The night was balmy; I needed the six-minute stroll to my room at the St. Regis for head-clearing. I didn’t look for the moon. I glimpsed waiting carriages along Fifty-Ninth Street, and stared at the album as I waited for the light at Fifth Avenue.
Looking out
Across the night-time
The city winks a sleepless eye…
Michael Jackson’s wispy, haunting Human Nature banged around in my head as I passed Trump Tower and Galeries Lafayette. I was a damn good business woman; Pierre Meysselle’s behaviour confirmed it. Would Ethan, so fond of his countless groupies, ever appreciate or even acknowledge my faithfulness? Was his current contentment due to career improvements and a marriage based on telephone calls? Was mine? I entered the St. Regis and headed for my room feeling foolish. And cheated.
I did indeed visit Pierre in his office the next morning. Marsha added Mykonos to her Milan turnaround and after a week away, congratulated me on the sizable Galeries Lafayette Pierre placed. Then she dropped into her frazzled, manic mode. We needed four account executives for the northeast, the hardest territory to fill. “Consider it your Priority Number One.” Throughout the endless process, Dustin and I bitched about vacationing support staff, swore at the heat, and hired three. As August melted Fifth Avenue, I barked orders for another round of classified ads and inclusion of Beauty Insider Executive.
“Yes ’m, Miz Emma.”
“Dustin Walsh, that’s a racist slur.”
“Only when you say it.” He dropped into my extra chair.
“I’m broiling and cranky. What the hell is Beauty Insider Executive?“
“BIE is a waste-of-money cosmetic industry club. For three hundred smackers a year it promotes beauty products and supposedly helps women secure careers. In my opinion, the most annoying industry executives make up the board so they can hold events and boost each other’s egos. Join or find yourself blacklisted.” I made us iced coffee. “You need to know BIE promotes extreme political business agendas that make little sense and accomplish less.”
A week later he was back at my desk. “Bingo. You may hate B I E, but we’ve got a live one from the ad.” He handed me two sheets. Jennifer Rocket, an account executive for a five-billion-dollar company, included a cover letter with her impressive resume, noting she’d resigned suddenly after seven years. I arranged an interview for the end of the following day. She arrived wilted by the weather, without flash or pizzazz, but well-spoken and enthusiastic. Despite sterling achievements, she’d left due to an abusive boss and was looking for a stable environment. She was a few years younger, with a more conservative management style. She struck me as the complete package. I needed someone to balance my too-often frenetic tempo. I ran her recommendations, and hired her. A few days later I overheard Sheila Bianco compliment my new hires and refer to me as Mini Marsha. Marsha replied, “Thank God.”
My effort and Marsha’s cautious optimism paid off. I was an asset, and I intended to remain one. She paid me handsomely in salary and amenities, and had my time and attention 24/7. I sent a healthy check to Genevieve. In the middle of August I turned thirty, successful and self-sufficient. Ethan and I celebrated between his summer and fall line-ups.
By then I’d given up New Jersey Transit. Upon arrival at Penn Station, it required tangling with taxis or the subway system where car service let me adjust my hours to avoid the height of rush hour, waited at my door if I were still scrambling. During my hour of productive back seat time, I now studied financial pages as well as Page Six and The Times. I added Fortune and Wired to Forbes, plus Elle to Vogue and WWD. During Ethan’s two-week break, Dustin proved a genius at scheduling my on-site appointments west of the Hudson. I was home in time for dinner and Ethan’s chatter. He’d introduced himself to the local football coaches and often jogged over to watch afternoon practice.
We explored rural New Jersey on the weekends in a used pickup truck Ethan bought. We hauled rustic chairs and Warren County peaches from a Belvidere flea market, then a Welsh sideboard and blanket chest from two Schooley’s Mountain antique shops. My first six months in the big, bad apple passed with Linda’s bluster having no effect. She neither popped from the bushes, nor followed up on her threats. I had much to celebrate, a bit to lament, and even more to ponder.
