging fraud. I chatted up anyone who’d listen regarding market potential within the Chicago-Indianapolis-Kansas City triangle. The final evening, dressed in my charcoal cashmere Olympia representative finest, I headed for the dinner and a panel discussion by fragrance legends seated at the head banquet table.
I exited the elevator as the woman in front of me glanced at her companion. “Remember, time is money. Don’t waste either on those at the castaway tables. The place is crawling with Estee Lauder and Liz Claiborne wannabes.”
Good to know, I thought, until I found my place tag on the table closest to the hallway, farthest from the glitz. “Ah, join us, ómorfi gynaíka.” An impeccably dressed gentleman with thick greying hair stood and pulled back my chair. “Tonight I have the pleasure of joining… How did you call us?“
“The nobodies,” a woman seated on my right replied.
“Ah, but I am all the time thinking soon to be somebody.” He offered his hand. “Nikos Christopoulos.”
“Emma Paige, from Olympia Beauty.”
By the time we’d finished our salads, we’d all exchanged names and business positions. Two Harvard MBAs tracked sales and trends in the burgeoning pre-teen market. The Naomi Campbell look alike directly across from me was a new executive assistant at Bath and Body Works. Mr Christopoulos started his distribution company in Athens with a single fragrance and fifteen fragrances later, moved production to Milan. He happily explained although now established in New York, he attended the seminars to further understand the “Trelós. This crazy American capitalism.” Castaways we may have been, but well before the pros started up front, I’d learned a workshop’s worth of industry minutia.
Gradually my gut-eating anxiety and restlessness no longer blindsided me. My life with Ethan was predictable in its oddness. Communication boiled down to great sex when he was home and catch-up phones calls when he wasn’t. I managed the insecurity always nipping at my heels and marvelled at our St. Louis life. Bone deep drive kept our careers on the rails.
I owed Linda plenty, but she could turn on me as surely as another screw up would fan her fury. Scarlett O’Hara and I shared the As-God-is-my-witness-I’ll-never-go-hungry-again syndrome. Instinct kept me tuned to job shuffles and regional openings. I obsessively updated my curriculum vitae and covertly threw out feelers. Weeks might pass, sometimes months. I went to a few interviews to stay fresh, all the while working an insane schedule to carve out the niche required to rise in St. Louis.
Within two years and my twenty-seventh birthday, I had the first Midwest five hundred thousand dollars sales total. I resuscitated a failing counter from the exit list to money-maker, pulled over one hundred-and-fifty thousand dollars in sales and ‘overachieved’ territory sales by thirty-five percent.
On occasional family weekends Dad offered his brand of affectionate advice. He was a creature of daily habits: four Cokes, four cigarette packs a day, The Price is Right from his orange recliner, then beers from the local bar stool. His lifestyle was taking its toll. Darby made it through technical school and put his automotive skills to use at the Main Street gas station when he wasn’t smoking weed behind it.
Genevieve stopped tolerating her husband’s abuse, divorced and stayed in the boondocks. Fast food raised her weight, sporadic child support and low wages barely covered her expenses in the emotional and nutritional desert. I sent hundred-dollar bills tucked into upbeat cards.
I earned every penny. I barely had a life outside work but my boss apparently had none. When the double edge sword of voicemail and faxing burst into full swing, she had Olympia issue me the revolutionary car phone. Linda Clarkson knew no boundaries.
In the independent leagues, putting players on medical leave was cheaper for the team than decent treatment from sports specialists so Ethan stayed home that fall to rest his arm from overuse. I loved having him home. Husband and wife time forced me to juggle Linda’s 24/7 expectations and improve my time management skills. One chilly Friday evening after an exhausting week and flight from Chicago, “Call me ASAP,” waited on my car phone in long-term parking. I put off the DNFUA moment until I got home and shared a beer with Ethan.
Linda answered on the second ring. “It’s Emma. I got your call. I can have the Field’s personnel stats by Sunday—”
“I’m calling about you, not Chicago.” I glanced at Ethan and steeled myself.
“You’ve had one hell of a year. You know it, I know it, and now the industry’s hearing it officially. Congratulations, you’re Olympia’s Account Executive of the Year. You’re making me and your district look damn good, kiddo.”
“Wait. That’s what your call is about?”
“That and the five thousand dollars that goes with it. I can fire you if it’ll make you feel better.” Her laugh; my relief.
“Oh my God, Linda! I won? Me!”
“You. And your report can wait till Monday.”
I hung up and threw myself at Ethan. “Big award. Five thousand dollars! This calls for great sex and superb shopping.”
“Whoa, Babe!”
Saturday, I dragged him to Nordstrom’s. He agreed to decent khakis and a few polo shirts, then parked his baseball-cap-and Levis self in the TV rest area for a college football break.
“Knock yourself out,” he said, “I’ll stand guard on the loot.”
I went back to cruising. We’d come so far and worked so hard. Did we look like any other twenty-something upscale couple fussing over linens and gourmet kitchen gadgets? How I hoped so. Ethan had nearly ten gruelling years with the independents, Florida to Maine, Minnesota and California with two weeks off March till December. His pro career wasn’t progressing as fast as we’d hoped, but he arrived at his March bullpens with my salary making it possible to concentrate and travel the West Coast with the team.
Occasionally one of us brought up the subject of children. We agreed. Our dysfunctional backgrounds, minimal parenting skills, and career schedules made it incredibly complicated, and unfair to the child. Even my parents didn’t bring it up.
Shortly after our award mania, Linda took me out for drinks and dinner to celebrate my third anniversary with Olympia Beauty. She could—and did—turn on a dime, which made complete contentment impossible. Nevertheless, I was grateful and made sure she knew it.
The chaos of spring in the fragrance industry kept me clear headed. Employees dealt with their kids’ spring breaks, seasonal rains, up-coming Easter and Passover, delayed shipments, and order SNAFUs. Whatever could create havoc did. My office phone rang non-stop.
I was on a second cup of coffee during a second chaotic day of listening to my voicemail backlog when I hit a recording from an assistant to Marsha Johnson at Platinum Beauty. Ms. Johnson had reviewed my query of November (November!). She was due in town for Robinsons-May CEO’s annual steering committee meeting with select vendors. Could I make time for a drink or dinner?
It didn’t sound like a question. I reviewed my applications file. I’d sent my November query to Platinum HR unsolicited. There’d been no reply. Fifty-year-old Marsha Johnson had joined the firm about the same time, charged with rebuilding the sleepy company. (Thank you, Women’s Wear Daily.)
