“You swear it’s not Animal Cracker Park?”
“I swear. It’s in Ludlow, out here between Bernardsville and Bedminster. Classy towns, Emma.”
“Can you see the football field?”
“Practically. And the baseball field, too.”
I wasn’t at all sure it was the right place for us, but if it got Ethan with me, I wouldn’t raise a bunch of red flags.
“It’s right on the train line. Lots of charm, Babe. Hilly and green. Brucknerfield with money and in-ground sprinkler systems.”
In yet another New York minute we signed the lease with occupancy July 1. We spent our final night together hashing out details we could control (I’d handle the move), and ignoring those we couldn’t (Ethan’s team commitment put him on the road until September). And then he was gone. Back to baseball, as determined to make his passion his career as I was to make my career my passion.
By the weekend, between my three successful store visits, Ethan’s turnaround behaviour, and Dustin signing on as my assistant, I was nearly terminally exhausted but the happiest twenty-nine-year-old in Manhattan.
Within the industry lack of funding, shortage of raw materials, and any number of other issues often complicate new project manufacturing schedules. During Dustin’s first week Marsha called a meeting. Our Milan office announced newly acquired Salvatore Rosa fragrance was behind on its development plan, which meant a delay of up to twelve months for the North America launch.
Nevertheless, they requested we meet with the global marketing team. Marsha decided ‘we’ included Sales Manager, Veronica Williams and me. Dustin helped schedule a ten-day jaunt to Milan with return by way of Paris and London to give us a feel for competitive marketing tactics.
I assigned him my responsibilities and scrambled aboard Veronica and Marsha’s International Trek 101, my first exposure to the global scope of the fragrance business and how the Americas stacked up against comparable markets. I’d been at the fragrance industry management level long enough to know the grousing and concern when return on investment comes in lower than projected. Ten days in Europe opened my eyes to the system for senior executives, my crash course in executive perks. As a dedicated, top-level executive with skills equal or greater than most of her male counterparts, Marsha spared no expense. We flew first class in and out of three of the world’s most fashionable cities. After the brass tacks business in Milan, we arranged board room conferences with luxury retailers in Paris and London. We stayed in five-star hotels, and ate dinners with A-list wine selections.
We finished with suites at Claridge’s. I would have loved to sample their renowned Afternoon Tea but I discovered it was Marsha’s domain. Her Me Moments Veronica explained, when Marsha met with A-list men. When needed I delivered files and remained standing (un-introduced) at her table only long enough to refresh her memory on random points.
When not in the boardrooms or at tea, we spent more time shopping than even I had imagined. Veronica met my wide-eyed, expressions with a subtle nod or affirmative smile. I splurged on linens for the Ludlow house.
Marsha left JFK airport with two large suitcases. As we prepared for home, she had our Claridge’s concierge deliver four additional carryalls to hold the luxury shopping bags we’d gathered. From Via Montenapoleone, to Avenue Montaigne, to Mayfair, she spent thousands of dollars for personal reasons and reported them as business expenses. Marsha Johnson in action as single woman executive was a seminar in itself.
Chapter Seven
As always, I returned to New York anxious over looming responsibilities. Hard as I tried not to look back, I felt like ninth grade Emma O’Farrell holding her breath as she crossed the street to Alexandra’s, always half expecting to be turned away. My nearly fatal lack of preparation incident with Linda taught me to be meticulous and swallow my fear of asking for guidance. When I confessed to Marsha about my DNFUA Post-it Notes, she laughed and created a game. She’d name an appointment and goal; I’d have to tell her what facts and references she’d need. “Saks Wednesday to discuss inventory,” she’d say. “I scout this week. I provide names of top sellers across the floor, a list of their best-selling products, plus labels.”
“Why?”
I grimaced. “Give me a minute.”
“Never forget the logic. Knowing the why of any task gives you an automatic to do list. It makes the prep much easier.”
“Got it. My info gives you the confidential intel to pump your ask, your request for more wholesale orders.”
“And why do I need more wholesale orders?”
“To make our sales budget.” I got a high five.
On the home, and away-from-home fronts, Ethan attributed his improved pitching to proper physical therapy, thrilled it kept him on the roster full time as they travelled all over the Midwest for the season. Meanwhile I arranged Lehigh Valley and New Jersey store appointments via I-78 that let me shoehorn side excursions into Ludlow and get my bearings.
Fieldstone houses, clapboard churches, and brick sidewalks peppered Brucknerfield with money in a wide grid of shaded streets bordering an active commercial district. Our c.1860 rental sat down a pea gravel lane, behind a cluster of newer, handsome houses on acre lots. We’d call the rental location ‘the back forty’ in Missouri; Ludlow called the whole shebang Webster Farms. Twice over lunch in a Victorian inn on the main street, I listened to the whistle as the train arrived on its way into Penn Station. I could make this work.
Next, I squeezed out two personal days to expand the Tuesday Fourth of July holiday, and supervised the move into our Ludlow colonial. Air conditioning consisted of two ancient units in more ancient double hung windows, one in the living room, the other upstairs in the master bedroom. I set them on refrigerator mode and placed fans in the hallways. I survived the heat and set to surviving my new ninety-minute commute.
On Thursday morning Marsha called me into her office. My petite boss, flaming hair and size zero couture, always appeared like a child in oversized furniture. Her physical presence fooled many which I soon realised put her in the perfect position as a powerhouse negotiator.
Without a snippet of small talk the legend offered me a chair. “Our wholesale shipments are behind by over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I need you to fix it.”
“How can I help?” seemed the correct reply.
“I’m sure you know Galeries Lafayette,” the French retailer, took over the Bonwit Teller space on West Fifty-Seventh.”Thank God I did.”
“Next to Trump Tower. I’ve been in. When Bonwit bailed, Mr Trump bought out their lease through the bankruptcy trustee,” I added in case this was one of her tests.
“And why?” she asked like the mentor she was.
“He fills the empty space with a lease-paying tenant and raises cash against it.”
“Very good.”
“I read the Wall Street Journal on my morning drive in.” She gave me a thumb’s up. “Trump’s cash poor but his financial problems don’t concern us beyond his leasing to tenants we do business with.”
“Galeries Lafayette?“
“Yes. We’re losing the high-end fashion anchors on that chunk of Fifth Avenue to mass merchandise heaven. No complaints; the tourists love them. And this one owes us sales. The boss, Pierre Meysselle, has relocated from Paris.”
I could practically see her wheels turning.
“I was in Sag Harbor for the Fourth. As I handed out little flags for the hostess, I was thinking ‘Emma, has to get out here’. With or without your ball player, it’s an excellent environment for making contacts.”
“Thanks for keeping me in mind.”
“I offered a darling man a flag. He launched into ’Merci, Mam’selle, but I await my own flag, le tricolore pour La Fête Nationale, notre jour de Bastille.’ Quintessential Frenchman. He oozes charm like warm butter on a hot biscuit. You’re the one to find a way to work with him and solve our problem.”