Jennifer Rocket’s calm demeanour balanced with solid business perception more than lived up to my expectations. She found her niche in field sales. Dustin Walsh had full permission to correct my grammar but his genius lay in transforming my hand written notes and business knowledge into the impeccable Power Point presentations I was routinely required to give. His two-year Apple internship made him the go-to guy for all of us struggling with technology. He leant his prep skills to anyone in the department needing technical glitch checks, or more important, pre-meeting prep and set-up to insure a smooth presentation to employees and high-end clients. Pierre remained an excellent client, but all-things Française in Manhattan failed to ignite the tourists. His company abandoned Trump Tower. Niketown moved into the space while I pursued other accounts. Linda Carlton’s work ethic and Marsha Johnson’s aggressive determination served me well. I still tamped down my prickly side, always mindful of creating an environment of fairness, respect, consistency and security. I made sure everyone, from my Platinum associates to the regional reps, flagship retailers, and those representing us behind their counters, knew how valued they were to the process.
Right after Halloween, Marsha called me into her office. The Energiser Bunny buzzed from bookcase to couch to coffee table. She’d hired a new Vice President of Sales. I would be reporting to him. “He’s just terrific. Brian Cox. Terrific talent. Badly needed.” She moved a ceramic pumpkin from her desk to coffee table and cocked her head. “I’m trying to read your expression. Annoyance? Shock?”
“This hire’s out of the blue, that’s for sure.” She finally sat down. “You’ve taken on a much bigger role than I brought you on for, Emma. Let’s lighten the load some.” I pulled up a chair. “I thought that’s why I hired Dustin. We’re handling everything.”
“No need to get defensive. In the seven months you’ve been here, Salvator Rosa still hasn’t had its global launch. Their glitches are to your benefit.”
“I haven’t had anything to do with the glitches!”
“Relax. I meant the delays have given me time to think. You’re too green for the massive responsibilities we were charged with. Brian’s in his early thirties. Jumps right in. Already a seasoned pro with experience to oversee global sales.” She stood, my signal to retreat. “Terrific talent. You’ll thank me, I swear. Brian’s coming in so you don’t get burned out.” The following Monday I hustled through our wide glass doors and down the hall to my office. I froze in my doorframe.
What the fuck?
“Emma! It’s nothing—” Sheila Bianco appeared at my side. “Nothing? My shelves are bare. My desk’s naked. And you’re beet red.”
“Don’t have a cow. I wanted to get to you before you just plunged in. Marsha asked me to work this weekend to rearrange the deck chairs.”
“Deck chairs?”
“Marsha’s term for relocating everyone.”
“You’ve been at this all weekend without letting me know?”
“Please relax. You’re in the smaller office but it’s just to the right of Marsha’s. It’s closer. Better view, too.”
“And here? Let me guess. Brian Cox.” Of course, new hire gets it the same way I did when she canned the Director of Sales. Shelia’s loyalty to Marsha trumped my anger. “Sorry for the tantrum. This took me by surprise. I’m one hundred per cent behind the decision. Bad commute. Lincoln Tunnel nightmare.”
Friday over a bistro lunch, Jennifer asked how I liked my new office. “The bigger issue’s the person soon to be in mine. Marsha’s convinced we need a Vice President of Sales. She’s damned proud of poaching Brian Cox from a competitor.”
Jennifer remained thoughtfully quiet.
“Am I boring you?”
“No, no.” She skewered a cucumber slice. “To be honest, since I heard the buzz, I’ve wanted to ask how you know him.”
“I don’t. Not at all. Do you?”
“Not. A close friend worked for him at Windsor Limited.”
“Jen, I’m relatively new to New York. If there’s something Platinum or I should know, I’d consider it a personal favour. I always protect my team.”
“Nothing scandalous or illegal but Brian Cox has zero people skills and bizarre behaviour. Evil. Scary manipulative.”
“Jen? Evil and Scary manipulative are strong terms. You can keep this anonymous.”
“Thank you. My friend’s team reported to him. When a group member laid out a projected sales slump, Brian yelled ‘Total fabrication. Just shut up. I can’t stand to look at your face. You’re useless.’ Stomped out of the room, slammed the door… ‘My god.’”
“New York’s an at-will state and two weeks later she was fired. My friend saw him behave like this more than once. She was so rattled she came to my apartment to talk about it. A group of us used to keep a file of horrendous management types—I’m So Special; Sixty Hours a Week to Start; Just Let Me Get This Call. Emma, this guy’s in a category by himself. I don’t want you in a dicey situation.”
