“There’s a mistake in my salary.”
“No mistake. Marsha increased it this afternoon.” She patted my shoulder as I signed, whisked the contract into the folder, and disappeared, closing the door behind her. I sat down and put my head between my knees.
On Tuesday a flower arrangement with “All best in the city that never sleeps, Love Neil,” arrived as I hunkered into remaining set-up tasks. Sheila gave me keys to the executive bathroom, a black car service account, details pertaining to my extensive travel budgets, and a fistful of lipstick samples.”Everlasting Shine,” she said, “Meant to stay glossy all day, I’m told.”
Hall buzz confirmed Marsha was now firing sales people. Jangling, clinking Linda Carlton, had been a belled cat of a boss. By comparison Marsha Johnson glided within the Platinum department like a phantom.
“Emma?”
I spun in my new ergonomic chair and slammed my knee into the file drawer. I rubbed my leg as she asked about the silver framed, eight by ten of Ethan on a pitching mound in wind up position. I fibbed about his career success level and omitted details on the current condition of our long-distance marriage.
“He has my sympathy. I travel about sixty per cent of the time. Of course I don’t sit in dugouts all day.”
Neither did he by a long shot but I had no idea how to interpret her remark. I offered a chair. “Anything else?”
“You know I hate rumours, yet the gossip mill is churning.”
“I might have heard of more firings.”
“It’s true I’ve let a number of sales employees go. Dead wood. Unprofessional conduct, negative attitudes, low performance ratings…” She glanced out my bank of windows. “Frankly no style, either. If Platinum is to reign, we can no longer afford mediocrity.”
“That sounds like something I should memorise.”
“Well, damn right!” She laughed and turned. “That’s why they hired me, and that’s why I hired you. It can be thankless, but Platinum’ll be stronger for it. I come by my grit naturally. I’m a Houston girl, both parents United Oil executives. Their professional success and work ethic set me on this track.”
“Like a tick on a hound.”
“Well, sugar, you got that right! Let’s get lunch.”
I chalked up my first forty-eight hours to a dynamic woman moving fast to execute change. Marsha found fault with an alarming number of employees but compared to Linda’s hard-edged demeanour, she was downright cosy with me. Her sterile office gave few hints of a personal life but by the end of lunch I knew her parents met at petroleum conference in their late thirties and had their only child at forty-one. She’d never set foot in public school, went east to Wharton for her MBA, and favoured black set off with beige or neutral Manolo Blahniks.
I offered personal tidbits but revealed nothing of substance, a routine I’d started in middle school.
She’d divorced twice, no children by choice. She raised her iced tea. “So here I am: pre-menopausal and at the top of my game. Don’t get me wrong, I love men generally. Specifically? Pfft. Occasionally in the bedroom. Rarely in the boardroom.”
I settled in, soon forced to navigate Marsha’s erratic reasoning that could blur minor afternoon decisions. Having no one to share my suspicion of two martini lunches fuelled my anxiety. I ignored Linda Clarkson’s admonitions running in my head. I would not turn tail and bolt. I would not.
I concentrated on my upcoming assignment, getting to know Saks, Bergdorf Goodman, Bloomingdale’s, Macy’s Herald Square, and Barneys, the city’s flagship stores.
“Walking onto the selling floor in Manhattan is like being the lead actress on Broadway,” Marsha told me my second week. “Curtain up; out you go. You’re there to impress them. You know it; they know it. Quicker than they blink, they size you up. Commit this to memory, Emma: before you can inspire them with your products, they expect to be inspired by you.”
I’d come a long way since Andrew Case curated my wardrobe, but Manhattan and Marsha’s directives required an upgrade. Retail soothed a host of issues. I enhanced my charcoal grey and black basics, bought the season’s freshest blouses, couture handbags, and shoes that looked like works of art.
Marsha prepped me with tidbits and financial back-stories, then extended the mentoring session over drinks Thursday evening in The Oak Room of The Plaza Hotel. “These flagships represent thirty-forty percent of each store’s chain business,” she added. “I count on you to concentrate on their salespeople with the biggest client books. Shake hands, exchange pleasantries, and get down to business.”
I returned to my boutique hotel digging through my purse for my key and came up with Sheila’s lipstick samples. “Fuck, fuck,” I muttered gin-weepy with nerves as I found the key. What good was any of this without Ethan? Who would keep me grounded? Who’d offer clear-eyed opinions and observations? I wasn’t a Marsha Johnson, all class and education. I wasn’t even a blustery, self-confident Linda Clarkson, as next week’s store visits could prove to everyone. I scrawled DNFUA on the bathroom mirror in Everlasting Shine’s Moonglow Coral.
I needed a fresh perspective from someone with a soul-deep connection. Andrew Case answered my call on the third ring.
“Emma, my Big Apple heroine!” He mellowed as I filled him in. After exactly the pep talk, I needed on my sales ability angst, he changed course. “So Ethan won’t move. What’s he hate about relocating? The concept? Getting from Point A to Point B? Leaving the known for the unknown? Scary life in the big city?”
“Probably all of it.”
“You can’t fight fire with fire. Who can shout louder or come up with the most ultimatums never works. Start with empathy, my Sweet. We know he’s not Mr Cosmopolitan. You have me for that.” He chuckled. “Figure out what he needs to be comfortable. Get him into his comfort zone with small solutions. This business can eat both of you alive. You must not let it.”
“That’s why I called you.”
“Sweetie, I’ll always be your sounding board. But I’m telling you, get that man of yours to see the light. Better still, make him think he saw it on his own.”
“He’s nursing an injury and sweating the Disabled List which makes his mood even worse, but I’ll work on it, I swear.”
We hung up. Before I lost my nerve, I memorised an upbeat message and tapped out Ethan’s Nokia number. He answered. “Ethan! Well, hi. I didn’t think you’d pick up. I’ve been thinking about your arm. You know, hope it’s improving; hope it won’t side-line you.”
I tried not to fall into our destructive routine. From that first afternoon stomping out of our high school bleachers, it had been a constant go-round of Drama, Accusation, Stand Off, Explanation, Reconciliation; Drama, Accusation, Stand Off…
“It’s not much better. How’s this week been for you?”
“Pretty good. Monday, I visited our mid-town flag—” Someone shouted his name.
“Damn. Emma, bad timing. I’m late. We’ll talk later.” Same old, same old.
As much as I doubted my abilities, my first big time visit – Bergdorf Goodman – proved as successful as any during my St. Louis days. I loved the rush of prepping then making an entrance. The grand dame flagships of retail merchandise would fill my week.
On the other hand, the business of business swamped me. Math and chicken scratch notes buried me. As I corrected an order error, Sheila arrived with files I’d requested, I barely acknowledged her. “Thank you, I guess.”
“Accountability’s never fun.” She looked at my photo. “If your baseball player ever needs sports medicine when he moves here, there’s an excellent group right over on Columbus Circle.”
“Mmmm.” I studied the paperwork.
